The Log School-House on the Columbia
Page 13
CHAPTER XII.
OLD JOE MEEK AND MR. SPAULDING.
One day a man in a buckskin habit came to the door of the school-house andlooked in upon the school. His face was that of a leader of men, hard andpowerful; one could see that it feared nothing, and that it looked withcontempt on whatever was artificial, affected, or insincere. His form hadthe strength and mettle of a pioneer. He rapped a loud, hard rap, andsaid, in a sturdy tone:
"May I come in?"
The master welcomed him cordially and courteously, and said:
"This is Mr. Meek, I believe?"
"Yes, old Joe Meek, the pioneer--you have heard of me."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Mann. "You have caught the spirit of Oregon--you areOregon. You have made the interest of this great country your life; Ihonor you for it. I feel the same spirit coming over me. What we do hereis done for a thousand years, for here the great life of the Anglo-Saxonrace is destined to come. I can see it; I feel it. The morning twilight oftime is about me. I can hear the Oregon calling--calling; to teach here isa glorious life; the whole of humanity is in it. I have no wish to returnto the East again."
"Stranger, give me your hand."
The New England schoolmaster took the hard hand of the old pioneer, andthe two stood there in silence.
The children could not understand the great, soul-expanding sympathy thatmade these two men friends. They gazed on Mr. Meek's buckskin jacket andtrousers with curiosity, for they were picturesque with their furs, belts,and weapons, and he looked like a warrior or a forest knight clad inarmor.
He wore the same buckskin suit when he appeared in Washington as thedelegate to Congress from Oregon. It was at the time of Polk and Dallas,and not a person in Washington probably knew him when he made hisappearance at the Congressional Hotel.
The people at the hotel stared at him as the children did now. He wentinto the great dining-room with the other Congressmen, but alone andunknown. The colored waiters laughed at him as he took his seat at thetable.
The other people at the table were served, but no one came near him. Atlast he turned and faced a hurrying colored man, and, in a voice thatsilenced the room, said:
"Waiter, come here!"
The waiter rolled up his eyes and said, "Sir?"
"Have you any big meat to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any bear?"
"Any bear? bear? No, sir."
"Any buffalo?"
"Any buffalo--buffalo? Where did you come from? No, sir."
"Well, waiter you may bring me what you have."
The waiter went away with white teeth, and a smile and titter passedaround the table. The waiter returned with the usual first course of themeal, and was about to hurry away, when the old pioneer took out hispistol and laid it down on the table, saying:
"Waiter, you stand there, I may want you; and if anybody wants to know whoI am, tell him I am Hon. Joseph Meek, the delegate of the people ofOregon."
When it was known who Mr. Meek was, he was met by Mr. Dallas, the courtlyVice-President.
"I will attend you to the reception this afternoon, where you will meetthe wives of the Congressmen," said he. "I will call for you at three."
The Vice-President called, and was surprised to find Mr. Meek still in hisbuckskins.
"You do not intend to go in that habit to the reception?" said he.
"Yes," said Mr. Meek, "or else not go at all. In the first place, I havenothing else to wear, and what is good enough for me to wear among thepeople of Oregon is good enough for their representative here."
We have given, in these two anecdotes, very nearly Mr. Meek's own words.
A few days after the visit of this most extraordinary man, another visitorcame. She was an earnest-looking woman, on an Indian pony, and there was abenevolence in her face and manner that drew the whole school intoimmediate sympathy with her. The lady was Mrs. Spaulding, one of theso-called "Brides of Oregon." Her husband had come to the Territory withDr. Whitman and his bride. The long missionary journey was the bridal tourof Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Spaulding. They were the first white women whocrossed the Rocky Mountains. It was related of Mrs. Spaulding, who had abeautiful voice, and was a member of a church quartet or choir in acountry town in New York, as a leading singer, that, just before leavingthe place for her long horseback journey of more than two thousand miles,she sang in the church the hymn beginning--
"Yes, my native land, I love thee,"
in such an affecting manner as to silence the rest of the choir, and meltthe congregation to tears:
"Home, thy joys are passing lovely, Joys no stranger's heart can tell; Happy scenes and happy country, Can I bid you all farewell? Can I leave thee, Far in heathen lands to dwell?"
This lady addressed the school, and spoke feelingly of the condition ofthe Indian race, and of the field for the teacher in the valleys of theColumbia.
Gretchen listened to the address with open heart. There are moments ofrevelation when a knowledge of one's true calling in life comes to thesoul. Faith as a blind but true guide vanishes, and the eye sees. Such wasthe hour to Gretchen. She had often felt, when playing on the violin, thatthe inspiration that gave such influence to her music should be used inteaching the tribes that were so susceptible to its influence. Thisfeeling had grown in the playing and singing of a school-song, the wordsof which were written by Mrs. Hunter, an English lady, and the wife of thefamous Dr. Hunter, which showed the heroism and fortitude of the Indiancharacter:
"The sun sets at night and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when the light fades away; Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknoomook will never complain."
The tune or melody was admirably adapted to the violin. Benjamin loved tohear it sung, and Gretchen was pleased to sing and to play it.
Mr. Mann asked Gretchen to play for Mrs. Spaulding, and she chose thissimple but expressive melody. He then asked the school to sing, and heselected the words of
"Yes, my native land, I love thee,"
to the music of Rousseau's Dream. Mrs. Spaulding could hardly keep fromjoining in the tune and hymn, then well known to all the missionarypioneers. At the words--
"In the desert let me labor, On the mountain let me tell,"
her beautiful voice rose above the school, and Gretchen's fingers trembledas she played the air.
As the lady rode away, Gretchen felt tears coming into her eyes. Theschool was dismissed, and the pupils went away, but Gretchen lingeredbehind. She told Benjamin to go to the lodge, and that she would followhim after she had had a talk with the master.
"That song is beautiful," said Gretchen. "'In the desert let me labor.'That is what I would like to do all my life. Do you suppose that I couldbecome a teacher among the Indians like Mrs. Spaulding? It would make meperfectly happy if I could. If I were to study hard, would you help me tofind such a place in life?"
Gretchen's large eyes, filled with tears, were bent earnestly on the faceof Mr. Mann.
"Yes," he said, "and if I can inspire you only to follow me in such work,it will repay me for an unknown grave in the forests of the Columbia."
Gretchen started; she trembled she knew not why, then buried her face inher arms on the rude log desk and sobbed.
She raised her head at last, and went out, singing--
"In the desert let me labor."
It was a glorious sundown in autumn. The burning disk of the sun hung inclouds of pearl like an oriel-window in a magnificent temple. Blackshadows fell on the placid waters of the Columbia, and in the limpid airunder the bluffs Indians fished for salmon, and ducks and grebes sportedin river weeds.
Marlowe Mann went away from the log school-house that night a happy man.He had seen that his plans in life were already budding. He cared littlefor himself, but only for the cause to which he devoted his life--to beginChristian education in the great empire of Oregon.
But how unexpected this episode was,
and how far from his early dreams!His spirit had inspired first of all this orphan girl from the Rhine, whohad been led here by a series of strange events. This girl had learnedfaith from her father's prayers. On the Rhine she had never so much asheard of the Columbia--the new Rhine of the sundown seas.