THE LITTLE INDIAN OF CLEAR LAKE.
ABRIDGED FROM GOSPEL IN ALL LANDS.
Did you ever see an Indian—a real, live Indian—in bead-embroidered buck-skin coat and breeches, girded with a curiously wrought wampum belt, shod with moccasins, his face painted black and red, his hair bristling, like a porcupine’s back, with a gay forest of feathers—as he dashed through the woods or over the prairie, on a wild horse, or strode along proudly on foot, with bow and arrows in his hands, and a large tomahawk and scalping-knife in his girdle?
You have seen him in the pictures, at least, and thought him a fine sight; and perhaps you felt in your heart that it must be fine to live such a wild, daring life, hunting, fishing and roaming in the woods and over the fields.
But all Indians are not like him. Tribes differ very much in their character and habits. Besides, they are never quite so brave and fine in real life as they are in pictures. Most of them are poor miserable creatures; and if you should go into one of their wigwams of sticks and barks, and see their naked bodies, filthy faces and tangled hair, as they squat in the smoke and stench around a little fire, on the bare earth, in the middle of the shanty, snatching at poor food with dirty fingers, like a pack of ravenous wolves. I do not believe you would think it very fine, ever after have the least desire to live like an Indian.
The little boy of our story was born and lived on the shores of Clear Lake, a fine sheet of water among the mountains, thirty or forty miles north of Napo Valley.
Like all his mates, he was so short and thick that he seemed to be about as broad as he was long. His skin was not copper-colored like that of most other Indians, but black. His face was broad and round, his lips thick and pouting, and his nose wide and flat. His long coarse hair, all tangled and matted, dangled around his high cheek-bones and above his naked shoulders, like the shaggy mane of a Canadian pony, and half hid his coarse, brutal features: a pair of small, round, dull eyes, like leaden bullets, made the treacherous expression that slept in every line of his features seem ten-fold more revolting.
His wigwam, or lodge, was nothing but a rude screen of bushes or skins to break the force of the wind. You would not think it very nice or comfortable, but he did, and could sleep just as well there, or on the ground beside a large stone, or behind the stump of a fallen tree as you do on the softest feathers. But he never slept two nights in the same place, for fear of being discovered by an enemy and murdered.
It is a hard and cheerless life which those little Indian children lead, as you can easily see, but the life of this little Indian was especially so; for his father and mother had both been murdered, and he had no friends to care for him any more kindly than they would care for a dog; and even the Hias Tyee, or Big Chief of the tribe, whose duty it was to see that this little waif on the stormy sea of Indian life was provided for, thought only to get some advantage out of him; and so, when he saw a white man camping one day on the shores of the lake, he brought down the boy and offered to sell him for ten dollars. It proved to be a kind, good-hearted man, who saw that the little fellow was friendless and forlorn, and so the bargain was soon closed, and he became servant to the “pale-face” till he was twenty-one years old, on condition of receiving his food and clothing.
On reaching home, the first thing, of course, was to clip off his dangling locks, give him a thorough scrubbing with soap and brush, and cover his black nakedness with decent clothing.
That afternoon, when the pigs were fed, he was found with his nose in the trough eating sour milk with the animals as if he had been one of them. At night nothing could persuade him to sleep in a room or on a bed; and after dark, when the family had retired to rest, he stole out of the house as slyly as a cat, and hid himself away in the tall weeds beside the fence. Every night for many weeks he did the same, and was so fearful of being murdered in his sleep that he changed his nest every night, never daring to sleep twice in the same spot.
His tongue was constantly telling lies, and he would steal everything he fancied that came in his way. He seemed to have no idea of right and wrong. He could not comprehend what such words as love and duty and kindness meant. Fear was the only motive which had the least influence in controlling him. Even the difference between cleanliness and dirt was a thought too sublime and profound for his understanding.
But he could believe in ghosts and haunting spirits of dead men, like most other ignorant and barbarous people; and he thought they lingered around every stump and tree, and followed him wherever he went. He could hear them fluttering in the leaves, or rapping on the limbs and trunks of the trees, or whispering in the wind. He supposed they took possession of the bodies of men and animals, and caused them to sing and dance, and do all sorts of silly tricks, by a kind of inspiration. He had some notions of the Great Spirit, it is true, but they were confused and indistinct, and had little power over him, while a slavish fear of the inferior spirits and other such ghostly nonsense tormented him night and day, and made him a timid, miserable, degraded, creature.
Had you seen him in that condition you would have thought it impossible to make anything good out of such a stupid little animal. You would have said it was of no use to try to teach a creature so brutal and superstitious anything about God and heaven, and a higher life, or even about the decencies of civilized society.
But a kind lady took him under her care. She taught him to read and write. She showed him the folly of believing in ghosts, and talking with the spirits. She told him the story of Jesus, and made him learn the ten commandments, and the precious words of the Saviour, and explained to him how God made him, and fed, and clothed, and kept him, day by day, and that he ought to love Him, and do right in return for His kindness. She impressed him with the thought that God is angry with wicked boys and girls every day, and that only the pure in heart, whose lives are good, can be happy on earth, or go to heaven when they die.
At first he was stupid and stubborn, and unwilling to learn; but after a little while his stolid face began to brighten, his dull eyes sparkled with unusual interest, and he was more and more attentive, till his coarse, animal features wore an entirely new expression. One day he came in with a very serious look, and said in an earnest tone:
“Mistress, oh me got bad heart! Ask Great Spirit to give me better heart.”
He was told to ask for himself; and then the poor little child of the Great Father went into his own room alone and shut the door, and kneeled down beside the bed and prayed, oh! so earnestly, that God would forgive his sins for Jesus’ sake, and take away his wicked feelings, and show him how to be good. From that moment he was a changed boy. His bad habits were all laid aside. He ceased to be stupid and stubborn and inattentive. He told no more lies, and pilfered no more. His face glowed with kindly feeling, as if a ray from heaven were sleeping on it. His coarse features lost their repulsive expression and became rather pleasant to see. I am sure there was rejoicing in heaven that day over this little stray lamb from the wilderness; and I do not doubt that when God gathers up his jewels from the earth the poor Indian boy will be a precious gem in the Saviour’s crown of glory.