At a settlement called Swift Current, Tom undertook to photograph an old Cree squaw, who stalked away indignantly around the corner of the freight house. Away went crafty Thomas in the opposite direction, meeting the squaw just half-way around the building. Tom tried to purchase a sitting with a silver quarter, but the wrathful Indian woman poured out a torrent of Cree invective, and hooked at him with a pair of buffalo horns she held in her hands. Finally, he turned his back to her, and holding the camera backward under his arm, pressed the button and so obtained one of his best negatives on the trip.
It must be confessed that he felt rather shabby in thus procuring her portrait against her will; and to atone for his conduct, Bessie knelt beside two little Indian girls and tied bright red ribbons on their arms, to their intense delight.
At Moose-Jaw (which Mr. Houghton said was an abridgment of the Indian name meaning, “The-creek-where-the-white-man-mended-the-cart-with-a-moose’s-jaw-bone”), the travelers were shown a villainous-looking Sioux, who was one of Sitting Bull’s band that massacred General Custer and his troops a few years before. The Indians in that whole section of Canada are kept in order by mounted police – fine-looking fellows, sauntering about the station platforms with whip and spur, and by no means averse to having their pictures taken, Pet found.
All this is very pleasant, but as the day wears on, the green hills and flowery meadow-land give place to scorched, parching, alkali desert, stretching away in dry, tawny billows as far as the eye can reach. Here and there is a lake – no, a pool of dry salt, like the white ghost of a lake. The air in the cars becomes insufferably hot. Look at the thermometer, where the sun does not shine, and the air blows in through the open window. It marks full 105°. Mr. Selborne wins popularity by contracting for a large pitcher of iced lemonade, which he passes through the car. Dust and cinders pour in at doors and windows with the hot air. Waves of heat rise from the shriveled grass. Will night ever come?
Yes, it comes at last, as God’s good gifts always come, to refresh and sweeten our lives. The sky flushes with sunset light. Shadows creep up from the east; a cool breeze touches the fevered faces. Night, beautiful, restful, kindly night, spreads its wings over the weary travelers, and, still flying onward through the darkness, they sleep peacefully and dream of the dear New England hills and of home.
CHAPTER III.
A HOME LETTER
Dear mother:
I know you will want to hear from your children as often as possible, so I write to-day, for both Adelaide and myself, to tell you of our wanderings, and of the wonderful scenes in the midst of which we are resting this bright Sunday.
In my last letter mailed at Brandon, I told you about the railroad ride from Montreal, north of the Great Lakes, through the country where the Jesuit missionaries labored so nobly two centuries ago, and across the green prairies and scorched alkali desert of Manitoba.
On the morning after that terribly hot day, we looked westward – and our journey seemed likely to come to an end then and there. A mighty barrier stretched across our path from north to south. Rising dimly, through the morning mists, their summits hidden among the clouds, their tawny flanks scarred with ravines and whitened with snow, rose the Rocky Mountains.
Soon the train stopped, and we were told of a cascade in the woods near by, bearing the Indian name of Kananaskis. Off we tramped across a bit of flowery upland, snatching handfuls of aster, painted cup and harebell as we went; then down through a thicket of blue-tipped firs, until we heard the voice of many waters calling softly to us.
Another moment and we stood on the brink of the foaming, dashing, sparkling cataract, pouring grandly down its rocky path, as it had done in the days of Paul and Barnabas of Joshua; yes, and of Ahasuerus the king. At the very moment when Queen Esther, the “Star,” stood before the haughty monarch pleading for her people, the stars above shone above the white falls of Kananaskis as they do to-night; the rushing waters lifted up their voice and hastened to their work in the lonely forest; while the Father of all looked down on the silent firs, the silver stream, and the proud walls of Shushan, patient and loving, waiting for his children to know him and his wonderful works, and to love and serve him with gladness of heart.
Oh, the mountains! How we climbed and climbed, the train winding, and roaring, and straining every iron nerve to bear us to the high places! At noon we were in the midst of them. They looked down upon us with kindly faces, yet their granite peaks were awful in their grandeur, uplifted thousands upon thousands of feet above us.
I wandered with a bright young girl in our party, Miss Bessie Percival, whom the boys call “Captain Bess,” down a steep path to the river’s brink. Beneath a sheltering fir which stretched its tiny crosses above our heads, we stopped, and with a tiny, crackling fire beside us, watched the snowy heights, and the hastening river. The harebells, frailest and gentlest of flowers, were there too, to remind us that the same Hand which which —
“Set on high the firmament,
Planets on their courses guided,
Alps from Alps asunder rent,”
was his who said to the storm, “Peace, be still!” – who “considered the lilies,” and who took little children in his arms and blessed them.
The waters of the large river which ran past us were turbid with soil from their far-off source; but a small stream entered the larger one near our little fir-shaded hearthstone, and this new-comer was fresh from the snowy hill-tops, “clear as crystal.” As far down as we could see, the rivulet never lost its brightness, but swept onward with the larger stream, sweetening and purifying it, yet “unspotted,” like a true and simple life in God’s world.
There, I won’t tire you any more to-night, dear mother. How it would add to our pleasure if you were here! Adelaide gains strength every day, the wholesome, hearty companionship of these young people doing her quite as much good, I think, as the novelty and grandeur of the scenes in which she finds herself. As for me, I ought to preach better sermons all my life, for this trip. This afternoon while I was sitting on the rounded piazza of the hotel, looking out upon the valley and snowy mountain-tops, a bit of blank verse came into my mind. I’m going to write it out for you. A fellow can send his mother poetry (?) which he wouldn’t show any one else, can’t he?
Within thy holy temple have I strayed,
E’en as a weary child, who from the heat
And noonday glare hath timid refuge sought
In some cathedral’s vast and shadowy nave,
And trembles, awestruck, crouching in his rags
Where high up reared a mighty pillar stands.
Mine eyes I lift unto the hills, from whence
Cometh my help. The murmuring firs stretch forth
Their myriad tiny crosses o’er my head;
Deep rolls an organ peal of thunder down
The echoing vale, while clouds of incense float
Before the great white altar set on high.
So lift my heart, O God! and purify
Its thought, that when I walk once more
Thy minister amid the hurrying throng,
One ray of sunlight from these golden days,
One jewel from the mountain’s regal brow,
One cup of water from these springs of life,
As tokens of thy beauty, I may bear
To little ones who toil and long for rest.
P. S. I wish you knew that little “Captain Bess.”
She is one of the freshest, sweetest, most unselfish girls I ever met. Hardly an hour passes when she is not doing something for another’s comfort – adjusting