Personal Reminiscences In Book Making, And Some Short Stories Part 12

A NORTHERN WAIF.

If a waif is a lost wanderer, then little Poosk was a decided waif for he had gone very much astray indeed in the North American backwoods. It was a serious matter for an Indian child of six years of age to become a waif in the dead of winter, with four feet of snow covering the entire wilderness, and the thermometer far below zero.

Yes, little Poosk was lost. His Indian mother, when she tied up his little head in a fur cap with ear-pieces, had said to him that morning-- and it was a New Year's Day morning--"Poosk, you go straight to the mission-house. The feast will be a very grand one--oh! _such_ a good one! Better than the feast we have when the geese and ducks come back in spring. Go straight; don't wander; follow in your father's tracks, and you can't go wrong."

Ah! what a compliment to father would have been implied in these words had the mother meant his moral tracks. But she did not: she referred to his snow-shoe tracks, which would serve as a sure guide to the mission-house, if closely followed. Poosk had promised to obey orders, of course, as readily as if he had been a civilised white boy, and with equal readiness had forgotten his promise when the first temptation came. That temptation had come in the form of a wood-partridge, in chase of which, with the spirit of a true son of the forest, Poosk had bolted, and soon left his father's tracks far behind him. Thus it came to pa.s.s that in the pursuit of game, our little savage became a "waif and stray." Had he been older, he would doubtless have returned on his own little track to the spot where he had left that of his father; but, being so young, he fancied that he could reach it by bending round towards it as he advanced.

Poosk was uncommonly small for his age--hence his name, which, in the Cree language, means _half_. He came at the tail-end of a very large family. Being remarkably small from the first, he was regarded as the extreme tip of that tail. His father styled him _half_ a child--Poosk.

But his lack of size was counterbalanced by great physical activity and sharp intelligence. Wrapped in his warm deerskin coat, which was lined with flannel, and edged with fur, and secured with a scarlet belt, with his little legs in ornamented leggings, his little feet in new moccasins, and shod with little snowshoes not more than twenty-four inches long by eight broad--his father's being five-feet by fifteen inches,--and his little hands in leather mittens of the bag-and-thumb order, Poosk went over the snow at an amazing rate for his size, but failed to rejoin his father's track. Suddenly he stopped, and a pucker on his brow betrayed anxiety. Compressing his little lips, he looked round him with an expression of serious determination in his large brown eyes. Was he not in his native wilds? Was he not the son of a noted brave? Was _he_ going to submit to the disgrace of losing his way; and, what was much worse, losing his feast? Certainly not! With stern resolve on every lineament of his infantile visage he changed his direction, and pushed on. We need scarcely add that he soon stopped again; resolved and re-resolved to succeed, and changed his direction again and again till he became utterly bewildered, and, finally, sitting down on the trunk of a fallen tree, shut his eyes, opened his little mouth, and howled. It was sad, but it was natural that at so early a period of life the stoicism of the savage should be overcome by the weakness of the child. Finding after a while that howling resulted in nothing but noise, Poosk suddenly shut his mouth, and opened his eyes.

There seemed to be some intimate connection between the two operations.

Perhaps there was. The opening of the eyes went on to the uttermost, and then became a fixed glare, for, right in front of him sat a white rabbit on its hind legs, and, from its expression, evidently filled with astonishment equal to his own.

The spirit of the hunter arose, and that of the child vanished, as little Poosk sprang up and gave chase. Of course the rabbit "sloped,"

and in a few minutes both pursued and pursuer were lost in the depths of the snow-enc.u.mbered forest.

On a point of rocks which jutted out into a frozen lake, stood a small church with a small spire, small porch, and diminutive windows. The pastor of that church dwelt close to it in a wooden house or log cabin, which possessed only one window and a door. A much larger hut alongside of it served as a school-house and meeting-hall. In this little building the man of G.o.d, a.s.sisted by a Red Indian convert, taught the Red Men of the wilderness the way of life through Jesus Christ, besides giving them a little elementary and industrial education suited to their peculiar circ.u.mstances; and here, on the day of which we write, he had prepared the sumptuous feast to which reference has just been made. The pastor's wife and daughter had prepared it. There were venison pies and ptarmigan pasties; there were roasts of fowls, and roasts of rabbits, and stews of many things which we will not venture to describe, besides puddings of meat, and puddings of rice, and puddings of plums; also tea and coffee to wash it all down. There was no strong drink. Strong health and appet.i.te were deemed sufficient to give zest to the proceedings. The company was remarkably savage to look at, but wonderfully civilised in conduct, for the influence of Christian love was there, and that influence is the same everywhere. Leathern garments clothed the men; curtailed petticoats adorned the women; both wore leggings and moccasins. The boys and girls were similarly costumed, and all had brilliant teeth, brown faces, glittering eyes, lank black hair, and a look of eager expectancy.

The pastor went to the head of the table, and silence ensued while he briefly asked G.o.d's blessing on the feast. Then, when expectation had reached its utmost point, there was a murmur. Where was the smallest mite of all the guests? n.o.body knew. Poosk's mother said she had sent him off hours ago, and had thought that he must be there. Poosk's father--a very tall man, with remarkably long legs,--hearing this, crossed the room in three strides, put on his five-feet by fifteen-inch snow-shoes and went off into the forest at express speed.

Anxiety is not an easily-roused condition in the North American Indian.

The feast began, despite the absence of our waif; and the waif's mother set to work with undiminished appet.i.te. Meanwhile the waif himself went farther and farther astray--swayed alternately by the spirit of the stoic and the spirit of the little child. But little Poosk was made of sterling stuff, and the two spirits had a hard battle in him for the mastery that wintry afternoon. His chase of the rabbit was brought to an abrupt conclusion by a twig which caught one of his snow-shoes, tripped him up, and sent him headlong into the snow. When snow averages four feet in depth it affords great scope for ineffectual floundering.

The snow-shoes kept his feet near the surface, and the depth prevented his little arms from reaching solid ground. When at last he recovered his perpendicular, his hair, eyes, nose, ears, sleeves, and mittens were stuffed with snow; and the child-spirit began to whimper, but the stoic sprang on him and quickly crushed him down.

Drawing his little body up with a look of determination, and wiping away the tears which had already begun to freeze on his eyelashes, our little hero stepped out more vigorously than ever, in the full belief that every yard carried him nearer home, though in reality he was straying farther and farther from his father's track. Well was it for little Poosk that day that his hope of reaching home did not depend on his own feeble efforts. Already the father was traversing the wilderness in search of his lost lamb, though the lamb knew it not.

But Poosk's disasters were not yet over. Although brave at heart and, for his years, st.u.r.dy of frame, he could not withstand the tremendous cold peculiar to those regions of ice and snow; and ere long the fatal lethargy that is often induced by extreme frost began to tell. The first symptom was that Poosk ceased to feel the cold as much as he had felt it some time before. Then a drowsy sensation crept over him, and he looked about for a convenient spot on which to sit down and rest.

Alas for the little savage if he had given way at that time!

Fortunately a small precipice was close in front of him, its upper edge concealed by wreaths of snow. He fell over it, turning a somersault as he went down, and alighted safely in a snow-bed at the bottom. The shock revived him, but it also quelled the stoic in his breast. Rising with difficulty, he wrinkled up his brown visage, and once again took to howling. Half an hour later his father, steadily following up the little track in the snow, reached the spot and heard the howls. A smile lit up his swarthy features, and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his black eyes as he descended to the spot where the child stood.

Sudden calm after a storm followed the shutting of Poosk's mouth and the opening of his eyes. Another moment, and his father had him in his strong arms, turned him upside down, felt him over quietly, shook him a little, ascertained that no bones were broken, put him on his broad shoulders, and carried him straight back to the Mission Hall, where the feasters were in full swing--having apparently quite forgotten the little "waif and stray."

North American Indians, as is well-known, are not demonstrative. There was no shout of joy when the lost one appeared. Even his mother took no further notice of him than to make room for him on the form beside her.

She was a practical mother. Instead of fondling him she proceeded to stuff him, which she was by that time at leisure to do, having just finished stuffing herself. The father, stalking sedately to a seat at another table, proceeded to make up for lost time. He was marvellously successful in his efforts. He was one of those Indian braves who are equal to any emergency.

Although near the end of the feast and with only _debris_ left to manipulate, he managed to refresh himself to his entire satisfaction before the tables were cleared.

The feast of reason which followed was marked by one outstanding and important failure. The pastor had trained the Indian boys and girls of his school to sing several hymns, and repeat several pieces in prose and verse. Our waif, besides being the smallest boy, possessed the sweetest voice in the school. He was down on the programme for a hymn--a solo.

Having fallen sound asleep after being stuffed, it was found difficult to awake him when his turn came. By dint of shaking, however, his mother roused him up and set him on his legs on a table, where he was steadied a little by the pastor's wife, and gently bid to begin, by the pastor's daughter.

Poosk was very fond of the pastor's daughter. He would have done anything for her. He opened his large eyes, from which a sleepy gleam of intelligence flashed. He opened his little mouth, from which rolled the sweetest of little voices. The Indians, who had been purposely kept in ignorance of this musical treat, were ablaze with surprise and expectation; but the sound died away, the mouth remained open, and the eyes shut suddenly as Poosk fell over like a ninepin, sound asleep, into the arms of the pastor's daughter.

Nothing more was to be got out of him that day. Even the boisterous laugh which greeted his breakdown failed to rouse him; and finally our Northern Waif was carried home, and put to bed beside a splendid fire in a warm robe of rabbit skins.

CHAPTER TEN.

HOW TO MAKE THE BEST OF LIFE: FROM A YOUNG MAN'S STANDPOINT.

This world is full of niches that have to be filled, of paths that have to be trod, of work that has to be done.

Pouring continually into it there are millions of human beings who are capable of being fitted to fill those niches, to traverse those paths, and to do that work. I venture a step further and a.s.sert that every human being, without exception, who arrives at the years of maturity must, in the nature of things, have a particular niche and path and work appointed for him; and just in proportion as a man finds out his exact work, and walks in or strays from his peculiar path, will be the success of his life. He may miss his aim altogether, and his life turn out a failure, because of his self-will, or, perhaps, his mistaken notions; and there are few sights more depressing than that of a round young man rus.h.i.+ng into a square hole, except that of a square young man trying to wriggle himself into a round hole. What the world wants is "the right man in the right place." What each man wants is to find his right place.

But the fact that man may, and often does, make a wrong choice, that he may try to traverse the wrong path, to accomplish the wrong work, and do many things in the wrong way, is a clear proof that his course in life is not arbitrarily fixed, that he has been left to the freedom of his own will, and may therefore fall short of the _best_, though he may be fortunate enough to attain the good or the better. Hence devolves upon every one the responsibility of putting and finding an answer to the question--How shall I make the best of life?

And let me say here in pa.s.sing that I venture to address young men on this subject, not because I conceive myself to be gifted with superior wisdom, but because, being an old man, I stand on the heights and vantage ground of Experience, and looking back, can see the rocks and shoals and quicksands in life's ocean, which have damaged and well-nigh wrecked myself. I would not only try my hand as a pilot to guide, but as, in some sense, a buoy or beacon to warn from dangers that are not only unseen but unsuspected.

Every young man of ordinary common sense will at least aim at what he believes to be best in life, and the question will naturally arise--What _is_ best?

If a youth's chief idea of felicity is to "have a good time;" to enjoy himself to the utmost; to cram as much of sport, fun, and adventure into his early manhood as possible, with a happy-go-lucky indifference as to the future, he is not yet in a frame of mind to consider our question at all. I feel disposed to say to him--in paraphrase--"be serious, man, or, if ye can't be serious, be as serious as ye can," while we consider a subject that is no trifling matter.

What, then, _is_ best? I reply--So to live and work that we shall do the highest good of which we are capable to the world, and, in the doing thereof, achieve the highest possible happiness to ourselves, and to those with whom we are connected. In the end, to leave the world better than we found it.

Now, there is only one foundation on which such a life can be reared, and that foundation is G.o.d.

To attempt the building on any other, or to neglect a foundation altogether, is to solicit and ensure disaster.

But supposing, young man, that you agree with me in this; are fully alive to the importance of the question, and are desirous of obtaining all the light you can on it, then I would, with all the earnestness of which I am capable, urge you to begin on this sure foundation by asking G.o.d to guide you and open up your way. "Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find." "Commit thy way unto the Lord, and He will bring it to pa.s.s." Without this beginning there is, there can be, no possibility of real success, no hope of reaching the best. With it there may still be partial mistake--owing to sin and liability to err-- but there can be no such thing as absolute failure. Man's first prayer in all his plans of life should be--"Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?"

Many people think that they have put up that pet.i.tion and got no answer, when the answer is obviously before their eyes. It seems to me that G.o.d's answers are always indicative, and not very difficult to understand.

An anxious father says--if he does not also pray--"What shall I train my boy to be?" G.o.d, through the medium of common sense, replies, Watch your son, observe his tastes, and especially his powers, and train him accordingly. His capacities, whatever they are, were given to him by his Maker for the express purpose of being developed. If you don't develop them, you neglect a clear indication, unless, indeed, it be held that men were made in some haphazard way for no definite purpose at all; but this would be equivalent to making out the Creator to be less reasonable than most of His own creatures!

If a lad has a strong liking for some particular sort of work or pursuit, and displays great apt.i.tude for it, there is no need of an audible voice to tell what should be his path in life. Contrariwise, strong dislike, coupled with incapacity, indicates the path to be avoided with equal precision.

Of course, liking and disliking are not a sufficient indication, for both may be based upon partial ignorance. The sea, as a profession, is a case in point. How many thousands of lads have an intense liking for the idea of a sailor's life! But the liking is not for the sea; it is for some romantic notion of the sea; and the romancer's apt.i.tude for a sea life must at first be taken for granted while his experience is _nil_. He dreams, probably, of majestic storms, or heavenly calms, of coral islands, and palm groves, and foreign lands and peoples. If very imaginative, he will indulge in Malay pirates and wrecks, and lifeboats, and desert islands, on which he will always land safely, and commence a second edition of Robinson Crusoe. But he will scarcely think, till bitter experience compels him, of very long watches in dirty unromantic weather, of holy-stoning the decks, sc.r.a.ping down the masts, and clearing out the coal-hole. Happily for our navy and the merchant service there are plenty of lads who go through all this and stick to it, their love of the ocean is triumphant--but there are a few exceptions!

On the other hand, liking and fitness may be discovered by experience.

I know a man who, from childhood, took pleasure in construction and invention. At the age of nine he made a real steam engine which "could go" with steam, and which was small enough to be carried in his pocket.

He was encouraged to follow the providential indication, went through all the drudgery of workshops, and is now a successful engineer.

Of course, there are thousands of lads whose paths are not so clearly marked out; but does it not seem reasonable to expect that, with prayer for guidance, and thoughtful consideration on the part of the boy's parents, as well as of the boy himself, the best path in life may be discovered for each?

No doubt there are many difficulties in the way; as when parents are too ambitious, or when sons are obstinate and self-willed, or when both are antagonistic to each other. If, as is not infrequently the case, a youth has no particular taste for any profession, and shows no very obvious capacity for anything, is it not a pretty strong indication that he was meant to tread one of the many subordinate paths of life and be happy therein? All men cannot be generals. Some must be content to rub shoulders with the rank and file. If a lad is fit only to dig in a coal pit or sweep the streets, he is as surely intended to follow these honourable callings as is the captain who has charge of an ocean steamer to follow the _sea_. And even in the selection of these lowly occupations the path is divinely indicated, while the free-will is left to the influence of common sense, so that the robust youth with powerful frame and sinews will probably select the pit, and the comparatively delicate man will prefer the crossing.

I repeat, to say that any creature was called into being for no purpose at all, is to question the wisdom of the Almighty. Even if a babe makes its appearance on this terrestrial scene, and wails out its brief career in a single day, it was sent here for a special purpose, else it would not have been sent, and that purpose must have been fully accomplished, else it would not have died.

To my mind this is an exceedingly cheering view of things, for it encourages the belief that however poor or feeble may have been our efforts to live a good life, these efforts cannot have been made in vain, even although they may fall very far short of the "best." And there is also this very hopeful consideration to comfort us, that the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, that wisdom sometimes proceeds out of the mouths of babes, and that "we little know what great things from little things may rise."

To be sure, that cuts both ways, for, what sometimes are called "little sins" may result in tremendous evil, but, equally, efforts that seem insignificant may be the cause of great and unexpected blessing.

If, then, as I sincerely believe, every living being has a special work to do--or, rather, has a variety of appropriate paths in any one of which he may walk with more or less advantage to himself and his fellow-men--it behoves every young man to find out what path is the best one for him, and to walk in it vigorously. Fatalism is folly. No one believes in it. At least no one in this country acts upon it. When I say that every being has a special work to do, I don't mean that it has been decreed _exactly_ what each man has to do. Were this so, he would have to do it, _nolens volens_, and there would be no such thing as responsibility--for it would be gross injustice to hold a man responsible for that which he could by no means prevent or accomplish.

That which has really been decreed is that man shall have free-will and be allowed to exercise that free-will in the conduct of his affairs. It is a most mysterious gift, but there it is--an unquestionable fact--and it must be taken into account in all our reasoning. There is a confusion here into which men are sometimes liable to fall. Man's will is absolutely free, but his action is not so. He may will just as he pleases, but all experience tells us that he may not do just as he pleases. Whether his intentions be good or bad, they are frequently and effectively interfered with, but his will--never.

Seeing, then, that there is a best way for every one, and that there are sundry common sense methods by which the path may be discovered, it may be well to consider for a moment whether there are not some obstacles which stand in the way of a young man's success in life, not only because they are providentially allowed to lie there, but because the young man himself either carelessly or unwittingly has planted them in his own path.

Selfishness is one of those obstacles. And by selfishness I do not mean that gross form of it which secures for the man who gives way to it a bad name, but those subtle phases of it which may possibly be allied with much that is good, amiable, and attractive. It is not unfrequently the consequence of that thoughtlessness which results in evil not less than does want of heart.