BITS OF EXPERIENCE IN THE INDIAN COUNTRY.
MISS M. P. LORD.
Little-Dog was very sick, they said. We thought of the beautiful two-year-old boy whom he had loved with all a father's tenderness, and of the day when he had come and told us of the child's death; and how his eyes were still inflamed with weeping; and how grateful he was for the little food, and for the words of comfort we had tried to give him.
His home was ten or fifteen miles up the winding river, with two fording-places between. We found at the first a broad, swift stream, swollen by a recent rain. We were glad we had made preparations before starting in, for the water flowed six inches deep over the buggy floor. At the village beyond, Cross-Bear advised us to return by another road, as the river was still rising. Long-Feather, with whose family we also stopped to shake hands, gave the same advice, saying that he would see us safely over the next crossing, but that he was just starting on a long drive in the opposite direction. Good-Boy, who lived near the fording-place, would help, he said. So, following directions, Good-Boy was found. His pony was quickly saddled, and galloping on ahead he piloted us not only to the river-crossing, but all the way to Little Dog's, some miles beyond.
Mrs. Little-Dog and ten-year-old Martin greeted us at the door, and inside the house we were cordially welcomed by the blind and almost helpless sufferer. The wife said, "I wanted to go and get medicine for him, but there was no one to take care of him while I was gone." They were miles from the nearest neighbor. And the sick man added, "I didn't like to have our little boy go so far alone." When the physical pain and needs were relieved so far as possible, I asked if there was a Bible. In answer the sick man turned and reached under the pillow at the farther corner of the bed, from which he drew out a little bag, and from that he carefully—almost tenderly, it seemed—took his Dakota Bible and handed me. Such times of drawing near to God, in the homes of sick or sorrowing ones, mean quite as much of added strength and cheer to the white visitor as to those who are visited, and we always come away feeling so glad that we went. Tears were in the woman's eyes as the good-byes were said; and the little boy, with his pony saddled, watched us out of sight, to be sure that we were started on the right road home, as we had been directed.
On another day we heard that our good old friend Afraid-of-the-Clouds had been thrown from his wagon and badly hurt. We found the tall figure, which we had always been accustomed to see so erect and soldierly in bearing, stretched on the ground in his tent, silent and motionless. With evident pain and effort the dear old man tried to explain how it happened. He did not complain and spoke very gently, but the expression of suffering on the wrinkled face made me fear he would never get up again, and my own sorrow at the thought was hard to conceal. He was only (?) an "old Indian," one of those "old Indians" who are often so lightly spoken of as of no account; but whose dignity and strength of character, and gentle, gracious courtesy, command the respect of those who really know them. And he had been a loyal friend and faithful helper in the years that we had been neighbors. And though he still clung to his old faith, he seemed as grateful for the reading of God's Word and prayer as for the material help we tried to give.
Time passed, and by-and-by he was up and about again, and wanted to be given some work to do. One day he came into the house and seated himself in the deliberate way which told that he had something on his mind, which would demand my undivided attention, and said: "You are a white woman. I am a Dakota. But when I was sick your heart was sad. I hold it in my heart." That was all; that and the silent hand-grasp as he went out. But somehow I felt as if what the old man felt in his heart was very secure there.
One bright Sabbath morning, with our deacon, One-Thunder, we visited a neighboring church eight or ten miles up the river. The regular native teacher was away, attending the great annual mission meeting; but two other young men had been appointed to take charge of the service together—Anselm Kill-the-Crow and Clinton High-Horse. The latter took for his text, "Ye are the salt of the earth." Retaining the figurative form of the verse, the young preacher made clear its spiritual teaching, and by his direct and forceful application revealed the thoughtfulness and earnestness of his own heart. The remarks of the other alluded to the name chosen for the little church. "The Church of the Messiah;" and he urged upon those present that it be not in name only, but in deed and in truth, His church. The after-service greetings to the visitors were cordial, as usual—even the babies being encouraged to hold out tiny brown hands, with their mothers' injunctions to "nape yuza" (shake hands).
Hole-in-his-Tooth, who is always eager to take orders during the plum season, consented to postpone business transactions until the next day. The Woman's Missionary Society had five dollars to hand over, to be forwarded to the "Wotanin Waste;" that is, far missionary work. Everybody seemed wide awake and happy; and as we drove away, the Y. M. C. A. were about to hold their services.
Next to their interest in church affairs, is that in the school; for since the Grand River (Government) Boarding School has demonstrated in their midst what faithful teachers can do for the children, the whole community are ready to show their appreciation, from good old Chief Grindstone to the wee little folk who carry flowers to their white friends in the school; and every little circle of influence widens.
The blizzard was fiercely raging outside, lashing the little house in its fury. I had given up trying to warm more than one room, and that was darkened by the snow piled against the windows, and the panes above were so thick with frost that nothing could be seen.
The storm was so severe—so bitterly cold, with blinding snow and wind—that I thought no one could possibly get out with safety to come that day; when, to my surprise, there was a knock at the door, and there was Maza—faithful Maza—smiling as usual, through the frost and snow.
Glad, as well as surprised, I was to see him. "They told me not to come," he said. "They said I would get lost or freeze to death; but," he added, "I told them I was coming." So the big drift was tunneled to the stable door, horses fed and watered, and all needed help given.
By these little homely incidents I have only tried to introduce a few of the many friends on the Reservation, of whom it is sometimes asked, "Can Indians ever be really civilized?" "Do you see any real results?" "Do you find them very treacherous?"