Chapter IX: The Little Ones of the Flock

The Bishop loved the little ones of his dusky flock, and never was he so happy as when they were gathered around him. For long years he was their patient teacher, and gladly did he give up some of his time each day for their sake. Indian children are full of fun and mischief, and many were the pranks they would play upon their venerable teacher. Shrewd, too, were they to watch the effect of their capers. They knew they could go so far and no farther. When they saw the Bishop running his fingers through his hair they knew a storm was brewing, and silence would ensue.

As he looked upon their little faces a deep love would come into his heart, for he knew the life-history of each. That bright-faced little lad had been rescued from a cruel father, or that little girl had been saved from a life of degradation. During his long years in the North, over such a vast sweep of country, he had relieved and saved many a little waif. He could not bear to see them suffer, and sometimes his eyes were blinded to their imperfections. Once, hearing the sobs of a child who was being chastised, he marched to the schoolroom door and sought admittance. This not being complied with immediately, with a mighty push he drove open the door, seized the child from the teacher’s grasp, and, placing it upon his knee, soothed it with parental affection.

The story of poor old Martha is a touching one. Her daughter’s child, little Tommy, a miserable, misshapen creature, was very sick. They sent for the Bishop, who did all in his power, but in vain. The child soon passed away. Through his tender care he won their hearts, and not long after the child’s death Martha came to him one cold, dark night, and begged the Bishop “to give her some medicine to do her heart good; she had pain there ever since Tommy died.” And there, in the quietness of the mission-house, the noble teacher talked with her, telling her of the great Physician of souls, and sending her away comforted.

The story of Jennie de Nord is one of much beauty and pathos, in which we see the Bishop risking his own life to save a little child. Old De Nord was a chief among the Fort Simpson Indians. He was a noted hunter and trapper, strong and stalwart, and a loving father to his four motherless children. Jennie was the only girl of the family, a regular little vixen, with sparkling black eyes and a merry, roguish laugh. She was utterly fearless, and her power of will and body were often the cause of wonder even to her own people. She would face the wild, husky dogs of her tribe, or launch a small canoe and paddle herself to visit her father’s fish-nets. She admired her father’s gun very much, but it was too big for her to handle. One day a white man came to the camp, and as he showed his fine pistol, Jennie became much excited. She watched him closely, and stood in breathless wonder when he fired it off for the entertainment of the Indians. The next morning, when the white man awoke, his pistol was gone. Somebody had stolen it! All became alert to find the thief. Then Jennie, with her face all flushed, came forward with the weapon. She had taken it from beneath the white man’s blanket while he slept, and hugged it fondly throughout the night.

At the Bishop’s left stands Miss Mary Ellis, who for years worked among the Indians in the Yukon, and who was really the first teacher at Carcross.]

For the first few years of her life Jennie was tended by an aunt, who lavished much affection upon the child. Jennie was then given to the care of another aunt, Takatse-mo by name, who was rather a stern woman, and had several children of her own to care for. She did not act kindly towards her new charge, and made her do very hard work, such as hauling water from the river, chopping wood for the camp-fire, and many other chores about the place. Besides this, Jennie was poorly fed. The little round cheeks grew thin, and a forlorn look appeared upon her usually merry face. While her relatives and neighbours were talking about this, and wondering what to do, Jennie took the matter into her own hands, and one day suddenly disappeared from the camp. Her aunt did not worry herself at all about the girl’s departure. She said she would come back when she felt hungry; but Jennie did not come back. She had taken no food with her except a piece of hard, dried deer’s meat; neither did she have any outer covering beyond her small blanket, which had served her in early years, and was rather threadbare. The day after Jennie’s flight the neighbours, and even the aunt, became much alarmed about her. The snow was deep around Fort Simpson, and starving wolves prowled about the woods. Their howls were often heard at night, and were responded to by the camp dogs. At last it was resolved to consult the Bishop. “We must go after the child at once,” was the reply, as soon as he heard the story; and he immediately prepared to head the expedition. Snow-shoes and cloth leggings were made ready; stout moccasins, and blankets, socks, fur cap, and other things necessary for the journey. Just a little more than half an hour after the news of Jennie’s departure reached the mission-house, the Bishop and two Indians started off after the strayed waif. They found it difficult to trace her, as the previous night had been windy, and Jennie’s tiny footprints were covered up. They imagined she had gone in search of her father, who was camped some distance away. Travelling in this direction, they had much difficulty in making their way through the tangled brushwood, and often they had to follow the river in order to make any progress at all. Here they met the piercing north-east wind, which cut their faces, and formed icicles on beard and eyelashes. For ten miles they continued on their way without discovering any sign of Jennie. The Bishop felt much discouraged, and was thinking of returning to the Fort to try some other route. Suddenly one of the Indians uttered an exclamation, and pointed upwards to a faint column of smoke slowly rising among the dark fir-trees. New hope filled their hearts, and quickly climbing the banks of the stream, they made straight for the fire. Presently they caught sight of the clustered poles, which had been a wigwam, and there they found a little huddled form lying in one corner, clutching closely about her body the one poor frayed blanket. Opening her eyes, and seeing the Bishop bending over her, she uttered the pitiful word, “Ti-tin-tie” (I am hungry). Jennie had walked more than ten miles, and reaching at last De Nord’s halting-place, her strength had given out. Here she found her father’s gun, which had been left in a cache loaded. This the girl had eagerly seized, and by firing it off obtained a spark which started the fire. By this she had crouched, trying to keep life in her body, when found by the rescuers. At once a roaring fire was blazing up. Water was brought, a cup of tea made for Jennie, and after a few hours’ rest the party set out on their return trip to Fort Simpson. Jennie had to be carried most of the way, for she was not only much exhausted, but her shoes were almost worn out. In his strong arms the Bishop carried her part of the way, and how his heart must have rejoiced at finding the lost lamb! But the trip cost him much. His clothes were wet, for in places he had been forced to wade through overflowing water. He could hardly reach Fort Simpson, so great were the cramps which seized him, and for days he endured great suffering. But what did it matter? Jennie was safe, and none the worse for her experience.

Four years later the Bishop was called upon to lay poor Jennie to rest. Her father made her work harder than she was able to do. One day she started with the dogs and sleds for the woods to bring in a deer her father had killed. The journey was a long one, and when she returned to the camp tired out, she complained of not feeling well, and lying down on her bed of brushwood, died the next day.

Such a scene as this wrung the Bishop’s heart, and he did all in his power to bring the little ones into the mission-schools, where they could receive proper care. An interesting sight it was to see this shepherd returning from some long trip, bringing with him several wild, dirty little natives for his school.

Not only did the Bishop bring the children into the mission-school, but time and time again he and Mrs. Bompas received some poor little waif as their own. A few years after his consecration, little Jennie, a mere babe, was thus taken to their hearts. She came to them, so Mrs. Bompas tells us,

“At holy Christmas-tide,
When winter o’er our Northern home
Its lusty arms spread wide;
When snow-drifts gathered thick and deep,
Winds moaned in sad unrest,
My little Indian baby sought
A shelter at my breast.”

Upon this child they bestowed their affection; but alas! notwithstanding the greatest care, it gradually wasted away, and passed to the great Father above.

Some time later another was received into their home and hearts. This was Owindia (The Weeping One), who was baptized Lucy May. A terrible tragedy had been enacted at one of the Indian camps, from which the babe had been marvellously rescued. Her mother had been cruelly murdered by an angry husband, and as there was no one to care for her, the Bishop and Mrs. Bompas took the motherless child. Great was the joy they received from the little one, and with much pride she was taken to England several years later, where, after some time, she died. Mrs. Bompas beautifully tells the story of this waif in her little book, “Owindia.”

The Indian boys are great little hunters and trappers. The forest is their home, and they read the world of Nature like an open book. They have their numerous sports, too, paddling along the shore of some lake in the summer-time, or coasting down a steep hill in the winter. The bank in front of the Indian village, just across the river from Whitehorse, at times is worn smooth from numerous little moccasined feet. Approaching the place, one has to be careful not to be suddenly upset by a crouching figure, sweeping down the hill, balancing himself with much skill upon one foot. This little fellow in the picture was caught one bright day enjoying his favourite sport.

Dogs are their constant companions, and they love them dearly. It is interesting to watch Indian boys playing with these faithful animals. Though savage and vicious to strangers, they obey the slightest command of their little dusky masters. In the winter-time it is no uncommon thing to see a lad speeding along the trail drawn by two or three lank huskies. In the summer-time a rude waggon is often made, and seated upon a soap-box, the boy will drive his patient dog with much pride.

These are the bright, active lads who are brought into the mission-school, taught to read and write, and to receive the knowledge of the loving Saviour. To see the little fellows in the wild, rude state in the forest, and then behold them several months after they have entered the school, you would hardly know they were the same children. They are not naturally quick at learning from the printed page, and the Bishop at times became much discouraged at their slowness, and said it was “like writing in the sand instead of graving in the rock.”

Brush of fir-trees is laid upon the snow, and upon this the dogs huddle through the long cold nights.]

Several years ago I had a class of bright-eyed, dusky children at Whitehorse. Day after day they were instructed in the mysteries of A, B, and C. Then a list of simple words was carefully studied, such as “cat,” “dog,” “pig,” “cow” and “boy.” At last, thinking they all knew the words well, I asked the brightest boy in the room to repeat them once more for the benefit of the whole class. Bravely and proudly he started, “C—a—t, cat; d—o—g, dog.” Thus far he had no trouble. The next word was puzzling. Slowly and carefully he spelled it out, “p—i—g.” He tried hard to remember its meaning, and a breathless silence ensued. Suddenly his face cleared, and proudly he spelt it again, “p—i—g, boy.” There was a roar of laughter from his companions, and I do not think the young speller knows to this day what they laughed at.

Indian children are fond of music, and they have very sweet voices. At the Carcross Mission it is an interesting sight to see several rows of well-dressed boys and girls, with books in their hands, singing lustily some favourite hymn. Two of these little lads were recently brought to the Whitehorse Hospital for a painful treatment. Visiting them the next day, I saw a hymn-book lying by Johnny Black’s side. “Have you been reading in this?” I inquired. “We have been singing, sir,” was the reply. “And will you sing some to me?” I asked. Immediately the book was opened, and in a quavering voice the little fellow sang the hymn beginning with the following verse:

“Great God, and wilt Thou condescend
To be my Father and my Friend;
I a poor child, and Thou so high,
The Lord of earth, and air, and sky!”

Occasionally Tony, in the adjoining bed, would join in; but he was rather weak, so he could not sing much. Listening to these two little lads, I thought what a good work was being done—a work started in this diocese by Bishop Bompas—in bringing such as these to the Saviour’s feet in love and faith. These were the two little boys who at the Carcross Church took up the collection regularly every Sunday.