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■sm

<: I

;*/!

GLEANINGS

FROM

Wi:STI'Rx\ PRAIRIES.

CAMnmiMJE :
J0NK8 AND riOOOTT (LATK HI VINiJTOKS), I'RJNTKHS, TUTNTTY STHKKT.

GLEANINGS

FROM

WE8TEEN PRAIRIES

BY THE

Rev. W. E. YOUNGMAN,

late op thb pontifical academy op noble ecclesiastics,

BOME,
Aut:.<r of -LASCINEr ^^ FOR IIUSKb, FOODr 4v., ^c.

CAMBRIDGE:
JONES & PIGGOTT (Late RIVINGTONS), TRINITY STREET.

LONDON: W. KENT & CO., PATERNOSTER ROW.

OXFORD: A. R. MOWBRAY Jc CO., 116, S. ALDATE'S, and

65, FARRINGDON STREET, LONDON, E.C.

MDCCCLXXXII.

[The right of tramlafion and repnuluHior, i» rrxerrrff.]

HPI^—

:it}U'69

THE HALL, MILTON, NEAR CAMBRIDOB,

AS A UNITED THANK-OPFERING ON THE PART OP MANY AGED,

MANY SICK, AND MANY POOB FAMILIES

IN ENGLAND AND OTHER COUNTRIES, WHOSE PULL HEARTS

CAN MAKE HIM NO RETURN UPON EARTH,

BUT WHOSE PRAYERS ARE SWEET SUCCOUR WITHIN

"THE GOLDEN GATES."

Cambridge,

July, 1882.

('ONTKNTS

PUOLOGUE ...

CHAPTEK I.
The Rancher's Home

CHAPTEK II.
Pkairie Life— Brown Kirwax ...

I-AOE

A Qllmpse onlv...

The Mission House

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

The Stored Gold— What came op it

CHAPTER VI.
What Charley Kirwan told him

CHAPTER VII.
Dinner at the Mission House

CHAFfER VIII.
Sunday and the Usages...

41)

The IIubkino Party

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

Sunset and Snowrtohm ...

CHAPTER XI.
Penny Readings on the Prairies

Those Sad Days...

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

The Doctor's Death

■*¥•-

CHAPTER XIV.

Snowed up

CHAPTER XV.
The Snow-clad Cemetery. — ^The Station ...

CHAPTER XVI.

The Deacon's Boy

CHAPTER XVII.
At the Mission House. — Deaths from Freezing ...

CHAPTER XVIII.
The Freemason's Death and Burial

CHAPTER XIX.

Tom at the Mission

100

108

120

124

130

139

146

157

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER XX.

FiRB Woiisuip.— The Ionkjolis-is ...

ciiAPTKu xxr.

Buffalo Hunt ...

CHAPTER XXII.

GRAKHiiorpEit Hunt amongst thk Hosiiocoh

CHAPTER XXIII.
Mass on tub Prairies ... ...

CHAPTER XXIV.
Washing Day.— Ranche Life again

CHAPTER XXV.
Chippeway Fire Legend...

1C4

171

182

185

188

193

CHAPTER XXVI.
The Lenni-Lknapi, Waka-Tanka, Waka-Cheeka ... 202

CHAPTER XXVII.
Sacrifice to Waka-Tanka and to Waka-Cheeka ... 209

PROLOCJT^E.

A VOLUME of simple word paintiiiir, tin effort to sketch that
far Western Prairie life, to lay it unglossetl before you.
Accept it as such, and you won't be disappointed, I hope, as
scenes are grouped before you which happened in days and
nights already sunk into Eternity.

It may be strange to invite you to that far frontier, and
show you the life and ways of men who have gone forth
from our own old world, drawn to that new world by that
solo boon of man — hope. Yet hope does much for poor
humanity. I think it was Carlyle who wrote of hope thus :
"0 blessed hope, sole boon of man, whereby on his strait
prison walls are painted beautiful far-stretching landscapes,
and into the night of very death is shed holiest dawn. Thou
art to all an indefeasible possession in this God's world — to
the wise a Constantine-like banner written on the eternal
skies, under wliich they shall conquer, for the battle itself
is victory : to the foolish some secular mirage, or shadow of
still waters painted on the parched Earth, whereby at least
their dusty pilgrimage, if devious, becomes cheerfuUer, be-
comes possible."

Xl\

PROLOGUE.

A friend told me befon? I know tliat Western life, " It's
like a small drizzling? rain wetting a man to the skin. Its
ennui will soak into your soul." I don't agree with him now
I know Western life, although at that time my friend's re-
mark made me dread Western travel. If you, Reader, are
as agreeably surprised as I was, we, as you close this volume,
shall part good friends, -

Should my poor thoughts awaken a nobler thrill of sym-
pathy within you, and give you but a passing interest in
that busy frontier, and that wild Indian world, so far dis-
tant yet close to our own, now that Steamers plough the
sirong waves of the Atlantic, and the Iron Road stretches on-
ward to Indian Territory, my time will not have been vainly
spent, the arrow will have flown to the target's heart.

To my Ecclesiastical Friends I would suggest the importance
of giving some kind of recommendation to families leaving
their parishes to the Clergy of the Country and district whither
they are going. Many who are good Christians in Europe
recede totally from their faith abroad, and in the heterogeueous
mass of society tlicy find on the frontier of the New World
lead faithless and loveless lives.

And yet a kind word, oi a friendly interest, might have
made all so dilfereut.

I have to thank the great Indian missionary, the Rev.
P. J. De Smet, i^.J., for many of my notes on Indian life.

PROLOGUE.

xin

Ah I write my acknowledgements my memory carries me
back (nigh nine years ago) to his one room in the Catholic
University of St. Louis, Missouri. In memory's elear painting
I still see that dear old man who for nu; will ever inhabit
that cell as at our first interview. Everything connected
with it is so vividly before me. The sun-light still seems to
stream through the window over his face as it then did,
goldening the white locks straying from under his Biretta.
His own pet Mocking Bird, with its (juiet saucy ways perched
upon his shoulder, the sleeve of his Soutane, or the peak of
his Birettu, else resting lovingly upon his hand, as it did
those years agone in his Convent cell. It is indeed a pleasure
to remember the missionary I)e Smet, who with his own
hand turned for me the pages of his manuscript notes, who
showed and explained to me his sketches on Indian life,
made roughly oft-times upyu the Western Prairies. It is a
pleasure to recall that voice unravelling what I, with my
European ignorance, could not imderstand ; and I have always
treasured up his permission to make what notes I wished
from his conversation, and the manuscripts lent me to peruse
in my several visits to him.

A pioneer of the Western Prairies, a Traveller, a (Geographer
and a Scientist, his notes and maps relating to Indian Terri-
tory wei-e valuable to the Government of the United States
and his "Society." The grandest monument to him, is the

XIV

PROLOGUE.

one he unknowingly built for himself, in taking out to civilize
that We8t<;rn life nigh one hundred and ten Missionaries to
the Province of Missouri.

I have not forgotten the sorrow that crept over me when
one day going to the College to make enquiries about his
illness, before seeing him the Brother Concierge told me,
" lie is dead." I remember standing by his open coffin in
the Church of the University, and thoughts of those dim
prairie wayfarings of his rushing over me. His dead hands
even then were clasping the Chalice and Paten as though he
were still pleading that awful Sacrifice, whilst that death
smile upon his face seemed sadder than tears.

A sense of desolation looked out from many faces as the
cortige left S. Louis for S. Stanilaus, Florissant, in whose
iittle cemetery he rests in peace (I doubt not) with those
other Angeli of the everlasting truth, his companions in
warfare.

With grateful memory I linger over that bright day in
Italy, when the late President of the Academy of Noble
Ecclesiastics in Rome (Monsignore Odoardo Agnelli, Bishop
of Troy, i.p.i.) spoke of my two former volumes to his late
Holiness Pius the Ninth (of happy memory to us who saw
him near). The words of His Holiness at that Audience will
alwayK remain with me — brave and strong words, bidding me
alwaVK fifjjht for the Truth.

p 1

PROLOGUE.

r liavo to tliank so iiiiiuy for tlie kindness with which my
two former volumes were received in the New World. His
Eminence the Cardinal Archbishop of New York, for his per-
sonal censorship of the Theological Treatise in my former
volume ("For Husks, Food"); also their Graces the Arch-
bishops Pnrcell (of Cincinnati), and Kendrick (of St. Lonis),
for their kindly written words of congratulation ; also His
Grace Archbishop Corrigan (of New York) for his encouraging
letter written from Seton Hall during the time of his Epis-
copate in Newark. To both clergy and laity of the New
and Old Worlds, who then wrote me words of kindness I, as
though personally to each one, tender grateful thanks. Many
of these letters I have sorted, and keep in an Album peculiar
to them.

Special thanks I owe to one Parish Priest of New York for
his help in manuscript revision, and to the then Provincial of
"the Society" in Maryland for his honest critique, which I
nmch value, and shall always wish to profit by.

■>;;^-^

5'*^'*S§'

< ('' ^

CHAPTER I.

"I might have striven, and striven in vaiu

Hiich visions to. recall,
Well known and yet forgotten: now

I see, I hear them all.
The present pales before the past,

Who comes with angels' wings,
As in a dream I stand, amidst

Strange yet familiar things."— P/v/c'^f/r.

THE rancher's HOME.

WO men are journeyino: over the prairie in a
light waggon from the Osage Mission in
Neosho County, Kansas, to a Rancher's home.
A Rancher's home, on the broad prairie.
One fresh from the scenes of European capitals, the
other well seasoned to the strange silence of that prairie
life.

Have you seen the prairie ? watched the sheeny sun-
light flood witli strange beauty that long stretch of view,
over which the eyes wander wonderingly ? felt European
trammels shaken from your soul by that still, primitive
life ? lost youreelf in wonderment as the immensity of
country grew upon you ? Have you travelled over those

GLEANINGS FROM

vast tracts of prairie land, whose very vastness causes
one to recognise the pigmyisra, the littleness of self,
aye, causes even the smallness of Europe to enter with
a distinct forcibility into the soul ?

Have you gazed over the prairies during the Indian
summer, joyed in that one field of vast verdure, en-
amelled with bright odoriferous wild flowers, whose
brilliant beauty has few other witnesses than the azure
firmament ?

Have you scanned one by one its undulations, been
borne as it were from wave to wave, from valley to hill-
top, as you found yourself in that limitless plain ?

The prairie, and the Indian summer, with its clear
sunlight, its myriad wild flowers growing everywhere
around that prairie home, could only have tempted one
of those travellers to make trial of a Rancher's home,
and stay those months in the " Far West " whither his
friend had invited him.

It is a strange feeling to labor under at first, the
knowledge that there is only the distance of thirty miles
between yourself and the scalping knife ; yet it is on
the frontier formed by that band of whites who have
no fears of Indians (thanks to the missioners), that the
events you are about reading happened. Judge youraelves
if that strange life is worth the living.

Willie Woodhouse was lost in reverie, and his friend
the Rancher was watching him from his seat in the light
waggon. The smoke curled lazily from the Rancher's
pipe, and the tired horses stooped their heads to drink

WESTERN PRAIRIES,

causes
self,
with

[ndian
•e, en-
whose
I azure

J, been
to hill-

•

bs clear
jrywhere
(ted one
s home,
Lther his

[rst, the
iy miles

lit is on

rho have
that the

rourselves

us friend

Ithe light

Lancher's

to drink

at the prairie creek. Charles Kirwan the Raiiclier tnnu'd
and touched his compauion with tlie rein to awaken him
from his reverie.

He started ; had he been day-dreaming only a few
minutes ?

"Well, old fellow, what do yon think of this country,
eh?"

It was a middle-aged man, perhaps thirty-five, who
spoke, a pleasant ring his voice had then, and the sun-
\vA\t shimmered over his dark beard and his well-cuit
features, lightening the dark hair showing under the
Rancher's cap.

The Rancher's guest was in no dreamland — all was
reality — but such a pleasant reality that afternoon in
the hazy Indian summer.

They had skirted along one side of the prairie, and
were about to cross the creek ("crick," the settlers called
it). These creeks are small streams of water running
through the prairies, and on the banks of such streams
a belt of trees is always to be found. They had pene-
trated into one of these belts of trees, and were by the
side of the stream, about to cross over.

Woodhouse, sitting on the side of the waggon, with
his eyes turned to the prairies, had not perceived this
until his friend spoke, and it is at this entrance to the
prairie life I present to my readers Charles Kirwan, a
self-made man.

I don't know if you would call him handsome. He
had a winning smile on his lips, and his expression

GLEANINGS FROM

changed with the thoughts that passed through his brain.
All beauty he claimed rested in his expression, which
lit up those otherwise too regular features with a strange
fire, and then his soul shone forth indeed.

Yes, he had a great soul, and gloried in his prairie
isolation and his prairie home.

But of his dark moments — and we all have dark mo-
ments in our lives — then his features were a very fear.

Of middle height, lithe as a leopard, and full of mirth,
one would have had no fear of ennui in the visit to the
Prairie Cattle Ranche.

The touch of his rein upon his guest's hand had re-
called him to the present.

" Are you surprised at the extent of our prairie," he
said, and a laugh broke forth from his lips as he pointed
to the bank opposite. "You will be more surprised to
cross that stream ?"

The creek had been originally a run hollowed out by
the tread of many thousand buffaloes, and sure enough
the bank opposite was the steepest piece of track he had
seen for a waggon to go up, even in the mountain roads
of Europe.

"We can never do it, Charley."

How he laughed at his surprise. " Never do it !
my horses and I often go over there. I think sometimes
they could crawl up the wall of a house ; they beat the
Tivoli mules for that. Well, we will let them rest for
a few minutes longer. We have five miles in the prairie
to go before we get to Walnut Creek. I am waiting

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

to see your surprise at my home on the prairies. No
luxurious Laii<(ham Hotel iu Portland Place. A mud
hut ? No ! well, not quite that. A tree shanty lined
with mortar — a cooking stove, a fire-place, shelves for
grocery, and a few plates. A loft for my two boys and
the man, a lean-to — our bedroom that — a rough plank
bedstead, a tin basin to wash in, four inches of looking
glass. Can you stand it, oh, friend Englishman ?'*

" I think so. I have come some hundreds of miles
from New York to try."

"Good. And for the bright side — d'ye see that box
in the waggon ?"

Woodhouse nodded.

*• I have sheets there. Your European body couldn't
rest in blankets as mine does."

" I don't know that."

"Well, well. You will have a horse to ride, the great
prairie for your course. You will see such sunrises and
sunsets as only Kansas prairies boast. Color I talk of
color, I have seen the rich purples fade into crimson,
and one great bank of crimson fade again to all shades
of its own color, intermixed with gold, and then whilst I
looked it was night and darkness, and god-like, quiet
even from the insects* myriad voices near me."

" Did you always love the prairies thus ?"

" Yes ; partly for gain, partly for aasthetics. My
ranche is dearer to me than all the luxury of European
life. When I travelled and met you in Europe, I wanted
to see what men call the great, and grand, and beautiful,

GLEANINGS FROM

iu the cities of Italy, Germany, France, and Enf]jland ;
but I came back to my piiiirie life, as the caged bird
does to its freedom. I am happier here."

" Shall I bo so r

" I can't tell. We are rough — my men and table,
and house rougher. If you are what I take you to be
you will conquer your prejudices, and the time you pass
here will be the happiest of your life."

" If I am not what you take me to be ?"

" Then you have always the train that stops at the
Mission ; you can return to your boasted civilization.
But we must be gomg ; night falls quickly during
the Indian summer, and we might lose the track."

It was all so pleasant by the side of the creek ; lithe
rabbits sunning themselves, and frisking by their warren ;
bright birds moving amongst the branches of the trees,
and the woodpecker's bill tapping upon the tree trunks
being the only audible sound, excepting the hum of
insects, and their own (to them) interesting chat.

"Will you take one of the horses and ride over the
creek, and then I will fetch the waggon?"

"No, Charley, let's go together.'*

And so they went. The water was high up the horses*
knees, over the axle of the waggon wheels, and then
they were mounting the perilous bank. Twice they
essayed, and then, after such a piece of steep path as
a European would have imagined horses could never
surmount, with one of Charley's ringing cheers they
were on the prairie once more.

WESTERS rHAI/i/ES.

Woodhouse felt ho was very pale, and yet lie thought
he had hardiesso in his diameter.

Once more the sheeny 8un-li<^ht flooded the vast prairie,
whilst here and there he saw low one-roomed cottages
standing out on their claims, with the pjitch of cora-
land close by, a would-be peach orchard now and again
showing itself as an isolated sign of civilization.

" Do you see," said Kirwan, " that brown speck in
the distance yonder?"

Woodhouse looked in the direction he pointed too with
his whip, and there sure enough as the distance lessened
he made out the Rancher^s home.

His heart sank below zero. Had he travelled so many
miles for this — to stay in this cottage ? Why, his
father's groom in Old England would have scorned such
a shanty as this Kansas ranche. He had no such cot-
tage on his place. And yet Charley Kirwan, the rich
rancher, lived here.

On and on trotted the horses, nearer and nearer he
drew to his fate. In a scope of hundreds of miles the
only man he knew was Charley Kirwan.

He looked ruefully at his trunk full of books and
European luxuries. What good could they be in such
a cottage as this ?

And yet the memory of his books consoled him, and
the sight of a great purple sunset glory flooding and
making beautiful the outside of the ranche reconciled
him to his fate, for he dearly loved aesthetics.

There was a kind of romance, too, in the situation, and
after all he would try it.

I I

GLEANIXGS FROM

Charley Kirwan kii'^w wlnt was pas«^ing iu his mind,
for he smiled one of his kn >win«j^ smiles.

" Ciieer up, my ^riend ; Ivansas life will do you more
^(kA than all your European tr.ivel, and as for experi-
ence, you will tjjain more heit) than elsewhere."

Reader, judj^e for yourself in closing this volume,
was he right ?

The waggon stopped in the full glory of the sunset, as
the gleamy light fell over the hut, beautifying even the
external ugliness of the structure.

" Cottage," had he called it ? that word slipped from his
vocabulary for ever when he had seen it.

" Tom, — Tom, — Tom," roared Charley Kirwan.

The door opened, and Tom issued forth.

Tom, iu rough knee boots, knee bi'eeches, and a cloth
shirt.

Tom leered at Woodhouse, leered at his clothes, leered
at the large box, leered at the valise, and with supreme
contempt assisted in carrying them to the lean-to.

And the lean-to had no glass in the four-paned win-
dow for days after their arrival. They hung some
sacking over that, so that the place was sleepable iu
after all.

"Tom, this is the gentleman we were expecting."

Tom scratched his head, eyed him from head to foot,
walked round him, and held out his hand.

Thft guest felt almost ashamed of his hand near that
other large, horny, brown hand, one so much younger
and stronger than the other. Tom regarded that hand
with wonder, and then said :

s«i

WESTERx pnAn?ir:s.

" ril try and teaoh yer to like it ; but yor not broke
in vet, tliat's sure."

From that time Tom and Woodhouse were fsist friends.

AVhilst this seene w;us jj^oinu: <>'i Woodhouse had caujjjht
a pflimpse of tlie inside of the ranche.

As Charley said, there it was — the row^h floor, the
stone heartii, on which a wood fire was blazinu: : an
American cookins: stove standinjif out in the room, a
table covered with oilcloth, the shelves for «i:rocery and
plates, a lamp, and a few rou^jfli chaii*s. Tn one corner
a ladder leading up to the loft. All this shut in 20 feet
bv 15 feet.

The bed-room, the lean-to. Woodhouse noticed the
two-inch chinks where it joined on to the building
proper. A rough bedstead indeed there ; the wood com-
]H)sing it not even planed by the maker; the tin wash-
basin, the four-inch looking-glass, all i)orfectly as Charley
had caid.

This Avaa to be his home for some months, and what
events those months shut in ! as' dissolving views, the
chapters of this volume will pass before you.

Happy days, streaked with sunshine and quietude,
over-ridden ofttimes by the gvim shadow of pain and
death ; yet days he thanked Providence for, and whose
memory he loved in after years.

In the meanwhile Jack, another ranche boy, had
prepared the evening meal, and they sat down to pork
chops, prairie chicken, corn bread, stewed peaches and
coflfee, as soon as they entered.

GLEANINGS FROM

So soon after that sunset it was night. No long
gloaming as in England. The lamp was lit, and the
blinds drawn down, and with appetites only such as prairie
air could create, they did full justice to the plenteous
fare. Slice after slice of luscious hot corn bread dis-
appeared, cup after cup of coffee.

Charley Kirwan in his quiet way had drawn out the
conversation with the boys who sat with them on their
work on the farm, and about the cattle ; and Woodhouse,
interested by the very strangeness of the scene, entered
into it with his whole heart.

He had no idea how time flew until they pulled out
their watches, and Charley Kirwan laughed that still
laugh of his as he asked his guest to pull round by the
fire and smoke, as every one in the ranche would be
moving early next morning.

"Breakfast at 6.30 or 7. We are up soon after four,
you know."

Then they made the beds. Those precious sheets were
pulled out of the box, to the amusement of the two boys,
who vowed it was the funniest move possible.

" And how are we to make the bed, Charley ?" they
asked. (Here all distinction between master and servant
was at an end.) " How do these things go ? "

How they laughed ; and how quickly that dreaded first
evening had flown ; so pleasantly too, that the stranger
regretted it had come to an end.

On that first evening he too thought his trunk out of
place in the Rancher*s home, as he took from it those
necessaries he

jquired.

WESTERN PJiAfJl/ES.

Could .t be he was about to sleep in a mche on the
>nde pra,r,es of the " Far West ?" that he was in Kansas ?
Was he dreamins ? No ; the loud suorin^ of the mnche
boys from their loft told him plainly it ,vas reality

■3

CHAPTER TI-

EclioeB of »ome vague d^'^^; .^ ainKS,
Dhu voices «h.»l.er h"'* '«' ^^" ^„„„er not."-
And wben we i«use W listen, » ^ ^^ p,,„.Mn

PRAUUE UFE.-BROWK KIBWAN.

, ,00V flun.- Wide oi^u on the following
rpnE ranche Jo" "-^^^^^ ^„„,y„e flooding the m-
X movmng, and '"'^ ""»' „.,,. ^oodhonse busily
tenor of the building ^^-- ^ J™^^ ^^ aust from the
encaged in bmshing some of the dirt

eoLnon sitting -^f^^J ^^^.ed np the breaMa^t
Then he cleaned the wmdo , ^^^

things, and sat down ^-^^l^^ ,,a left him alone
Charley Kir^van and his help

hours ago. ^ g^ent of prairie flowers

From door and —^VI sunshine throwing into
crept into the rough bmldiu„, m

bold relief the Bj^°;\.^,^,,a and curled around, and
The tongues of fire mo ^^^ t,,„

through the -v^s^;;^ * ^^^ I,, .hite wood a«h.
hearth, and made beautiiu

GL'^ANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 13

ot ;
Proctor.

r^Q following
ling the in-
lliouse busily
ust ii'OiT^ the

the breakfast

hiw.
bit bim aloue

prairie flowers
throwing into

L around, aud
Ipiled upon thi'
lite wood ashes j

round ; as they lay piled up in the great recess, where
the suu could not reach, did it try ever so hard.

The susun'a of the prairie wind in amongst the Indian
corn patch was real music.

Willie Woodhouse did not move from his books ; they
were on prairies and prairie life, and he would know
something of this before he essayed exploring the country
round, and he had also promised Charley Kirwan to wtiit
in for his brother. Brown Kirwan.

It was ten o'clock in the morning, but in the still
prairie life that was late in the day to those who rose
with the sunshine, and retired an hour or so after darkness
had fallen.

A strong shadow fell over his book, and a voice, with
an unmistakeable Dutch accentuation close by, woke
him from his studies.

It was Herr Lieboldt, the head farmer of Charley
Kirwan.

" Ee-ee-ee. Sharley say him frind am cum, eee-eee-eee.
What hands, ee-ee ! What ed, ee-ee-ee ! Wat buk am
you read ? I Lieboldt. I ed man. Me frind ob Sharley
also, ee-ee. What tink you ob Sharley's home ? "

Short, red-haired, thick-set, Lieboldt, with his sharp
blue eyes twinkling under rugged brows, was a character
of whom Kirwan knew the full value.

" You cum see me ? My ole voman, ee-ee, be glad
to see you. You see my house, my mule, my boys, ee-ee."

"Where am Sharley?" Receiving an answer, this in-
truder departed, to be followed by a tall thin man, whose

GLEANINGS FROM

lantern jaw£ and sad eyes spoke of misery. Levett his
name, real nasal American his twang. " So you've come,
eh ? Well, Where's Sharley ? I want to borrer a cup of
coffee ; I can't go to the Mission to get none. I'll take
the coffee. Good-bye, man." And he took the coffee
and absconded, to the amazement of his auditor. Next
came a Canadian-looking woman, short, thin, and age as
difficult to tell as to guess the extent of prairie near.
" Where's Sharley, eh, my man ?" she said. " I want to
boiTow a cup of coffee kernels ; he'll let me have it if
he's at home. Not to home ! well, I guess I'll take it ;
tell him I'll bring it back to-mon'ow." (Her to-morrows
were long far-off days that never came.) As she said
the "to-morrow" a smile flik,ted over her face at the
greenness of Kirwan's guest in letting her have what
she wanted.

" If yer want washing done, I'm yer woman to do it,
I guess. Good bye ; don't forget to tell Sharley. I
guess you will, though."

" Are these my neighbours and friends ?" soliloquised
Woodhouse. " What can I do for them in these months
to come ?" " Wait and see. God will use you if He
wants you." It was a kind, gentle voice that spoke, the
owner of the voice sitting in a spider buggy, driven close
over the soft turf up to the window, and he sat looking
in. It was Brown Kirwan, whose approach had hurried
off the Canadian woman, who not only contemplated sugar,
but coffee also. He had caught some of the conversation,
and was smiling at it, menially resolving to chaff Wood-

■4J

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

house about his greenuess in allowing himself to be thus
entreated by the ranchers near.

" I'm Brown Kirvvan. You are Willie Woodhouse,
Charley's friend, Will you be mine too ?" They shook
hands heartily, and then Brown descended from his buggy,
took a chair, and sat in the bright sunlight in the
ranche door.

" Let's have something to eat, and then you will come
for a drive with me. I'm going to see a sick squatter's
wife who is half Indian — about two miles away."

Brown Kirwan was a doctor living at the Osage
Mission. He was tall, pale, with dark black hair, features
more irregular than those of his brother, yet he had a
kindly nature, and a heart as true as ever beat in human
breast. He had served as surgeon in some regiment
during the war between North and South, made a respect-
able little fortune, bought a claim out West, and started
a sheep ranche. Perhaps he had been unsuccessful ; cer-
tain it is, he had rented his claim to another, and taken
again to his profession amongst the many squatters, and
the small town forming round the Mission House of the
Jesuits amongst the Osages.

Such was Brown Kirwan ; a man full of knowledge,
less picked up from books than knowledge practical,
caught up in the hard run of daily life. His religion
was founded and rooted in charity.

He Reldom went to a church ; but, as he often said,
his church was the boundless prairie, the roof the blue
curtain of heaven. There prayer welled out of his heart

GLEANINGS FROM

silently and uaturally, as the sururra passing over the
prairie grass, or the water welling up from the almost
hjddeu spring near the rauche he once inhabited.

" But what has Charley to eat before we go, eh ? Corn
bread, I see. Good. And a lot of stewed peaches," as
he lifted the lid off a saucepau standing on a form.

Good again. Also beans cooked in pork grease. Come
on, friend, we shall be hungry before we return."

So they feasted, with no set table, on the good things
there, and then mounting together in the buggy after
locking the ranche door, drove off.

The drive wsis over the prairie grass to the side of a
distant creek some miles off". The air was odorous with
the Indian summer flowers, the atmosphere clearer even
than in Italy (though unsung, and generally unknown to
be so), and the enlivening conversation of Brown Kirwan
made that first day on the prairies enjoyable to his
companion.

" You are English, Mr. Woodhouse." " Yes." " What
age ? Well, never mind ; I can see, from nineteen to
twenty-two. Ah, you have life before you. I am double
your age now. Well, I shouldn't wish to live my life
over again. Dear me, your English life must be different
to this. Your pale skin will soon gain American olive."

" My brother Charley is a Catholic. Dear me ; well,
he knows best. He worships God his way, I mine.
You're of his religion. Well, well ; more to interest you
in this region. Ah, one day I will take you to the
Mission House ; have orders from the superior. Well,

WESTERLY PRAIRIES.

or over the

the ahuost
)ited.

, eh ? Coru
peaches," as

on a form,
i-ease. Come
turu.
i good things

buggy after

the side of a
odorous with
J clearer even
y unknown to
Brown Kirwan
>yable to his

JYes." "What
m nineteen to
I am double
live my life
.St be different
[merican olive."
•ear me ; well,
way, I mine,
to interest you
ike you to the
uperior. Well,

now we are coming on to this stony ground ; ninor

noticed tlic round cactus he fore ; ahvays grows here so.

Greenliouse plant in some parts; not so here. Well,

well."

" Mr. Kirwan, look at that snake ! What kind is it ?"
"Oh, that's a rattlesn.ike."* The reptile was l)asking

in the sun surrounded by five or six little ones. As soon

* Crotalux (Rattlesnake). In zoology, a goniin of tho olass om-

phihia, order xerprntt's. There are five species of tliis j,'('iiiis. The

one found in America is the C'rofabm fforridi/s, or Hanth'd Unttle-

enake — abdominal plates, 107; dorsal, 23 — the most venomous of the

Berpent tribe ; growth, greatest extent, (> feet, but those of this length

are seldom seen now. This snake is eaten by swine with impunity.

It preys on birds and smaller quadruiieds. The rattlesnake i»roduces

its young in June or July, generally about twelve in numbj.T. liy

September they grow from nine to twelve inches in length. There

is little doubt that it receives its young into its mouth, and swallows

r them in time of danger. This theory has been nuich laughed at by

[people who have not had ocular demonstration of the fact. M.

Beauvois, a naturalist born in the last ccntvry, asserted this fact, nnd

[declares that "hai)pening to disturb a rattlesnake in a walk near Tine

jog, he saw it immediately coil itself up and open its jaws, when

iinstantly five small ones, that were lying by, rushed into its mouth.

iHe retired, and in the course of a quai terof an hour saw her discharge

|them. He approached it a second time, when the young retired into

its mouth with greater celerity than before, and the snake imm<!di-

,ately moved off into the grass and disappeared." The ratth; consists

;of hollow, hard, dry, and semi-transparent bones, nearly of the same

,fBize and figure, resembling in some measure the shape of the hiiman

"Ops mn'^im for, although only the last or terminal one seems to have

rigid epiphysis joined to it, yet has every one of them the like, so

lat the tip of every uppermost bone runs within two of the bones

jlow it, by which contrivance they have not only a moveable co-

lerence, but also make a more multiplied sound, each bone hitting

jainst the other two at the same time. The C. drylnas, or wood

ittlesnake, inhabits America. C. dunngiinns, or striped rattlesnake,

ihabits America, and is generally found under the tnmks of fallen

ees. C. milliarius inhabits Carolina. C. mntus inhabits Surinam.

iii

GLEANINGS FROM

as 8hc perceived them she gave the rattle, opened her
mouth to its widest extent, and in an instant the whole
brood descended. Withdrawing on to the soft grass near,
Woodhouse watched the young ones come forth from their
living tomb, to which the wheels passing over the stones
quickly bade them retire again.

" That's something you wouldn't see in England."

"Yes, it is."

" Well, in Texas and Missouri you will make acquaint-
ance with the chameleon, the hideous lizard, and the
classical salamander, or horned frog."

" And the prairie dog ?"

" No ; that lives generally in the arid soil of the
Mauvaiiries Torres, where it has villages of its own."

" Villages ! " ^

"Yes, friend Englishman, villages."

"You don't know much about the Mauvaises Terres.
Well, I guess it's a kind of plateau, where the Little
Missouri, the Mankizita Watpa, the Terre-blanche, and
the Niobrarah take their rise."

" Well, I want to know about the villages of the
prairie dog ? "

" Every site of these villages extends over an area of
several square miles of smooth table land, on which the
grass is short and thin."

" Do they make houses ? "

" Houses I Well, they pile up the earth round their
dwellings about two feet above the surface of the soil
to protect themselves against inundations, which in the
rainy seasons would engulph them and their hopes.'

»»

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

It)

opened ber
, the whole
grass near,
I from their
: the stones

ttgland.

\ke acquaint-
ird, and the

L soil of the
its own."

Lvaises Terres.

tere the Little

■blanche, and

dllages of the

Iver an area

which the

[th round their
of the soil

ice

which in the
leir hopes."

"Well, that is odd."

" You would think it more odd did you see them
tear up the grass round their houses, and leave the
flowers only."

" I say, you must be cramming me."

"Cramming you! I assure you solemnly I have found
the certain flowers which surround their little abodes
spared with much taste. Prairie dogs are gardeners ;
they leave the Hedeoma Hirta, the Solamim Tri/iorum,
Lupinus PusilluSf the Erigeron Divancatum, Dysodia
Chrysanthemoides, Ellisia Myctagenea, and the Panicum
Virgatum."

" I would not have believed this had I read it."

"I assure you it is solemnly true, also that they are
governed by a Republic."

" Oh, that's too good."

"Nevertheless true that the several millions of prairie
dog townships, full of life and motion, are governed as
Republics."

" I can't believe it. But has this prairie dog, this re-
semblance to a squirrel, no amicable relations with other
animals ? "

"Yes, with the rattlesnake and a small kind of owl,
usually found at the entrance of their lodges."

" Ha, ha, ha ! Has this dog no enemies ? "

"Yes, two, the wolf and the fox."

In conversation such as this the drive over the prairies
[passed rapidly eway, and they were now nearing the
sreek on the banks of which the ranche to which they

G LEANINGS FROM

were proccedinf^ wjis situated. Tliey entered tlie little
farm yard in front of the house, tied up the horse,
and even there the low moan of some one in a«,'ony
might be heard.

'' Come with me," the doctor said to his companion,
"to hear somethinj^ of the rancher's life."

Sad and desolate the house looked as they crossed its
threshold. A woman dying alone, miles from any
woman, with no woman friend to stand by her sick
bed, to aid her in those little luxuries of nursing so dear
to us Europeans, when coming from some loved hand.

Half caste — half Indian, half French, she lay dressed
upon her un-made bed ; her long, dusky tresses fell around
a face of rich beauty, almost startling in its intense
pitifulness, refined by pain. It seemed so sad, she so
young, attended by her husband, a rough Irishman, who
was too grief -stricken even to minister that material
assistance he might have given.

The ashes were grey and cold in the American stove ;
the floor dirty and unswept ; no bread made * ; no food
prepared ; and 'he man sat by the side of the wife hope-
lessly. " Would medicine do her any good ? " he asked.
As the doctor said he could only alleviate her sufferings,
not cure them, the tears rained down that husband's
face. He, so much older than his wife, loved her dearly.
They made the fire, and cooked the bread cakes, tidied

* N.B. — In Kansas, on account of the great heat, bread was made
fresh for every meal

WICSTEUS PliMHlES,

d the little

the horse,

le ill »<,'()!> y

1 companion,

ly croHsed its

js from any
by her sick

irsing 80 dear

loved hand.

le lay dressed

ises fell around

in its intense

^0 sad, she so

Irishman, who

that material

merican stove ;
lade*; no food

the wife hope-
ad?" he asked,
e her sufierings,

that husband's
oved her dearly,
ad cakes, tidied

lat, bread was made |

the room, and the half-cash^ thanked them by tlie clo-
qiKMit tnu*8 rolliiii^' out of thuHo lustroua eyes, undiinmed
l>y ilhicHs. She to<)k her int'diclne passively ; resi^nied
in lyhaps to doatli. She, {.ikcn into the (MiriHtian
Church, i<iu;w she would firul warmth, h"<:;ht, companion-
ship, happines.s, l)eyoiid tlie btire walls of tlie shed she
called home, outside of that liviii^^ palpitating flesh
which enveloixid her spirit.

Tliey left, with regret, those two lone beings in their
Ranche. Two days later the Irish Raneher within a
few feet of his home, turned the sods with his spade,
and the half-caste was laid to her rest by the hands of
her Imsband, so much older than lierself.

Brown Kirwan seemed to think some strange romance
had linked those two lives together.

" Did anybody know her father ? "

" Yes, he was one of the traders in bufTalo skins
amongst the savages."

" Do they ever marry with the Indians ? "

" Unfortunately, yes ; young Englishman. T believe
the law stands thus : If they marry an Indian wife
they have a right to a claim of 150 acres, and a
certain amount for every child born to them. Many
marry a wife in every tribe they trade with, under
different names. But this is in the lower class of
traders, and I hope it will soon die out, as the civili-
sation advances and the Government more efficiently
grapples with the difficulties of government on the
extreme limits of her great States. What of the Indian

1
i

it-

■-
■

GLEANINGS FROM

life can be civilized will be, as for example the Chero-
kees, who now make good Jarmera, &c., and are settled
on their claims. What cannot be civilized will be
extinguished by the rapid advance of civilisation, which
must in time extend to the shores of the Pacific."

They were driving now through the rich sunshine, the
air seemed heavy with the fragrance of the flowers, and
everything appeared so health-giving that the thought
of death, pain, and corruption was out of place in such
a time, and on such a day. Silence had fallen on them
awhile, when Brown Kii'wan roused his friend's attention
by saying : " I dream sometimes of things in the future."
" Do you ; but you can't believe in that unreal world
of sleep ? "

"I dream, and my dreams come true, Woodhouse."
" ^Ind what particular dream haunts you now ? "
"Only this one — I saw you distinctly in my dreams
long before you came this way, I saw you sitting by my
dead body in a prairie ranche, snowed up. I saw you
take my coffin in an ox waggon over the prairies, and,
wha^ is more, I believe a stra*^ge fatality has brought
you into this neighbourhood, and you must go through
all I have seen in my dreams. You could not resist
coming, you were drawn by a stronger sympathetic power
than your own — over land and sea — ^and I firmly believe
for this purpose."

Woodhouse laughed — "There is a purpose in every-
thing God allows, Mr. Kirwan, and that I am prepared
to grant. I am afraid, though, that dispiriting ranche

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

Chero-

settled

will be

L. which

i»

line, the

?er8, aud

thought

in such

on them

attention

5 future."

eal world

louse."

w ?

ly dreams

ng by my
[ saw you
Aries, and,
IS brought
to through
not resist
letic power
mly believe

scene has aflfected your spirits — something unusual for a
Doctor that. But I must tell you a dream tale I heard
from an English farmer : A pei'son saw his dead father
in his sleep, he went to consult a doctor, the doctor
naturally asked what his patient had had for supper the
previous evening ? Half a pork pie, was the answer. Ah,
replied the doctor — ah, well, my dear sir, go and eut the
other half to-night, and you will see your poor dear
dead mother.

Brown Kirwan smiled, and with terrible earnestness
replied : " Ah yes ; I daix) say, cause and efTect. My
dream was too distinct, though, and it will come true."

" Sunt geminas somni portao : quarum altera fortur
Cornea, qua voris facilis datur exitus Unibris:
Altera, candenti j^erfecta nitens elephanto ;
Sed falsa ad cuclum mittuut insomnia Manes."

yi:/i(:i(los,Uh. VI., 1. 893.

in every-
m prepared
ting rauche

CHAPTER III.

" Whfit liave we toiled for? Fame —

"The echo of a name,

" To be forgot with ea«y unconcern

" When the quick flame, whose ray

"Ilhimes our thinking clay,

"Fades, and we shrink into the (juiet iirn,

"No more on this poor stage to smile or sigh,

" At wouian's flattering voice, or man's ascetic eye.

e/. //. Wiffcn,'" Inquifiition of the yeai'.

A GLIMPSE ONLY.

IFE in the Rauche proceeded in the same
quiet way as usual — and Willie Woodhouse
had in a few w^eks grown into the life,
which at first struck him as being so repugnant. E ■
fore sun-rise the fire was alight in the American stovf ,
bread being prepared for breakfast, luscious coffee berries
roasted, and the coffee made. Pork would be fried,
corn bread made, and men with hearty appetites — master,
guest, and servants — sat down at the same table. What
merry and happy breakfasts they were, can be imagined.
A stray newspaper now and again would find its way
into the company, and all questions under dispute

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 25

were referred to Cluirley, who was the President of this
little Republic. Sometimes the breakfast would be later,
for the men had ordera to go and feed the cattle first,
Charley Kinvau being a cattle rancher. As he said he
placed a hoi-se for riding at the disposal of his guest,
who, with books, exploring the country round, long
walks and conversations with his host, found those firat
days full of excitement and all tor short. Kirwan was
a man of the world whose experience was both large
and varied. Born not far from the triple cities of Nevv'
York, Brooklyn and Jersey ; at an age when most boys
are still at school, he had started in life on his own
account, and refused all help, but his own, to forward
himself in life.

Whatever he took in hand seemed to prosper. Finally
he entered into partnership with a lawyer in Chicago,
and finding he had made money enough went West, and
bought several claims for cattle farming (each claim
contains 150 acres). Buying four bulls from Kentucky's
famous herds, and some hundred of Texas cows, he started
a strain of cattle famed in that western district. Charley,
travelling in Europe, had left the care of his farms and
cattle until recently to his younger brother, Henry, who
a few months before this story opened had succumbed to
that deleterious enemy prairie fever, or ague, caught mostly
from turning the virgin soil whilst following the plough.
The soil being so rich, emits gases which poison the
system. At least this is the prairie theory. Quinine is
the great antidote.

^.-

-n

; 1

f;.

GLEANINGS FROM

Kirwan v/as a man whose thoughts ran far below the
surface of ordinary humanity, a man who appreciated
tme aesthetics, but who cordially despised sentimental
aestheticism. From the study of law, his thoughts had
turned to other studies ; amongst these studies being
the then vexed question of Catholicism. He ultimately
embraced that faith, and settled down near the Roman
Catholic Mission amongst the Osages, just within the
then frontier. Whilst in Europe he had invited his
friend to join him for some few months.

On this particular morning in question Kirwan pro-
posed duck ^hooting on the creek at some short distance
from the back of the house. Whilst the two friends
were wandering quietly in the canes and bushes there,
and Kirwan succeeded right and left in bringing down
his game, Lieboldt came to say :

"A shentleman wants yer, Sharley."

" Who is he ? "

*' I don't I'now, he cum afther them carfves."

It was a Canadian farmer and his son who came to
enquire about buying eighty calves.

"Yes, I can oblige you, my friends," replied Kirwan,
" they are not here, but at the upper ranche," and then
turning to his friend he invited him to come and see
some calf-separating. " It's hard riding, friend, and a
vicious cow might horn you."

" I'll take my chance with the rest of you."

" Well, then, we number six, and the two men at th'
other ranche count eight. Yes, we can do it."

WES TERN PTL I IRIES.

" Come iu aud have coflfee, corn bread, and pork, theu
we can start for the upper ranche."

Uproariously they chatted whilst the meal was in pre-
paration under their eyes, and then doing full justice
to it, the cavalcade started for a few miles ride, mostly
over the edge of the great prairie, here and there dotted
with a tiny ranche. By degrees the ranches became
fewer, the cultivation less, and then the broad expanse
in all its vastness burst upon their eyes. Rich luxuriant
vegetation indeed ; over this vast stretch Kirwan's cattle
ranged for miles, watched by the ranche boys, and at
niirht were driven home to their carels.*

This upper ranche was built in a more picturesque
manner than the lower one. It had a wooden portico
and garden behind, though only one room. Great
white-hearted cabbages grew here in the garden, which
they ate raw with salt, and which also served for
making into sour kraut. The stables and outhouses were
nearer the ranche than in the lover one, and the carel
built close by, so that if cattle stealers came near in the
night, the dogs' barking could easily be heard by the
men in charge. It was late when they arrived, and the
strangers went directly off to see the herd ; beautifully
fat and sleek they looked, feeding m their large groups,
as they were driven gently home for the night.

The bargain was struck there, and the calf separation
from the cows was to begin early in the morning.

* Carel, an enclosure in which cattle are i)enned for the night.

GLEANINGS FROM

The long ride had made all hungry, and how to
cook any supper was a difficulty ; no matches could be
found for some time on tlie shelves in the ranche, and
when found they showed plainly no meat, and it was late
in the evening already.

To the dark hen-house some of the party went, and
in twenty minutes two fowls skinned and ready for the
pot lay upon the table. One engaged in bringing wood
in, one engaged in fetching water in, one making bread,
one coaxing up the fires, one washing up the breakfast
things, how quickly the time sped. Then a savouiy
odour floated to hungry nostrils, and there was laughter,
a merry supper, tobacco fumes and coffee frugrance
mingling.

Then night, silence, and deep slumber.

At early dawn the astonished Texan mother cows be-
held then- carftl invaded by twelve horsemen, and then
the mad chase of separation began. Now it was the
red calf to be hunted from its mother and the line
kept, now the black and white, or red and white calf,
until the perspiration streamed from the reckless ridel's,
and the lather showed plainly on the sides of Texan
horses.

"Do you enjoy it. Englishman?" asked Kirwan, as
exhausted he paused to wipe his forehead, and rest his
Texan cob.

" Yes, thanks, friend Kirwan, muchly.'*

"Well, it's a glimpse only we are giving you of our
life. More enjoyable than studying for fame in your

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

old world, eh ? this healthful exercise. How often have
I ill the museums and churches of the old world, or the
indolent life of hotels and sight-seeing, longed for such
exercise as this. It puts new life into one — new energy.'*
"Well, certainly it makes one eat and sleep well."
" Yes, and forget fame, and the heart-ache fame brings,
and I think, at least my experience is, it makes one love
God better — at least it does me — me, Charley Kirwau."

r I

CHAPTER IV.

"When reapers unto reapers calling
Tell the rich harvest of the grain they bring,
Hhall we forget how snow and sleet were falling
On those tired toilers of the bitter spring.

He murmured not I in earthly races
To winners only do the heralds call ;
But oh 1 in yonder high and holy places
Success is nothing, and the work is all.

Here be unrecorded
The work he fashioned, and the path he trod ;
Here, but in heaven each kind heart is rewarded,
Uach true name written in the Book of God V'—F. W. F.

THE MISSION HOUSE.

N a picturesque grass-grown cemetery on the
banks of the Neosho, sloping so gently from
the steep river bank towards the little town
of Osage, the westering sun throws tree shadows over
an un-named grave. No tomb-stone marks it ; tall grasses
wave over it, and shelter sweet-scented wild flowers ; and
yet it is a grave to which the heart of many an Indian
turns, over which many a settler has shed a tear.

I mean the grave of J. J. Bax, of the Society of
Jesus, the earthly corner-stone upon whom this Mission
is built.

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 31

Brave wan'ior of God ; athlete of an everlasting^ fjospol.
I have only known thee from thy reflexion in the souls
of uncouth men ; and so powerful was the Grace of God
in thee, that I a stranger to thee write thy name with
reverence and love.

This dead man, lying in his grave, shall tell the story
of his dear Osages. I take briefly extracts from letters
of his written between June, 1850, to 1852 :

" Father Schoenmackers, myself and three coadjutor
brothers, quitted S. Louis on the 7th of April, 1849, and
arrived safely on the banks of the Neosho, a tributary
of the Arkansas, situated about 130 miles from West-
port, frontier town of the state of Missouri.

"The trial was very severe to us who were entering
for the first time into the immense prairies of the
Indians, which we had only measured according to fhe
deceptive images of our imagination. The reality ap-
peared different. We endured hunger, thirst, and cold.
Foi a fortnight we were obliged to pass our nights in
the open air, in the dampest season of the year, each
having naught for a bed but a buffalo hide and a single
blanket. On the 28th of April we reached our destina-
tion, to the great delight and surprise of the Indians.
At the first sight of these savages, and finding myself
surrounded by these children of the desert, I could not
suppress the pain I felt. I saw their sad condition."

"On our arrival we found the houses unfinished, very
inconvenient, and much too small for a great number of
the children ; they were also very badly situated, nob

GLEANINGS FROM

■

'I'

I Hi

1 '

beinj? in the centre of nil the villages which compose
the Mission. The population of the tribes comprised
under the name of Great Osages and Little Osages is
nearly 5,000 souls, of whom 3,500 reside on the banks
of the Neosho, and the others on the Verdigris, a smaller
river than the Neosho, although the valleys and prairies
it waters are more favourable to culture."

" Immediately after our arrival our first care was to pre-
pare a school. It was opened on the 10th of May. The
first who came to our school being very happy, many
others followed ; and before the close of the year in a
house built for twenty persons only, we were obliged to
lodge fifty children. The nation then assembled, and
requested the agent to petition their Great Father to
enlarge the houses of the Mission. The Government ac-
ceded to this demand."

In 1852 an epidemic swept through the nation. Of
nearly 1500 savages who fell victims to it almost all re-
ceived the sacraments of the Church. Seized at last him-
self with the same illness, Bax continued his ordinary
labours and dragged himself around to visit the sick and
dying. He was dying and still laboring. During five
years he instructed and baptized more than 2000 Indians.
He instructed neophytes with great care and pains-taking
assiduity. His charity so gained all hearts that the
savages call him only by the beautiful word which in
Osage means, "the Father who is all heart."

Thus far for the foundation of my story.

That same westering sun glinting through the loaves

WESTERN PliAlHIES.

'^•^

iipose
n'iscd

res ia
banks
maUei*
jniiritjs

to pre-
'. The
, many
ir in a
liged to
,e(\, and
atber to
^ent ac-

jon. Of
st all re-
Last him-
ordinary
sick and
iring five
Indians.
,n8-taking
that the
which in

the loaves

in that far cemetery, goUloninf]^ tlie jrrass over the
graves of Indians and settlers alike, falling lovingly on
the rongh railed-in addition where lie the priests and
brothers, who after tired labors have entered into the
stillness of that rest which remaineth for those who
have loved much, and served the Great King truly, the
light from that same sun fell on the rough buildings
of the Mission : irregular constructions, of no archi-
tectural pretentions, yet with their angularities softened
by this light, and forming no unpleasant picture. There
was the long, low church, with its dark walnut-wood
fittings, and three blocks of houses.

In the middle block, in a tiny room, sat the aged
Suiierior of the Mission. His features were irregular, yet
that life of strange self-denial lent to them that calm
expression one sees on faces when self has been utterly
conquered. An expression more fascinating than that
skin-deep beauty of a few years, for this expression deepens
in attraction as the furrows of age claim kinship with it.
He was dressed in an ordinary black suit, and was smok-
ing his pipe. In this tiny room the furniture consisted
of a bed. two chairs, a rough stove, a writing table, a
bookcase, and some strange construction that did duty
for a ward-robe.

Death follows quickly on the trail of civilisation to
the Indians. Fire-water (whisky) has laid low its army of
victims, and round the Mission proper, decimated of its '
original population by epidemic, has grown up a little
town of settlers of many nationalities — Irish predomiuat-

GLEANINGS FROM

fli

;

m^. Brown Kirwan had settled in this colony as a
surgeon and physician.

Well known was he for his kindly disposition, and
well liked too by the old Superior of the Mission, who
reigned king-like in this Mission, as was Kirwan
president-like at the Ranche.

A knock came to awaken the Superior out of his
thoughts — a knock at his door.

" Come in." And Brown Kirwan entered.

"Take a seat, my friend, and have a pipe too."

"Don't smoke at this time."

" Well, Fm pleased to see you ; how goes the long
parish ? Room for your evolutions in this great tract of
country ; large parish this, some hundred miles so ^"

"Yes, you must have had enough of riding lu ^'our
time."

" Aye, and work for you, too." Then he took his pipe
from his mouth, looked at it thoughtfully, and twisted
his tongue round the stumps of teeth age had left to
him ; a common habit of his this.

" Aye, and work for you, too ; work for you, too,
although you saw a lot in war."

"What kind— eh, sir?"

"Cholera along the river Kansas, at West Port, and
in places round."

" But how did that affect the Osages ? "

" They were panic-stricken, and sought safety in the
plains."

" And the children ? "

WESTEILV PUAIUIES.

"Were left here under the care of us Blacki^'owus."

" Strann:e ! "

"Yes, they came, 8ayin«^ : ' Blackgowri, take our chil-
dren, tliey will be Hafe under your care, and protected by
tiie son of God and Uis Mother.'"

"I wonder they didn't apply the same tlieory to
themselves."

" I would they had done so. The cholera declared
itself in a most terrible manner in their new abode, aiul
carried off numbers."

" Poor thint^s."

"Yes" (and tears rose in the old man's eyes), "they
hastened to return to us, but in such precipitation that
they made no provision, and travelled day and night —
day and night" (and a tear stole down his face), he con-
tinued, "in proportion as they reached their own lands,
the scourge diminished. The last death was fifteen miles
from the Mission, but I should have had work for you,
taking you with me to meet them. Ah me — Ah me."

"I heard you had measles here, too."

"Ah well, yes. Forty-five in the boarding school fell
sick in three days and a half — that was nothing much.
But then the measles disappeared and were followed by
putrid fever. That was in '52."

"Did many die?"

"On Passion Sunday, the saddest of my life, we had
two corpses laid out, and twelve children in danger of
death. Eleven fell victims in a short time, and then the
contagion spread amongst the Indians — the mortality was

i i

GLEANINGS FROM

great indeed. Ah, Doctor, we had need of you then, and
now we have passed that fearful crisis, you could hardly
fire off a pistol anywhere round without hitting some
man who professes to be a doctor."

"Well, certainly there are many here."

" Many indeed ; they follow the settlers."

" Were you repaid then for your troubles amongst the
Indians?"

"Yes; I never witnessed such fervour on death bod?*
as exhibited by our neophytes — they were modols. I
firmly hope and believe they already enjoy the presence
of God, and I, shortly going that long journey, pray to
see them again. But enough of all this. How is your
brother's guest ? "

" Well and happy for a European in that rough Ranche
life 5 I introduced him to some sick there one day."

" Bi'ing him to see me ; I want to know him ; bring
him in to dinner, or to sleep."

" Thank you, 1 will do so ; I shall be up there with
my Buggy shortly, and will drive him down."

" The supper bell is ringing — ycu will sup with us
to-night? Come along, man, let us go."

Reader, let us, too, follow them.

It is a long, low room, white-washed, and dimly lit,
chilly too ; yet sianding on each side of a long deal
table awaiting the Superior we can see three priests,
and several lay brothers. Only forms are there for
sitting upon : chairs are at a premium.

The old man outers, points silently to the place his

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

and
irdly
some

visitor is to occupy, and then his kindly voice mumbles
forth the Gmce.

A lay brother reads a few verses from Holy Scripture,
and commences a chapter from Rodrij,^uez " On Christian
Perfection."

The Superior taps upon the table with the handle of
his knife, the reading ceases, and in honour of the visitor
he announces " Talking " at supper instead of Reading.

A strange gathering that, drawing together under otie
roof men of such opposite dispositions, nationalities, and
characters — men who could only live thus ; cemented
together by rule, yet apart from each other, iis brick is
mortared apart from brick by the Divine Meditation
upon the Holy Gospels ; layei-s of charity were between
them ; layers of undimmed truth cemented them to-
gether as one whole body, represented by the name of
"The Society."

Take from them, burn, do away into chaotic night
of forgetfulness that Gospel, and ye will perceive how
rude anarchy would reign here.

See that Italian successful missioner of savages : what
holds he in common with yonder Irishman, who knows
80 well how to deal with settlers only. See that
curl of irony upon the lips of the great traveller of the
Prairies, that American-Irish Priest opposite. What has
he in common with the others ? And the pioneer
Superior — What does his Belgian intellect, sharp as a
needle even now, hold in common apart from religion
with his community ?

J; .•'i

t n

i 4

mwiaiwiiMi

GLEANIXGS FROM

■' ill

(. Ill''

I I

Has that Italian, skilled in the fine arts of Italy,
learned in science and a man of the world, aught in
common with those lay bro::hers so cumbersomely feed-
ing themselves yonder ?

Yes ! the love, example, life, death of a Man who
was a malefactor according to law, a Man who though
dead eighteen hundred years, and done to death shame-
fully, has left tracks of light upon the lonesome path-
way of this world : so much so that eighteen centuries
have not sufficed to efface His Hfe, death, and miracles.
And where the blood pulsates red and ruddy through
human hearts, there is His love felt.

Brown Kirwan felt this : as he sat at that rough
table, listened to the conversation of men so strangely
dissimilar to those who had thus far crossed his path-
way in life, he could not help admiring that nobility
of character which had thus far out in the Prairies
drawn them into a community to do good to their
fellow men.

It was strange to hear of Savages who would come
two or three hundred miles to bring a child to Bap-
tism : of one squaw in particular who swam creeks
and walked hundreds of miles to have her baby bap-
tized.

It was strange to hear of confessions — he who did not
believe in confession at all ; and yet even savages did ?
and were they taught right, or ivas he ?

"And how, Padr6 Pinsotti, do they remember their
sins ?"

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

**They tie a piece of strinj]^ round their waiPu, and
in this cincture at intervals are little bundles of wood,
like our matches ; each bundle represents a certain sin,
and as they sin so they add one more spike of wood
to the bundle that sin represents. And as they proceed
in their confession they say, * Father, that is such a
sin, count the bundle and you will know how many
times I committed it.' "

Brown Kirwan laughed a hearty laugh. It was some-
thing 80 novel to him ; and the company, descrying
the impression this recital had made, told him strange
stories of the Prairie life, and invited him on the
morrow to see their pig shooting and salting fray :
from twenty to forty fat pigs to be laid in salt for
the house and school during the next year.

" Who shoots them V

•'Why one of our scholars."

" An Indian ?"

" No, one of our settlers' sons."

And now the Irish Priest telLs how many hundred
dollars he has gathered together in collections during
his last absence — collections made amongst the] poor
Irish engaged on the great Prairie Railroad to the
Far West.

And then Quinlin was chaffed as being the beat
gatherer of worldly pelf among the poor.

And thus ends a pleasant supper, and Brown Kirwan
takes new thoughts away with him, out of the low
white-washed Refectoiy of the Jesuits.

CHAPTER Y.

" Behold of what dehisive worth,
The buhhles we ittirsue on earth, ,
The shapes we chase
Amid a world of treachery !
Tliey vanish ere death shuts the eye,
And leave no trace."

" Coplas de Alanrique.'' — Longfelloif.

THE STORED GOLD — WHAT CAME OF IT.

OM was sweeping the floor of the lower Ranche.
Tom in rough knee boots, knee breeches, and
his cloth shirt, and Tom was only doing this
during the interval, whilst the bread that he had made
was cooking in the small stove. Tom in his vigorous
way of sweeping sent out great clouds of dust which
almost obscured the bright sunshine, creeping in through
the open door and window. Tom laughed : " Who'd her
believed I'd her done this six weeks ago. He's a rum
'un though, he don't mind work, he don't, he-he-he. He
can saddle his horse now, and bake bread, and make
bread, and sweep the floor, and we's a taught him all
that. Well, he do know summat — he and Charley do.

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 41

There you dust get hout, Wauts me to learu my
caterchisum do he I ! ! Asked how many persons there
are in God — persons or pussous ? Pusson, well I'se a
pusson. How many pussons in God ? Seven I says —
seven pussons. He looked grave too when I sed it ;
then I looks at the caterchisums and finds its only three.
Who'd a thort it. It were seven sacraments I meant.
He weren't cross though."
" Tom, fetch some water from the creek."
It was Charley Kirwan's voice disturbing Tom's theo-
logical reverie. Charley was dressing after a long ride
from his upper ranche. Woodhouse had gone with a
book for a long read on the bank of the creek, and to
watch the mud tortoises sunning themselves on the fallen
trees lying in the water.

Winter had not yet crept over the Prairies, the Indian
summer was lengthening itself out strangely this year,
and Charley Kirwan, wise man, knew that a very severe
winter would follow on the trail of this long delicious
Indian summer. With forethought had he stacked his
corn cobs near where the winter feeding would be ; the
hay was all that could be desired for the long winter,
both in quality and quantity. He had sold off most of
his calves, and engaged a new man, Hecker, who was
coming in in a few days. Everything spoke fairly of
prosperity. His money was out at a good interest with
the settlera round, and now this coming winter he would
enjoy himself in hunting, skating, and all healthful
prairie sport — "maia I'homme propose, Dieu dispose."

•1

GLEANINGS FHO.M

! 'I

II;

J . '■ ' i

li III

Charley was exuberant ; glad, too, his frinnd was en-
joying himself on the prairies. What could he do to
amuse him to-day ? Ah, yes ; he would take him to
Button's and have a meal there.

"Tom,— Tom!"

"Yes, Charley."

" Is that bread baked, and the prairie chicken cooked ?"

"Yes, and I've got beans too, and fresh water in,
and the things washed."

"All right, Tom, you're not a bad fellow."

Tom scratched his head. " Charley, is it seven pussons
in God and three sacraments, or three pussons in God
and seven sacraments ?"

" What made you think of that ?"

"Why that ere friend of yourn is a teaching of me
religion. I dunno much of it. When I'm stupid he
don't kinder say much, but looks at me in such a sad
way, that makes me wanter learn more. He sez to me
t'other day: 'Tom, are yer baptized?' I sed, 'What's
that ?' Then he splains it, and I remember in Ohio,
afore I come this way, the clergyman did come, mother
sez, and made me a member of the Church. But how,
mother never told me, and now she's dead, and I'm an
oi-phan, I want to know more."

" I'se shay Sharley, mine mule lost. Have you seen
hur," and the imperturbable face of Lieboldt appeared
at the window.

" You goes to eat, Sharley."

" Your mule's all right ; I rode her this morning,
and now she's feeding in the stable by the Creek."

WESTERN PRAIIUES.

" All right, Sharley. You have the schicken for eat,
I think I like some too."

" Go fiud my friend, and then come baok with him
to dinner."

This Lieboldt did quickly, as all interest to him at
that moment centred around the " schicken." Poor
schicken, nought was left of him shortly but bones,
which Lieboldt sucked eagerly, remarking — " Hur has
done mine body goot."

"Now bring me the ox waggon quickly, Tom, I
want to gee away ; and you and Lieboldt can go about
the fencing I told you of this morning."

Shortly an ox waggon drew up at the door — none
of your English waggons, but a strong Prairie article,
rude in construction, useful in occupation. Charley and
Woodhouse mounted, and started off in the direction
of the wooded Creek. You carriage-driving community
little know the intense enjoyment of such a ride, in
spite of joltings experienced on unmade roads and
crossings of bridgeless streams. On such a day as this
the air seemed sick with very sweetness, yet not nau-
seous, but exuberant withal and exhilarating. Out from
the heat in amongst the richly-wooded stretch by the
creek, with embroidered shadow patterns from the trees
falling over them, how healthful and happy those two
men looked : then at the crossing, the water bubbled
and murmured over stones, and the sound was musio
to them.

This was truly one of those deep, cool enjoyments

GLKANISGS FROM

of life into which one sometimes sinks, with which
some of our hours are gilded in this shadow life of
earth. Life seems to stjiy still and lave herself in an
enjoyment too deep Tor speech, to brace herself up for
some deep coming trouble.

How often have you, my readers, noticed this in
life ? How often has this been your own fate ? the
calm before the fierce violence of the storm bursts
full upon you.

Presently Woodhouse's voice broke up Charley's deep
silence :

" Charley, whose ranche was that we passed lying so
cool and well kept in amongst the fruit trees ? It
looks so different to yours. There is an air of that
European refinement you don't believe in about it."

" Whose ranche is it ? The ranche of a man who
plays a dangerous game in these parts. He stores gold.
He thinks he had best be his own banker. He has no
faith in humanity."

" Why dangerous ?"

" Because we have only ourselves to carry out law
here : no organised police force, and we ourselves col-
lectively in this frontier life represent law and justice.
For certain crimes we lynch ; over other things men call
crimes we draw a broad curtain, because in this new
prairie life, composed of so many discordant elements,
we cannot drag together the practical European law courts.
As our society developes, so will the principles which
cement society."

WESTERN PRA IRIES.

4;'!

" True ; then I agree with you the aforesaid Rauclier
plays a daugerous game. Does he mix much witli
others ?"

" No ; he means storing gold, aud then going to live
in New York State."

"You all seem to like him?"

" Yes, he has a keen intellect, arithmetically keen, as
those straight lines of trees planted about his Ranche
show you."

" You see somewhat of Cube Root there, Charley ?"

"And Addition too."

" Charley ! Charley !"

" And Multiplication each autumn."

" You are incorrigible."

" Yes, but between each row you see Division."

"Please don't."

" Yes, and in autumn Great Common Measure, and
sometimes Profit and Loss."

" Please don't talk so ; but tell me, if you won't talk
about this man, something of these Buttons we are
going to see."

"Ah, yes. Well, Button — middle-age 1 man, formerly
a stone cutter or carver in Ohio, made some money,
came West like the rest of us ; antecedents unknown ;
wife short, homely, good house -wife ; several daughters,
good nice girls ; two sons, good hard-working fellows,
one has a claim of his own. But enough of that, you'll
soon see them."

They now crossed the creek again at a sort of ford,
evidently with an artificial bottom.

iwiitarmff TmriTmim urni

GLEANINGS FROM

"Some of Button's work this?"

" Yes, sharp fellow Button, as you'll see :" and Charley
pointed to a road one side of which was fenced in, and
on the other side was a neat hedge. " Somethinpf like,
that, eh ? " And behind the hedj^e one could see a
goodly store of fruit trees, and amongst the trees bee-
hives, and beyond the bee-hives a long low thatched
building — Button's Rauche — and, off the building, cow-
sheds and cart-lodges. " Sharp fellow, Button, eh ?"
said Charley, again pointing to the Rauche.

Now a great dog howled, announcing their ajjproach,
and a woman's shrill voice called out to Kirwan :
" Welcome, Charley ; we are glad to see you and the
stranger." Without more ado she shook hands, reaching
up to them in the waggon. " Stranger, Tom (Charley's
rauche boy) says your name is Willie, that's what I shall
call you. How do you do, Willie ? You come and eat
my apples, pears and other fruit when yo i like. You're
welcome to a meal when you can come." And thus she
talked on until Charley, her favorite, said — " Where's
the old man ?" " Oh, he's a choppin a wood not far off."
" And the boys ?" " Oh, they'll be home from plough
directly. Come in, and I'll make some tea bread such
as Charley likes whilst I talk to you. The girls are busy
inside, sewing. So now you know all."

The oxen were foddered ; and in the large square
kitchen the family were after awhile grouped around
the table, eating delicious buck-wheat cakes, bacon,
jam, dried apples and peaches, and what not else hospita-

WESTERN PRAI/ilES.

re's

ttr>"

ich

isy

ire

lad

ble Mrs. Button had gathered out of her stores, which
seemed illimitable. And such coffee she poured out !
thinking more of her guests' comfort than of the
common garb she wore ; and the girls were like her —
" good nice girls," as Charley said — whose ages ranged
from twenty-one to seventeen. Ted Button large-framed
and handsome, about twenty-two. Tom dark-skinned,
handsomer than his brother, about eighteen, with a nature
bubbling over with fun.

The conversation turned upon all prairie subjects,
and laughter rippled in waves around the merry board ;
until Charley, looking at Button, said — "My friend
wants to know who lives h\ the Ranche near the
Creek, with the straight lines of trees about it."

Then silence fell on them all, and a palpable shiver
went the round of the table, until Button Senior spoke
out—" Did you tell him ?"

" I did not tell him all. I spoke in the present.
I said a man lived there who stored up gold. If I
told him, I might frighten him away from us."

" Best to tell him," said bluff Button, " he will only
hear from some less authentic source."

Mrs. Button, too, leant over and said — '* Yes, tell
him what came of it, what came of the stored-up
gold !"

" Well, Mrs. Button, what came of it ?"

She leant forward and whispered in his ear : " Murder
on Murder !"

He smiled an incredulous smile back at her. " All

4H (;l/':ax/X(;s fuom wksticilw prairies.

right, Mra. Button, you dou't frighten us Europeaus
thus."

She laughed at his incredulity, whilst the party en-
joyed it. Charley looked over at him from his side
of the table and said — '* Don't ask another word until
I speak of it to-morrow."

"You tvill tell me?"

In clearly firm-cut words he answered, " / ivill.^''

And on the morrow he did.

ii: I

^^— ^^^^

CHAPTER Vf.

" Placidaque ibi demutn morte quievit."— T7r(7.
There calm at length he breathed hia soul away.

WHAT CHARLEY KIRWAN TOLD HIM.

HE breakfast table in Kirwaa's ranche deserted.
Kinvan is smoking his pipe, sitting close to
the wood fire ; snowy, flakey wood ashes lie at
his feet on the hearth stone, which never knew the
luxury of a fender ; quiet crimson tongues of flame crept
in and out of the crevices left by logs piled there in
careless profusion.

Woodhouse sat by the window reading the ^neid of
Virgil, with English notes, critical and explanatory, by
Anthon, edited by TroUope.

This was one of the quiet hours in which they seldom
spoke to each other. Kirwan took his pipe from his
mouth, surveyed it carefully, watched the rings of smoke
creeping up to the ceiling, and then said :

" Willie ! "

:Ji ill ■

fit

GLEANINGS FROM

HI:

5i,;5;

The eyes of his guest turned to him with astonishment
written in them — that Kirwan should thus break through
that still hour by talking. .

"You're suiprised, but you wished to hear of Acton's
Ranche."

" Acton's ranche ?"

"Yes, the one we passed yesterday."

" Oh, ah, yes, do tell me," said he, hastily laying
down hi& book, " that one Mrs. Button was so mysterious
yesterday evening about ; quite novelesque, eh ! man
with a lot of money. 'Murder on Murder,' &c., &c."

"Well, old fellow, she was quite right. Only a few
weeks ago, there actually was a murder committed there."

" By the Indians ?"

"No."

" How then ; did Acton make away with himself, or
what ?"

"He did neither. He was made away with, or rather
his life was."

Kirwan noticed the slight shudder that crept through
the body of his guest, and wondered whether he had
done wisely to speak of this without a greater prepara-
tion. He had left his seat by the window, and was
sitting on a low stool facing him.

" Will you tell me all about it, Charley ?"

" Yes ; I will. Acton came into this district some
few years ago, one of the first settlers ; he built his
house more on the European cottage model, with every
comfort he could then place in it. You kiiow the rough-

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

-61

h
U

lis

[y
11-

ness of our prairie life by this time. Well, he planted
a garden about his house, the one you so admired, and
then he set to work on his claim. Everythin<( he did
seemed to prosper, aud he made considerably of ji^old by
fruit and the cultivation of his land. The neighbours
were all partial to Acton ; he was ready to give others a
helping hand, or place the secrets of his success at their
disposition. A fellow he was, good all the way round :
just such a man who should thrive in a prairie home.
Most settlei-8 near grew to know him, and to like him.
Still, he had no faith in anything in the Mission in
the way of banks to store his money, and foolishly
he kept it in his Ranche. That wis all well and
good, so long as he was sure of tiie laborer, or help
he had about him. I suppose his help nuist liave left,
as others do when they have gained somewhat of money,
and gone in search of a claim of his own farther up
country. At all events, a time came when Acton was
left without help. He did as well as he could for
awhile, assisted by the neighbours ; but shortly their
own work called them away, and for love or money he
could get no one.

"One evening entering his Ranche tired out, and
chopping wood upon his door-step, by the dying light,
to coax up a fire, with which to cook his supper by, he
was accosted by a neighbour who had heard of a young
fellow in want of work, a stranger to them all, going
down West. Did he care to engage him ? if so, the
neighbour would see that he called in in the morning.

r,2

GLEANINGS FROM

* Why in the morning, friend,' Raid Acton, * brinj( bin.
round to-night, and then in the morning he can, if he
suits me, set about his work.'

" Well, as you like. We know nothing of him — he
is a stranger to us — simply travelling down West —
comes and asks a meal of victuals, and my old woman
immediately says, ' Maybe he'd do for neighbour Acton.'
He's strong, burly, an;l a stranger : that's all we know.
It may be dangerous taking in a stranger, where he has
all to gain and nothing to lose. Beggars though, can't
be choosers, and my work is standing still for want of
hands, and my fruit and vegetables rotting. Well, neigh-
bour Acton, think of it to-night, and to-morrow I'll
see that he comes round." '

"Acton did think of it, over his solitary tea in his
ranche, and decided to give the stranger a trial, going
to bed looking eagerly forward to the morrow.

" Early the next morning the stranger came : a man
strong and burly, all that Acton wanted, but was he
honest ? This thought flashed through his mind as he
hired him straight oflP. That could only be proved by
acquaintance with him.

"And so they set to work. Week after week passed
by, and the stranger studied the life of Acton, until
none of its secrets were hidden from him. His master
grew to trust him, and he found out even where the
money was kept. 'The love of money is the root of
all evil.' How, when, or where the idea first entered
the stranger's head of obtaining possession of that money,

wmmimmmm

WESTFMN PliAIRIES.

no OIK! ever knew. Certiiin it is, he must liave brooded
over it loni^.

"One (lay Acton, occupied in cho})pin^ wood with his
liired iniin, was attacked from behind, and niju^ix killed
with the blow of an axe ; indeed, so maui^led that
death (iusued some short time after, and the man dis-
api)eared, takiui^ the money with him. A nei<^hbour
pa«sin«^ some time afterwards goes to the Ranche door,
and discovers the mutilated man, then in his death-
agony — administei-s what comfort ho could, and hears
the dying man speak of that hope sure and fiist, laid up
in the great home of God, the Father's Ranche, where
neither moth nor rust corrupteth more, and where
thieves are powerless to break in, murder or steal ;
and then all calmly he breathed forth his soul to God.

" The murderer had escaped, but justice must be done ;
and so, mounting a horse, the man who had discovered
the murder galloped from Ranche to Ranche, and s))read
the uewri far and wide. The Rancher left his ploughing,
and every settler able to do so his occupation. To iiorse !
To horse ! They must hunt down him who so wickedly
in cold lood had done that grievous murder ! Lumbering
Dutch rir^s, revolvers, guns of all ages and makes, were
quickly loaded, and the self -organized army of justice
swiftly grew and grew, until they reached at a fixed
hour the Ranche where they should agree upon some
settled way of scouring the country and arresting the
murderer. Day and night should that search continue
until he wtvs lynched."

n I

GLEANIMfS FROM

"I shot he, Sharley." It was Lieboldt, who had
entered unperceived, aud had heard somewhat of the
conversation : for both the teller of the history and he
who listened were far too much interested to have
heard Lieboldt's entry.

"I shot he, Sharley, wid my old rifle. I were in
the hunt, I were." And Lieboldt continued the story:
" We searched all the crick, the corn patches and build-
ings, whilst some galloped about in the prairie to see if
he were in the long grass there lying hid. All that
day we searched, but we didn't find he. "We had
watchers about all night, and in the early morning began
agin. There in a woody bend of the crick we found
he, and hunted he to a corn-stack. Shot after shot was
fired — he and us stormed agin and agin. I felt the
Dutch blood burn in my veins. ' We must have he if
only we wait long enough.' And so we did. Young
Garth fired and wounded he — then I fire, wounded he
agin ; and so after desperate fight we take he. Not
dead. Then we hold council whether we lynch he.
' Lynch he ! No,' cry some one, ' let's take him to the
Ranche of Acton, and tie him in bed with the dead
man, and let him die so. A warning to nmrderers that !'
Aud so we did, aud set a patrol before the Ranche and
round it to see that no one aid he. And so he died,
Sharley."

Here Lieboldt took what he wanted from the house,
and retired mnrmuviug something to himself.

"Is all this true, Charley?"

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

" W^v ves, man ! But Lieboldt didu't shoot liiin, I
think. The wounds were revolver wounds, and the bore
of the old man's musket is different to that. He is
somewhat chaffed about, ' I shot he !' ever since the little
bullet was discovered so different to his Dutch bore.
But the hallucination rests."

" What a terrible story !"

" True, but we are obliged to administer the sternest
justice here, or crime would be too common amongst us.
Such a lesson was given by that man's death and his
tragic end which lynching could never have given.
The strangeness of it will be remembered, and stop
crime close around us for a generation or two, and
by that time law will be administered as in other
parts of the States."

And so ended the oonveraation on Acton's Ranche,
and the quick rush of coming events precluded all the
further allusions to that subject which Kirwau's guest
wished to make.

CHAPTER VII.

"From the contagion of the world's slow stain

We are secure, and then can never mourn

A heart grown cold, — a head grown grey in vain."

DINNER AT THE MISSION HOUSE.

ROWN Kirwan had not forgotten his brother's
guest ; indeed he was a frequent visitor at
the Ranche during the long days of the
Indian summer, and a great friendship had sprung up
between himself and Willie Woodhouse.

A week or so after the long ride and chat upon the
prairies, he drove up to the Ranche, and invited
Woodhouse to inspect the Mission House with him, as
the Superior had specially invited him to dinner that
day.

" An invitation from an unknown person, eh. Brown ?
Well, I must go. I will run down to the crick to see
Charley ; tell him I am going, and will be back shortly,
and ready to go in ten minutes."

They drove in the early hazy morning back to the
Mission. Much amused was the stranger with the Mission
village. The phink footpaths, leading here, there, and

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 57

everywiicre ; the wooden houses of the settlers, the grim
stone convent of the Lorettines standing facing the Square
near which the foundations of the new church were
already to be seen.

And as they drove into the Mission yard, there sunning
himself in the beautiful sunlight stood the aged Superior
of the Mission.

As Woodhouse stepped from the Buggy the aged man
clasped both his hands in his. It seemed like Winter
and Spring meeting, and out of reverence to him who
had so long borne the burden and heat of the day the
younger sank upon his knees, and the elder lifted his
hands to heaven, placed them upon the bowed head, and
blessed him. In that moment the souls of both of them
seemed to have touched and known they were akin.

An unnatural piece of acting this might have been in
others, but not so here.

All this had happened in less time than it takes to
write, and hearty was the welcome given to the guests.

"You know nothing of our prairie life yet, Mr.
Woodhouse ?"

" Hardly, Father ; yet enough to make me wish to
know more."

"That's well. Has Charley taken you to the school
at Walnut Creek ?"

"No. That I reserve for some winter evening."

"Ah, if the snow permits."

" But is the snow so very awful V

Brown and the Superior laughed.

GLEANJNGS FROM

" What think you of thai, telegraph wire buried ?"
asked the old man, pointing to the telegraph wires near
them.

"Never!"

" Yes, indeed ; and it dritts on the prairies to an
enormous depth. We lose our prairie congregation then.
Texan ponies are useless to bring them to us, or take us
to them."

" I must take to my books."

" Or, as you are near the crick, to crick fishing."

" What, with the ice covering the creek ?"

" Yes. The creeks swarm with fish, and it is thus.
The ice is, as a rule, clear as crystal ; and you see the
fish ice-bound floating just beneath the ice, as they find
no air-holes. With the broad back of an axe you strike
the ice violently over where the fish's head is. This
stuns him. You then cut away the ice in a square
round the fish, large enough to insert a small sieve
under its body, This, by practice, one learns to do so
skilfully, that in an hour you may take as much
fish as you can carry home with you."

A broad incredulous smile was on the face of
Woodhouse. Brown Kirwan saw it, and assured him of
the truth of this assertion and the enormous quantities
of fish taken in this way by the Indians.

" Has he been to an husking party. Brown .?"

" No, not yet, Superior."

" Well, well, take him. The first one I saw many
years ago amused me."

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

The sound of the bell called them now to the Refec-
tory, where the Community joined them, coming in
silently and falling into their allotted places.

The same long low room, white-washed, that Brown
Kirwan knew before ; only the sun-light streaming
through the narrow windows, over the rough but appe-
tizing fare, lent to the room warmth and cheerfulness.

The Blessing given, Quinlin the Priest read from
Holy Scripture until he came to the verse, " Ye stand
this day all of you before the Lord your God" (Paralip
xxix., 10.) Then the wonted signal for stopping the
reading was given, and conversation began.

Brown started it by saying, " How quickly you are
obeyed, Superior. I notice as your signal is given the
sound of the voice ceases — the word seems almost broken
in two."

" Yes, that is the law of obedience : if we are writing
and the bell rings for any duty, we leave off with the
letter half formed."

Both the visitors looked surprised.

Quinlin said : " That is our rule ; we make it our
duty to cheerfully accept obedience."

The Superior added : " The principle of the forest
lies in the acorn, and the germ of every duty springs
direct from the thought of God."

Pinsotti turned to Woodhouse, remarking : " From
our early years God delegates some of His authority to
our fellow men. Primo to parents, and so on. Respect
for authority is a sacred duty, as we^.l as a Divine
command."

a L E. 1 NISGS FROM

" Thermopylae speaks of the obedience of the Spurtaiis,"
said Woodhouse. ^

" Yes, the epitaph does : "

"do tell the Sitartans, tlion tliat passest by,
That here obedient to their laws we lie,"

"I have read," said Pinsotti, "the other day of true
obedience. The armed skeleton of a poor Roman soldier
was found in a recess near tlie j^ates of PomiKiii. When
the sulphurous storm broke over that jifuilty little city,
how easy for him to have run away. But he wouldn't,
because to escape would be to abandon his post without
leave ; and so that unknown hero just dropped the
vizor of his helmet, and stood tl' re to die rather than
disobey."

" England is not behind-hand," said the doctor. " Don't
I remember in our war, our men speakin<( of Balachiva,"
and glancing at his English friend he quoted :

"Forward the Light Brigade,

Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die —
Into the valley of death
Rode the Six Hundred."

"That proves obedience," said the Superior, 'is not
limited to the Church. We have these noble examples
in the Army, of men preferring death to disobedience."

" And in the Navy also."

" Yes," said one brother, who had been, awhile a sailor,
" the wreck of the Birkenhead. A good ship crushed at
sunset against a sunken rock ; the boats few, and the

WES TJ■JI{^ riL 1 HUES.

water rushiuj,' in ; sharks thriiHtin<5 liorrid black fins
tlirou«,^h white breakers, the women and chihh'eii sliriek-
in^% but the voice of the captain was heard callinLr the
men to their nuiks, — an order moanini^ death instantly
obeyed. The boats left the vessel in order, taking' the
women and children to shore."

" I remember," observed Quinlin, " inch by inch the
ship sank lower, the men stood calm, till one f^reat wave
rolled over her, and * obedient unto death,' brave men,
loyal indeed, sank to a noble burial."

" And if men in the world are obedient thus, what
obedience should be observed by those in Holy Orders,
and under the rule of a Society sanctioned by the
Church?"

"Aye, obedience, indeed," murnmred the Irishman,
and a sigh told his thoughts w^ere about the subject of
obedience, and what it cost him.

" Father Pinsotti, is it true about that discovery near
Independence, in a Ranche there ? The IVIission is ring-
ing with the news this morning."

" Yes, too true, Mr. Kirwan. I myself have been in
the Ranche ; in fact I tried to convert the people, and,
indeed, it was I who gave them the prayer book found
there, of which there has been much talk."

"What occupation were they?"

" Well, nominally, they kept a grocer's store."

" And if any one came with money they let them
down into that abominable trap ?"

" Yes, and in some way killed them therc."

GLEANINGS FROM

*' And ?" asked a Brother, breatliless.

" Buried thera in their garden."

*' How were they found out ?"

" Some one, after a heavy rain, saw marks as of
graves settling down in their garden, and communicated
with the police or military at Fort Scott, or some other
place."

"And the military?"

" Found it was only too true."

"I had the news through a European paper," said
Woodhouse.

" And the law has dealt heavily with them ?"

" So heavily that such an enormity will never be
perpetrated here again, we hope."

"Ah, my friends, five or seven graves, so many mur-
ders ; and I have been often to the house, but could
make nothing of the people. The grace of God had
never touched their hearts."

" And are you not afraid, Father Pinsotti ?"

" No, I have no fear. I can only die once ; and, en-
deavouring to honestly work in my Master's service, I
know He will protect me."

In the meantime the dinner had duly progressed —
the Irish stew, the roast meat, the stewed peaches, and
cheese, were done full justice to, and now the signal
given for silence, and the Martyrology read, they retired
to the Church hard by, a long, low building, with its
Sanctuary panelled in dark walnut wood, and there in
silence all kneel before the Blessed Sacrament. Five

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

minutes of sileut prayer, and the Recreation began. Tliis
was the rule of the Osage Community.

A long and interesting conversation follows in the
Superior's room, until the doctor suggests he must drive
his friend home.

" Come again when you like," said the Superior, open-
ing the door of the room next his own, a small cup-
board-looking place containing a bed, a tub turned bot-
tom upwards supporting a tin bowl and small ewer in
tin. " This will be your room. Come and use it often ;
we shall be pleased to see you. There is a stove in it
too. You will be warm there, even in winter, Mr.
Woodhouse."

"He will leave the Mission far behind him before
then," exclaimed Quinlin.

"Hardly," said the Superior. "God has sent him to
these parts for a purpose, and only when it is fulfilled
will he leave."

CHAPTER VIII.

"Tho double night of ages, and of her—
Night's daughter — If/fioranrr, iiatli wrapt, and wrap

All round us." — Chlldc HarnUVH Pilgrimage.

* ♦ ♦ * *

" He wlio ascends to mountain-tops shall find
The loftiest ])eak.s most wrapt in clouds and snow ;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind.
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high aboi'c the sun of glory glow,
And far hnwuth the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending temi)ests on his naked head,
And thus reward the toils which to those summits led."

* * * * — Byron.

"In ///> great Name
I stand between thee and the shrine which hath
Had His acceptance. — " Cain.''' — liyron.

SUNDAY AND THE OSAGES.

Ill

SUNDAY Moraiug at the Mission. Charley
Kirwau and his guest are riding Texan cobs,
and travelliiig at a smart pace to the Mission,
to be in time for the service. As they near the
vicinity of the Church they see people from the district
going on the same errand. And what a laughable con-
gregation of vehicles stand tenantless outside the Church !
Such a group photographed would make a photographer's
fortune in Europe.

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. G5

Can feeble word-paint iuj? convey such ^roupinj^ to the
mind of a reader ? Hardly. There stands the ox waf]^<jfon
and the oxen tethered to it ; the waggon itself looking
like a miniatnre platform on wheels, and many like
waggons in pretty groupings standing near in the large
open space hard by the Mission buildings. Texan cobs
too, saddled with. Texan saddles ; and the makes and
styles of Buggies \ prions indeed. The neighing of the
horses and the lowing of the oxen gave sound to the
scene ; and these noises, intermingled svith men's voices,
came pleasantly to the ear ; whilst the deep blue tinted
sky, the rich foliage not far distant, and the buildings
of the Mission added the coloring necessary to make a
very pretty picture indeed.

" Where do all these men come from, Charley ?"

"From the country round — within a mdius of from
quarter of a mile to fifteen miles."

" One never sees them on a week day."

"No, they are Settlers and Ranchers. Whenever I
come down here I find some one fresh, and that shows
how quickly this district will fill up. The Indians will
withdraw of themselves, and the Mission will be wholly
left to the whites."

They did not tether their horses with the others,
but rode on to Brown Kirwan's stable ; aiui having
quickly dismounted and fed their horses, hastened to
the Church.

What a sight ! The long, low building, with its
dark walnut-panelled Sanc^tuary, was crowded now.

GLEANIMrS FROM

Swarthy Indians (Osages) ^\ere grouped in one part :
tawny-skinned men with long, coarse, black hair float-
ing- nearly to the shoulders, and in their faces one
read an awe-struck, solemn expression of wonder. As
the sacred Offifie profj^ressed at which they were assist-
in^', the wolon-n look passed aw.y, and in its place
came one of love ; for boundless as the vast prairie is
the love of the Indian to the Great Spirit. The rest
of the building was filled in with settlers, predomi-
nantly Irish, with their wives and children. Here and
there another nationality might be seen. But they were
all bound together by the same religion, they were all
permeated with the same devotion. On rude forms they
sat, or else knelt on the bare floor ; but the conduct
of the great congregation would shame most European
churches. r

Here was the life work of the old Superior. Here
in this out-of-the-way place had he gathered into the
Church savages who through the long night of ages had
slowly groped their way to the stature of the knowledge
of Jesus Christ. Here at last had they reached through
the misty ignorance of heathenism, and felt the power
of a strong sacramental life within them.

And those of other nations, here on the healthful
prairie, away from civilization, had come to a truer and
more practical knowledge of the Faith.

It was a holy and a wholesome thought indeed.

In the west end of the long low Church w^as the
choir, composed of nuns and children from the Convent,

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

who now and again, as the Office ]. igressed, aanp^ one
of Faber's hynms to simple tunes tliat the people could
follow.

Quinlin it was who preached an earnest sermon, and
every word of it fell upon listening ears. How solemnly
those words sounded in the otherwise still Church. " For-
getting those things which are behind ;" and wiio amongst
them had not something to forget, " reaching forth unto
those things which are before." Ah, they were indeed
all doing that ; some, nay, most, reaching forth for gold
which the rich prairie furrows should yield to them. " I
press toward the prize to the high calling of God in
Christ Jesus."

"Were we all doing that ? "What a happy thought it
was that none who enter that race are defeated ; no
rivalries enter into it ; no jealousies how bitter soever
spoil it ; no failure embitters it. The prize was com-
mon to all, common as the sweet air that swept the
wide prairie, and nobody would dispute their right to
breathe that.

You have to win a race on which your life depends.
Will you try to run it laden under a crushing burden ?
Will you try to do so with a log chained to your feet ?
No ; you would free yourself from the obstacles. Aud
so, in this life-long race we must all run, free yourselves
from your sins — your besetting sins. IIow much easier
you will run without these obstacles.

Thus did the sermon open that was listened to with
greedy ears, and carried away to prairie homes, aud into
r.niirie lives.

I I

GLEANINGS FROM

The sermon ended, to the astonishment of those pre-
sent, he said : " Before you are dismissed I wish to say
a few words to you. A great ejiidemic is raging in the
counties near us. In this wide country, where it is so
difficult to obtain priests to administer to those about
to die the J^acrament of Baptism at a moment's notice,
know this according to the theology of the Catholic
Church that, in case of necessity, where a priest cannot
be had, any layman can baptize, be that lay person
man, woman, or child. Only observe this. For the
baptism to be valid, the water must be pure, and you
must say the words as you pour the ivater upon the head
of the person you are about to baptize. As you slowly
pour the water, gay the words instituted by Christ : ' I
baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son,
and of the Holy Ghost.'

" And be careful in this, remembering Christ has said :
* Except ye be baptized of water, and . le Holy Ghost,
ye catmot enter into the kingdom of Heaven.^

" It is so necessary, that thos'^ dying without this
Sacrament cannot enter into Christ's kingdom.*

" Be careful in this, and see that nobody departs
hence unbaptized."

* From the " Catechism of Christian Doctrine.''^

What is Baptism ?

Baptism is a sacrament by which we are made Christians,
children of God, and members of the Church.

What other grace is given by tlis Sacrament?

It cleanses us from original sin, and also from actu'^i if we be
guilty of any.

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

arts

latis,

(1( nullify rtiit from tlie Church the Siqxirior invited
Kirwaii and Woodhouse to dinner, and afterwards to go
to tlie Indian encanipinent on the banks of tlie Neosho.
The Indians that day assistin*^ at the Offices were a small
c()iitin<^ent of Usages going to amalgamate with another
Tribe.

At table the conversation turned on the Osages, and
their capacities for acquiring knowledge, " Could they
recite the Pater ?"

"Some could, but Pinsotti had a way of teaching
them. For the Creed he collected as many young
Braves as there were clauses in it, and to each Brave
he assigned one clause ; twice a day, both at sunrise
and sunset, they formed in line before the tribe and
recited the symbol of the Catholic Faith. In the same
way with the Pater and Ave. Thus the great truths
of the Christian religion were daily before tliem."

" And is the Osage language difficult to learn ?"

Can no one but a Priest baptize /

In case of necessitj^, when a Priest cannot be had any one may
baptize.

How is Baptism given ?

By pouring water on the head of the ulilid whlUt wu jiiuiioiuico
the words ordained by Christ. ,

What are those word . ?

"I baptize thee in the name of the Father, ami of the Son,
and of the Holy Ohost."

What do we promise in Baptism ?

To renounce the Devil, and all his works and pomps.

Is Baptism necessary for salvation/

Yes, for Christ says, "Unlesi? a man bo liorn again of water
and the Holy Ghost, he cannot enter into the Kit gdom of God "
(John iii. 5.)

GLEANINGS FROM

" You shall hear this afternoon."

" Are the Osages affable ?" ,

" Yes, it is natural to them to wish to live in
peace and perfect friendship with everybody ; but they
fight greatly with the Pawnee-Mahas. This is not a
fault in the Osages, for the treatment they experience
from the Pawnees would rouse even civilized nations."

" How so, sir ?"

" When the Osages go hunting, the Pawnees fall on
the undefended villages, pillage the wigwams, and steal
the horses. The Pawnees are very perfidious, and never
keep to their treaties either.''

"Yes," observed the Superior, "and the Osage carries
his enmity against the Pawnee up to his death, for
he always wishes, if not a Christian, to be buried on
the highest slopes overlooking the enemies Hunting
Grounds, so that even in death he may have the master-
hood."

" Does not the nearness of the whites to the Savages
have some effect for good ? "

" Unfortunately, no. Here as in Paraguay the contact
with the whites makes the Indians more artful, plunges
them deeper in vice, and because the Indian language
has no blasphemous words in it, they actually curse
God in a foreign language."

"How frightful!"

" Yes, it makes it difficult for the Missionary," chimed in
the Superior, " I remember Father Bax giving a Mission
in a village named Woichaka-Ougrin (Cockle Bird). Whilst

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

he preached against Intern pemuce, and the evil conse-
quences of that habit, how it affected the health and waa
the cause of sudden death, and displeased the (ireat Spirit,
8hape-shin-Kauouk (Little Beaver), the principal man of
the tribe, rose and said to him : ' Father, what you tell
us is true ; we believe thy words ; we have seen many
buried because they loved and drank fire-water (whiskey).
One thing astonishes us. We are ignorant ; ive are not
acquainted with books ; ive never before heard the words
of the Great Spirit ; but the whites who have under-
standing, j»nd know books, and who have always heard
the comnuvudments of God, why do they drink fire-
water ? Why do they sell it to us ? Why do they bring
it to us when they know it displeases God and he sees
them?"'

" Do you find them very troublesome to manage ? " asked
Kinvan.

" I think," replied the Superior (who dearly loved the
Indians), "if the Indians were treated with justice and
good faith they would cause little trouble. The Indians
complain of the dishonesty of the whites. The whites
banish them from their native soil, from the tombs of
their fathers, to which they are devotedly attached, they
take from them their hunting and fishing grounds. The
Indians must consequently seek what is wrested from
them, and build their wigwams elsewhere. They are
hardly at home in their new abodt> when they are removed
a second and third time. With each successive euiigra-
tion they find their grounds restricted, and their fishin*'-

I ' !

GLEANINGS FROM

li '

and hunting? places less abundant. The agents promise
them protection and privileges never realized, and con-
sc4uently the savages call the whites 'forked-tongues/
or liars."

" Yes, it is hard lines on them indeed ; but I imagine
as civilisation advances they will recede farther and farther
until they touch upon the shores of the Pacific."

" Exactly so, according to the present system, but we
shall never live to see things go so far as that. It
seems to me, having studied them greatly in my
character, as Superior of the Mission, that there is a
feeble ray of hope for the preservation of a great number
of them ; if the law proposed by Senator Johnson in
1854 is adopted in sincerity, both on the side of the
Government and the Indians."

"">Vhat law was pixijiosed?"

"An establishn\ent of three territorial governments in
the Indian territory inhabited by the Choctaws, Creeks,
Cherokees, the Chickasaws, and other tribes, with the
provision of being admitted later on as distinct members
of the confederated United Stat-^js."

" What is the epidemic you spoke of, Mr, Quinlin ? "

" Pleuro-pneumonia and spiuo meningitis. It is not
in the country yet, but surely it will come."

"Don't frighten xm before it does come."

" No, no, no,*' said the Superior, and he touched the
little bell near him to signify that "Talking" had finished.

After the short visit to the Church, they started for
the Neosho to see the Indian encampment.

WES TERN PJL 1 flUES.

How pleasant it was \valkin«( throu<i^h tlio frt'sh air,
blowiug up 80 pure aud fra^a'ant from the prairies,
(lowu by tlie banks of the Neosho, and into the thick
pleasant foliaj^e, where the temporary shidters ntood, and
then to see the Indians. The a(hdts had only a sU«ilit
coveriuf^ over the middle of tlieir bodies, the little ones
were wholly destitute of clothing, some of the elders
wore blankets. How pleased they were to see the Hlaek-
gowns, and how eager that some of the uubaptized should
receive the Holy Sacrament of Baptism, for this Sacra-
ment the Indian understands better than any other.

It was curious to see them making bread, kneading it
upon their thighs, and baking it in their hastily con-
structed ovens. A long strange study to watch them,
something so far distant from European thought and
ways.

But grander was it to hear that prayer taught by the
lips of a God man falling from these dusky lips in their
uv/n Itinguage :

" Inttitze ankougtapi manshigta ningshe, shashe dichta
Father our in heaven who art Name thy

oucfioiJf)"gt»^d/)u^ wawalagtankapi dichta tshighselou.
be h&lUfwed Kingdom thy come

Ilakistse ingshe manshingta ekionpi manshan lai
Will thy in heaven be done ; on earth be it

ackougtsiow. Hunipale hunipike tmn watsiitse ankougtapi
done likewise. To-day and day every bread our

wakupiow. Ouskan pishi wacshiegchepa

to us give. Action bad tu us which has Ixjcn done

74 GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES.

aukioiile aukale aikon ouskau pislii aiikon<,'tapi

we it forgive ; so action bad ours

waonlapiow. Ouskaii piahi ankafj^chotapi wasaukapi

us forgive. Action bad to do by us lead us

ninkow. Nausi pishi iii^'she walietsi sapiow. —

not. But evil from deliver ua.

Aikoiifftsiou.
Amen.

CHAPTKR TX.

" I shall be your faithful guide,
Through this gloomy covert wide.

"And b( -tide,
All the swains that there abide
With jigs and rural dance resort :
We shall catch them at their sport,
And our sudden coming there
Will double all their mirth and cheer." — Comvf.

THE HUSKINd PARTY.

OM iu his everlasting rough knee breeches,
knee boots, and his dark cloth shirt — Tom
leaning on a potato fork, a basket in one
hand filled with sweet potatoes, and those deep-set eyes
of his beaming with good humour as he gives to his
master's guest an invitation :

" Missis McColl's huskin's on ternight, wants yer and
Charley there. Won't yer come ? Do now ; do now.
I'll go with yer. Charley hount. Charley don't like
huskins. I does though."

" HuUoa, Tom, what are you talking about, eh ?"
asks Woodhouse, stopping his writing at the Kanche
table.

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GLEANINGS FROM

Tom repeated his message.

" What's a husking, Tom ? I must know that before
I go."

"Wall, I guess yer be ignorant, don't know what a
huskin is. Why yer goes to the house ; yer sits in a barn
or outhouse, and yer shells coin, Indian corn ; yer rubs
two cobs one agin another ; yer stays two or three hours
adoing off that, and then yer goes in the house and
yer eats, and the McColls give yer good eating. Don't
know what a huskin be ? Wall I guess they be funny
ones where yer comes from. Will yer come now, and
persuade Charley, too ? "

" I can't promise, Tom, until I know all about it. Tell
me, what do you do after supper ? "

" Wall I guess yer bes ignorant. Yer plays all kind
o' games. Well game, buff game, riggles,^ all sorts er
games."

"Who goes, Tom?"

" Wall you bes ignorant. All goes — men, gals, bors ;
there us sits, and talks and talks, and works and works.
Will yer go, eh ? "

" I must think about it, Tom."

" If Charley goes will yer," asked Tom, returning to
the attack, " will yer come with us then ? "

"Yes, I will."

" If he don't go, or is out," and Tom's eyes looked
so pleadingly at him ?

Higgles = Riddles.

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

" If he is out I'll go with you, simply as a reward for
your persistency, Tom."

" Wall, you bes ignorant ; he's a goin to the Upper
Ranche after dinner, so yer'll go, and I'll tell McCoU
this morning ; " and with that Tom disappears, saying :
" There be the sweet potatoes for dinner ; you eats um
once, yer won't care for the others."

" Well, I'll busy myself getting dinner, I think. I
know Charley will be tired when he comes in, and Tom
won't be back awhile, so here goes." And with that
the writing ceased. The ashes were knocked out of the
pipe, and the preparation began. A prairie chicken to
pluck, stuffing to make, the beans and pork to put on
the fire to warm up again, and then the peaches to stew
and the bread to make, for on the prairies bread has
to be made sufficient for the meal only in hot weather.

" Well," said the inhabitant of the Ranche, " if I'm cook
they shall feed well for once. I'll make two kinds of
bread, corn-bread and flour. Here's a joke. I'm in for
it. Well, I remember seeing in an old cookery book,
* How to prepare a hare : Catch him first.* And * How to
cook a dinner : Firstly, light the fire.' "

Very busy was the impromptu cook. The fire in the
American oven was burnmg brightly, the chicken in the
oven was browning nicely, and the beans were softening
in the pork fat, whilst an appetising savour pervaded
the Ranche. The corn-bread was made and ready to
go in the oven, and now with sleeves turned up and
floury anrs, the flour bread was in full swing of making,
when the door opened and in came Brown Kirwan.

GLEANINGS FROM

I !

"Hulloa, Brown, isn't this a joke ? I'm cook, and I've
got such a joily dinner on."

" Hulloa, Willie, this is a change. You're a funny
Englishman."

"Why, old fellow?"

" Why, just because youVe got lots of * go * in
you, and have assimilated yourself to prairie life.
* Zeal,' the old Superior calls it ; * Go/ I call it. How
are you getting on here ?"

"All right as yet, enjoying myself."

" Where's Charley ?"

" He'll be in directly ; he's going to the uppv.^
Ranche this afternoon."

" Good, so am I ; we can go together, I've a patient
down already with pleuro-pneumonia."

" Will that epidemic come here, do you think, Brown ? "
Brown Kirwan got up from his chair, quietly walked to
Woodhouse's side, laid his hand upon his shoulder, and
quietly said : " It is here already, both spino meningitis
and pneumonia."

"Brown!"

"It's true, but you needn't tell the others ye<-. If
you're afraid, go my boy, although I should be deuced
sorry to see your back. If you are made of the stuflF I
take you to be, you will stay and aid the Fathers to
nurse tho sick. You've got some weeks' breathing time
to prepare."

" Brown, can I be of any use ? "

"You can, and I believe being fresh from Europe
your constitution will be free from the contagion."

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

*' What would you do, ^vere you in my place ? **

" If I felt my manhood I should stay. If I felt my
cowardice I should go. For one, I depend upon you."

" I think you may do so, Brown."

" What are you two fellows looking so grave about ? "
asked Charley Kirwan, as his head appeared at one of
the windows. " Well, I never. Willie Woodhouse, Willie
Woodhouse ! Ha, ha, ha. What do you think of that,
Brown ? An Englishman, a civilized cook on the prairies.
We've taught you something, my boy, eh? Oh me, Oh
me. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, I never. Well, I never."

" Wait till you get your dinner, Charley."

"You'll ruin me, Willie, with that appetising savour,
and these hungry Ranche men coming in. Oh, Willie
Woodhouse, Willie Woodhouse." And Charley coming
in laughed louder than ever, as he took his pipe, and
saw, beside the dinner being ready, the hearth swept,
and everything in order, even to his pipe being filled
for him.

" I say. Brown, I saw a lot of quails about forty feet
from the Ranche. Shall we go after them ? Won't they
cook nice for Bupper ! " And taking his gun the two
brothers went out of the Ranche.

In a quarter of an hour, when they returned with
eleven quails, the dinner was ready and smoking on the
table. The Ranche men alio coming in, they sat down
a merry party.

" Doc," asked Tom, trying to fix Brown Kirwan's
attention.

GLEANINGS FROM

" Doc are yer coming to the huskiu ? "

"Huskiu! Where, Tom?"

"At McCoU's. I said as how Woody aud I were

going."

" You going, Willie ? " asked Kirwan.

" Yes ; Tom engaged rae early this morning."

" Well, I never. Well, I never. Oh me. Oh me," and
Charley curled up convulsed on his chair. "Don't play
the well game, don't."

" Now who shall I see there, eh ? "

"Well, Deacon McColl, the schoolmaster, the Buttons,
and all the people round ; the W^esleyan Minister, too ;
perhaps forty."

" Never mind, Willie," said Brown, " Go, it will be a
new page of experience opened to you. You would know
nothing of the prairies without going to a husking party.
One will last you a life-time ; but go and study the
Osage Society."

All the food hud disappeared from the table, an aiTay
of empty plates stood there, the Ranchers had gone,
and now the three friends were talking together. Let
us listen to their conversation.

"Now, Woodhouse, you study the schools and see if
that idea of getting up entertainments is possible. I
think you would be surprised to lind the latent talent
of the prairies hidden under that rough exterior.''

The old Superior thought so, too ; he sided with the
plan, thinking it showed zeal. "It will be an amuse-
ment to you, and a teaching of civilization to your
neighbours.'

i»

were

' and
play

ttons,
too ;

be a
know
party,
the

aiTay
gone,
Let

ee if
}. I

;aleut

the
luse-
your

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

" Imagine Brown, a kind of Penny Reading on the
frontier ; but / will think of it, and study the subjects
to-night to see what I can make of them."

" I have a flask of whiskey, and there is some nice
hot water, suppose we have a grog with the pipes; a
Red Letter Day, as I heard men call feast days in one
of the English Universities."

"Now then, friends, come and keep Red Letter Day
with me. I'm off to the upper Ranche directly, and for
the night too. I'll see and hear of McColl's husking
to-morrow, when you will be a wiser man in prairie
experience.'*

"I'm going that way, too, Charley."

"Ah, Brown, but I shall have the ox waggon and
my gun."

" In that case I'll drive on in my Buggy, as it's no
use waiting for you."

When he had gone, Woodhouse turning to Charley,
said : " Do you know, Chprley, I believe Brown is down-
right ill. I wish you'd ask him to come and stay awhile
here, and let me nurse him."

"I think he's more bothered than ill, although he did
look white to-day. Poor fellow, he can't get his accounts
in, and he's standing at an enormous expense down at
the Mission. He has rooms in that place of his over
the store, and lives at the Hotel. Then he has horses
to keep, &c., &c. ; but everybody likes Brown. Brown
is such a gentleman. Now I must go. Good bye, old
fellow. I shall miss you when you go for good."

GLC.^NIXGS FROM

As he sat aloue in the Ruuche, his thoughts ran thus :
Tliat epidemic is coming. Well, I shall stand fire. And
for these entertainments ? Well, I'll do my best. A
useless, idle life brings no pleasure. Pleasure consists in
ex[)eudiug one's forces of doing good upon others.

Charley and his brother being well on their journey,
a series of visitora arrived. First came the Canadian
woman — " short, very thin, and age difficult to tell ; '*
thinner than at her last visit, when Woodhouse firat
arrived on the prairies. She opened <^^e door as though
she belonged to the Ranohe. In her shai*p, shrill, thin
voice she said, " Good day, Woodhus ; good day, friend.
Charley's not in, eh. I was in hopes he was. I do so
want to borrow a cup of coffee kernels ; he'd let me have
then if he was at home. Not to home ! Well, I guess
I'll take it. Tell him I'll bring it back to-morrow." And
she was proceeding to the shelf in high glee to think
she had attained her end, when Tom amved.

" Now then, old 'un. Out yer goes," said Tom. " Enough
of that. I saw yer a watching of Charley off. No berries
you gits here to-day. Out wid yer, now."

Convulsed with laughing, Woodhouse threw a dollar
to her, and a couple of quails. Whereupon she ab-
sconded, vowing vengeance against Tom.

Tom, indignant, with mouth wide open, stared at his
companion.

"You give to her, do yer, arter she wanted to charge
you five dollars for washing that little mess of linen of
yours. They're rum uns whar you cum from. We's
shai-per, we Yanks is."

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

Hardly had Tom finished speaking when the tall, thin,
lantern-jawed form of Levett appeared.

" Be you off to that ere huskin, Woodhus. I be going
and my old woman. Now whar be Charley? I want a
cup of berries, and a paper of sugar, quick."

" No, Levett," replied Tom, "You cum and ask Charley.
True, that be true, the sugar is here in plenty, and
the berries too, but they baint ourn ; are they, Woodhus ? "

Woodhouse nodded.

" Yer don't want um ter-day Levett. Yor cum and ax
Charley to-morrow he'll give it, he will I know ; but us
can't. Can us, Woodhus ? "

Again a nod in assent, and then Levett departed ;
stopping three more intending visitors on his way with
the news that Tom was in, and it warn't no go.

"Now, Master Woodhus, I'm goin to saddle the horses,
and mind as how you be ready in a few minutes." And
whistling some air of his own composition Tom retired, to
re-appear with a Texan co'u and one of Doc's horses, which
he had lent Willie during his stay, and then they were
soon galloping towards McColl's Ranche.

Crossing one creek with a made bottom easily, they came
to another in which the water looked dark and the stream
swollen.

"Now, Mr. Woodhus, you must cross so," and Tom
raised his feet and crossed them over hia horse's neck,
hanging on by f he pommel of the Mexican saddle. " You
see thus you don't get wet. Hain't Charley taught you
to ride like this yet ? Oh my, no ! Well you watch me

GLEANISGS FROM

cross." And as the water rose high up the saddle Tom
escaped dry as possible. " Be careful now, cos it uU be
danj^erous at night if you ain't pertickler." Closely
following Tom's teaching, and the horse being used to the
crossing, they both lauded safely on the other side. " Now,
Mr. Woodhus, you would hardly believe it, but that 'ere
crick rises ten feet sometimes, and with a skitty horse its
dangerous then. But McCoU's buskin's begun. Gee-
up, hos, and away we goes."

Arrived at McCoU's — one of the better class of houses,
with some pretension of furniture about it, and three rooms
at the least, besides kitchen — they found a great company
congregated ; girls with smart ribbons, men with their best
coats on, and even old ladies, busy in the barn (a good-
sized barn too, that of McCoU's) sitting in a circle round a
rapidly-growing heap of maize. There was order, too, in
the arrangement. Some appointed to supply them with
cobs, from which the buskers pulled the husks, and then
rubbing two cobs together the grain fell in rich, golden
profusion on to the great heap near which they were
sitting ; and all the time whilst hands worked hard,
tongues worked harder. There was McCoU with his two
sons and two daughters, his man and the Schoolmaster, a
young fellow of eighteen ; there was Button and his family,
and a gathering of unknown Ranchers. Tom's arrival was
welcome, for Tom was a famed busker, and Woodhouse was
placed between MoColl and a Miss Dempsey, a school-
mistress of an adjoining district. McColl, or Deacon
McColl, was a long man with a Gladstonian face, an Ohio

WESTERN VRAiniES.

mivu, not without cleverness, and generally with more
cultivation than his neighbours. Miss Deinpsey was a
Texan woman of three-and-twenty, or more, gentle and
lady-like, a born sister of charity living in the world.
Where sickness was found, there shadow-like and un-
assuming stood Anna Dempsey ; where sorrow was, there
tracing quick upon soitow's heel came Anna Dempsey, a
comfortress indeed. The district in which stood Miss
Dempsey's school was one in which order reigned near
disorder. People wondered how she rendered so tmctable
those rough specimens who came to her up to seventeen
years of age. She was not a pretty woman ; she dressed in
that quiet grave way that became the face, on which
sometimes played tliat pure light and omile one catches
on the faoe of tiie best type of Murillo'a angels ; her hair
was brushed smoothly, in some way peculiar to herself,
away from her face ; looking at her you forgot she had
not a tall handsome figure ; the expression of her face
was all to hor. She sat, in her way, upon a kind of throne,
before which the prairie people did homage, unknowingly
to herself, unknowingly to themselves.

" Is Charley coming, Mr. Woodhouse ? " asked McColl.

" I don't think so, Mr. McColl," answered Woodhouse,
fighting desperately with an obstinate cob which would
not yield its corn. ** He is at the upper Ranche."

" And Doc ? "

" Oh, he's out in the same direction ; gone to see some
obstinate case of pleuro pneumonia."

" Ah," observed Mr. McColl, " The Lord will chastise
His people.".

GLEANINGS FROM

Those quick, eager eyes of Miss I)ein])8ey were raised to
Wooclhouse's face. " Does Doc thiuk we shall get the
epidemic amongst us ? "

" I can't answer that question, Miss Dempsey ; it seems
to me it is coming nearer to us."

"And are you going, Sir?

" No, I think not, Miss Dempsey, not if I am wanted."

The deep voice of the Deacon addressed them both.
"They all forsook Him and fled. You won't flee with
those cowardly disciples, and leave only the weak women
standing by the Cross ? "

" I hope I shall be able to remain, Mr. McCoU."

"Ah, you don't know what illness is on the prairie,
when a man's alone, laid on his bed, no Are, no one to
prepare his food, no one to attend his cattle ; why, I've
opened a Ranclie door before now and found the owner
dead on his bed through neglect ; but the Lord did it,
the Lord did it, and for some wise purpose, surely."

" Mr. McCoU, we want some more cobs."

" You'U find a rick full in the yard ; bring 'em in boys."

The company were soon supplied again with work, and
the laugh and jest went round, and right merrily did
they quaff the Deacon's wine and ale, home-brewed
foaming ale, a treat to all.

" Miss Dempsey, I am coming round to, see your school
one of these days ; I hear it is a model one."

*•* I shall be pleased to show it you," was • the quiet
answer.

<* Don't you thiuk this winter we might possibly get

liyu

WESTER}^ PRAIRIES.

§7

Tip some entertaiuments in the school-houses for the
people ? "

" Whiit kind of entertainments ? "

" Well, what in Euroix) we call * Penny Readings.'
We have glees, comic or serio-comic readings, one or
two short instructive pieces of natural history, a song or
so, and then wind up with the National Anthem."

" Well, that is capital, Mr. Woodhouse ; if you will
arrange for the Readings, I will get up the glees and songs ;
my children are not behind-hand in music ; I only want
a week's pi-eparation."

It was rapidly growing dusk now, and the Deacon
hurried up his guests by assuring them " No work, no
play," and so with an energy the husking went on, until
the last cob fell from the hands of Tom. Then came a
moving of seats, a greater buzz of conversation, cheers
from the young men, and an adjournment to the house
was proposed, where Mrs. McCoU was discoverod busy with
the supper preparation. Mi's. McCoU was a superior
woman, a widow whom the Deacon had wooed and won
in some western city. The table was well laid out, and
to the astonishment of some, adorned with solid silver
cruets and spoons, and large bouquets of flowers. A largo
turkey flanked one end — smoking hot ; then when one tired
of that sight, one saw ducks and fowls temptingly an'anged
as side dishes. A large ham also smoked invitingly near
the Deacon ; then blanc-manges, nestling in cranberry
jam, and jellies nodded to the company ; and as a
centrepiece stood an enormous cake.

GLEANTXGS FROM

How Tom's eyes sparkled — nay, nearly all the eyes in
that over-hungry company.

Mrs. McCoU, who had her stranger guest near her,
enjoyed his t prise :

" You wonder civilisation has touched upon this border
life, so close to the Osages, eh, Mr. Woodhouse ? Ah
well, sir ; misfortune has introduced me to strange
companions."

It was Miss Dempsey who saw unshed tears in Mrs.
McColFs eyes ; and she, sitting on the other side of her
Hostess, gently pressed her hand. It seemed indeed a
mystery that those two women's hearts could take in and
slave for those of that companyc

A quiet lesson was growing into the soul of Willie
Woodhouse ; he knew that on that strange border-land
many beautiful lives were being lived, and over them, and
upon their grand souls was resting the light of purity and
holiness — all growing from those words : " Inasmuch as ye
did it uDto one of the least of these my brethren, ye
did it unto Me."

" You may not like the games afterwards ; we do not,
but as it is th-e custom we tolerate them ; " and Mrs.
McCoU sighed.

I would my space allowed me to detail all that supper
conversation on the Indians and their ways ; of the last
murders near Independence ; of the epidemic spread 'ar
and wide in Kansas territory ; of the last wedding, and
the wsdding guests ; and the last riddle in circulation
(riggles Tom called them), Ai^d uow the table cleared bv

ii.

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

jyes la

iT her,

border
? Ah
strange

in Mrs.

of her
deed a
in and

Willie
er-land
!m, and
ity and

1 as ye
'en, ye

do not,
Mrs.

willing hands, and the table itself quickly stowed in an
out-of-the-way comer, a wild scene commences. Blind
man's buflf, in which even the Deacon joins amidst screams
of laughter — keen enjoyment such as those who live in
that prairie world can appreciate, for such meetings as
these are few and rare.

And then came the "Well game," at which many
declined to play. It consisted in one person going into a
corner and proclaiming himself in a well. " Who is to
pull you out ? " " So-and-so." " How deep are you
down ? " " Ten feet ; " and each foot represented a kiss.
Then the puller out was in a well, and the same thing was
acted over again until all those playing were in a long line
across the room, and the depths grew marvellously — ^and
the laughter too.

Here the Deacon broke up the game by introducing
pipes and spirits ; and Woodhouse, who had beeu talking
with the Deacon, prevailed on Tom to get the horees.
In a few minutes they were riding over the dark prairie,
and the Husking party with its kaleidoscopic scenes was
of the past.

supper
le last
ad 'ar

, and
ilation

jd bv

■i^B^^^^^pwa^i^H^^»aHV"vpi

H^^l^^^fi^

I ^^: ^-f/^^ ^ - ,, ^(J' ^ ♦Ni

CHAPTER X.

"In his lolge beside a river,
Close beside a frozen river.

• • ■ •

Seeing nothing but the snow-storm

As it whirled, and hissed, and drifted." —

I^t'om " Hiawatha.'' — Longfellow.

SUNSET AND SNOW-STORM.

HE unusually long Indian summer was about to
close, the quiet beautiful days were waning
into winter, and those whose business brought
them in contact with the Indians were saying that an
unusually rigorous winter was to be anticipated, and
indeed was prophesied by all the tribes. Fell plmrv-
pneumonia and spinO'imningitis were creeping nearer and
nearer to the Mission.

Charley Kirwan had an artist's soul within him. For
some days he had been promising his guest to show him
a prairie sunset — such a sunset that he might take back
to Europe, hidden away in his memory, and gloat over
ever after. On this afternoon they rode away into the
broad prairie, and waited, watching the western sky. There

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 91

was no sentimentality in this, nought was farther from
Kirwau's mind ; but he wished to give an idea of what
nature's color-painting was like.

The heavens all around them were clear deep blue,
excepting to the westwards, where lay one long bank of
snowy cloud ; almost imperceptibly the snowy mass was
stained with crimson, which grew intense in its coloring ;
gradually gliutings of gold stole into the crimson, each
color deepening in strf.ngth and beauty ; then the glory
was of crimson, purple, and gold seeemingly reflected in
the tall prairie grass. For a few moments the beauty was
great as it gradually approached its zenith. Those looking
on felt themselves bathed in color ; but there came a purple
haze over that fair glory and it was night. Yes, night
and silence ; time and the insect noises round them seemed
swallowed in that still sea of mist rising up from the
earth.

No words passed between the friends— ^words seemed
almost blasphemous in face of that still prairie, and the
wondi'ous painting whose beauty had grown into their
souls. It seemed so fresh from the hands of God, with
nothing to stain its purity. And thus ended the Indian
summer for Willie Woodhouse.

Later on in the evening Charley Kirwan was speaking
of sunsets in the Bay of Naples, and comparing them
with sunsets in the West thus : " Of course they have been
sung and written about almost to excess ; whilst our sunsets
in the Bay of New York and on these great plains are
comparatively little known„ I certainly prefer our owu

GLEANINGS FROM

fiUDsets ; they are on Buch a vaster scale, and the coloring
seems more intense, and one feels them more because
darkness follows so quickly on all the brilliant coloring."

I have described elsewhere the lean-to bedroom occupied
by Kirwan and his guest, and described the eventful chinks
unmoitared where it joined on to the Ranche proper. A
few days after they studied the prairie sunset, Charley
Kirwan, being awake first, called to his companion to open
his eyes. During the night there had been a great faVi
of snow, and it had drifted through the inch-and-a-half or
two-inch chink between the lean-to and the Ranohe.
Their bedroom was literally carpetted with snow — it had
even drifted on to the coverlet, and its soft fleecy ridges lay
about the bed. Dreamily Woodhouse awoke and glanced
round. Had he gone to sleep in a snow-drift ? and then,
as the ludicrosity of the scene burst upon the senses, came
prolonged peals of laughter from both of them. It was
such a hunt to find their clothing — here in a miniature
snow bank lay slippers ; there in a snow bank was dis-
covered a vest ; and in the meanwhile outside the window
could nothing be seen " but the snowstorm, as it whirled,
and hissed, and drifted."

** Oh, Charley : how odd this is."

" Odd ; I told you the winter would be as quickly upon
us as the sunset faded the other night."

There was somewhat of silence until Kirwan said :

** Ancther experience of prairie life for you ; your
education will be nearer finished when you get back to
Europe."

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

coloring

because

ring.'*

occupied

il chinks

oper. A

Chariey

1 to open

jreat fall

ft-half or

Ranohe.

— it had

idges lay

[ glanced

nd then,

jes, came

It was

liniature

was dis-

window

whiried,

"I am not surprised you like the prairies, Charley,
there is something fascinating about those sudden changes.'*

" Not more sudden than the transit from life to death,
Woodhouse ; " and there crept into his tone that yearning
earnestness which was one of his great fascinations.

" Sharley — Sharley ; I say, where's Shailey," and the
voice of Lieboldt reached throu^^h the closed door. " A
wintry raornin', Sharley ; but I want Sharley. I say to
the boys, they cattle be fed under the trees — the snow fall
he hide the hay — the cattle no find he ; " and opening the
door communicating with the lean-to — the shock head and
good-natured face of the German appeared in the opening.
His astonishment was the cause of prolonged laughter.
But Lieboldt was no man of straw. With broom and
energy he soon expelled the intruding snow, laughing
the while.

CHAPTER XI.

" Be this, then, a lesson to thy soul, that thou reckon nothing

worthless,
" Because thou heedest not its use, nor knowest the virtues

thereof."

PENNY READINGS ON THE PRAIRIES.

N these wintry clays the schools on the
Prairies were in full operation. Unlike
English schools, for the working youth
laid aside his calling and became a school-boy again
in these winter months ; the tall girls of eighteen
and twenty, thirating for knowledge, brought un to
the School House their little brothers and sisters and
stayed to be taught themselves ; and the big young
men brought their brothers and sisters, and all
worked with a will under the guidance of some School-
master or Schoolmistress. I think in the laying-out
of the counties there is ground allowed for the building
of a School House in each half-mile, or square mile.
In the summer months the schools are closed, and in
the winter months filled to excess. It seems difficult
to find out where the people come from.
Tom, who through the kindness of Kirwan, was

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 95

attendiiif^ the schools, and yet stayinpf on at the
Rauche, had taken Woodhouse with him to the even-
in*:^ schools, and many a lon<? discussion was held
between the stranger and the Schoolmasters or Mis-
tresses as to the entertainments to be given.

It was thus that the idea of giving these entertain-
ments arose :

After the night-school was over, the pupils, young
and old, set to and had a regular romp, in which often
the " well game " was prominent. Now if one could
only utilize these half -hours by getting up some Enter-
tainments, and induce the performers to devote this
half-hour to preparing for them, much good might be
done.

Miss Dempsey was enlisted speedily, and already the
singing class, picked from her school, was practising
glees and solos. One of the Doctors from the Mission
was invited to give a short lecture on Education,
in language the people could uudei-stand. Willie
Woodhouse was to give a lecture on " Horace Greeley's
Prairie Life " ; whilst an Irishman from a distant
Ranche was to bring his violin and sing some of Tom
MocTe's melodies, accompanying himself ; but certain
young people, who could not sbig and ivho tvmild not
read, insisted on a play.

Miss Dempsey being consulted, in her quiet way re-
plied, " Why not let 1-hem have a ' Tableaux * ? "

" An excellent idea," chorused the Committee,
" because then they must be silent."

GLEANINGS FROM

Thus it was decided. The entrance fee to the enter-
tainment was to be a quarter of a dollar ; but a
deputation came in on the day of the Reading itself, to
say many Ranchers would like to come who had no
" quarters " ; who had, in fact, no money whatever,
but who would gladly pay in kind.

" Let them all come," said Woodhouse, " we want a
good audience.'*

Charley Kirwan chaffed about the energy displayed
in the movement ; but, nevertheless, the interest in
it grew and grew, until on the night itself, the collec-
tion of strange vehicles round the Prairie School-House
was encouraging indeed.

But where to seat all the people — if one could only
stretch those wooden walls out farther.

So, the English Penny Readings were introduced
on the distant Osage Prairies of the Far West. I
query if the founder of these entertainments thought
they would reach so far.

A few minutes* explanation to the Prairie gathering
of settlers, then came a glee — enthusiastically received
— and the Doctor's Lecture, well put together, and fit
for that strange assembly ; he knew how to touch
gently the heart's core of such an audience, and awake
their finer feelings. The first tableau succeeded to the
the lecture.

It was " Faith." Wc heard the silence grow in the
room before the wonderful still beauty of her face.
And yet it was only Barbara Mackintosh, whose

WESTERN PHAIRJES.

brown plebeian hands were whitened that they might
not offend the audience. Before God though, methinks
oft times those brown hands reached higher than white
ones.

Then came tlie Goddess of Liberty, in a beautiful
American flag. We watched to see Zenobia's chains
in order before she posed hei-self. All remembered
that tableau for days after. Some latent instinct of
heroism was astir in that girl's blood. For a moment
the girl went away from herself. She was thrilled
with a deep sense of power that will last longer than
that deep prolonged applause from Ranchemen's throats.

Was it not a little like life ? We, who were behind
the curtain ; we, looking on that wrong side, saw all
the mistakes, all the loose threads and thrums. And
yet perhaps, if we could look on the other side we
should see how honest faith and earnest endeavour
have woven a pattern fit for a king's robe. Behind
the curtain, hurry, confusion, chaos ; before the curtain,
a fair vision of men and women.

Can it be true that we do not give the right
meaning to success and failure in life ? Is what we
call success always really worthy of the name ?

The one perfect life that has been lived on earth
from a merely human point of view was a failure. It
had neither wealth, nor riches, nor fame. It went
swiftly down to a sudden, terrible death, embittered by
cruel mockery. Yet who questions that it vas the one
successful complete life ; this highest thought of God,
uttered in humanity ? 7

GLEANINGS FROM

The Horace Greeley lecture cam:; next, and was
followed by sonp^a, ^lees, and a corcio rcadinj^.

In the meanwhile new life was stealing over the
faces of the audience. The hard lines of care loosened
into something gentler, and mayhaps some vision of
the days of childhood grew up in the men's hearts, and
women's also.

Well pleased they went to their ox waggons and
mounted their Texan cobs for their cold prairie ride
home to their cheerless Ranches.

But the young men grouped together were holding
some discussion with Kirwan's friend about the epidemic ;
— they were forming themselves into a nursing com-
mittee to nurse any sick in their district during the
nights when their own farm work was done.

And this grew out of the Penny Readings on the
Prairies. In the meanwhile, Miss Dempsey was making
some proposition to the young women to take the day
nursing ; and so they looked to their armour to prepare
for the enemy, and, as the sequel will show, it was well
they did so.

Very happy, indeed, was the thought of these
Prairie Entertainments ; and all honor be to him who
introduced Penny Readings into England — for from
England they have been carried into many Countries,
and amongst many Peoples.

The next day Brown Kirwan came to stay at the
Ranche, and took Woodhouse and Tom fishing on the
frozen creek. They skated, and thus followed the fish

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

and

was

mpr.

ig over the

are loosened

le vision of

hearts, and

apf^ons and
prairie ride

ere holding

le epidemic ;

irsing com-

during the

ttgs on the
tvas making
ike the day
to prepare
it was well

of these
him who
for from
Comitries,

easier. Brown looked carefully at the fish crowding
under the ice, and fixing on a fine red mullet-looking
fellow, brought down the axe with a thud upon the ice
over the fish's head. The fish lay motionless under
the ice, stunned. Then with a dexterity that would
surprise a European, he gently cut the ice in a square
al)out the fish just wide enough to insert the sieve
(Tom carried) under the body of the victim. In a
few minutes it lay kicking in the basket, having re-
covered from the effects of the blow immediately it waa
exposed to the air. Soon the basket Woodhouse
carried grew heavy ; but still he insisted on fishing out
odd specimens of fish — especially one with a body
almost like a pike and a beak like a duck. And a
good fish dinner rewarded them for their exertions.
How pleasant it was on the Creek — winter fishing,
the great trees on either side shutting it in, and the
snowy outline tracery on the over-hanging branches
forming a continuous triumphal arch.

Even Tom looked up and said it was beautiful.

It was a fair dream of winter beauty. One such a
scene that imprints itself on the pages of memory's
album, and startles the beholder as he turns the leaves,
to think that he has lived in it — has himself felt it.

ay at the
ig on the
1 the fish

CHAPTER XI r.

"And now tlie stream has reached

A dark deep sea ;

And sorrow, dini and crowned

Is waiting thee.
* * * * *

Then, with slow reverend step,

And beating heart.
From out thy joyous days,

Thou must depart." — A. Proctor.

THOSE SAD DAYS.

ROWN KIRWAN lately had taken up his
quarters at the Ranche for good. It was
easy to see by the attenuation of his form,
and the light that burnt in his eyes, and that wan look
upon his cheeks, that a great sweet voice had already
whispered in his ears : " Friend, come up higher." And
Brown Kirwan had lowly bowed his head and gone to

the prairie Ranche to prepare for the inevitable.

Willie Woodhouse was his nurse, although in the
rough Ranche it was difficult indeed to do all that
one could wish ; yet it was possible to get him little

GLKAXLS'GS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 101

iken up his
od. It was
of his form,
lat wan look

had already
igher." And
and gone to
citable.
)ugh in the

do all that
it him little

delicacies now and again — a quail on toa»^t, the breast
of a prairie cMcken, some stewed peaches. All these
little attentions it was out of the question for the
Ranche boys to give, as they were away at their work,
excepting for a few minutes in the middle of the day,
when they came in tired, yet noisy, to their dinner.

And in these days a deeper affection spmng up
between those two who spent so many hours together.

" Now, Brown ; I'm going to make you a beautiful
dinner before the others come in."

" No you shall not, Willie ; you arc tired out
already."

" Tired out, Brown Kirwan ? "

" Well, please don't trouble about me."

" Don't trouble about me, eh Brown ; and for how
much do you count Jesus Christ, whom I honor in your
person ? "

Brown Kirwan said no more, but those great eyes of
his were eloquent with thanks.

" Do you think I am very ill ? "

" I think so. Brown ; and I want you to be
baptized."

" Does Charley know how ill I am ? "

" I can't say ; he has been absent a good deal
lately at the upper Ranche — he has said nothing to

me.

" I shall try to tell him. I should not like him
to come home and find me dead."

"Let us hope. Brown, God will give you a longer
time to make that solemn preparation for death."

102

GLEANINGS FROM

" I don't think so — I know my constifntion ; I shall
go on right to the end. I shall burn awry gradually
as a candle does, and the last flicker will disappear
with a dash-up at the old brilliancy."

" Brown ! "

"And I feel, Willie, it is near the last flicker."

"Would you like to see the Old Superior, or any of
the Fathers, Brown ? "

" I don't know. One thing I do know, I am
satisfied with Him whom I have trusted that He will
not desert me at that great and awful hour. I thank
Him for sending you to me, Willie Woodhouse — I
thank Him. I sometimes think that dream may yet
be realised."

" Oh, Brown ; " and then he laid his head upon his
hands, and great sobs shook his frame, whilst burning
drops fell through his fingers on to the floor.

" You will tell Charles, and my mother and father,
when I am gone, that I tried to love God, and to serve
Him, in serving my fellow-men."

And so Brown Kirwan broke the news of his illness
to his friend.

Levett coming in to see " Doc," as he callad the
Doctor, interrupted their quiet chat, and the preparation
for dinner left no time for Woodhouse to join in their
conversation.

And now on all sides from the Ranchers' homes
came wails of sorrow, for scarcely anyone but had
some friend down with pleuro-pneumonia or spino-

WKSTERN PRAIRIES.

103

meuiugitis. The nursing committee was thoroughly
organized ; and although Woodhouse disliked leaviug
the Doctor, yet he felt it was incumbent on him to go
out and take his turn at night nursing.

And here I may state tiie way in which this spiuo-
meuingitis is doctored, to show how tedious is the
nursing ; and I have known one case to last for ninety
days, and yet at last the patient died, in spite of all
care lavished upon him. On the first appearance of tlie
disease the spine is blistered the entire length, and then
hot white leaves of cabbage, boiled, applied constantly
every half hour, or hour, to keep the blistered part
open, and make it draw well.

And thus it was difficult and restless nursing ; more
so when, as generally was the case, it was necessary
to instruci, the sick persons in all the truths of Christianity,
and prepare them for the S{icraments.

To baptize some of them — and a consolation it was
to think their souls appeared before their Maker with
the bright baptismal drops still glittering upon their
brows. A beauteous crown indeed, wherewith to go up
crowned, into that crowned Presence, baptized with
water and the Holy Ghost.

Tom came rushing in breathless from his work the
next morning, to Woodhouse : '' It's little Ike as is
dying now ; they want yer quick. The old man's heard
as yer can nus a bit. Sez I : ' he's a busy, and bin
up all night.' 'Never mind,' says he, 'Tell him its
a father's prayer, and Ike won't recuperate again.' I

i ■]

104

GLEANINGS FROM

know'd yer'd go/ so the mare is saddled at the door.
I'm oflf, as Charley's busy a helping of us."

Mounting the mare, Woodhouse rode oflF rapidly in
the direction of Nathan Higgin's Ranche — difficult
travelling, too, with the snow about. Going gently along
at one time, in what he thought was the path covered
with snow, the mare disappeared under him, and he
found himself sinking in the snow, until only his head
remained above the surface. At another time he would
have laughed and enjoyed such a state of affairs ; but
now, with " that sori'ow dim awaiting him," it was a
different state of things. Getting out of the drift
himself, and gently pulling the reins — the mare, used to
such circumstances, quietly turned round and came out
of the drift. Without much trouble, beyond this, he
arrived at the Ranche.

None of the order prevailing in an English sick-room
was there, for, according to frontier etiquette, whenever
a person was ill, there one found all his friends around
him — sometimes to the number of ten or twelve ; and
the Hostess, if there be one, occupied in cooking for
visitors, instead of being able to give her undivided
attention to the invalid.

Such was the case now, and the poor child Ike, worn
out with the excitement of seeing new faces, and hearing
his state so much discussed in his presence, was even
then entering into his agony. Gasping for breath —
and the very air kept from him by the well-meaning
crowd around his bed — his poor dying eyes brightened

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

105

up wheu AVoodhouse entered, making his way noiselessly
through the one-rooraed Ranche, which, though
larger than the ordinary Ranches, was not built for such
a crowded audience. He sat down on the bed-head,
and lifted the poor dying little body, placing his arm
under the pillow, to give more ease to the sufferer.

" Ike, little Ike ; do you know me ? "

A glad smile came over the wan face, and from his
panting lips came the words :

" Ike's going to Jesus. Ike's going to the beautiful
country."

Moistening his lips with water, Woodhouse asked :

" And is Ike glad ? "

" Oh, Mr. Willie ; Ike is glad to go to God. Ike
will be an Angel, and sing to Him. Ike will see the
Holy Babies — (the Innocents) — the bad king killed, and
play with them."

" And won't you think of us, Ike, when you are
there ; of your father and mother, and of all of us .? "

" Yes ; every day I will ask God to give you good
things ; and I know He will, because I'll say 'for Jesus
Christ's sake,' and I'll look to where Jesus Christ stands.
He says the little children may go to Him, and God
won't say no to what we ask in His Name."

Tears were coursing down the cheeks of the people
present, and yet the little child spoke on the words
God gave him.

" Ike will see Mary, too."

"Yes.; Ike will see Maiy, the Mother of Jesus."

10(>

GLEANINGS FROM

5 !

" Aud Ike will love her, because there was * no room
for her in the Inn ' you told me of ; but there's room
for her in God's palace, cos she's God's Mother.
Perhaps she'll be my mother ; and I'll call her mother
till my mother comes to me."

" Try to sleep, Ike ; " and Woodhouse motioned the
people to go still farther away. " Try to sleep, Ike."

" Sleep when God wants me. No ; I can't sleep,"
said the excited child. "Will God have any one there
to plav with me, and make me playthings ? "

" Yes ; He will have an harp for Ike, and Ike will
hear music like the Angels sang to the Shepherds. You
remember the Shepherds, and the concert in the air,
Ike, when Christ was born ? "

" Yes ; I remember. Ike remembers. The Angels
carried the poor man's soul to God's palace. Ike re-
members : ' Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with
thee.' God's with her — you told me so ; she's with
God, too. Ike wants to go to his new mother."

And now exhausted, the tired child sank to sleep.
Still Woodhouse moved not his arm away from under
the pillow for fear of waking the sufferer, and only did
he yield his post to Miss Dempsey, who came in when
her school hours were finished.

Then, tired to death almost, he rolled himself up in
a rug ; and, in spite of the dogs of the Ranche persist-
ently walking over him, in a short time was in a
profound sleep. He was awakened in the early morning
to say the " Prayers for the dying ; " and there in the

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

107

early morning light, from the arms of Willie Woodhouse,
Angels carried Ike to God's palace ; and now he calls
Mary his mother.

Little Angel Ike, what must be thy surprise, having
gone from that clumsy Ranche, to find thyself in that
finished building — that Palace of the Great King. How
sweet thy grateful look of loving surprise must have
been even to thy God.

"With weeping, the body of Ike was laid out upon a
form — the little body that had seen but ten summers,
and Nathan Higgins started for the Mission to buy his
child a coffin. Willie Woodhouse accompanied him.
The Superior, seeing Woodhouse looking ill himself,
insisted on keeping him there for that day and night,
and promised to let him go up to the Ranche again for
a day before the Feast of Christmas.

" How is Doc ? '^ *

" Very sadly."

" Ah ; so I thought. I will return with you to see
him ; I wish very much to baptize him before he
dies. And now you, go rest in your room, you will
find a fire there."

And to the room he went, and found a fire, two
bedsteads, a tub for a washhand-stand, a tin basin,
and some frozen water.

And right well did he sleep, the sleep of exhaustion,
which was to refresh him for many nights to come.

♦ Doc. Abbreviation of Doctor, commonly in use in the
Western States.

CHAPTER XIII.

" the long and dreary winter,
O the cold and cruel winter ;
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker,
Froze the ice on lake and river ;
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper,
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape,
Fell the covering snow and drifted."

^^ lUarvatha.'' — Longfdlow.

THB doctor's death.

profoundly "Willie Woodhouse slept, that
the Superior knocked several times at his
door the following morning before he could
awaken him to come and assist at the last Mass in
the Church. A strong east wind blew from the
Prairies, and seemed to freeze the very marrow in
one's bones, even in crossing the little distance between
the House and the Church. The icy wind seemed to
penetrate everywhere. It gained so much force in the
great breadth of Prairie over which it travelled, that
when it came in contact with an object it seemed
impatient to level it with the ground. But the
Superior had tasted of the east wind before he built his

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 109

tat
lis
lid
in
he
in

to
he
at
id
bie
lis

Church, and there the east wiud was mastered, as it
oould not fell the lonj^, low, stout-built buiUIiug.
How the wind shrieked round the cornei-s, and beat
aji^ainst the few windows, and rushed in throufrh any-
unwary cranny or ventilator. The Lay-brothers wrapped
their coats closer round them, and the Priests their
cloaks ; whilst the few people in the Cimrch at tluit
early hour hurried off as soon as the last Gospel was
read.

As they sat in the bare Refectory over their break-
fast, the Superior said, '' You won't go up to the Ranclie
in this freezing wind, Mr. Woodhouse ? "

" I must, for two reasons — Charley expects me, and
the Doctor is really so ill I felt unwilling to leave
him yesterday."

" But you will be frozen."

" Never mind, I shall perish in doing my duty."

" Tut, tut : you can't go in the teeth of such a
wind, you would be getting your ears frozen, or else
your knees, and have to get down to rub your face,
ears, and knees with snow twenty times on such a
journey. No, you can't go; those are my orders that
you rest here."

" Well, we shall see how it is at mid-day."

"Yes, WE will see," replied the old man, as he toddled
oflf after his day's work. " You must amuse yourself
in the Library, and about in the Mission as best you
can, for Pm busy this morning until dinner."

Left to himself, he wandered into the Library, a

GLEANINGS FROM

square building, built apart from the rest of the
Houses, with a spacious room above it for distribution
of prizes to the school, school examinations, &c., &c.
He found the priest Quinlin there, and consequently
sat down to chat with him.

" I wanted to see you. Father Quinlin, for the other
day I came across an Irish couple on the Prairies,
living without the Sacrament of Matrimony. I told
them the?/ must renew their consent before a Priest, and
receive the Nuptial Blessing. They are willing to do
so publicly ; but I suggested that it should be privately
done, as the world at large, otherwise, would be cog-
nisant of the affair. They are quite willing to suffer
for their fault if they can be an example to others
in their state. I said this was not required."

" All, well, my boy," observed the priest, " I will be
there as soon as this east wind ceases."

" Yes, and at the same place there is a child to be
baptized, about six years of age."

" All, well, my boy ; all well. I will see to it. You
work stedfastly according to your state in the work
of the Minor Orders of the Church, and may God's
blessing go with you."

"Are you tired with this Prairie life now the epi-
demic has come among us ? " enquired the Priest after
s, pause.

"Oh, no. It gives one all the more zest to stay
where one can find work to one's hand."

" The zeal of Thine House hath eaten me up,
Lord." "Zelus domus tuse comedit me."

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

Ill

" By the way, I want to ask you about the Convent.
What Order have you there ? "

" The Lorettines, or the Sisters of Loretto ; some
people call them 'The Friends of Mary at the foot
of the Cross.'"

" I've never heard anythin<^ about Uiem, excepting^
here."

" I daresay not ; they were established in the Diocese
of Kentucky by a Father Neriuckx."

"Who was he?"

"A Bel^^ian, born in 1761, who came to the United
States at the a<]^e of forty-five, and was sent into
Kentucky by Bishop Carroll, who then, under Pius the
VI., had jurisdiction over the whole of the United
States."

"What kind of reputation did he leave behind him?
I mean Nerinckx."

"Well, he erected ten Churches in Kentucky — two
of them brick Churches, the othera of hewed logs — he
always helped the workmen at their work, whilst they
were cutting the timber, or clearing out the under-
growth."

" Did he do anything else ? "

"Yes, he had charge of six large congregations, and
a greater number of stations scattered about over the
whole of Kentucky. He founded this Sisterhood in
1812, and in twelve years from its commencement the
number of Sisters exceeded a hundred."

" And how many schools had they under them then ? *'

—T

112

GLEANINGS FROM

"Six different schools for girls. They were then
educating about 250 girls."

" Well, but Father Quiulin, how came they here ? "

" In this wjiy ; we succeeded so well with the educa-
tion of the Indian boys, that the Indian Chiefs of the
Osage tribe came and demanded us to educate the
girls ; and then the Father Superior resolved to interest
some fervent community of Nuns in the education of
Osage girls."

"Well?"

"Well, he went to S. Louis with this intention,
applied to several convents to undertake this work, but
they were all frightened at the magnitude of it, until
he asked the good sisters of Loretto."

" And when did they come ? "

" In 1847. Four of them came ; and many priva-
tions they have had to put up with before they
inhabited the House you see them in now."

"And now they have twenty sisters here?"

" Yes, twenty sisters now."

"Well, having asked you all this, I want you to
take me to see over the Convent and the Schools."

" I was waiting for that demand to come, and I
accede to it as far as I can. You will be surprised
to hear some of their rules ; one thing they have to
do is to dig a spadeful of earth out of their grave
every day, to remind them of death. I shan't be
able to go over the Convent with you to-day, but some
other time I promise to do so."

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

113

"I shall have a rough sort of ride up to Kirwan*8
Ranche in this wild wind, shan't I, Father Quinlin ? '*

" Aye my boy ; you can't go.'*

"Well, I have made up my mind to go, unless I
hear Brown Kirwan is better."

"Brown Kirwan will never be better this side of
the grave ; I saw him walking to visit a patient in the
Mission some week or so ago, and I was grieved to
my heart's core to notice what a wreck he had become."

" And nothing can be done for him ; and you
would leave him out in that lonely old Ranche to
die unbaptized ? No, Father Quinlin, I can't tolerate
that."

"Impulsive as ever. Can you baptize the man
against his will ? "

" No ; but by gentleness, patience, logic, I would
convince his will, that unless he is baptized of water
and the Holy Ghost he cannot enter into the kingdom
of heaven."

"Well, but there are two other kinds of Baptism,
that of desire, and that of blood. If he dies with the
sti-ong desire for that Sacrament, and there is no one
by to administer it, then that desire before God counts
as though the Sacrament had been validly administered
by a lawfully appointed minister."

" But that is so unsatisfactory to look back upon.
One is not sure."

"We never know what acts go on in a soul at its
last moment, what voiceless acts of sorrow and love go

'■♦■

'',
•'I

114

GLEANINGS FROM

out from the stricken spirit to the feet of Christ, and
God is always more anxious for men's salvation than
we are."

" Yes, that's very true ; but, I should like Brown
to be baptized ; he is so morally good, there is some-
thing so genuine about him."

" Leave him in God's hand?, my son, in God's hands."

That day after the conversation with the Fathers,
Woodhouse had made up his mind to do what they
thought best, and not brave a ride in the wind, as it
then blew as fiercely as ever. The morni.ig began to
lay on his hands, and an unquiet feeling arose in his
mind that he must go. So saddling his horse, and
wrapping his furs about him, he went to the Superior.

" I can't rest here, Father. I feel something urging
me out to Kirwan's Ranche — something that won't admit
of delay. I know for certitude Brown Kirwan is
dying."

There was such an earnestness in his tone, that the
Superior merely said :

"God's blessing and protection go with you. With
a feeling like that upon you I won't bid you stay."

Quickly mounting his horse, he was trotting sharply
on his road to the Prairie. How fiercely the wind blew
for some time he was unconscious ; the wind as it blew
against him seemed to shriek : " Brown Kirwan is
dying ; " and by some inner acquiescence of his own
spirit he felt this was true.

And now, on the broad Prairie, without the protection

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

115

of the trees growing upon the banks of the creek, the
wind blew more icily keen, and seemed to go down into
his very marrow. If only he could reach the Ranche,
though. Yet he felt his knees stiffening with the cold,
and his ears seemed hard and stiff, as though frozen.

Horrid stories floated through his brain, of people on
this self-same Prairie who had had their ears so frozen
that as they touched them they broke oflF. Could this
be true, or was it some hoax told to him ? The deadly
numbness creeping through his knees warned him that
he must get off and rub them with snow unless he would
be frost-bitten ; so pulling up his horse, and dismounting,
he rubbed his ears, his knees, and his hands with snow
until the circulation returned ; and, once again wrapping
his furs closely around him, started afresh on his journey,
the conviction all the while growing more strongly upon
him that Brown Kirwan was dying.

In that journey, in the teeth of an east wind, three
times did he repeat the operation of rubbing himself
with snow to keep the life within him, thus saving
himself, as that numbness and sleepiness were creeping
over him, from death by freezing. Desolate enough
looked the wide snowy waste, as ridge after ridge of
prairie extended before him. And now his journey
bordering on to the creek again, he stopped at a low
Ranche, hidden away in the outskirt wood of the creek,
to give the message to these Irish people concerning the
subject on which he had spoken to Quinlin in the
morning — that was of their Marriage, and their renewal

■ i

116

> GLEANINGS FROM

of consent before a Minister of God. Having finished
his mission, and hastily swallowed some hot coffee to
warm him, he was about to proceed upon his journey,
when the man asked him —

" How's Doc Kirwan ? I asks, 'cos I see Doc Seagrim
from the Mission, gallop rapidly by a short time ago, in
the direction of Kirwan's Ranche ? "

" I don't know how he is now ; I haven't seen him
for two days, but I think he's very ill indeed."

" Ah, poor dear Doc, he won't recuperate," chimed
in the man's wife ; and the little child of six, hearing
the parents talking thus, lisped out : " Poor Doc."

" I guess as how he's worse," rejoined the man,
" mayhap a dying."

By the time he had finished this remark, his recent
auditor was galloping away as fast as his horse could
carry him. Through the snow-covered brush-wood
nearing the creek, on over another stretch of prairie,
then came Kinvan's Ranche in sight ; and there at
the door, by straining hi. eyes, he could make out a
strange horse. " Doctor Seagrim is there ; now I must
haste to hear the news."

Reining up at the Ranche door, and breathlessly
throwing the reins to Tom, who held the Doctor's horse,
he motioned to Tom to teU him the news.

Tom turned away, and a great tear rolled down his
cheek ; but making a step forward, with his huge hand
he clutched the hand of Woodhouse as if to dett*in him
from entering the Ranche.

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

117

" Tom, leave go ; I must see him."

Tom tried to speak, and with tears bui-sfcing from his
eyes, huskily muttered :

" Doc's just dead."

What a sight met his eyes as he opened the Ranche
door. The wood fire flame flickered, and crept coftly
about the great stone hearth. A bed was drawn almost
in front of it, and on the bed lay Brown Kirwan,
sunk deep in that dreamless sleep from which neither
human love nor hate shall awake him more. He was
fully dressed, and wrapped in his heavy great coat ;
and by his side stood Charles Kirwan, as though carved
in stone, and by Charles Kirwan stood the Doctor
Seagrim.

" He cannot be dead. Dr. Seagrim. It must be a
fainting fit."

" No, he is dead, Mr. Woodhouse," replied the
Doctor, touching the pulse through which the crimson
blood would pulsate never more.

Charley Kirwan felt an arm laid kindly upon his
own ; and through the still Ranche the words resounded,
" Let us pray."

And then three men were kneeling.

Gradually that statuesque look passed off Charley
Kiwan's face, and warm tears rolled from under his
closed eyelids. Until then he heeded not the wind
shrieking around the comers of the Ranche, crying
wildly for mercy. Mayhap a wilder tempest waa raging
in his own soul ; but blessed feet have walked upon

; i
II
II

118

GLEANINGS FROM

the waves of this troublesome life, and ever when rightly
sought does a diviner voice assuage life's tumult ; and
now as eighteen hundred years ago, when He saith
" Peace, be still," there is a great calm.

As they rose from their knees Dr. Seagrim spoke ; —
" We must lay him out, or he will be frozen in that
posture."

Gently and kindly were the last offices performed by
kind hearts, and rough hands, under the direction of
Woodhouse ; for Charley Kirwan had st<;i n away —
that sight he could not bear.

lu the Ranche, in a short hour, everything had
resumed its ordinary shape — excepting for that still
form lying under the white sheet upon the bed in the
comer. They could not put the corpse in the lean-to,
for no one could sleep in that cold place ; and un-
coffineu, it could not be left alone for fear vermin might
get near to it. Therefore thus they had decided.

Tom was busy getting ready the mid-day ro^ I— so
much later to-day ; and after dinner Dr. Seagrim v i^ to
be accompanied back to the Mission by Charley Kirw.'a,
who was going to buy a coffin* for his brother. He
was to return the next morning.

" I anticipate a frightful storm to-night, Charley,"
observed the Doctor, "we had better start immediately
or we shall be losing our way in the snow."

* In the States, coffins of all sizes are kept in stock at the
undertaker's.

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

119

rightly
; and
, saith

oke ; —
in that

aed by
jtion of
away —

ag had
lat still
I in the
lean-to,
tnd uu-
|n might

K'^l— so

Kirwr-i,
ler. He

Jharley,"
lediately

And soon after the hasty dinner, they started, leaving
Tom and Woodhouse alone in the Ranche. Hecker and
Lieboldt were out seeing to the cattle.

Tom had tidied the Banche, washed the dinner things,
put on the kettle for tea, heaped high the wood upon
the hearth, and gathered a great heap of logs into one
corner of the room, v^iiough for the next forty-eight
hours.

" We must have some symbol of Christianity near
the dead," thought Woodhouse, and so they made a
rough wooden cross, placed it upon a tub, and burnt a
lamp near it. They forgot the howl of the wind in
their occupation. Suddenly Tom jerked out : —

"Why, look at the snow coming in under the door."

They both hurried to the window, and looking out,
saw nothing but one great whirl of snow. The air rras
thick with it ; and they, fascinated, watched the wild

storm, as

'* Ever deepei>-deeper — deeper,
Fell the snow o'er all the landscape,
Fell the covering snow and drifted."

)ck at the

"Charley won't come to-morrow in that storm."

" Don't say so, Tom."

" You mark my word ; as sure as I'm called Tom, he
can't come. There'U be snow so deep, as perhaps us '11
have to dig our way out of the house."

"Tom!"

But Tom was right. There was such a storm that
night as few settlers on that prairie remembered.

;«■'
.1'.

CHAPTER XIV.

" All the land with snow is covered ;
All the leaves from all the branches
Fall and fade— and die and -witlieT"— Longfellow.

SNOWED UP.

MMITH their faces pressed against the window
[jB watching the drifting snow, whistling, eddying,
driven by the shrieking east wind against the
panes, the two inhabitants of the Banche saw day-light
fade, and night grow upon them. The room was full of
light from the wood fire and the lamp; and Fecker and
Lieboldt coming in half frozen, and looking like snow-
men, recalled them to the present. Shaking the snow
from them, and crouching near to the fire, the Ranche-
men waited for Tom to arrange their tea-table for them.
They spoke in whispers — ^as yet unused to that white-
robed object lying yonder on the bed. Hecker glanced
round and crossed himself as the wind, sweeping under
the door and round by the bed, shook the sheet placed
over the dead man^s body, and passed in little waves
underneath it.

" What an awful night, Mr. Woodhouse ; the snow
nigh blinded us coming up from the crick."

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 121

snow

" It am a fearfool night. If us wish to keep the
life in him we must stay by the fire all night. To
go to sleep means to be freeze to death.^'

" Nonsense."

" Nonsense you say. Who sleep in de lean-to ? —
he be freeze in less than two hour. Who sleep near
de roof ? — he be freeze too. No, no mein, sir, dat's no
nonsense. You not sleep— you lib. You go sleep dere,
you die. You keep near de fire, dat be the best
place.'*

And so the whole group huddled round the fire.
Meanwhile the wind seemed to grow more strong,
more boisterous outside, and successions of gusts coming
in through the cracks, and under the doors, absolutely
caused the sheet over the dead man's body fro shake
again and again, as it rippled in wavelets beneath.

" Whist," said the Irishman, " is Doc re«,lly dead ? "

" Yes ; " said Woodhouse, passing over to the bed,
and lifting up the sheet from the face of the corpse ;
and as they looked upon those still set features, illumi-
nated with that same kind smile he had in life, they
felt there could be nothing there to be afraid of; and
although they must be companions to a corpse through-
out the long hours of the night, God the Father of
the living and the dead was their father. ^' Dominus
regit me, nihil mihi deerit."

" Sharley won't come to-morrow, nor the next day ;
the drift will be terrible. I have known the drifts
to be thirty feet deep before this."

122

GLEANINGS FROM

The new comers to the prairie shuddered. In the
meanwhile, Tom had got tea or supper ready ; and the
warm coffee revived the spirits of the men, who, with
rugs and blankets, set about barricading, in a space
near the fire, inaccessible, as far as possible, to the
constant draughts. And well was it they did so ; for
many on the lone prairies were frozen to death, in
their beds, that terrible night.

And this was the Christmas Eve. To-morrow would
be the birthday of the Lord, which was to be kept
by these men — snowed up, with a corpse.

A strange Christmas for "Willie Woodhouse, who,
had Kirwan been by, would have had some one to
talk with — some one to console. But with these rough
Ranche-men, what could he do ?

The Christmas morning broke once again upon the
world. Slo»/ly did the grey light gleam upon the
prairie world, white with the driven snow ; and now
the men with spades dug a path out into the day, and
down to the creek, and hurried after their cattle, who
were sheltered under the trees in places built for them;
they had to be fed, although Brown Eirwan lay stiff
and cold in the Ranche, on the snow-white prairie.
The storm began again after a few hours' respite, and
then came the knowledge that no one would venture
from the Mission with a coffin that day ; and also that
none of them could assist at any Offices, at the Mission
Church, on Christmas Day.

Tom had been unwell, so he was about the Ranche

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

123

in the morning, and with energy was trying to learn
some Catechism when his work was done.

" Seven Gods, and three Sacraments."

" Eh ? No Tom, no. * Three persons in God, and
seven Sacraments ; " and in this style the wall of Tom's
ignorance was being broken down.

And then came the preparation for the Christmas
dinner. Roast quail, pork, aud chicken ; gently,
reverently, and with whispered conversation were the
preparations made. None forgot that silent white-
robed figure, and the rough wooden cross, with the light
burning before it. True, there were no bright flowers
to make wreaths to lay near the dead ; but they had
collected some slight branches of a tree, with long
thorns two inches in length, and with these they had
plaited a crown of thorns — a wreath if you will, and
it lay upon the breast of the corpse, the dark shade
contrasting strangely against the whiteness of the linen
sheet.

Almost in silence was the dinner eaten, and then
again began the watch, barricaded near the fire. And
so the Christmas Day died upon the Prairies.

mma

CHAPTER XV.

" Out of the bosom of the Air,

Out of the cloud folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare.
Over the harvest-fields forsaken.
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow."

" Even as our cloudy fancies take

Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make,

In the white countenance confession,

The troubled sky reveals

The grief it feels."

Longfellow.

THE SNOW-CLAD CEMETERY. — THE STATION.

ROWN KIRWAN lay in his coffin; Charley
had brought the coffin upon an ox waggon
to the Ranche the day before this chapter
opens. He was to be buried in one of the Northern
States, whither all the Kirwans were taken. The
brother Charley Kirwan loved so much was to be dis-
interred, and the two coffins were to be taken by train
those hundreds of miles to the Northern State by
Charley Kirwan himself, who was to start from the

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 125

Us-
lin

|by

Ihe

Mission in two days. Woodhouse was to stay at the
Ranche during his absence. All this had been arranged,
and men engaged to open the grave in the Prairie
Cemetery.

" Poor Charley ; you have grown very white, and
old-looking these days."

" I feel so, Willie ; I feel aged more than I can tell
you. I dread dis-interring that body to-morrow, and
I have to face my mother with the coffined remams of
the two sons she loved most of us all,"

" I can help you to-morrow, Charley ; I will super-
intend at the Cemetery for you."

" Oh, thank you so much, then I can go on to the
Mission, and make my arrangements at the Railway
Station concerning their removal — (pointing in the di-
rection of the iron case) — and the other coffin, when it
anives at the Mission, must be packed in acids and
ice in an outer case ; meanwhile I must send supplies
up here to last until my return."

" Oh, Charley, how I shall miss you ! " and for the
first time in all that sadness and trouble his calmness
deserted him.

" Don't you remember our text ? * Mine eyes are
ever toward the Lord ; for He shall pluck my feet
out of the net.' As long as we don't look aside from
Him, He will pluck our feet out of the net of trouble
and of absence; and whilst I go my sad journey, you
will have one equally as sad, riding from Ranche to
Ranche amongst sickness and death here."

]2(;

GLEANINGS FROM

" I had forgotten that, Charley."

" I have not forgotten it ; and I know your reward :
^ Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these
my brethren, ye did it unto Me.' "

" Unto Him. Well, how consoling it is, to think
that we can bank some of our good actions in the
Bank of God's charity."

"That is what Brown did. Poor Brown, God rest

his soul."

. « f ♦ • *

It is the early morning on the Prairies. An ox
waggon stands at Kirwan's Ranche. With muffled
steps and slow, men carry their sad burden from the
Ranche door and place it upon the waggon. A large
crimson and black, square pattern, travelling shawl is
thrown pall-wise across the coffin, and on it rests a
crown of thorns. How bright the crimson shows up
against the white back-ground of snow — snow, snow
everywhere. The men stand bare-headed in the in-
tensely cold air ; and Tom, with tears in his eyes,
murmurs " Good-bye, Doc. ; poor Doc."

Woodhouse, clad in a long coat and snow-shoes, and
muffled in furs, comes out and gets into the waggon
near the coffin. Meanwhile another waggon, drawn
by oxen, advances ; four men are riding in it— and
start first on their way to the Prairie Cemetery, followed
slowly by the second waggon. And thus began Brown
Kirwan's funeral procession.

(

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

127

Two waggons stand on the dnow-whitened Prairie,
waiting on a rising ground near to a railed-in enclosure,
whilst, with pick-axe and spade, four men are busily
employed opening a grave, closed not so very long
ago. One waggon, with sleek white oxen attached to
it, and covered with a crimson and black, pall-like
envelopement, we recognise as that which stood at
Kirwan's Ranche not long since. A muffled, dark
figure stands near, and his head is bowed over the
coffin upon the crimson covering.

What a picture for an Artist ! — that great stretch of
Prairie with the dim sky overhead, and the only thing
near (speaking of animation) being those four men,
throwing up the dark mould upon the pure snow, carry-
ing on in grim silence their gloomy work. How
bitterly cold it was the actions showed, as they stopped
every now and again to rub the exposed parts of their
bodies with snow.

What a cruel day. What a sad task.

But now from the gloomy bowels of the earth is
heaved up that clayey mass of substance mother earth
had claimed. Shut within the mortuary casket, it is
dragged to the surface, and reverently placed upon the
empty waggon ; earth clinging to the coffin lid as
its only pall. But no :

'' Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow,"

making the earth-bedrabbled coffin-lid pure and clean
as the Prairie men hoped his spirit then was.

128

GLEANINGS FROM

And once more over that silent Prairie the doubly
Bad procession winds towards the Mission. At a great
distance in front was the cofHn just taken from the
ground.

The worst was over now, there was only the cold
and piercing wind to bear ; and that must be borne,
for walking in the snow was impossible, although the
road taken was a higher one, from which the snow of
some days past had been blown away by the high
wind, so that it was just possible for waggons to travel
along. And nearing the Mission, curious Hanchers
peered from their doors to see anything so unusual
pass. Some would say, " Poor Doc Kirwan " ; ^ers
would murmur a prayer, or cross themselves ; and
towards the evening, frozen almost to stupidity, the
assistants and drivers of the waggons arrived at the
Station near the Mission.

A group of people stood on the rough wooden plat-
form, amongst them Charley Kirwan. One coffin was
to be " anchored on the prairie " in the waggon until
the outer casket could come, and the chemicals and
ice were brought down to pack it in. Doc. Kirwan's
friends at the Mission canied his body into the left
luggage office, where it was to remain until the
morning.

A gentleman Rancher at the Station, seeing the ex-
hausted condition of Woodhouse, prevailed on him to
accept some of the contents of his flask, and invited
him to visit him at his Ranche, near Walnut Creek.

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

129

"I am a Methodist," he said at parting, " but I can
appreciate the true Catholicity of your conduct to-day.
You will visit me, won't you, at my Ranche ? "

" If I can be of any use to you I will come.'*

" If I can be of any use," quoted the stranger ;
" and if I send to you, being seized by the epidemic,
will you come to me ? '*

" I will."

" At day or night ? "

"At day or night."

He was smiling, yet with tears in his eyes, as he bade
his new friend Good-bye ; and Mr. MacAntham said at
parting, " It is a bargain you come, and I shall call
you 'little Priest.'"

"Why? I am not that."

" No, but you have a truly apostolic soul — keep it
always Christ-like."

in's
lleft
the

^W^

ex-

kted

3ek.

CHAPTER XVI.

" Complain not that the way be long—what Head is weary
that leadd there ?
But let the Angel take thine hand and lead thee up the

misty stair,
And then with beating heart await, the o])eniiig of the
golden gate."

Proctor.

THE deacon's boy.

EAOON WRANTON sat by his fireside; liis
head bowed upon his hands, and a great
sorrow pressing upon his heart. The heart
of Deacon Wranton was breaking, and thus in anguish
and silence, disturbed only by his ejaculatory prayers,
did he tell out his suffering to God. The Deacon's
Ranche was hard by the Cemetery, from which in the
morning the body of Henry Kirwan had been remove i ;
in fact, the Cemetery touched upon the extremity of
the Deacon's farm.

Deacon Wranton had been a successful settler (ono
of the few), who had gathered together a nice home
and surroundings a'>out him. His wife was bright

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 131

and thrifty, also his eldest son Albert the pride of the
neighbouring Ranches for his innate cleverness, gen-
tility, and handsome looks. Perhaps in his heart of
hearts the Deacon worshipped this bright youth, grow-
ing up to manhood under his eyes ; and hearing his
praises for goodness, kindliness and gentleness sung on
all sides by his neighbours he might be surely
pardoned.

The Deacon's heart was breakinsr because the
fell epidemic was there — there^ in his house. Tlie
comeliest of all his children lay low on the bed of
illness, and the Doctor pronounced it spi no-meningitis.

At the firat Penny Reading on the Prairies a meet-
ing was organised for nuraing the sick : it was started
for the young men of the neighbourhood by Woodhouse,
who himself was at the head of it. Indefatigably
had Albert laboured to keep Hie energy of his comrades
un-impaired in this good work, whilst he himself stayed
up with the sick two nights a week. Albert and
Woodhouse were to be seen everywhere amongst the
sick, and near them, following on their footsteps in
the work was Miss Dempsey, exerting all that gentle
earnestness of hers to keep the women up to their
standard of day-nursing.

" Oh, my son, my son," murmured the Deacon, " my
son, my Mon ; would God that I could die for thee,"
and in the flickering fire-light one saw great bead-like
drops raining from his eyes — falling diamond-like be-
tween the fingers of the hand covering his face.

132

GLEANINGS FROM

" Deacon, Deacon, some more cabbages are wanted,"
called his wife from the other room.

" I will go, I will go."

And out into the cold started the Deacon to fetch
the cabbages from the out-house.

"Deacon, Deacon, place these on his back, we want
some help," were the words the Deacon was saluted
with on re-entering the Ranche.

" All right, my wife ; this illness is the Lord's doing,
and is marvellous in our eyes."

The Deacon tried to speak cheerily, but his voice
was tear-stained; it trembled, it quavered, it touched
such a chord in that wife's heart, that she leant her
head against that broad shoulder, and her smothered
heart-sobs found vent in tears.

" Hush, he will hear ; he is not asleep."

" Oh, my boy, my beautiful boy to go down to his
grave so."

Taking her two hands, clasping them in his, and
looking deep down into those tearful eyes and into
that sorrowful heart, he whispered, " I can do all things,
through Him who comforteth me — who comforteth
me in striking my first-loved son — I can do all things,
we can do all things, we can bear this."

And those two trusting hearts knelt and asked courage
of God.

"Father, bring niP the leaves now if you can.'*

" I am coming Albert ; " and going to the bed-side
in the next room he took off the leaves from the poor

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

133

blistered spine, and placed other warm ones there— other
boiled cabbage leaves. When that operation was finished
— and excruciating agony it brought to Albert as each
one was separately removed, and i/uit somewhat clumsily
by those untrained attendants — almost fainting the boy
asked his father to let Mr. Woodhouse know of his
illness.

The Deacon's brow was puckered with care, for he
afiected not the Mission and a set form of Cathol'c
Religion. He hardly ever entered the little town ex-
cepting for groceries, or other business, either to buy
or sell; but it grieved the Deacon's heart to see the
first establishment for many miles round, that of the
Catholic Faith. With a secret joy the Deacon watched
growing up in the Mission an Episcopal Church (Anglican)
and a Methodist Conventicle. With a peculiar energy ho
started each Sunday twice to the prayer meetings held
in the boarded building of the Conventicle upon the
Prairies near to Fort Scott. How fervently he prayed
for the spread of his faith; yet now his son asked for
this stranger to nurse him.

During this while the boy's dark brown eyes were
fixed upon his father's face.

" Why do you wish this Albert ? Do you want him
to come and see you ? "

" I wish him to know ; he may be nursing others,
but he will come to me in my turn, he promised mo
should I be ill to do so.'*

The Deacon sighed a great sigh, and bowed his head ;

134

GLEANINGS FROM

and then Miss Dempsey entering, Albert asked her to
let Mr. Woodhouse know.

" I will do 80, Albert, to-morrow ; to-day he is at the
Mission. I saw him go with Doc Kinvan's coffin."

" And soon he will stand by Albert Wmnton's," replied
the boy.

" Oh, Albert, don't mistrust God in this way."

" I don't mistrust Him, Miss Dempsey, but I feel I
must pack up my trunks for a long journey from this
world to the next."

" Are you frightened to go that journey ? "

" I don't think so. I have thought a great deal whilst
I was nursing the sick in their rough homes these last
nights. I have asked God to forgive me all my faults.
I feel in this illness as I did those dark nights on the
prairies. I am walking or riding home through the
darkness to God my Father. Tired out as I was I
always was glad to get back to father and home.
Pained out as I am now, with little chance of recuper-
ating, I shall be glad to go home to *My Lord, and
my God;'" and then he moaned, "My Lord and my
God," and a minute after was delirious, speaking of
his turkeys, and wandering away to the woodlands
adjoining the creek, where he had been catching cardinal
birds only the other day.

"Poor Bertie," softly came from the lips of Miss
Dempsey, as she laid her cool hand on the boy's burning
brow.

The Deacon and his wife were kneeling round that

mmmism

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

135

sick bed praying ; " Aye, great is thy faith ; if God wills,
be it done unto thee according to thy word."

• « • «

Some evenings later, in the bright moonlight, over

the snowy Prairie rode a muffled figure towards the
Ranche of Wranton. Arrived there he sought an empty
place in the stable, and attended to his horse, feeding
it and taking off the saddle, and then he walked to the
little wooden piazza outside the kitchen. Knocking at
the door, no voice bade him enter: but entering he saw
a figui*e near the fire plunged deep in reverie. It was
Deacon Wranton.

"Good evening. Deacon."

" Aye ; the Lord be with thee. Who art thou ? "

"A friend of Albert's."

" Ah," coldly observed the Deacon, " his Mission friend,
of whom he is always talking in his wanderings. Come
though, and see if you can do anything to nurse our
invalid."

Taking off his coat and wraps he followed the Deacon
to the adjoining room.

There lay Albert Wranton, that always spiritual face
of his, more spiritual now, as the disease had touched it
with a look so refined, so Ghirlandaijo-like that one
could imagine it a figure stepped into life from the
canvas of that great master.

Scarcely eighteen winters had swept their snow over
his snowy brow, and now in his gentleness and purity
the Great Sweet Voice was calling to him — " Come up

136

GLEANINGS FROM

higher." He lay with the light shining on his face, and
that usual complement of illness, the friends of the family
gazing at him.

He was wandering now in that senii-conecious state,
sure token of long illness. He was quoting something
he had heard from the Indians. " I heard the voice of
the Great Spirit in the cry of the Red-bird. I sought
him in the rustling of the leaves upon the trees. I
found him in the laughing of the waters. I searched
for him in man." And then came a pause, "Ah, my
turkeys. I know them — ^two, four, six, eight, twenty.
I know my turkeys. I shall sell them. Yes, I think
so." And then, " I wonder if Mr. Woodhouse will come,
or Charley Kirwan ? "

The new-comer made his way softly to the bed-side,
and laid his hand in Albert's. " Albert, do you know
meV*

With a bright conscious look he woke up : "Oh,
Mr. Woodhouse, yes ; I am so glad you have come —
don't leave me now."

And so he was installed nurse off and on at the

Deacon's.

• • » . »

After seventy-five days !

Woodhouse had stayed a day or so at the Wrantons',
as often as he was able to leave the other sick people
in the district. Albert always wished for Baptism, but
the Deacon disapproved of his receiving this Sacrament,
and would never allow any of the Nursing Association

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

137

to have water near them, for fear his son should be
baptized unbeknown to hira.

Albert was near his end, and )n this day beofged so
hard for them to open to him the Gates of Life, that
"Woodhouse complied. Albert said a Squaw brought her
baby five hundred miles for Baptism, and God says —
* Except ye be baptized of water and the Holy Ghost,
ye cannot enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.' " I
want to enter ; do baptize me. God will not call me
until you do, and I want to go." One of those stand-
ing by brought some water in a large silver spoon, and
in a few moments Albert was numbered ^vith the great
army of the baptized, and according to the teaching of
the Catholic Church, as the water fell upon his brow
and the solemn words were uttered, his original, venial
and mortal sins were washed away.

On the eightieth day Albert died. His kind actions
and pure life were as a light in a dark night to many,
leading them to better things.

Deacon Wranton's joy in life passed away with the
spirit of his boy, who from the great Indian legends
and practical Indian fidelity to Christianity had himself
learnt more of that Highest Good, that " Sumraura
Bonum,'* God, than he had learned from the whites.

Miss Dempsey wrote the news to Woodhouse in these
words : — " Schools are out, and I stopped a few moments
to write this. Orange Wranton just came to tell me
that ^Albert is dead!' Poor boy, poor boy! God
grant him happiness — ^he suffered so much. I hope his

138 GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES.

suflferinga are over. Death is so terrible. This goinj^
out into the darkness with only hope. And yet let us
try ever so hard, we * know not whether we meet love
or hatred' on the other shore. It is no wonder so
many poor creatures despair."

CHAPTER XVIT.

Not in entire forgetful ness,

Nor yet in utter nakedness,

But trftiling clouds of glory do we come,

From God, who is our home. — Wordxtvorth.

AT THE MISSION HOUSE. — DEATHS FROM FREEZING.

HARLEY KIRWAN was waiting for his
friend, and seeing how worn out he was from
excitement and exposure to the cold, took
him down to the Mission. So numbed though were his
legs with cold from riding in the waggon, that it was
with difficulty he could walk along at all.

" Come to the Hotel for supper, and then we can
go on to the Mission."

But they met the old Superior looking for them ; his
kind heart told him they were worn out with fatigue,
and the quiet of the Mis.^ion House would be more akin
to them than the noisy Hotel in the little town. And
then he informed them of the numerous deaths from
freezing. Two young Ranchers on the Creek weie found
frozen dead in their beds. A waggon was discovered on

140

GLEANINGS FROM

the borders of Missouri and Kansas with thirteen people
" on board " lying under a tarpaulin dead. The driver
frozen also, and, when discovered, holding in his hands
the reins of his frozen team. And it was not only
in one quarter, but reports of like accidents were coming
in to the Mission from every quarter.

" And how did you escape ? "

"We stayed up all night: made enormous fires, and
barricaded ourselves against draughts with blankets and
rugs."

" Well done, well done ! You begin to know some-
thing of our prairie life now."

"But it was terrible during the storm. The wind
blew under the sheet covering poor Brown's body and
shivered over his corpse, so much so that I had to lift
the sheet from his face to show the Ranche men that
he was not still living. I had to uncover the corpse
and let them see him before they believed me ; but when
they stood round the bed, and had the evidence of their
own senses, all their foolish and superstitious fears
vanished."

" Were you frightened of your Christmas Eve ? "

" No ; but it would have been pleasanter for me with
Charley to talk to, but of course one can't regret doing
one's duty."

"Well, it is the time of 'the Haustus,'* come to the
Refectory, and have some warm coffee, or something

♦ " Haustus," a slight refreshment served at four o'clock (consisting
in this case of coffee and bread) in the Houses of " the Society."

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

141

more substantial if you wish ; aud for you my young
friend, I recommend warmth and sleep after your re-
freshment."

Although in these days of non-hero worship, when the
height of refinement externally is to regard everything
with the complacence of a tame tortoise, whatever one
may feel or think internally, yet one cannot help ad-
miring that rugged old Superior who had given the
best days of his life to e cp" ^ he believed so thoroughly
in. He was one amongst men, who in those dark days
that befell his country, had saved his crown of spiritual
manhood; escaping from black materialism, and revolu-
tionary' deluges, with God, freedom of conscience, and
immortality of nobleness still his. A king amongst men.
A man who claimed no country now but that "Father-
land above." A man who refused himself even the
pleasure of speaking the language of his own country
out of self-denial, and spoke only the language of his
adopted country, and his dear Indians. All honour
be to men of this stamp, for they are scattered few
and far between in the furrows of life.

"You leave to-morrow, Charley, I presume?"
"Yes, by an early train, I start with the two coffins.
Woodhouse goes with me to the creek, the train stops
there, and he will go back to the Ranche and his sick
people."
"I almost wonder he did not go with you."
" He preferred remaining behind until the epidemic
ceases. I shall find him here on my return ; and you

■taMMa

142

GLEANINGS FROM

\ I

know my theory, that a dose of Prairie life improves all
Europeans. I for one think he will be better for the
sadness, misery and deatli he has been amongst here."

" I don't gainsay it, Charley, but I will look after him
during your absence. I don't think he will be lonely ;
he gets on with the Prairie people very well."
• • o •

In the early morning, in the train the two friends
separated, one to plod over the waste of snow to the
Ranche, the other to face a father and mother with
his sad burden.

Yet it is only one page in the great history of humanity.

Wearied almost to death, and nearly losing himself
in the cross country journey to Kirwan's Ranche, walk-
ing sometimes for twenty feet or so up to his knees in
snow on the skirt of the great drifts, Woodhouae at
last arrived at the Ranche. Tom had been out winter
fishing on the creek, and a plei iiful supply of fish awaited
them for dinner.

In the courae of the afternoon a strange pain struck
Woodhouse in the chest ; thinking it only cold, or some
little inflammation, he put on a mustard plaster, and lay
down on the bed, and fell into a deep dreamless sleep,
until Tom awoke him for supper. Supper without
Charley Kirwan seemed dull and listless. Everybody was
too tired out to clear away the debris, the men were
half dozing over their pipes, when an unusual occurrence
at the Ranche — a knock sounded at the door.

Tom opened it. A young fellow whose coat was

WESTERN PRAUUES.

143

covered with snow entered, asking if it was Kirwan's
Ranche.

" Yes, my friend ; what do you want ? Charley
Kirwau's gone North to bury his two brothers ; went by
train to-day. Yer can't see him."

" I don't want him. I want his guest. I come from
Mr. MacAntham's ; he has the epidemic very badly, and
is dying, and he raves for Mr. Woodhouse to go and
nurse him."

"Then he shan't go," says Tom.

*' He must go^'' observed the stranger. " He gave his
word to MacAntham at the station. MacAntham asked
him, *If I send to you, being taken by the epidemic,
will you come to me ? ' And then he says, * I will.'
MacAntham says, * By day or night.' Then he replied,
*By day or by night.' It's night now, sure enough,
and a snowy night too, and I've come for him."

" Then," replies Tom, " He shan't go ; he can't ride ;
he ain't well ; he can't walk that distance."

"No, nor I over the Prairie, but if we make for the
line, we can walk along that, the snow is less deep
there."

" He shan't go," says Tom again, " he shan't go. He's
cum now, and we won't let him out."

" Wall, I guess MacAntham's dying, and the Minister's
there and a crowd of folks praying ; but MacAntham
raves only for Mr. Woodhouse," and looking towards
him the stranger says, " You'll come, eh friend ? "

"Yes, I'll come," but it was a shuddering sound, a

144 GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES.

dread of that long snowy walk — a "Yes, I'll come,"
tired by recent excitement and death.

"You can't ride, snows too deep, you must go as
I go."

"Tom, give him something to eat, he has walked
nigh six miles."

" I can't wait to eat now, friend ; when we get there
will do."

And so equipped in Tom's long knee boots, which he
insisted on Woodhouse wearing, and wrapped in a long
coat and scarf, out into the snowy night passed the two
strangers to each other, to toil once again over that
tiring snow, through the long hours until they reached
MacAntham's Ranche.

CHAPTER XVIII.

" Kind hearts are here ; yet would the tenderest one

Have limits to its mercy : God has none.

And man's forgiveness may be true and sweet,

But yet he stoops to give it. More complete

Is love that lays forgiveness at thy feet,

And pleads with thee to raise it. Only Heaven

Means croi&ned, not vanquighiil, when it says

F org i ven . " — Proctor.

THE FREEMASON'S DEATH AND BURIAL.

IVE me your hand, mister. Fm Tom Sheehy,
one on 'em whose adopted the nursing our
^^ sick Ranchers at nights. Albert Wranton
taught me what you said about it, how by nursing them
we was nursing Christ ; and he s^^z, as how you sez,
that's what that text means, ' Inasmuch as ye did it to
one of the least of these my Brethren ye did it unto
Me.' Well, I didn't walk all this way for MacAntham
particularly ; I walked here for Christ, cos if he was on
earth I'm sure I shouldn't stop to hum (at home) if he
sent me on a message."

"Yes, Christ indeed sayS; *I was sick and ye visited
me.' That must console us, Tom Sheehy, for our long

146

GLEANINGS FROM

tiring walk over the snow to-night : if we think every
step we take is a step for Christ — and certainly we want
some hope to guide us over this snowy waste."

"Now don't you fear, mister. I know every foot of
the Prairie round here. I must own it's really dreadful
for a stranger — the darkness, and the deep snow, and
these flakes that fall every now and again. It's lone-
some like to strangers, this great silence on the broad
prairie, but then, as poor Albert used to say, * It's for
Christ.' "

" Did you know Albert long ? "

" Yes, we were great friends, Albert and me. He was
one of those who could snare a red-bird with any one,
or hunt the fish well too, and Albert, after all, was
somewhat of a scholard."

" So Miss Dempsey said."

There was silence now for a little while between the
travellers. Tom was peering into the darkness, but his
strong hand grasped the one in his, to give his companion
confidence.

" Are we far off MacAntham's Ranche, Tom ?"

" "We ain't near it yet. The wind blows cold though,
don't it ? and the snow's deep here. A fierce night for
the spirit to go out of the body, eh ? Oh, mister, / am
sorry MacAntham's dying."

" How long has he been ill ?"

" I dunnow. They was all struck about the same
time like — first his wife and grandchild, then him,
and now they all lies sick together, the little grandcliild

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

147

ery
ant

: of
dful
and
Lone-
road
1 for

J was
' one,
. waa

the
it his
)anion

[ough,
it for
/ am

same

him,

Icliild

in 0110 room, MacAntham in another, and the wife
upstaii's. Share it would be dreadful expenses for him,
only his son-in-law is a doctor. Them MacAnthams'
rich people like for the Prairies — and Mr. MacAntham's
head of them Freemasons round here. I heerd tell as
if he died there 'ud be grand doings, for all them
Masons for a hundred miles round would be coming
out to bury him. There now, never you mind that
snow — shure, but it drifts a bit in your eyes, and the
sleepers be slippery like ; but we're agoin' to 'tend
Christ, mister ; don't you see MacAntham — see Christ,
and the way won't be a dreary."

" How far are we from the Ranche now, Tom ? "

" A mile and a half, may be ; bear up, Mister, the
way's roughish, but every step yer takes counts in God's
book, 'cos its for His sick."

How Woodhouse crawled over that last mile and a
half he never knew ; the cowman's hard boots he
walked in, wet through as they were, chafed his feet
at e ery step, until the agony became almost uu-
endura »le ; the snow drifting into his eyes, and the
intense cold, seemed little in comparison to this.

*' There, now ; there ! " cried Tom joyfully, " there is
the light in his kitchen, we'll soon be up to it, and
I told them to get dry stockings for you, and summat
to eat ; and a good fire will prepare you for that sad
work you've got to do — get a man's soul ready to see
God. Oh, me ; Oh, me ; it's little time you've got to
do your work in : he'll die by the morning light."

148

GLEANINGS FROM

" Why did he send for me, Tom Sheehy ? Why
didn't he send for one of the Priests f i'om the Mission ?"

"Why, 'cos he said as how he was struck with a
young 'un like you a taking down of Doc. Kirwan's
coffin to the Mission."

"Well, that's a very simple procedure."

" He didn't think so ; he sez you as come for en-
joying yourself a spending nights with they sick ; you
as come out a gentleman, a waiting about that freezing
day in the Cemetery, 'that's the man for me,' sez he,
* he'll tell me something more about God than I know.' '*

" Tom Sheehy, he was looking to the man instead
of to Christ. The Holy Ghost only can infuse love
into his nature ; the Holy Ghost only can teach him
how to enter into the fold of the Church."

" I 'spose yer right, but it's strange these m6n a
sending off for you when they're a dying. Will he get
in the Church?"

" I believe so, for wherever the love of God is, is
Jesus Christ ; wherever Jesus Christ is, the Church is
with Him ; and if it is true that every Christian is
obliged to unite himself to the tody of the Church as
soon as he knows of Her existence, it is certain also
that invincible ignorance withdraws him from this law,
leaving him under the immediate government of Jesus
Christ, the first and sovereign Father of all Christianity."

" Then, there's hope for MacAntham ? "

" Hope ! yes, Tom Sheehy, no human eye can
embrace the extent of Holy Church, and those who

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

149

m r
h a
van's

r en-
you
ieziug
3Z he,
low.' "
nstead
B love

him

i6ii a
le get

is, is
bch is
\tian is

rch as
in also

ts law,
Jesus

Canity."

re can
3e who

would place certain barriers, which in their eyes appear
valid, have no idea of that double radiation of Her
nature."

"God be thanked. Through this wicket now. Sir,
and we are at the door."

♦ ♦ * « ♦

Out from the cold, the deep snow, the silence and
the .wintry night, into the warm kitchen, and the
kind though hushed welcome.

Miss MacAntham and her two brothers were waiting
in the doorway, as soon as they heard the gate clicking.
"The sick man was so anxious," they said, "about
the long walk he had given Mr. Woodhouse." Warm
woollen stockings were airing at the fire, and hot
coffee and supper waiting for them. He would rather
go to Mr. MacAntham at once.

" No," replied the Doctor, " he will live until the
morning, and I can't have you ill here, which you
certainly will be, unless you take something to keep
you up after the fatigue of a long snowy walk."

Getting rid of those hard boots, enjoying a footbath
and putting on warm thick stockings in the Ranche
kitchen was short work, but luxury itself after that
long walk over the Prairies.

The young Doctor, the son-in-law of MacAntham,
was a fine-built fellow, with fair complexion, regular
features, and light hair; his clothes were in the
last New York fashion, and he had with him a gentle
winning way. He was but cight-aud-twenty, he had

150

GLEANINGS FROM

recently lost his wife, and his little daughter was very
near death's door in the house ; also her grandmother
and grLudfather-in-law. He (the Doctor) had but
lately left New York to make a practice for himself
out West, and he arrived at home in time to attend
upon his own parents, who were both at death's door.
He was a Catholic, and one (Jf the Fathers from the
Mission had but yesterday baptized his little girl. Of
the other people in the house, there were two sisters,
two brothers, and the father and mother.

This much the Doctor told Woodhouse as he sat by
him, whilst he partook hastily of some refreshment,
and then telling him of the illness of his father-in-law,
he added, " It must, end fatally ; I can see no hope
myself, and I am distressed beyond measure, as I am
afraid of the shock to the system of my mother his
death will cause. I wanted to have him make his
peace with God yesterday, when the Father was here,
but he refused. Now, I will take you to him, and then
I must go back to the bed-side of my mother."
Thus saying, he opened a door leading from the kitchen
to a sitting-room. Congregated together in this room
were six or seven men and women, friends of the sick
persons, sitting around the French stove which stood
far out into the room ; these, as usual, had gathered
there directly the first news of the sickness reached
them. Amongst them was a Dissenting Minister, a
man about forty, who, directly he perceived two
Catholics passing through the room, opened a very

very
itber
but
nself
itend
door.
L the
Of
isters,

lat by ,
iment,
in-law,
) hope
I am
er bis
e bia
here,
then
itber."
itchen
room
e sick
stood
tbered
ached
ter, a
two
very

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

151

large family Bible, and read aloud, in a stentorian
voice, chapter after chapter. In bed, in one corner
of the room, lay Rosie Lister, a sweet child of seven
years, with long, streaming, golden curls of the colour
of her father's hair, falling around her dear little face.
They talked for a few minutes with -ler, and then
opening a door off one 'side of the room they entered
the sick man's bedroom. There lay Mr. MacAntham
in the simply furnished room, his white face and long
shaggy locks contrasting strangely with the snowy
linen around him. His breathing was oppressed, but
a glad light shone in his eyes as they fell upon his
young friend, whom he had only seen once before at
the Osage Station, under such peculiar circumstances.
< The Doctor leant over the dying man, listened to his
breathing, felt his pulse, examined his tongue, gave him
a spoonful of some jelly-like substance, and then, as he
finished the examination, led Woodhouse to the next room
and whispered in his ear, "The congestion has passed,
he will die in the early morning ; what you have to say
to him, say quickly. I must go and prepare my mother
for the end." Returning to the room, sitting there in
the shaded light he recognised Miss Dempsey. As she
left the room, she motioned to him and whispered, " If
you want anything, or he requires any nursing, I shall
be in the next room."

And then he was alone with the dying man.

"I am dying, sir," MacAntham gasped, "dying I I feel
it, I know it, and I want you to explain to me all the

152

GLEANINGS FROM

belief of the Catholic Church." He put out his hand
and grasped that of Woodhouse. " I made you promise
if I was seized with the epidemic that you would come
to me, and I see you have kept your word : * At day
or night.' Oh, I remember it so well, — the Station, the
one offensive smelling coffin anchored for the time on
the Prairie, and the body of Doctor Kirwan we caiTied
so solemnly into the left luggage office at the Station.
But now the hours are short, teach me the religion that
made you go through this."

And thus in the dim midnight, amidst the gaspings
of that dying man, the great and solemn truths of the
Catholic Faith were explained, and consoled one more
heart panting after that truth, ever ancient, ever new.
And in the stillness both teacher and taught felt that
in their midst stood One who nearly nineteen hundred
years ago promised to send the Comforter into the world
to guide it into aU truth.

And the Comforter was thei*e that night, and a solemn
awe fell upon their souls.

" Miss Dempsey," — ^he had to call twice, or thrice, for
the good Minister was reading and praying aloud in that
stentorian voice of his — "Miss Dempsey, will you bring
me some pure water in a basin, and a witness also ? "

A few minutes elapsed and she brought some pure
water into the sick room, and with her came Mr. Clay
from a Ranohe hard by, who was waiting in the sitting
room to do what he could for his friend. As they entered,
they heard the sick man gasping, "And must I resign
all secret societies, even the Freemasons."

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

153

" I am sorry to say Yes, for I think that prioves
you ; but the Catholic Church forbids her children
belonginof to any secret Society whatsoever."

" Then I resign them all, for I must be baptiiied of
water and the Holy Ghost ; I only desire to obey my
God and enter into the kingdom he has promised."

And then those simple words broke the silence of the
sick room as the baptismal stream flowed over another
brow. " John, I baptize thee, in the Name of the Father,
and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.''

And a gladder light grew in MacAntham's eyes, and
a more peaceful look spread over the wan face. He
pressed the hand still wet with the baptismal water, and
whispered, " Joy in the presence of God over one sinner
doing penance."

The Doctor came to see if Mrs. MacAntham could
come and visit his father, to bid her last eaithly farewell.
Ill as she was, she could not heai the thought of parting
from her husband, or that he should die without her
being by to nurse that dear head. Just risen from her
sick bed, muffled up in wrappers, and supported by her
son and her two daughter, she came and stood by that
dying bed. The grey light of the early dawn was vainly
struggling to penetrate the inky darkness. There was
no violent disturbed grief, but that silence deeper than
words, and great tears falling from the wife's eyes, " Hast
thou found Him, husband. Is He precious ? "

"Doubly so until the day break, and the shadows

flee away.

?3r

And then husband and wife were left alone to bid

their last farewell. Later they were all stand inp^ in the

sick room, the family and the guests, and the Minister

was praying softly, for he saw the soul was about to break

away from the captivity of the body. The eyes of the

dying man wandered over those loved faces he was leaving,

and a great light of love and thankfulness beamed from

those eyes, as they lit for a moment upon the Minister's

face, who in a soft tenor sang with exquisite pathos :

"The city paved with gold,

Bright with each dazzling gem,
Swift shall thine r- behold
The new Jerusalem.
Yea lo 1 e'en now in viewless might,
Uprise the walls of living light."

But John MacAntham heard not the last words ; he was

within the city. The earthly morning had dawned for

those around his death-bed ; but a newer and gladder

day had broken for him, never to be followed by

night, or darkened by eartlily sorrow.

« « * *

Some hours later the Doctor and Woodhouse were
talking in the sitting-room, preparatory to hiii' returu-
ing to Kirwan's Ranche.

"Is he to be buried according to the Rites of the
Catholic Church?"

" I don't think I should urge that, Doctor ; what
does it harm his soul ? freshly baptized, and joying
in God. Let them bury him as they will."

" I suppose the Minister will perform the Rite — it is
my mother's wish."

WESTERN PRMIUES,

ir.5

" And it mipht do her harm to gainsay it."
" 1 am *o glad you agroo with me in tliis."
Three days after, nearly one hnndred Freeniasona
followed the Master of their Lodge to his burial upon
the vast Prairie, in a new Cemetery, several miles
distant from where young Kirwan had been buried.
The Master of the Lodge, after prayer, deposited iu
the grave the lambskin or white apron, the emblem
of innocence and the badge of a Mason, and then
the Brethren moving in procession round the grave,
severally dropped into it a sprig of evei-green, typical
of Immortality, after which public gmnd honoura were
given. Both arms were crossed on the breast, the
left uppermost, and the open palms of the hands strik-
ing the shoulders ; they were then raised above the
head, the palms striking each other, and made to fall
sharply on the thighs with the head bowed. This was
repeated three times. Whilst the honours were being
given the third time, the Brethren audibly pronounced
the following words, when the arms were crossed on
the breast, " We cherish his memory here ; " when
the hands were extended over the head, " We commend
his spirit to God who gave it ; " and when the hands
were extended towards the ground, " And consign his
body to the earth." The Master conducting the Office
finished in these words, " Let us improve this solenm
warning, that at last when the sheeted dead are stirring,
when the great white throne is set, we shall receive
from the Omniscient Judge tlie thrilling invitation,

16G GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PliAIIilES.

'Come ye blessed, inherit the kingdom prepared for
you from the foundation of the World.' " Then followed
a hymn, the last verae of which ran thus :

** Thou art gone to the grave ; but t'were wrong to deplore thee,
When God was thy trust, nnti thy guardian and guide ;
He gave tliee, lie took thee, and soon wil) restore thee
In the blest Lodge above where the faithful abide."

Then followed a prayer, to which all responded — " So
mote it be,"

^-it.-^^S'^^^'"S

-^\-/*^^ ^« ,^Tr^:r*^^>

CHAPTER XIX.

"I see, but cannot reach, the height.
That lies for ever in the li^lit;
An<l yet for ever and for ever,
When seenjing just within my grasp,
I feel my feeble hands unchisp,
And sink discouraged into night;
For thine own purpose, thou hast sent
The strife, and the discouragement," — LomjfcUorw

TOM AT THE MISSION.

OM and "Woodhouse were throvvn toj^ether a
great deal during tliis time at the Rancho.
Tom taught him all he knew of coons and
coon hunting ; all he knew about wild animals and
their ways ; how to swim over the dangerous parts of
the creeks on horse back, and the hundred and one ins
and outs of Prairie life. All these things were entered
into with keen zest. Tom with his Prairie life and
thoughts was a great study. One day after cleaning up-
the Ranche he said, "Now look ye here, I'm going off to
school at nine o'clock, and I wants yer to cut my hair."
His auditor's eyebrows went high up on to his forehead
after the delivery of this strange request. "Now I sita

loH

GLEANINGS FROM

hero, there's the scissors " (snibbers Tom called them),
"you cuts away, aud then them gals and boys wou't
lau<(h at me so."

"All ri<i[ht, Tom," aud with a broad grin on his face
Woodhouse set to work at this hitherto unwonted task.

" I tell yer what," said Tom, when it was done, " I
calls yer broke in now. When you comed I said yer
weren't broke in ; yer had none of our education, yer
was ignorant, though Charley said yer knowed a lot
about Ropean life " (European, Tom meant), looking
up at him with pride Tom thought him an apt pupil.
" I teached yer to like it. When I were ill yer teached
me some caterchism ; now I wants yer to go on with it
and to teach me some more ; I tries to be good yer knows,
and though I never gets it right about the pursons in
God, I loves him. I allers sez seven pursons and three
Sacraments, or three pursons and seven Sacraments ;
numbers puzzles me, and yet I loves God's son."

" I've been a good bit away, Tom, but I want to know,
do you say your prayers I'egrlarly ? "

"Not in that loft," said he, pointing with his finger
towards the ladder, " not there ; sometimes though on a
load of hay, with the fresh air and sunshine around me,
I tell all in my heart to God. Aud when I see they
cattle moving round, or the corn coming green out of
the ground, I sez to myself, ' Tom, some one made 'em.'
Charley showed mc his watch, I see the springs, the
wheels, and the hands, and I sez, ' Who made him ? ' 'A
watchmaker in Geeva* (Geneva), Charley says, so when

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

ir)9

c:er
a

[lie,
ley
of

I sees all these things — that ere com, them cattle, myself
a moviu and growing and spriugin about — 1 sez, *Who
made 'em, Tom ? Who made 'em ? ' and then I answers,
'some one.' Well, it's that some one I prays to."
" How long is it since you did this, Tom ? "
" One summer evening at Groghan's, I see Missis
Groghan crush up a beetle with her shoe. I had been a
watching of that beetle — the knowingest cunningest way
he had of getting food home to his house. Thinks I to
myself, man's mighty clever ; man can do a' most any-
thing, but he can't make a beetle ; all that cunning little
life in him man can't put there. Mrs. Groghan crushed
that beetle up, but Mr. Groghan couldn't put it togetlier
again. Mr. Groghan could do a' most any'^hing, but not
that. That set me a thinking, and so I prayed to the
Spirit that made the beetle. That may be is God ; in
fact, since you've teaehed me, I know it is ; and oh, I
does love to say that bit o' prayer, ' Our Father.' When
I go to the crick for water, or to the carel, or to the
Ranche, it's so nice to think — Tom, you never knowed
your earthly father, but there G'\er your head, and
around you is somebody who cares for Tom. Sometimes
when I sees an ant's nest, or a woodpecker walking up
a tree, or a fish a swimming in the crick, I begins
thinking again about it all ; then I sez, ' Tom, yer head
can't reach it,' so I ends up with ' Our Father,' and
that's a comfort to me. Life seems nicer since you and
Charley Kirwan came this way."

" Do you want to learn some more about who made
the animals, Tom, something new about God?"

ir,o

GLEANINGS FROM

"Oh, yes. So much time every day, half-an-hour
in the eveuings at cattlechisms" (catechism Tom meant).

" Veiy wr?ll, Tom, we can begin to-night."

Tom, wiieii he came in, found his longtop-boots
cleaned and oiled, standing by the fire ; a long, dirty
task it had been, nevertheless Woodhouse had done it for
him, as Tom was busy at his school and with other work.
A new life was growing up around Tom ; he was getting
to know that someone really cared for him. Woodhouse
was away visiting some sick person, and Tom being
alone in the Ranche sat down and had a good cry by
the fire-side. It was such a new sweet idea to him
that Gcd was his Father, that all men were his brothers
in that blessed brotherhood established by the Son
of Mary. And at that moment Tom knew why it was
Kinvan and Woodhouse were so anxious to do all they
could for the poor, the sick, the dying, and the
ignorant. " And 'cos he loves God, and men in God,
he cleaned my boots, and dirty work it was too, and
him with his nice clothes on a-doing of that. Well,
Tom, yer won't shrink from doing what yer don't fancy
for the future, Will yer? Calls it 'taking up his cross'
he does. Well, Tom, you must take up yours ; " and
from that moment Tom did right willingly.

Hecker coming in disturbed his soliloquy, as Hecker,
tired out and hungry, wanted to know when supper
would be ready, and then cuttly withdrew.

Tom set to work quickly as he could at getting on
with his cooking, and when the men and Woodhouse

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

lUl

ar
L).

ots

rty

for

3rk.

bing

ouse

leing

f by
him

)ther8
Sou

t was
they
the
God,
, and
Well,
fancy
cross '
" and

[ecker,
supper

ling; ou
)dhouse

came in soon after everything wa.s ready, and in fact
the place looked brighter than usual, — all that better and
nobler life in Tom was creeping to the surface.

In the evening began the first lesson in Catechism.
Tom was fighting against that unwieldy ignorance
around and within him ; and as in polishing the rough
diamond the rough exterior has to be worn away,
and then the true brilliancy of the stone flashes throuLdi
the dull outer case, so as the darkness of Tom's
ignorance was lightened, the sweetness and truth of
his natural disposition shone forth in deeds, not words.
But Tom required, like everybody else in this work-
a-day world, to be understood.

Tom bravely worked through the twelve articles of
the Creed in his Catechism, and began studying the
Sacraments, and then his wish grew to go to the
Mission to receive the Sacrament of Penance, and
having a great desire also to receive the Holy Sacra-
ment, it was thought an Instruction from one of the
Fathers would do him good. On one Sunday, ever
memorable to Tom, he started (Woodhouse staying at
home to do the Ranche work) on horseback for the
Mission, with the one thought of carrying out this
intention. Tom being brisk and getting his early
work done, came in to dress and have the wants of
his wardrobe supplied.

" I shall get through witli my catechism if I re-
members Sacraments and numbers of Persons iu God."

"Ah, Tom, after all my trouble, don't split on that

162

G L E. 1 NINGH FROM

rock," replied his friend, at the same time £?ivinf^
him a letter to Quiuliu.

Towards evening Tom rode back crest-fallen, tie could
not go to the Sacraments, and quietly went about his
work half broken-hearted.

A letter explained this. Let us look over the reader's
shoulder to have the mystery explained. It had
evidently been written hastily in pencil, and ran thus :

"Dear Young Friend,

Your prot6g(^ came to me this morning, and I

examined him in his Catechism. To my astonishment,

in asking him how many Persons are there in God ?

he replied, after careful consideration, 'seven.' How

could I hear his confession under the circumstances ?

Will you iiKitruct him anew, and send him to me

again ?

Yours very truly,

Fatiihr QuiNlilN."

Nobody knows how much time had already been spent
on Tom ; only those about him saw with sorrow that
he was too disheartened to attempt that journey to the
Mission in a hurry again.

That evening the talk at the Ranche fell on the
subject of Osages and Indian customs ; about the In-
dians kindling a fire on every new tomb during four
consecutive nights after a person's decease.

*'That lights 'em up to the count-y oi f-cnurf " said
Hecker.

WESTFJtN rUAlIilES.

UN.

in<»-

his

Acr's
had

thus :

lud I

imcnt,

God?

How

an CCS V
to in«

"I don't believe it," replies Tom.

"All I know is as how the Indians believes it," re-
iterated TIecker. And as for yon, why yon ask on(3
of the Fathers, they'll explain all abont the Ic^n-nd to
you. It's a hmjf and beautiful story. Sir ; I heard it
anionj^st the Chippeways ; and as for that," observed
the speaker, " Why, fire I've heard say was always
sacred. Why, the Vestal Viri^ins kept perpetual firo
aliii^ht. The Jews even burn a lamp in the room in
which a person dies, and place a little basin and a
cloth by the body, for the soul to purify herself ; and
I've heard tell that in some countries in Euroi)e on
All Souls' day, tlie Cemeteries are covered with lamps,
burniuf]^ on the ^ravjs. It's true, ain't it, Sir ? "

" Yes, a good deal of what you say is trne, Ilecker,"
replied Woodhouse, who was thiuking deeply.

11 spent

)W that

to the

on the

the In-
U\<y four

said

rU-

CTTAPTER XX.

" Yet strange siglits in truth I witness,
And I gazo until I tire;
Wondrous pictures, ciiangin,<f ever,
As 1 loolt into tlie tire,"

2*7'0Cf07'.

FIRE WORSHIP — THE IGNICOLISTS.

T was rccrcafcion hour at the Mission, aud the
Fathers weixi sitting in the room of the old
Superior. Woodliouse, who had gone down
to the Mission for letters, was with them.

" Will any of you," he asked, " tell me about Fire
Worship amongst tlie Indians ? "

They all had something to say on the subject, and
on returning to the Ranche he made the following
notes from the Fathers' convei'sation, which I insert
here.

The worship of fii'e was very ancient in all their
Indian tribes. In all their traditions it was found ;
and scarcely to be wondered at, considering the Greeks
adored fire under the name of Haitos, and the Latins
under the name of Vesla.

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 165

I the
old

down

Fire

., and
lowing
iusert

their
fonnd ;
|g reeks

Latins

The ancient tribes of Natchez kept up continual
fire in all their medicine lodges aud temples. In New
Mexico, old men of the Moquis tribe constantly keep
up the sacred fire ; should they sleep or allow the fire
to be extiuguished they believe uuheard-of sufferings
will come upon the whole Tribe. The Mexicans con-
secrated each one of the eighteen months in their year
to a particular God, whom they honored with solemn
festas and humau sacrifices. Their tenth month (Xocolh
huetzi) bej^an about the fourth of August, aud was
consecrated to the God of Fire (Xuchten-hetli) with
great feasting and human sacrifices. Living men were
placed in the flames ; half burnt, and still breathing,
their hearts were torn out in presence of the Image of
the God. In the centre of the court a lofty tree was
planted, and round this tree they performed a thousand
ceremonies aud sacrifices worthy of their God.

The 18th month (Itzcali), near January the 12th,
was dedicated to another Feast of Fire. About the 10th,
in the middle of the night, they kindled a new fire
before the Idol of the God, which was gorgeously ap-
parelled. From this fire tliey lighted a grand pile.
Hunters brought all they had killed or fislied from
the waters, and the priest cast it into the furnace.
All tlie assistants were obliged to eat scalding-hot, tiny
loaves of corn-meal, containiug a portion of roast meat
called Tamalillos. On this festival, for three years la
succession no human sacrifices were offei-od, but on
the fourth year the number of victims suij^iwsed tlmt

%' \

i-y^

166

GLEANINGS FROM

of all other festivals. The Vm^ and liis lords pro-
scuted themselves in the midst of this heap of corpses
to dance ; and ludicrously grouped they all sang the
Neteuhicuicaliztli, or reserved chant. •

In a "Treatise on the Idolatry and Superstitions of
the Mexicans," a manuscript, of 1629, we find what
particularly attracted the veneration of the Mexicans
was fire. For this reason that element presided at the
birth, and almost all the aotions of life. At the
time of a child's birth, fire was kindled in the room
of the mother, and kept up four consecutive days
without removing any of it. They believed if the
living coals were drawn (Uit, a film would iij)pear over
the eyes of the new-born child. On the fourth day
the child and the fire were taken out of the chamber;
the fire was carried four times round the child's liead,
twice in one direction and twice in the opposite direc-
tion. At this time the child received its name, whi(!h
was generally that of the element or animal to which
the day was consecrated — as the alligator, serpent, eagle,
tiger, or the fire, water, &c. In most of their
spcrifices, tapers and incense had a place.

Chipiapoos* or ike Dead-man is the great Manitou

* Lons^fellow has e^nbodied this legend of (^hii)i.ipoos in his
poem '' Hiawatha." asc/ibing it to a Plagiarist, wlio copied it from
the "Oregoti MinHious," p. 285, "by De Smet." At least, so says
the Editor of one of De Smet's works. In the Tauchnitz edition
of Longfellow (18r)H), Longfellow refers to a Mr. Schoolcraft for
an accouat of Chiabo, (Algic Researches, Vol. 1, p. 134), and in
his Hixtory, Condition, and Prosjn-ctn of the Indian IVihes of the
United States, part iii., p. 314, is the Iroquois form of the Tradition,
derived \'-v-*'iv frotu an Onondaga chiei

WES TEHN PJL 1 1 RIES.

107

of
bat
;aus
the
the
•ooni
days
the
over
day
nber ;
lead,
ivec- ,

hiell
which
ea^le,

their

auitou

in his
it from
so says
(•(litiou
^raft for
and ill
l,s of the
ladition.

accordinj^ to the Potawatomios wlio presides in tlie
country of houIs, and maintains a saered fire for nil of
his race who arrive there. Fire la in all the Indian
Tribes an emblem of happiness and ^ood fortune.
Fire is li<(hted before all their deliberations. To ex-
tinyiiish an enemy's fire signifies to have gained a
victory. They attribute to fire a sacred character,
which is remarkable everywhere in their usages and
customs, especially in religious ceremonies. Mysteri-
ous ideas are maintained concerning the nature and
phenomena of fire, which is considered supernatural.

Before consulting a manitou or tutelary spirit, or
before addressing the dead, fire is kindled. This fire is
struck from flint ; it would be a grievous sin to light
the sacred fire with common fire.

The Chippeways burn a fire on every new grave for
four nights. By the light of this sacred fire the
Kpii'it j/;urneys on its solitary and silent passage to the
country of souls. The legend concerning this fire will
l>e found elsewhere. One of the Fathers, in a visit
to t\ui Crow>5, then crimped at the base of the Rocky
MouutaiuH, was an object of extreme veneration amongst
the savages. He carried a box of phosphoric matches
in the pocket of his casswk ; with these he used to light
his pipe and their calumet. Fire, in a sensible or
collective state, is well known to \w, one of the grandest
agents of nature ; and for this vitry reason, perhaps,
was regarded amongst most nations, in an early period
of the .world, either as the Creator and productive

■I

108

GLEANINGS FROM

cause of all thiuc^s, or, at least, as the substance from
which the Creator produced all things. Hence, the
Persians, Ethiopians, Scythians, and Oarthagenians in
the old world, and the Mexicans, Peruvians, and
Indians in the new world, paid divine honors to the
fire itself. Zoroaster ordained the erection of pyrea
or templus dedicated to fire throup:hout all Persia.
Even the Hebrews imagined fire to be the grandest
proof of the presence of the Deity. Under this symbol
God appeared to Moses on Mount Horeb, and to the
Hebrews at large on Mount Sinai, on the promulga-
tion of the Sacred Law ; and under this symbol he
evinced His protective presence every night, by as-
suming the form of a fieiy pillar. Impressed with
this idea, the Jews were ever anxious to preserve it in
a pure and active flame upon the national altar ; when,
therefore, the Jews were borne away in captivity to
Persia, the priests took the sacred fire of the altar
and concealed it in a dry cave, with which none but
themselves were acquainted, and where on their re-
storation to liberty, the posterity of those priests found
it on their return to Judea (Maccab. li. 1, 18). Fire
was regarded with an equal degree of veneration
throughout Greece and Rome. Temples in every city
were erected to Vesta,* a name importing firt, whether

♦ Vestjx, a goddess daughter of Rhea and Saturn. When considered
as the Mother of the Gods, she is the mother of Rhea and Saturn ;
when considered as the Patroness of Vestal Virgins and the Goddess
of Fire, she is called the daughter of Saturn and Rhea. iEneas first
introduced her mysteries into Italy, and Numa built her a tem])le, in
which no males were permitted to enter. A fire was kept continually

WESTERN PRAIRTES.

1(>0

Insidered
Saturn ;

I Cl^oddess
leas first
jmple, in
itinually

derived from the Greek or tlio Hebrew, and ia every
temple a lambent flame was perpetually burning over
the altar.

Ah lato even .as the third century of the Christian
era, when Heliogabalus anticipated his own apotheosis,
and instituted the worship of himself all over the
Roman Empire, having erected a magnificent Temple
to his own divinity, he supplied its altar witli sacred
fire from the Temple of Vesta, which he stole for this
purpose.

One cannot therefore be surprised to find this fire
worship so prevalent amongst the Indian tribes. The
grandeur of Catholic Ceremonial, drawing as it does
to the worship of God, all that external of worship which
was harmless in itself, yet symbolical and beautiful in
Pagan Rites, has kept up that lambent flame before the
Altar,t in the Sanctuary lamp, burning before the Holy

lighted in her sanctuary by a certain number of Virgins who were
dedicated to the service of the goddess. As the Greeks and Romans
were not so much given to worshipping stars as the Eastern nations,
they adored Vesta and Vulcan, as the terrestrial and elementary fire,
distinguishing the fire of the earth from that of heaven ; taking Vesta
for the earth, in the centre of which (according to their opinion) an
eternal fire was burning. This is reported by Ovid in his Fasti, and
this poet tells us afterwards that the perpetual fire they had was the
only image of Vesta, it being impossible to have a true image of fire.
It was customary formerly to keep a fire at the entry of houses,
which therefore has ever since kept the name of Vestibule (Vestibu-
lum). Formerly in this entry those who lived in the house sat at long
tables to take their meals, where fire represented the gods.

t Blessing in the porch of her churches on Holy Saturday niw
fire, wtruck from the flint, and from this fire all lamps and candles
are lit in the Church, and this fire is not supposed to die out through-
out the year.

.'.' i

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

^>/

^% .^4

1.0

1.1

1^121 125
■i^ Itt 12.2

HA I

2.0

11^ 1^ Ii4

Hi0togra[M:

Sciences

CoqxiratiQn

as WBT MAIN STkJIT

WIWTIt.N.Y. t4SM

(71«)«72-4S03

,0 OLEANISOS^nOM^^-^^^'J'^''^

' ' her Altars those six

Sa^rameut. Also, «''%''f "^"^^^^^le that the people
toge candlesticks ~°"^ j^;/^ ^.e^ed Evangelist and
r asTirsixTit ^^ one in het.een the.
^'Vdt/irto,trof fla.e that lit on Apostolic

brov«8? . ,u, service of the Jewish Temple

The nse of ligWs '^^"^'^.^ ,,.^i^ proof, snch

i« . fact too well anth-trca^d to J J^ ^^^^^^^^

!iiiir^— rrthr.onnt. ..od.

c. XXV., V. 31.) i„^g. They are but

Bnt these notes are K™«'"8 ,^^„ ^^rch out the

thoughts thrown toge*e i^^,, ^^^^ ^^^^^
strange sights and ohan^- P ^^ ^^.^ ,. ^

7zt:^ 2: - - -« "' -"^ '^^'^

the coming wtato evenings.

SIX

eople
I and
them

:)stolic

temple
, such
Tofaae,
ch the
cording
(Exod.

are but
out the
p round
ect will,
iaders in

CHAPTER XXI.

Plan of Indian Buffalo Pm.—i, 2, 3, Pen ; 1, 3. Opening : 4, Slope! ;
1, 5 and 3, i), llillg and Fences ; 7, Medicine Tost.

BUFFALO HUNT.

N the broad Prairie hunting is the one thoug)*'
of all tribes of the Indians. Their summum
b&num in life is to be a good hunter and
a good warrior. These are the credentials to savage
nobility, these qualities constitute a man being called
a great man amongst the wandering tribes of North
America.

Directly the babe leaves his mother's arms his first
toy is a little bow, and his play consists in hunting
small birds and animals. The knowledge the Indians
obtain of the nature and instinct of anunals is trulv

mmimmmmmmi

172

GLEANINGS FROM

marvellous. The young Indians are initiated in all their
stratagems, they are taught with more care how to
approach and kill animals than English children are
taught reading, writing, languages and dancing. An
expert Indian hunter is acquainted minutely with the
habits and instincts of all animals usually hunted. Their
favourite iiaunts are his, and many horn's will he lay
hidden, silently watching them to get some idea of their
ways and manner of life. It is absolutely necessary for
the hunter to know whiat kind of food the animals seek,
and when; and also to discover when the" quit their
lairs, and begin their day ; what precautions are neces-
sary to deceive the cautious ear and keen instincts of
the victim he intends hunting down. He has to study
the foot-fall in the long grass, or in the woodlands,
calculate the length of time since it passed, think out
what direction it could go in. And all this the Indian
does with a sagacity that surprises Europeans.

In the great book of Nature he is perpetually studying
whilst in pursuit of his game. The atmosphere, the
wind, rain, snow, ice, the forests, the creeks and lakes
are the books the Indian consults.

The buffalo, or bison, supplies almost all the neces-
saries of life to the Indian. Out of buffalo skins they
make lodges, or Indian houses. The skins also furnish
clothing, litters, bridles and saddle cloths, vessels to hold
water, boats to cross lakes and rivers ; whilst from the
hair they make their cordage ; from the sinews, bow-
strings, thread for their clothes and glue., The bones

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

173

I their
o\v to
ju are
■ Au
th the
Their
he lay
of their
Bary for
als seek,
it their
e neces-
;incts of
to study
oodlauds,
liuk out
e Indiaa

studying
here, the
and lakes

ilie neces-
skius they
30 furnish
jls to hold
from the
Lews, bow-
The bones

serve for implements — the slioulder-blaJe is both spado
and pick-axe. The bison is the daily bread of the
Indian, in fact his only chief food.

The dung of the buffalo (bois-de-vache) supplies
abundant fuel. Before tlie whites encroached on the
Prairies, the method of killing the different animals
consisted chiefly in stratatjems and stuires. Even now
the Indians resort to that primitive method whilst hunt-
ing large animals, when their horses are weak and
incapable of pursuing them, or when tlieir powder and
shot fall short. The trap prepared for the bison is
an enclosure or carel, and is one of the primitive ways
and perhaps the most remarkable in its execution. It
has existed from, time immemorial ; forsooth it requires
skill, and when once seen a high idea is formed of
Indian sagacity, activity and hardiesse. As on all the
grand occasions of life the jugglers or medicine men
are consulted, they are not wanting to the hunt, for it
is preceded by a great variety of superstitious practices.

We are going to assist at a hunt at the base of the
Rocky Mountains. Bisons roam the broad Prairies of
the West in herds of several hundreds, and often of
several thousands. Travelling through these great plains
one sees thousands of these noble animals moviug quietly,
browsing in seemingly interminable troops. They look
very fearful ; their great hairy heads would strike terror
into any one ignorant of the pacific habits of the poor
beast. So great is their timidity that a single man
can put to fright the must numerous herd ; when

174

GLEAXl\'aS FROM

frij^htened, their prolonjGfed bellowinofs, the tramp of
their feet and the dust they raise resemble some jjrand
fomjxist, with its deep murmurinjrs, its pealinj^s of
thunder, and strong <^usts of v;ind carrying with it
clouds of dust.

Bison flesh is much esteemed ou account of its
nourishing qualities. But to our Assiniboin Buffalo
Hunt. The Indians encamped on a suitable spot for
the construction of an enclosure ; their camp con-
tained between two or three thousand souls, and some
three hundred lodges. With great forethought they
had selected the base of a chain of hills, which gently
sloping formed a nan'ow, almost hidden valley, and a
small Prairie in which all the lodges were ranged.
Opposite the hills, in all its grandeur, stretched far
away the broad Prairie. The construction of the lodges
was speedily got over ; then was held a solemn Council,
at which all the Chiefs and the Hunters assisted.
They chose a band of waiTiors to hinder the hunters
from leaving the camp, either by themselves or in
detached companies, for fear they should disturb the
bison, and drive them away from the environs of the
encampment. All the Indians of the camp are obliged
to conform to this law. In case any one belonging
to the camp should transgress this law, their guns
are confiscate, their bows and arrows broken, their
lodges cut in pieces, their dogs killed, and all provisions
and hides are taken from them ; should they resist,
they are beaten with sticks, bows, and clubs, and this

!.._..

WESTEItS PRAIRIES.

175

mp of
J grand
ngs of
kvith it

of its

BulTalo
spot for
tip cou-
ld some
;ht they
K gently
r, and a

ranged,
iched far
iie lodges

Council,

assisted.
} hunters
s or in
sturb the
IS of the
te obliged
belonging
heir guns
cen, their

provisions
hey resist,

and this

torment frequently ends in deatli. Any one setting
fire to the Trairie by accident or imprudence, or who
should in any way frighten the herd, would be sure
to be well beaten.

Directly this law is circulated in tlie camp, the build-
ing of the pen commencesi. It i?. a pleasure to see
with what cheerful ardour they labour ; it is an afiair
of no common interest ; their meals for many a day
depend upon the success they now have, for the food
they now seek must last the tribe for several mouths.

The enclosure shuts in about an acre. To make it
circular they fix stakes in the ground firmly, between
the stakes they weave dry boughs, make barricades with
logs, bring together masses of stone ; in fine, anything
that will prevent a buffalo escaping answers their pur-
pose. This round enclosure has but one opening ;
before this opening is a slope embracing fifteen or
twenty feet between the hills ; this inclined plane grows
wider as it diverges from the circle ; at its two sides
the fence is built up a long way into the plain.

As quickly as they can get everything ready, the
Indians elect a grand-master of ceremonies and of
the enclosure. Generally he is an old man, distinguished
for some feats of bravery, belonging to a Wah-Kon,
or medicine band, famous in arts of jugglery, which
the Indians deem a supernatural science. Ex-officio,
he is to decide the moment of driving the buffaloes
into the enclosure, and give the signal for the begin-
ning of the hunt. It is this M. C. who plants the

tl 'll

I7r,

GLEANINGS FROM

medicine mast in the centre of the park, and attaches
to it the mystic charms which are to draw to this
centre that hairy band, roaming in freedom not far
off. Let us look at his charms.

A streamer of crimson cloth, two or three yards
long, a piece of tobacco, and a bison's horn, and the
Manitous, or guiding spirits of the buffaloes, in order
to discover the propitious moment for the chase signal
to be given.

This royal master of ceremonies has four runners
at his sole disposal ; these he seeds out daily, and they
report to him each evening the observations they have
made : they let him know at what distance from the
camp the animals are feeding, their probable number,
and the direction tliey are marching in. These runners
often go forty to forty-five miles in different direc-
tions. In all their journeys they take with them the
wah-kon ball, which is entrusted to them by this
worthy Master of Ceremonies. This ball is made of
hair and covered with skin ; when the runners think
the suitable moment has come, they immediately send
a man of their number to the M. 0. with the ball
and the good news. As long as that mysterious ball
is absent, the Master of the Ceremonies can take no
food ; the only break to this rigorous fast is when
some game or animal is killed on the enclosure, and
this belongs to the M. C. As they have been known
to remain a month awaiting the favourable moment,
the gi*aud-master must find himself reduced to small

WESTKILW PliAIIUI'JS.

t 4

Laches
^ this
ot far

yards
nd the
1 order
I sij^nal

runners

ind they

ley have

[rom the
number,

y runners

nt direc-

them the
by this
made of

lers think
ately send
the ball
erious ball
,u take no
jt is when
losure, and
een known
le moment,
5d to small

rations. He has, however, no more appearance of
fasting than his brethren have in the camp, notwith-
standing his meagre rations ; therefore I incline to
think, with othere, he makes some aiTangement with
his conscience — stealthily, and in the darkness of
night. But the longest day has an evening, the
longest lane a turning, and an end comes to the
rigorous faster's fast.

The rolling of a drum breaks the deep stillness of
the camp. What anxiety on the part of the Indian
population ! Ah ! Yes, it is he ! It is the gmnd-
master of the enclosnre. He announces in sonorous
tones that the bison are from fifteen to twenty miles
distant from the camp ; the wind is favourable, it
blows directly from the buffaloes' feeding ground. In
how short a time does the stagnant waiting of the
camp change to that deep joyonsness evinced in the
Indian chase. humediately the horsemen mount their
coursers ; the foot soldiers arm themselves with bows,
gur], and lances, and speedily take up their position
— forming two long, oblique, diverging rows from the
extremity of the two barriers which spring from the
the entrance of the pen, and extend far out into the
plain, and thus they prolong indefinitely the diverg-
ing lines of the enclosure. The foot-men are placed
at distances of from ten to fifteen feet, the horsemen
continue the same lines, which separate in proportion
as they extend, so that the last hunter on horeeback
is found at about two or threi' mile.s distance from the

trT

178

GLEANINGS FROM

pen, and jit very nearly the same distance from tlie
last hunter of the other line in an opposite direction.
Should men he wanting, even women and children
occupy stations. After the formation of these im-
mense, far-extending lines, one Indian only, alone,
unarmed, is sent upon the best courser in the camp
in the direction of the buffaloes, to meet thom. Watch
him. How swiftly he proceeds, how he draws near to
them against the wind ; what a study that precaution !
Ah, he knows upon his shoulders rests a heavy burden,
upon his action depends a nation's food for many
months to come. Will he be successful ? Ah, well,
in watching him one feels the crimson dust within
one's frame pulsate more quickly ; in that intense
straining silence one almost imagines the loud throb
of one's own heart will chase the herd away, and one
presses one's hand over the heart to still its beating.
See how quickly, at the distance of about one hundred
paces from them, he envelopes himself in a buffalo
hide, the fur turned outwards, and at the same time
horae and rider appear clothed in the same manner. 0,
quick beating heart, what is that plaintive ciy breath-
ing out upon the air ? The imitation of the cry of
a lost bison calf. Surely, oh, surely, that cry is too
natural to be human. Tiook closer. As if by enchant-
ment that cry attracts the attention of the whole herd ;
yet only a few seconds, and several hundreds of these
quadrupeds — hearing that low pitiful wail, something
80 lost, so broken-hearted, stealing on the air — turn

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

179

Ti the
Dction.

Q im- I

alone,

2 camp
Watch

near to

sautiou 1
burden,

)r many

Vh, well,

,t within

: intense

^ud throb
and one
beatinjij.
hundred
a buffalo
same time
anner. 0,
vy breath-
:he cry of
cry is too
y enchant-
^hole herd;
[3 of these
something
air— turn

towards the pretended calf. Oh, herd, beware. At
first they move slowly, then advance into a trot, and
at last break into full unwieldly jifallop. The horse-
man without ceasing repeats the cry of the calf, and
takes his courae towards the pen, ever watching to
keep that equal distance from the animals that press
hard upon him. Strange stratagem thus to lead so
many from that vast herd of buiFaloes through the
whole distance separating him from his companions,
who, watching with pale faces and beating hearts,
impatiently long to join in the sport.

When the buffaloes gallop into the space between
the extremities of the two lines the scene changes.
All assumes an appearance of eagerness ; hunters on
horeeback, giving rein to their steeds, rejoin each
other, thus re-uniting those vastly converging lines ;
thus meeting behind the animals.

Then commences the panic in the great herd. The
wind blowing from the rear, the scent of the hunters
is communicated amongst the frightened and routed
animals, who in every way attempt to regain thieir
freedom — useless indeed now those on foot appear.
The buffaloes finding themselves surrounded on all
sides, excepting the single oi)ening into the circular
pen before them, low and bellow, and shriek out the
maddening fear that has come upon them, and plunge
into the open space of the pen with the untired speed
of fear and desperation. Gradually the line of hunters
close in behind them, and space becomes less necessary

180

GLEANINGS FROM

as the mass of buffaloes and the hunters become
more and more compact. What deafening firjng of
guns ! what twanging of bows I what swift drawing
forth of arrows 1 what flinging of lances I Many
animals fall under the shot, the blows, and the arrows,
before reaching the pen ; the greater number enter.
Poor brute beasts, you discover, too late, the snare
laid 80 skilfully for you. Those in front try to return,
but the terrified crowd following, forces them forward,
and in inextricable confusion do they find themselves
in the enclosure, amidst wild, prolonged hurrahs, and
fierce, uncontrolled shouting of the whole waiting
tribe, intermingled with the continuous firing of guns.

Penned now, poor innocents, the carnage is swift and
steady, as they fall beneath an'ows, lances, and knives.
What wild excitement of joy in savage natures ! What
general butchery ! What flaying and cutting up of
animals ! Can any one look on without disgust ?

Yes ! those habituated to their customs and manners.
Men of those western plains cut and slash into that
mass of flesh. Ah, horror ! — ^women, and innocent pretty
Indian children in particular, devour meat warm with
life I Livers, kidneys, brains, seem attractions impossible
to resist.

*Ti8 a feast — a wild carnage of blood. For, see !
they smear their faces, their hair, their arms and legs
with this warm sweet buffalo blood !

What confusion of cries, as of Babel I what clamour-
ous shouts ! whilst here and there do quarrels fill up
the scene.

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

181

come
tg of
iwing .
Many
rrows,
enter.

snare
return,
orward,
msclves
hs, and
waiting
3f guns,
^vift and

knives.
\ What
up of

st?

manners.

tnto that

,ut pretty

arm with

impossible

For, seel
and legs

It is picturesque if you will. It is savap^e. It is a
very pandeinouium. Words fail to depict such a sight.
What pen and ink painting can give warm life to
such disgusting details, this carnage of six hundred
odd bison ?

Now it is evening. The butchery is finished, the
skins lay in their heaps, the flesh lies in its piles ;
and now comes the division of the chase amongst the
families, in proportion to the numbers composing them.
The meat then is cut into slices and dried; the bones
are bruised, and the grease extracted.

The dogs of the wigwams receive their share of the
feast, and their festival hall is the arena of the pen
where so much noise and slaughter has reigned.

But forty-eight hours, and no vestige of that carnage
remains.

On this site several days are passed in dancing and
mirth, and then comes the separation of the Indian
families.

If one of the great masters of the olden world could
but assist at such a scene in the great Western
Desert, what a painting would come into life !

Such scenes as these will vanish into the dead-gone
years, as the swift foot of European civilization crushes
out Indian life. In the quick future it will be but as
a dream that is told.

it clamour-
els fill ^P

CHAPTER XXII.

"Lo, how all inings fade and perish;
Kroin the memory of the old men,
I'ade away the great traditions?." — Lon<jf(ilon\

GRASSHOPPER HUNT AMONGST THE SOSHOCOS.

ON'T look surprised ; it is at a grasshopper
hunt I invite you to assist with us to-day,
a grasshopper hunt amongst the Soshocos."

Imagine finding a note like that lying on your break-
fast table, or the place where your breakfast table
should be on the Prairie trail. Forgetting self, let us go.

Who are these Soshocos ? A tribe of Indians, the
most degraded of all the races of the vast western
world. They roam over the desert, and barren districts
of Utah and California, and all about that part of
the Rocky Mountains branching into Oregon,

The Indians of the plains living on nourishing flesh
of buffaloes are generally pretty tall, active, robust,
and clad in skins. These Soshocos, who subsist chiefly
on grasshoppei*s and ants, are miserable, lean, weak, and
as a rule badly clothed ; they inspire sentimp its of
compassion in all those who travel through the un-
productive region they occupy.

Nearly all the Soshoco territory is covered with Worm-
«-ood, and species of Artemesia, in which the grass-

GLEANINGS FliOM WESTERN P HA HUES. 183

inv.

)S.

ssbopper
to-day,

ocos."

[ir break-

ist table

let us go-

liaus, tbe
western
districts
part of

king flesh
le, robust,
iist chiefly
Iweek, and
iimpits of
the un-

^ith Worm-
the grass-

hoi)pers swiiriu in myriad luiinbei's ; these parts are
couse(inoutly most frequented by this tribe. When they
are suHicieiitly numerous they hunt toi^ether. They
Ixj^ifi by di^L;ing a hole ten or twelve fuet lonj^, by
four or fivo feet deep i then, armed with loug branches
of artemesia, tiiey surrouud a field of four or five acres,
more or less. Tlie distances they staud apart vary,
accordini^ to the number of jieople engaj^ed in the hunt.

They are generally about twenty feet apart, and their
whole work is to bear, the <^round, so lus to friji^hteu
up the grasshopper and make them jump forwards.
They chase them towards the centre by degrees, that
is, into the hole prepared for their reception. Grass-
hoppers abound so in this district that three or four
acres furnish grasshoppers sufficient to fill the reservoir
or hole.

There the Soshocos will stay as long as the pro-
vision lasts. What a queer taste they have ! Bah,
grasshopper soup ! grasshoppers boiled ! grasshoppera
roasted ! Yet here the poor Soshoco sit?, watching a
grasshopper roast. He takes a pointed stick and threads
the larger grasshoppers on it, then fixes the rod in
the ground before the fire ; as they become roasted
l-hey are broken off, until the whole are devoured.
But there is another sort of grasshopper cookery. A
group yonder are crushing grasshoppere between large
stones, and maki'^g a kind of paste with them ; this
they flavour with herbs and dry in the .^un, or before'
the fire. That will serve for winter provision.

As the buttalo is the daily bread of most tribes, so

k
i

1H4 aLLAX/NGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES.

is tlie j^n'asshoi)|)or tlie daily bread of this tribe, for
they scarcely ever trouble themselves to kill deer, or
large animals, althou<^h at rare iuter\als they meet
with rabbits, or kill a few grouse.

(Jnisshoppei's and locusts do a great deal of mischief
in some of the States. In great flocks they seem to
devour all things ^rreen before them, and should they
pass over a railroad when a train is coming, the train
inevitably comes to a standstill. This is attributed to
their containing in their bodies a kind of oil ; they form
so thickly on the rails, that the engine-wheels passing
over their bodies, after a while get so saturated with
oil that they are powerless to lay hold of the line,
and so rotate without advancing.

Note. Travelling from Maisons-sur-Seine up to Paris with
an English Konian Catholic Bishop, well known for his enjoyment
of a hearty joke, in the midst of a conversation upon travelling in
general, accidents, and stoppages, &c., one of the two Ecclesiastics
with him said he had been in a train stopped by grasshoppers. The
Bishop stoutly denied the possibility of such an occurrence, when
fortunately for the Ecclesiastic's veracity; some Americans in the
same compartment assured his Lordship that this occurred often
in some States sjibject to grasshopper ravages. That they them-
selves had several times been in trains thus temporarily arrested
on their course. Europeans often accuse Americans of "drawing a
strong bow " on these questions, but like many things else in life,
a little sifting of the subject-matter shows how much truth lies at
the bottom of the remark. "A train stop])ed by grasshoppers"
sounds oddly enough, and yet knowing Caseline oil poured on the
iron-way will stop a train, and also by analysis knowing that a fatty
oil-like substance, with somewhat of the Cflseline property aboat
it, exists in the body of the grasshopper, the difficulty immediately
ceases as to the possibility of such a thing happening — given a
sufficient quantity of grasshoppers to produce the required amount
of oil. Europeans once seeing grasshoppers in shoals, would find
the laugh on the Americans' side against their incredulity.

e, for

eer, or

meet

nischief
iceui to
ild they
he trahi
3uted to
ley form
passing
ted with
the line.

Paris with
enjoyment

ravelling in
Ecclesiastics
ippers. The
jence, 'vhen
[cans in the
jurred often
they them-
rily arrested
"drawing a
else in life,
truth lies at
•asshoppers"
>ured on the
that a fatty
•operty about
immediately
fing— given a
fuired amount
Is, would find
fty.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"Then the black robe chief, the prophet,
Told his message to the people,
Told the purport of his mission,
Told them of the Virgin Mjiry,
And her blessed Son, the Saviour,
How in distant lands and ages
He had lived on earth as we do;
How he fasted, i)rayed, and laboured;
How the Jews, the tribe accursed,
Mocked him, scourged him, crucified him ;
How he rose from where thej' laid him,
Walked again with his disciples.
And ascended into Heaven." — Longfdloir.

MASS ON THE PRAIRIES.

HERE is a souud of strange melody disturb-
ing the perpetual stillness of the prairies ;
broken seldom but by the soft susurra of
the breeze sweeping gently over the prairie grass and
spring flowers. There is a little tent upon the prairie,
and underneath it an Altar, and at its Altar a Priest;
and kneeling out into the sweet sunshine are swarthy
forms — Indians — ^who themselves have decked that Table
of the Lord, with the richest; and brightest prairie
flowers they can And, and who now await His coming

■

18(1

GLEAXlXaS FROM

in the Sacramental Feast, whose blessed feet so many

years ago walked upon the waves of this troublesome

world. Rejoice, Prairie, thy Kin<^ cometh !

The li<(hts flicker solemnly within the tent, the words

of the Creed are monotoned by the Indians ; then the

Lord's prayer, and the Ave. How strangely tho.^.^ v.'crdo

break the stillness of the Prairie !

Hawai Marie Wagkonda odikupi odisliailow
Hail, Alary, of the Great Spirit of gifts thou art

wagkonda shodiffue acchow. Wakoki odisanha
the great spirit

odichoupegtsiow.
thou art blessed.

with thee

ougoupegtsiow.
is blessed.

Jusus
Jesus

Walagui
Holy

dekousi

IIQW

is. The women among whom

tsaitse ouglagran ingshe
of the womb the fruit thy

Marie Wagkonda ehonh
Mary of the Great Spirit the mother

antzapi aitohanski.

and at the moment of our death.

wawatapiow,
pray for us,

Aikougtsiou.

Amen.

And now upon the hearts of some rests that same
Holy Food once distributed to a few beloved ones in
an upper room by the Holiest of all Holy Hands.
Methinks that susurra causes the prairie grass to bow
itself in honour of Him. 0, simple service, with faith-
ful believing hearts around. Grander art thou than the
mcst gorgeous ceremonial under the dome of S. Peter's,
or under the roof of the Lateran Basilica. Nobler is
that officiating Priest, bowed down by self-denial, by
the self-sacrifice of a whole life, than many a courtly
Ecclesiastic with flowing robes and worldly mien, such

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

187

mary
csoiue

words
an the

shallow
ou avt

Lisauha
)ng whom

ingshc
thy

ehouh
the mother

tohauski.
our death.

hat same
oues in
Hands,
to bow

ith faith-
thaii the
,. Peter's,

I Nobler is

Lenial, by
a courtly
lien, such

as one sees listlessly performinjj^ duties in many a stately
Church iu the old world. Before tlie vision tlieu there
arises that simple old man ou iiis far Prairie Mission.

Surely such an one as this Pruii-ie Priest teaches all
of us by his life t/uit relifjion pure and unde filed before
God the Father, — that safer keepinj^ of ourselves un-
spotted from the world. Dearer to that j^ood old mau
are those guttural Indian sounds than the weeping
tones of the Miserere creeping through the Sistina those
mourning days of Holy Week ; dearer than the jubilant
Credo or Gloria echoing up iuto and dying away in
the broad roof of 8. Peter's on Easter-Day.

It is no fancy ; he himself has confessed it.

li'

CHAPTER XXI\.

" God's world has one great echo ;
Whether c.ihn bhie mists are curled,
Or lingering dew-drops quiver,
Or red storms are unfurled ;
The same deep love is throbbing
Through the great heart of God's world."

Proctor.

WASHING DAY — RANCHE LIFE AGAIN.

ANCHE life had resumed the old swing at
Kirwan's. Charley was back from his weari-
some journey, and his father and mother
were coming on this day to visit the Ranche — a sacred
place to themj hallowed by Brown's death. The
Ranche boys were up earlier that day, off at their
work ; Tom and Woodhouse were getting the Ranche
in order ; and Charley" Kirwan himself was putting
up a new bedstead in the one living-room.

"I think you'll like them, old fellow; they know
all about you, and how Brown liked you, and they come
out West prepared to like you, so it will be easy
cantering over the ground of introduction."

"I only hope one thing, that they will enjoy your

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 189

Proctor.

swing at
lis weari-
mother
a sacred
,h. The
at their
e Ranche
s putting

ley know

|they come

be easy

tnjoy your

quiet, primitive life as well as I did before the
epidemic came."

" I hope 80 too," replied Charley, with one of his
sunny smiles. " I told them if they would stay on
out here for some months, for a change, I would build
another room oflf the Kanche on purpose for their
accommodation."

"Rather rough lines for a lady, is it not, coming
out as it is ? "

" My mother is a woman who always grasps the
position of life, wherever it may be. Why, bless you,
man, she'll be teaching us how to cook and wash,
and enjoy doing it. But good-bye, I'm off to fetch
them here. According to my arrangements they slept
at the Mission Hotel last night."

Towards sunset Charley came back to the Ranche,
bringing his father and mother and his brother-in-law
to supper. It was only the ordinary supper, but the
table looked brighter than usual, as Woodhouse had
gathered bunches of large crimson gladioli-like flowers
from the Creek, and other gorgeous prairie blooms, to
give somewhat of an air of civilization to the homeliness
of the place.

As Charley's mother came in she gave a start, per-
ceptible only to those quick eyes watching her. She
grasped the hand of Woodhouse, wliilst only three words
escaped her lips : " My son's friend." The quick nervous
fingers lingered in his, and a friendship seemed to grow
out of the clasp. She had a kind word for ail the

11)0

gl/:aiXixgs from

Uiiiche boys, seoininj^ innately to know the words best
Miiited to eacli.

And Charley's father sliowed age well preserved. He
was quiet, gentlemanly, kind ; a man whom one would
imagine only spoke after thought, and thought well
thought out.

The brother-in-law was a jolly American, who loved
shooting, and who was eager for news about prairie
chickens, ducks, quails, and so forth.

As usual with Americans, they soon grew into the
Prairie life, and a pleasant evening was spent, chatting
round the fire ; late as they sat up, the evening did not
seem to grow old, nor the time hang wearilj.

The following day was given up entirely to a visit
to the Upper Ranche, travelling in an ox waggon
over the Prairie, with chairs to sit upon, and a well-
filled lunch basket in their midst, whilst every now
and again Charley and his brother-in-law left the
waggon to have a shot at some quail or prairie
chicken near the track. It was an early spring day,
but the golden sunshine was not too hot — just such
a day as would make any one love the great expanse
of Prairie, and joy in it ; and delighted with these
Western Plains, they drove right up to the great
herd of cattle that Charley owned. A look of surprise
seemed to creep over the faces of the new-comers to
see Charley's great wealth. They had heard before of his
being a man who owned a vast herd, yet evidently
Charley was not a prophet in his own country, or
amongst his own people.

WESTERS PRAiniES.

Is best

i. He
J would
lit well

.0 loved
prairie

into the

chatting

did not

3 a visit
I waggon
a well-
rery now
left the
r prairie
ring day,
just such
expanse
lith these
he great
surprise
omers to
re of his
evidently
ntry, or

The lunch basket was opened now, and, watcliiug
the herd grazing, they took their luuclieou. More
enjoyable the contents of that luncii basket sewned
than any lunch luisket on an English coui*se. Tiie
Uanche boys of the Upper Ranche, riding close up to
the waggon sides, had their share of the feast too.

A dinner was speedily got ready at the Upper
Ranche, and some wild duck shot on the Upper Creek,
a basket of wild grapes picked in the wood bordering
the Creek, and then came an enjoyable drive home,
which was reached in the gloaming.

It was w^ashing-day at the Ranche. Mrs. Kirwan had
suggested it, and volunteered a lesson ; and so on the
great fire in the Ranche was a large collection of
saucepans, and on the stove kettles boiling, so that
they should have hot water sufficient for such a festival.
Meanwhile, two wash-tubs were in full swing, with
two helpers at each ; and merry peals of laughter
rang through the small house ; clouds of steam filled
the room, and the nostrils were assailed by that sweet,
healthy scent of soap-suds. Out in the sunshine, on
lines, the clean white linen was drying and flying in
the Prairie breeze ; and to the amusement of all, who
should ride up on horseback but the old Superior of
the Mission ; so dinner had to be got ready, and it
was high festival indeed. Mrs. Kirwan looked none
the less a lady with her hands in the wash-tub, and
Charley and Woodhouse scrubbed with a will. It

192 GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES.

was such a living, animated picture, that no one with
heart in them could shrink from participating^ in it.
The laughter rippling away from the wash-tubs out
into the clear sunshine, and the " Now am I right,
Mra. Kirwan ? " and the " Will you tell me this, Mrs.
Kirwan ? " and the " Bravo ! Bravo ! '* of the old
Superior, filling up the crevices of the running con-
versation, was something too enjoyable of Ranche
life to be passed over without a word.

And then the starching and ironing, the perpetual
failure, the little success in that department, and also
the final consignment of all of that department to Mrs.
Kirwan. And the guests thought the dinner twice as
good as usual, because Mrs. Kir^van suggested this or
that — " Shouldn't the ducks be stuffed with onions ? "
or " Wouldn't this be nice ?" It seemed one long-
continued picnic, in the warmth of which the dear,
staid old man from the Mission grew young again.
Perchance hia far Belgian home grew up before his
memory, and the happy days of childhood, when in
the farm-yard kitchen he had seen like ways.

The Kirwans wei-e leaving in a few weeks, and
Woodhouse was also going North ; sorry, all of them,
that the curtain was about to fall over the Rancher's
Home.

th
it.

)Ut

ht,

Irs.

old

;ou-

icbe

Btiuil
also

Mrs.

26 as

lis or

ms ? "
long-
dear,

again.

re Ws

ken in

^ and
them,
icher's

CHAPTER XXV. •

" Ye who love a nation's legends,
liOve the ballads of a people
That like voices from afar off
Call to us, to pause and listen,
Sj)eak in tones so plain and child-liko,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish.
Whether they are sung or spoken —

Listen to this Indian legend.

* * * * '

Where he passed, the branches moved not ;
Where he trod, the grasses bent not:
And the fallen leaves of last year
Made no sound beneath his footsteps."

Longfi'lltynK

CHIPPEWAY FIRE LEGENDS.

HE origin of sacred and funereal fire amongst
the Chippeways engrossed the attention of
all at the Ranche. The following fire legend
is the result of their researches.

A war party of Chippeways met some enemies in a
large and beautiful plain. The war whoop rang out,
and a fierce contest began. The Chippeway Chief was
a very distinguished warrior ; in this fight he sur-
passed himself in bravery, and a great number of enemies

194

GLEANINGS FROM

fell bcncftth the redoubled blows of his tomahawk. ITe
was \f\\\\\\f the si^'nal for shouting the cry of victory
when he received an arrow in his breast, and fell
lifeless amongst his braves. A warrior receiving his
last blow in the act of combating is never buried.
An ancient custom exists, and from this the tribe
never depart — to seat a wan'ior thus falling on the
battle field, his back resting against a tree, and his
face turned in the direction which indicates the flight
of his enemies. It was the case with this Chief. His
grand crest of eagle's plumes was placed upon his
head, for each feather denoted a trophy, or scalp won
in combat. His face was carefully painted. He was
clothed in his most costly habiliments, as though he
were alive. All his equipments were picturesquely ar-
ranged by his side, his bow and his quiver of arrows
resting against his shoulder. The post of the brave
was planted in front of him with solemn ceremonies
and with honours due only to illustrious warriora. The
rites, the chants, the funereal speeches were celebrated
according to the custom of his nation in similar cir-
cumstances. And then his companions offered him their
farewells. No one had any doubt that he was dead —
the sequel shows whether they were right.

Although deprived of speech and all other signs of
life, the Chief heard distinctly the words of the songs,
the discourses, the cries and the lamentations of his
warriors. He witnessed their gestures, their dances,
and all their ceremonies around the "post of honour."

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

195

ory
fell
his
ried.
iribe

the

his
[light

His
L his

won
J was
gh he
ly ar-
\rrow8

hrave

nonies

The

ibrated

,r cir-
their

Idead —

[gns of
songs,

I of his
dances,

lonour."

His icy hand was sensible to their warm clasp of
farewell. His lips, pale and livid, felt the ardonr and
heat of til'' farewell embrace and salute, and yet ho
could not ixitnm it. Forsaken, knowing it, his anguish
was untold, and his desire grew strong to accompany
his braves back to their village. He saw them dis-
appear in the dim distance, and then soul and body
fought for mastery. His agitated spirit made a violent
movement, and then he seemed to rise and follow them.
His spirit form was invisible — a new cause to him of
surprise and contradiction, and this swelled his grief
and untold despair. He followed them closely. Where
they went, he went also. When they marched, he marched.
Riding or on foot he was in their midst. He camped
with them. He slept by their side. He awoke with
them. All their fatigues, troubles, and labors he shared.
He enjoyed the pleasures of their conversation ; yet
whilst present at their meals, no drink was offered to
allay his thirst, no dishes to appease his hunger. Ques-
tion and answer remained without response. "Warriors,
my braves," cried he in the bitterness of his anguish ;
" Do you not hear the voice of your chief ? Look, do
you not see my form ? You are motionless. You seem
not to see and hear me. Stanch the blood still flowing
from the deep wound I have received. Suffer me not
to die deprived of aid — to famish amidst abundance.
0, you braves, whom I often led in the thickest of
the fight, who have always been obedient to my voice,
already you seem to forget me ! Give me one drop

GLEANINGS FROM

of wfitor only to quench my fevev'ah thirst, one
mouthful of food to stay this gnawing hunger. In my
distress how dare you refuse me ? "

At each halt he addressed them, alfceniat(;ly in re-
proach and pleading, but in vain. No one understood
his words. If they heard his voice, it was only to
them as the susurra of the wind sweeping over the
great plains, or the murmurings of the summer breeze
through the foliage and branches of the forests ; with
them it remained unnoticed and unheeded.

After a long and painful journey, the war party
arrived on the summit of a lofty eminence over-looking
their villages. The warriors prepared to make their
solemn entry. Decorated with their costliest ornaments,
with faces carefully painted, and their victorious trophies
attached to them, especially scalps fastened on to their
bows, tomahawks, and lances, they burst forth into
one unanimous cry of joy and victory, " Kumaudjeewug,
Kumaudjeewug, Kumaudjeewug," — i.e., they have met,
have fought, have conquered. The joyous shout resounded
again and again throughout the whole camp. Accord-
ing to custom, the women and children came forth to
meet the warriors in order to honor their return and
sing their praises.

Those who had lost some member of their family
approached with anxiety and eagerness to see if iney
were really dead, and to re-assure themselves that they
died manfully, fighting against the enemy. Old men,
bowed down with the weight of their years, consoled

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

1D7

met,
inded
jcord-
tth to
aud

jamily
tiiey
they
men,

Insoled

thoinsclves for the loss of thuir sons if they sank like
brave men, arms in hand ; tlie ^rief of the youthful
widows loses its bitterness as they hear the praises
bestowed on the names of their Imsbands. Thrilling
recitals of combat awaken the martial fire in the
bosoms of the youth ; tiny children, incapable of un-
derstanding the joy of this grand festival, mingle their
feeble shouts with the boisterous welcomes of the whole
tribe.

Amidst all this clamour and rejoicing, no one knew
of the presence of the great war-chief. He heard the
information his own relations and friends received con-
cerning his fortunes ; he heard the recital of his
bravery ; he heard the singing of his lofty deeds ; he
heard of his glorious death in the midst of vancpiished
enemio3 ; he heard of the post of the brave planted on
the field of battle. " Here I am," cried he ; *' I see,
I walk, — look at me, touch me, I am not dead.
Tomahawk in hand I shall renew my march against
the enemy at the head of my hraves, and soon in
the banquet you will hear the beating of my drum.'*

No one heard him ; no one perceived him. The
voice of the great Chief was no more to them than
the perpetual din of the water falling from cascade
to cascade at the foot of their village. Impatiently
he took the direction of his lodge. There he found
his wife in the greatest despair, cutting — in token of
mourning — her long and floating locks ; lamenting
bitterly her misfortune, the loss of a cherished husband.

«l

' \

} !

198

GLEANINGS FROM

and fihe desolate state of her orphan children. He strove
to undec5eive her. He breathed words of tenderness in
her ear. He sought to clasp his children in his arms ;
but how vain, how futile his attempts. They were
insensible to his voice and fatherly caresses. The
mother, bathed in tears, sat inclining her head between
her hands. The chief, suffering and dejected, besougl^t
her to dress his deep wound ; to apply to it the herbs
and roots contained in his medicine sack ; but she
moved (jnot,'^8he answered only with tears and groans.
Then he placed his mouth close to the ear of his
wife, and shouted aloud, " I am thirsty, I am hungry.
Give me food and drink." The squaw thought she
heard a rumbling in her ears, and spoke of it to her
companions. The chief in his anger struck her a violent
blow on her brow. She quietly pressed her hand to
the stricken spot and said, "I feel a slight head-ache."
Frustrated at every step, and in all his efforts to
make himself known, the great Chief began to reflect
on what he had heard in his youth from the most
distinguished jugglers he had met. They had told him
that sometimes the spirit or soul quits the body, and
wanders about according to its own pleasure and will.
He then thought that possibly his body was lying on
the field of battle, and that his spirit only had accom-
panied the warriors on their return to the village. In
a moment he resolved to return by the same path he
had come — a distance of four days' march. For the
first three days he met no one. On the afternoon of

WESTERN FRAIRIES.

199

erbs

she
)aDB.

his
igry.

she
) her
oleut
d to
he."

3 to .

eflect
most
him
and
will,
g on
com-
In
1th he
iT the
on of

the fourth, being close to the battle-field, he saw a fire
near the path upon which he was walking. Wishing
to avoid it, he quitted the track ; but the fire at the
same instant changed its position, and placed itself
always in front of him. In vain he hurried from right
to left. The same mysterious fire always preceded him,

as if to bar his entrance to the field of battle. "I

•

also," said he, "I am a spirit. I am seeking to return
into my body. / tvill accomplish my design. Thou
shalt purify me, but thou shalt not hinder me. I
have always conquered my enemies, notwithstanding the
greatest obstacles. This day / tvill triumph over thee^
spirit of fir e^ Having thus exclaiiiied, with an intense
effort he darted towards the mysterious flame. He
came forth from a long trance. He found himself seated
on the battle ground, his back supported against a tree.
His bow, his arrows, his clothes, his ornaments, his
war accoutrements, the post of the brave ; all were
in the same position in which his braves had left
them on the day of strife. He raised his eyes, and
perceived a large eagle perched on the highest branch
of a tree above his head. Immediately he recognised
his manitou bird : the same that had appeared to
him in his earlier life, when he came out of the days
of childliood. It was the bird he had selected for his
tutelary spirit, and of which he had always worn a
talon suspended from his neck. His manitou had care-
fully guarded his body, and had prevented vultures
and other birds of prey from devouring it. The Chief

• t

200

GLEANINGS FROM

rose slowly, but found himself weak and reduced. The
blood from his wound had ceased to flow, and he
dressed it. He was well acquainted with the known
healing power of certain leaves and roots. He sought
them, gathering them with care in the forest, and,
crushing some between two stones, applied them ; others
he chewed and swallowed.

After the lapse of a few weary days, he felt sufficient
strength to attempt the return to his village ; but
hunger consumed him. In the absence of larger animals
he lived on the little birds which his arrows brought down,
and he varied his diet by eating insects and reptiles, also
roots and beiTies. After many hardships he arrived on
the banks of a river that separated him from wife,
children and friends. The Chief uttered the shout
agreed upon in such circumstances : the shout of the
happy return of some absent friend. The signal was
heard. A canoe was immediately sent for him. During
the absence of the canoe conjectures were numerous
concerning the absent person, whose friendly shout of
approach had just been heard. All those who had been
present in his warlike band were now in camp — the
dead alone remained on the field of battle. " Might not
the unknown on the other shore be an absent hunter,
or might not this shout be the bold ruse of an enemy
to take the scalps of the rowers ? " Whilst all these
conjectures are going on, the warlike chief embarks.
He soon presents himself before them, amid the accla-
mations and joyful shouts of his relatives and friends.

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

201

The Indians eagerly pour forth from every lodge
to shake hands with, and to celebrate the happy re-
turn of their chief and faithful conductor. That day
was for them ever memorable and solemn. They re-
turned thanks to the Great Master of Life, and to
many Manitous of the Indian calendar. The whole
day was consumed in dances, songs, and banquets.

When the first wave of astonishment and universal
joy had died away, and somewhat of usual quiet was
restored to the village, the Chief- beat his drum in
order to gather together his people. He told them the
story of his strange adventure, and terminated his
recital by making known to them and imposing upon
them " the worship of the sacred and funereal fire,'*
that is to say, the ceremony of maintaining for four con-
secutive nights a fire on every newly-closed sepulchre.
He told them that this devotion is advantageous, and
agreeable to the soul of the deceased ; that the journey
to the country of souls is four long days ; that in
this journey the soul needs a fire every night in its
encampment ; that this funereal fire, kindled on the
tomb by the near relatives of the deceased, serves to
enlighten and warm the soul during its wanderings.
The Chippeways believe that when this rite is neg-
lected, the soul or spirit is forced to maintain a fire
itself, and that with the greatest inconvenience.

^^^S^//^

CHAPTER XXVI.

" Ye who love the haunts of nature,
Love the sunshine of the meadow,
Love the shadow of the forest,
Love the wind amongst the branches,
And the rain-shower and the snow-sitorm,
And the rushing of great rivers
Through their palisades of pine trees,
And the thunder in the mountains,
Whose innumerable echoes
Flap like eagles in their eyries ;
Listen to these wild traditions." — Longfellow.

THE LENNI-LENAPI, WAKA-TANKA, WAKA-CHEEKA.

HE Lenni-Lenapi have a peculiar idea of their
first descendant, and the Missionary De Smet,
in his studies of the Indian tribes, inserted
this legend in his notes, having heard it from the
mouth of Watomika the swift footed, or ceUripes.
They believe that a Great Spirit first created land and
water, trees and plants, birds and fishes, animals and
insects, and in the last place he created the firsc Lenap
thus wise : He placed a snail on the shore of a L ,rge
and beautiful river, which had its source in a far dis-
tant mountain, near to the rising sun. After twelve

GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 203

)f their
Smet,
linserted
)m the
:eUripes.
md and
lals aud
Lenap
a li.rge
far dis-
twelve

moons had rolled away the snail hrought forth a red-
skinned man. The Red-skin, discontented with his lonely
lot, made a canoe of bark, and descended the river in
search of society. For two days he saw nothing; upon
the third day at sunset he met a beaver, who spoke
to him, saying, " Who are you ? whence do you come
from ? whither are you going ? "

The Red-skin answered, "The great Spirit is my
Father ; He gave me all the earth, with its rivers
and lakes, with the animals roaming through its
prairies and forests ; He gave me the birds flying in
the air, and the fishes swimming in the sea.'*

The Beaver, surprised and irritated by so much in-
solence and presumption, commanded silence, and ordered
the Red-skin to quit his domain immediately. A pro-
longed quarrel forthwith commenced between the Man
and the Beaver, who defended his rights. The Beaver's
only daughter, frightened at the noise, quitted her
house, and stood between the irritated man and her
father, entreating them by mild and conciliatory words
to stop their quarrel. As the snow melts under the
sun's rays, so at the voice and entreating look of the
young child, the wrath of the stranger and his adver-
sary gave place to a profound and lasting friendship
— they embraced affectionately.

To render the union more durable, the Man asked
the Beaver's daughter for his wife. After a few
moments of deep thought, the latter presented her to
him, saying, " It is the decree of the Great Spirit, I

r-,

2U4

GLEANINGS FROM

caunot oppose it ; tako my dau<,'hter, cherish and pro-
tect her ; go in peace." The man and his wife continued
their voyage to the mouth of the river.

At the entrance to a Prairie enamelled with gor-
geous flowers, shut in with luxuriant fruit-bearing trees,
in the midst of animals and birds, he built his wig-
wam. From this union sprang the Lenni-Lenapi, i.e.,
the primitive family — known now as Delawares — a
name given them by the vhites — possibly derived from
Lord Delaware, one of the early English Colonial
Governors. Originally the Delawares resided in the great
country west of the Mississippi. With the " Five
Nations," well renowned in the Indian History of the
vast American Continent, they seized and occupied
a large territory south-east of their ancient domain.

Gradually they split up into three great tribes —
"The Tortoise," "The Turkey," and "The Wolf."
tribes.

In Penu's time they occupied the whole of Pennsyl-
vania, and their possessions extended from the Potomac
to the Hudson. As the whites increased the Delawares
plunged deeper into the forests and yielded up their
lands to the conquerors ; establishing themselves in Ohio
on the margin of the Muskingum, whilst some of the
tribes regained the shores and forests of the Mississippi.
Government granted these Indians a small territory south-
west of Fort Leavenworth, on the Missouri. In 1854
they ceded this territory.

The Lenni-Lenapi believe in the existence of two

WESTERN PRA FRIES.

205

Wig-

Great Spirits — one they call Waka-Tanka, and the other
Waka-Cheeka, i.e., the Good Spirit, and the Bad Spirit ;
to these all the Manitous (or inferior Spirits), whether
g^ood or bad, must render homage and obedience.

These Indians also believe in a future state. It
consists in a place of pleasure and repose, where the
prudent in council, intrepid and courageous warriors,
unwearied hunters, and men good and hospitable will
obtain a lasting recompense.

For the forked tongues (liars), also for the slothful
and indolent, there is a place of horrors. The first place
is called Wak-an-da (country of life). The second place,
Yoon-i-un-guch (insatiable gulf which never gives up
its prey).

The " country of life " is an island vast in extent,
and of ravishing and untold beauty. A lofty mountain
rises in the centre of the island, and there upon the
summit of his mou itain-throne dwells the Great Spirit.
There he overlooks his vast domain. He traces the
interminable threadings of a thousand rivers, clear as
crystal, which adorn its shady forests and flower-
enamelled plains. He gazes down into the still
deep lakes, which reflect for ever the glorious sun.
Birds of brilliant plumage make the forests echo
and re-echo again with sweetest melodies. All noble
animals — buffaloes, elks, deer, goats and bighorns — graze
peaceably in these laughing prairies. The lakes are
never agitated by wind or tempest. Mire and slime
never mingle with the limpid waters of the rivers.

2()«)

GLEANINGS FROAF

Aquatic birds, otters, beavers, and fishes abound in
them. Eternal spring reigns. Souls admitted into this
realm regain their strength, and are free from all
diseases. They experience no fatigue in hunting, and
have no need of sleep or rest.

The Yoon-i-un-guch, on the other hand, environing
"the country of life," is a broad, deep water, presenting
an endless succession of cataracts and yawning gulfs,
in which the roaring of the waves is frightful. On
the summit of a rugged rock, which rises for ever
above the wildest and angriest waves, dwells the Spirit of
Evil. A fox lying in wait, a vulture ready to dart upon
its prey. Waka-Cheeka watches the passage of souls
to "the country of life.'* This passage is so narrow
that only one soul at a time can possibly cross the
bridge. The Bad Spirit presents himself in most hideous
forms, and attacks each soul in turn. The cowardly,
indolent soul immediately prepares for flight. Waka-
Cheeka seizes it, and throws it into the open gulf,
which never yields up its victim.

Another version says the Great Spirit has suspended
a bunch of beautiful red bay berries in the middle
of the bridge, to try the virtue of those who cross
it in their voyage to the "country of life." The
Indian who has been active, and indefatigable in hunt-
ing, or victorious in war, avoids the tempting fruit.
On -the contrary, indolent and cowardly souls, tempted
by the fascinating bays, stop and stretch out their
hands to rtach it; instantly the timbers composing the

WESTERN PRAntlES.

207

Lded
Iddle
jross
I The
lunt-
Iruit.
)ted
their
the

bridge sink heavily beneath them, and they are lost
for ever in the abyss. The Lenni-Leuapi believe that
the existence of good and evil spirits dates back to
so remote an epoch that it is impossible for man to
conceive its commencement ; these spirits are immut-
able, and death has no empire over them. These spirits
of good and evil created the Manitous, or inferior spirits,
who also enjoy immortality. All earthly blessings are
attributed to the Good Spirit ; light and heat, health,
the various productions of nature, and success on the
war trail, and in the hunting grounds. From the Wicked
Spirit comes contradiction and misfortunes, darkness, cold
and hunger, failure on the war trail and in the hunting
grounds, thii-st, sickness, old age and death.

The poor Manitous cannot of themselves do good or
evil; they are but mediators of the Great Spirits for
the execution of their orders. They believe the soul
to be material, although invisible and immortal ; it
does not quit the body immediately after death, but
that these two parts of men descend into the grave
together, united during several days, sometimes during
weeks and months. The soul having left the tomb,
retards still its departure, being incapable of breaking
the bonds which so intimately allied it to the body on
earth. On account of this intimate union between the
body and the soul, the Indians so carefully paint and
adorn the body before burying it, and also place pro-
visions, arras, and other utensils in the tomb. Many
Indians place a favourite dish on the tomb of their

208 GLKANiNGS FROM WESTERN PRAIIUES.

relations durinfj^ one month, convinced each time the
food disappears that the soul of the departed has ac-
cepted the offering.

It is impossible any one should read these lines
without noticing i/he striking points of resemblance
with several traditions of Religion. In these Indian
Religions are ideas of Creation, the terrestrial Paradise,
Heaven and Hell, Angels and Demons.

CHAPTER XXVI r.

" TiO ! how all things fndo and porish !
From the iiuMiuiry of tho old nieii
Kjuio awny the great traditions,
Tlifi achi»!Vftinents of tlin Warriors,
Tho advontures of tho IFunters,
All tho wisdom of tho Modas,*
All tho craft of tho \Vabenos."t — Lontj/tilmr.

SACRIFICE TO WAKA-TANKA AND TO WAKA-CUEEKA.

VJJj fl OST Indians offor two kinds of sacrifices.

Kvl n rjij^^ Leuni-Lenapi also offer sacrifice to
Waka-Tauka and Waka-Cheeka ; one to tlio
good, and one to the evil spirit.

Of these ceremonies one is general, that of Waka-
Tauka ; one is j!;rt7-//n/irt>', that of Waka-Checka.

With all that Indiaudom can give of solemnity is
the great sacrifice of Waka-Tanka celebrated in the
early spring of the year. It is made to obtain a bless-
ing on the entire Nation, that the earth may be fruitful,
that the hunting grounds may abound with beast and
bird, that the rivers and lakes may be crowded with
fish.

♦ Medas, Medicine Men. f Wabeno, a Magician, a Juggler.

210

GLEANINGS FROM

Before this great annual sacrifice the Chief calls
tof^ether his Council, composed of inferior Chiefs, senior
Wan'iors (wao must have taken scalps in war), and the
Medicine M(3n.

Their decision as to the proper time and place for
the sacrifice is announced to the tribe by an Orator ;
then every one, without exception, commences to pre-
pare himself to assist worthily at the festival, p.nd give
klai to the ceremonies. Ten days before the celebra-
tion the principal Jugglers, who have the arrangement
of the ceremonies, blacken their foreheads with a com-
position made from powdered charcoal and grease, as
a token of mourning and penance. They retire then,
either to their own wigwams or lodges, or otherwise
into the most inaccessible thickets of the neighbouritig
forests. Here, alone, they pass their time in silence,
in juggleries and practices of superstition ; they observe
a rigorous fast ; and, at the least, pass ten days in com-
plete abstinence — partaking of no nourishment.

In the meanwhile the medicine lodge is extended to
its widest dimensions ; Jl contribute to its decoration
whatever they possess of value.

The day is named. In the early light of morning
the Chiefs, followed by the Medicine Men and all the
people, in full costume, painted carefully with brilliant
colors, march in stately, savage procession to the lodge,
and participate in a religious banquet, hastily prepared.
During this repast, orators make speeches concerning
the events of the past year — upon the successes or
misfortunes of the Tribe.

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

■ill

id to
ration

rniug
the
llliaiit
lodge,
tared,
rning
or

The banquet ended, a large fire is kindled in the
centre of the lodge. Twelve stones, each one weighing
three pounds, are placed before the fire and made
red-hot. The victim^ which is a white dog, is presented
to the jugglers by the great Chief, accompanied by
his counsellors. The Sacrificant attaches the dog to
the medicine-post, consecrated to this use and painted
red. After making many supplications to Waka-Tanka,
he despatches the victim with a single blow, tears out
the heart, and divides it into three equal parts. They
now draw out from the fire the twelve red-hot stones,
and an'ange them in three heaps, on each of which
the Sacrificant places a piece of the heart, enveloped
in Sumac leaves. Whilst these pieces are consuming,
the jugglers raise with one hand their idols, and hold-
ing in the other a gourd filled with little stones, they
beat the measure ; and dancing, surround the smoking
sacrifice, at the same time imploring Waka-Tanka to
grant a full share of blessings. When the heart and
the leaves are entirely consumed, the ashes are col-
lected in a beautiful doe-skin, ornamented with beads
and embroidered with porcupine quills, and are thus
presented to the Sacrificant, who goes forth from the
lodge, preceded by four Masters of Ceremonies bearing
the skin, and followed by the whole band of Medicine
Men. After addressing the multitude, he divides the
ashes of the sacrifice into six portions. Standing in
a picturesque attitude, he casts the first towards Heaven,
entreating the Good Spirit to grant his blessing ; the

212

GLEANINGS FROM

second he spreads on the Earth, to obtain an abundance
of fruits and roots ; the remaining portions are offered
to the four cardinal points. To the East because the
light of day, the sun, is given to them ; to the West,
because of showei*8 which fertilize the plains and forests,
and supply with water the springs, rivers, and lakes,
from whence come the fish ; to the North, because
the snows and ice facilitate the operations of the chase ;
to the South, because southern gales call into life the
new verdure, and then the animals bring forth their
young. Lastly the Sacrificant implores all t-^3 elements
to be propitious.

The Medicine Men are now thanked for all they
have done to obtain the help and favour of Waka-Tanka
during the coming year. The whole Tribe joyfully
shout forth their approbation and withdraw to their
wigwams to feast and dance. The white dog is care-
fully prepared and cooked, the whole confraternity of
Medicine-Men receiving a portion in a wooden dish.

The difference between particular and general
fices consists in this : the heart of any one
may be offered to the Good Spirit by one juggler .ir y,
in presence of one individual, or one or more families,
in favour of whom the offering is made.

When any misfortune comes to a family, they im-
mediately address the Chief of the jugglera, telling him
their troubles ; this communication is made most sub-
missively, in order to obtain his intercession. He
invites three amongst the initiated to deliberate on the

saxiri-
I'mal

WESTERN PRAIRIES.

213

him
sub-
He
m the

affair. After many iucantations the Chief rises, and
makes known the causes of the anger of Waka-Cheeka.
They proceed to the Lodge of Sacrifice, kindle a huge
fire in it, and continue according to the Ritual of the
Grand Saciifice. The medicine men render themselves
as hideous as possible, painting their faces and bodies,
and wearing the most fantastical dresses, endeavouring
to resemble exteriorly the Evil Spirit whom they serve.
The supplicants now come into the lodge, and present
the entrails of a cow by way of offering, placing them-
selves opposite the Medicine-Men. The red-hot stones,
mounted in one heap, consume the entrails wrapped in
sumac leaves. The Chief draws from his medicine sack
secretly a bear's tooth, and hides it in his mouth ; cover-
ing his right eye with his hand, moaning and shrieking,
and throwing his body into horrible contortions, such
as become a lost soul entered already upon un-ending
suffering, he, vrith an agility almost impossible to follow,
pretends to draw from his eye the tooth of the bear
already hidden in his mouth.

With a fiendish look of triumph he presents it to
his too credulous clients, telling them the wrath of
Waka-Cheeka ii appeased. Several horses are then given
to the juggler, and other merchandise of value amongst
the Tribe. And, poor deluded people, they leave the
place of Sacrifice joyous and content.

The time has come, dear Reader, for us to say
good-bye. For a moment we seem to stand again, as

214 GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES.

we English explorers of that Western Prairie life stood,
awaiting upon the departure platform of the little
Mission Station the train that was to separate us from
that Western World.

Like friends passing one another in Express Trains,
we have but caught a glimpse of each other ; our routes
lie in different directions, and with regret we part,
although we have so much still left unsaid. But if
you find as much interest in reading as we did in
studying Prairie life, we shall wring each other's hands
as heartily in saying Good-bye, as many, of those Western
Rancliemen wrung ours thousands of miles away upon
the Western Prairies.

And now, book, go forth, bearing upon thy pages
these gleanings of Prairie life. Like all gleanings, thou
art imperfect and be-drabbled. Imperfectly are thy
chapters bound into a sheaf, in which I trace the
silver thread of life ; the crimson of poured but
blood — yea, and the blackened foot of death, has
passed over thee ; yet, still I ask thee to perform
thy work, and to come back to me in after years,
portantes manipulos tws, bringing thy sheaves with
thee.

TUB END.

LASCINE."

3d,
,tle
om

ins,
ites
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in
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with

BY AN OXFORD MAN.

D. Aj)plcto?i 4" Co., Publishers, 549 /j; 551, Broadivay, New York.

Price 1 dol. 50.

Extracts from Criticisms:

New York Tablet, Nov. 22, 1873.
" This is a very charming story, turnins; chieHy on the vocation of
a young gentleman of birvh and fortune to the Religious Htat<; ;
the trials he had to undergo, the obstacles to surmount, and the final
success that attended his faithful and constant adherence to the end
he had in view. Some pleasing glimpses are given of life in Old
Oxford ; but, to our unna the chief charm of the book is the beauti-
ful and graphic picture it presents of the interior life of a Catholic

College in England As a collection of vivid sketches, it is

extremely interesting."

From The Reader of D. Appleton Sf Co. (Judge Tenney of Brooklyn).

" I think 'Lascine,' from the point of view in which it is written,
is strictly correct, both as to belief and ceremonies^ in its representa-
tions. It possesses more than ordinary dramatic mterest for such a
work, with much elegance and delicacy of sentiment; although
occasionally careless and negligent in t^tyle. It would exert a strong
influence in awakening the attention and confidence of the Catholic
public to the House to which it is already somewhat favourably
inclined, and sell well among them and others." — Tenney,

From the New York Sunday Citizen.

"Should anyone read between the lines," says the author, " and a
spark of nobleness, buried with the old childhood's simplicity, be
re-awakened ; should the yearnings after the good and the beautiful
take root once more in a nature sodden with worldliness, the end will
be answered, the book will have done its work."

" It will be seen from his * prologue ' that the Author sat him down
to no unworthy task ; and while the means used for the attaining of
his end may not be altogether faultless, certain it is no man can
read the book and not feel his better nature stirred to its depths. In
this ' Lascine ' differs from any Novel we have ever read.

" The work is written with great power and fervor ; the attention
is chained, not by the intensitv of the plot, or the beauty of the style.
It is seized and held fast solely by the grandeur and elevation of the
thought. In truth one should read between the lines to admire the
book . . . ' Lascine ' is a noble book. It is the out-pouring of a nature
that the mists of doubt no longer envelope ; it breathes of serener
atmosphere than the popular novelist has ks yet entered. It strikes
as deep and leaves an impression as lasting as a sermon. It does
battle with the worldliness that attracts us from noble actions ; it
elevates duty beyond love, and riches and earthly fame, and, as a
clear voice that rises above the din and jargon of this world it pro-
claims, ' Seek first the kingdom of God. and his righteousness, ana all
other things shall be added unto you.' ... &c.

The Catholic World, Monthly Magazine, No. 106, Jan., 1874 .-

"....* Lascine ' is a book that can be rer \ with great interest,
and is by no means lacking in cleverness .... We think it promises
a great deal for the future success of its young author."

From the New York Evening Mail.
" ' Lascine ' is another brief and well written Catholic Novel."

MAS e 19^9

" FOR HUSKS, FOOD."

BY THE AUTHOR OF 'LASCINE.'

Montreal and New York : D. and J. Sadlierand Co., Publiihcrs. 1874.

Frovi the Philadelphia Ledgkr.

"Though written in the form of a tale, the book ia one which
thoughtful readers will enjoy."

From the Baltimore Mirror.

"Another work from the author of ' Lascine.' Like his first it is a
work of genius ; of genius consecrated to the God of charity and
truth. ' For Husks, Food ' will be read by thousands with delight,
with ever increasing advantage to mind and heart, long after its
youthful author, amove (JhHsti 2)ercitus, shall have laid the last stone
of the temple he is building, and will have heard from the Lord of
the Temple : ' Well done, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.'

" Such thoUj-jhts as fill his pages are born of the very fountain of
divine love ar.d eternal truth. If we speak in warm commendation
we only echo what able judges have not shrunk from saying. As
regards beauty of style, elegance, and delicacy of sentiment, grandeur
and elevation of thought, &c., 'Lascine' is a noble book, elevating
duty beyond love, and riches, and earthly fame. 'B'or Husks, Food '
is even a greater book, handling more difficult, absorbing topics.
The argument upon the still vexed question of Anglican ordinations,
pp. 81) — 108, is the most succinct and convincing we have yet read."
From the Western Watchman.

" It is a well-toid tale, deeply interesting and highly

edifying. The Volume is very elegantly brought out"

From the Portland Argus.

" Remarkably well written The writer is a devout Catholic,

but careful not wantonly to offend those of other religious faiths,
and on the whole quite liberal in his views of them. The virtue and
beauty of self-denial is the lesson of the book. This volume is par-
ticularly (Xv^jigned for Catholics, .... yet it will be found quite
interesting by others than Catholics."

From the New York Tablet.

" A singular title for a book, the reader will say, and say truly, and
yet having read the book through, the title is found to be strangely
applicable and most expressive. It is, indeed, a rare book abounding
in sweet and salutary thoughts, gracefully expressed and redolent of
the delicious fragrance of Christian poetry, although meant for prose.
The story is a very simple one, merely intended, as one can see, for
the better understanding of the Author's thoughts, viz. : the exceed-
ing beauty, the inestimable value of self-denial, as a Christian virtue.
Yet no intricacy of plot, no dramatic power, could make it more
attractive than it is in its chaste religious beauty. It is dedicated to
' The Young Convert and Proto-martyr, the Saintly Deacon Stephen,'
and is written and published for the benefit of S. Stephen's Home,
28th Street, New York. Yet another reason why the beautiful book
should find especial favour in the eyes of all who love ' the little ones '
of Christ. Now that the season for school premiums is approaching
we would beg to recommend ' For Husks, Food,' to all our Schools
and Colleges."

Fh-c^ the Boston Pilot.

"This book may be summed up as a glance into Anglicanism.

.... The book may rightly be called a psychological novel

It is elegantly written, and the author knew his subject well. Many
passages and descriptions are beautiful."