See him as he journeys down the Yukon in a scow loaded with lumber for a mission building. He has with him just one helper and three little Indian children whom he is taking to a school at Anvik. At night he is at the bow, watching to guard against the dangers of the stream. Sometimes the children wake up and cry when a great slide from the bank—tons on tons of rock and earth—shoots into the river with a terrific boom. Sometimes, when the hooting of an owl or the wail of a wild beast pierces the stillness they huddle together, too frightened to make a sound. Then the good bishop stoops over and pats them on the head kindly, saying a comforting word or two which reminds them that nothing can possibly harm them while he is near.
A storm of rain and wind that lasts all night and all the next day drenches them through and through. The children, who are wet and cold, creep close to their friend. “Etah, etah” (my father), they say, looking up at him pitifully. In a flash he remembers that not far off is a deserted log cabin which he chanced to find on a previous journey. Making a landing, they follow him along the bank and at nightfall reach the blessed shelter. Here they build a rousing fire and dry their clothes. As they sit about the blazing logs they fancy that all the sunbeams that had shone upon the growing tree are dancing merrily in the flames. The next morning the sun comes out as if to make up for all the stormy days and nights that have ever vexed weary travelers, and they go on their way with renewed courage.
“The two qualities most needed in Alaska,” said Bishop Rowe, “are an instinct for finding one’s way, and bulldog grit.” He certainly has these two requisites, as well as “animate faith and love.” Wherever he goes—to remote Indian villages or Eskimo igloos; to deserted mining centers whose numbers have dwindled from thousands to a forlorn score; to thriving cities like Sitka, Nome, and Fairbanks, which have electric lights, telephones, and many of the luxuries as well as the comforts of civilization—he brings a message of hope. To those who hunger without knowing what they lack, he brings the Bread of Life—the glad tidings of a God of love.
In 1907, it was decided to transfer Bishop Rowe from his frontier post to Colorado. “You have served faithfully where the laborers are few and the hardships are many,” it was said. “You must now guard your powers for a long life of service.”
“I appreciate with deep gratitude the kindness,” replied the missionary bishop, “but I feel that in view of present conditions I must decline the honor of the transfer and continue in Alaska, God helping me.”
So the Shepherd of “the Great Country” is faithful to his charge and his flock, asking not a lighter task but rather greater strength for the work that is his. Like the giant-saint of the legend, he serves with his might the unseen King who reigns through love in the hearts of men.
A HERO OF FLIGHT: SAMUEL PIERPONT LANGLEY
A tool is but the extension of a man’s hand, and a machine is but a complex tool. And he that invents a machine augments the power of man and the well-being of mankind.