a severe snow-storm had raged for over twelve hours, and the home missionary was twenty miles away from head-quarters. his little indian pony was "all grit," as one of the settlers said, but with darkness only two hours away, the preacher began to reconsider his decision to make the valley and home that night. not a few days "queenie" and her driver had travelled fifty miles, but to-day the drifting snow almost blinded man and beast, and with eleven miles of unbeaten path on the storm-swept plain immediately before him, the missionary hesitated. at best it would be dark before he reached the bush, and he had not forgotten a former experience, when anxious hours were spent in a similar storm seeking to find the rarely-travelled road that led from the plain through the bush to the valley.
one reason out of several that made him anxious to get home was the fact that widow nairn's wood-pile needed replenishing. she was a poor friendless old woman, who had remained on a plot of ground to which she had only "squatter's rights," and while the few scattered neighbours were kindness itself, the widow was, as grayson said, so "blamed peculiar" that it was "hard to know how to do anything for her without making her mad." perhaps she could get along for one more day, and the missionary resolved to drive directly to her shack the next morning.
the decision being made, he spoke cheerily to his pony, and after a little manoeuvring, the cutter was turned around and queenie was headed towards the spot where two solitary pines rose like sentinels from the underbush. the road to pearson's was not far beyond these landmarks, and the home was one of the few he knew in this rarely-visited district.
an hour later he peered anxiously through the storm. the snow melting around his eyes made seeing difficult, and he began to fear he had taken a wood-path instead of the one intended. pulling up his pony, he listened for the jingle of bells, the bark of a dog, the call of a settler, or anything that might help him to locate some abode, but no sound except that made by the winter wind reached him. tying his pony to a poplar, he plunged ahead in an endeavour to find out something about the road he was on. in a few minutes he saw that the trees closed together again, and knew that the pony had taken the wrong track.
once more the cutter was turned around with considerable difficulty. it was a hard return journey; every sign of their own recently-made track was gone, and the snow was still falling.
no more welcome sound had been heard by any ears that day than when distinct, though somewhat distant, the tired traveller heard the bark of a dog. stopping his pony, he engaged in a barking contest, until he was sure of the direction from which the sound came. "we are all right now, thank god," he said aloud.
through the trees a light flickered a few minutes later, and soon a pioneer's home came into view. the little clearance with its low-roofed log-house was not one the missionary had seen before, but where there was a house there was hospitality on a night like this.
bill sanders was soon assisting the traveller to unhitch, and with the aid of a "bug"[*] queenie was crowded into the roughly constructed stable. there were times when it would have been both difficult and dangerous to have put her into such quarters, but that night she seemed to understand, and behaved herself accordingly.
[*] a tin lard pail fixed to hold a candle and to serve as a lantern.
the occupants of the little home consisted of father, mother, two boys and two girls. when the missionary introduced himself there was manifest embarrassment on the part of the wife, and the children gazed in wonderment from "the room" door; they were unwilling to run any risks through getting too close to this human novelty until they saw how he acted. "you see, sir, we don't have many people here, and they aren't used to strangers: i guess you are the first minister that's been in this house; and then, as the husband went to bring in a fresh supply of firewood, she added half apologetically, "but i was praying all week that god might send somebody in here that loved him. when i used to work for home missions in ontario, i never thought how much i'd long for the visit of a missionary myself some day; it's very lonesome sometimes."
before the missionary retired to his allotted space on the floor, he asked permission to read a few verses of scripture. there was no response from the father: the mother said, "yes, please."
the scripture and prayer were for the encouragement of the heavy laden, and tears were wiped away from the mother's eyes as the little group arose from kneeling.
when prayers were mentioned after breakfast the next morning, bill sanders deliberately left the shack. "two doses of religion within twelve hours" were too many for him, as he often said in after years when recalling the missionary's visit. "we've a lot to be thankful for," said the much-tried wife, as the visitor spoke a few words of encouragement. the missionary glanced at the mud floor, at the roughly-hewn table, at the round blocks used for chairs, at the newspaper curtains, at the flour-sacks that partitioned off the bedroom, at the miscellaneous and damaged collection of dishes and tins that rested on the coverless table, and wondered wherein the "lot to be thankful for" lay. "we don't get along well with the farm; somehow bill don't——." the words were checked, and nothing suggestive of complaint at the husband was uttered. "the children are well," she continued, "and they are obedient," and then, with a fine reticence that cannot be written, she added slowly, "i am trying to teach them about god; and i often tell them that if the shack isn't a credit to us, we must try to be a credit to it. you see, sir, i'm not strong, and with the little ones to look after, i can't work outside as much as a settler's wife ought; but anyhow, i'd rather leave my children a good character than anything else. yes, god knows i would."
late in the morning the storm was over, and with a promise on the part of the missionary to return again as soon as possible, and on the part of the children to come to a sunday school being started in the four-mile-distant schoolhouse, good-byes were said.
many weeks passed before the missionary could visit again the lonely little home. this time the mother, pale and trembling, was struggling from the stable with a pail of milk. inside the house lay a four-days'-old baby boy. the missionary's heart was heavy. since his last visit he had heard of the faithfulness and goodness of the wife and mother, and of the brutality of the husband and father, but he found it hard to believe that any man would compel his wife to do what this poor creature had been made to do in such a physical condition.
at first there was fight in the missionary's heart, but when the lazy, cruel husband returned from his rabbit-snaring, the fighting spirit had been replaced by a great yearning for this man's salvation. to angrily rebuke bill might only add to the wife's burden, while "the soul of all improvement is the improvement of the soul." bill's need was of a changed heart.
a prayer for guidance was breathed forth as he walked to meet one who, a few years ago, had promised to protect and love the wife whose spirit was crushed and whose heart was well-nigh broken by neglect and abuse.
the two men stood talking for some time on the evening of that now memorable day. often the pale face of an anxious, prayerful wife looked out through the tiny window. perhaps the prayer within was mightier than the simple message spoken without, but at any rate new desires and purposes were awakened in bill's heart that night. there was no sudden "light of glory," or ecstatic condition, but during the next few weeks it was evident that this man was being changed. when the missionary suggested getting his pony hitched, bill urged him to remain overnight. at retiring time, it was the father who handed a much-soiled bible to the preacher. strange that so simple an act as that should cause the wife to weep, but at that hour she saw the dawning of a new day.
three weeks later the scattered settlers "visiting" outside the schoolhouse on sunday afternoon were amazed to see bill sanders bringing his wife to church on the "jumper."
the singing in the little service was usually more hearty than harmonious. for two or three years it had been an unsettled and vexed question as to whether sam gadsley or martha mcleod was the finer singer. one faction deemed the matter settled beyond all controversy when a late arrival at the service confided to a few friends at the close that he "could hear sam, good, clear across the concession," while he "couldn't have told whether martha was there at all, at all." martha's friends felt keenly the consequent verdict of the community, deposing their champion.
to-day the missionary broke all his own previous records in the singing of "praise god from whom all blessings flow."
people said "it was a great sermon that the little parson preached" that day. although the congregation may not have known it, the preacher almost broke down in prayer, his heart was so filled with gratitude. when he shook hands with bill, there was a grip that thrilled new-comer and preacher alike. to the wife he managed to say, "i'm so glad," and the now happy woman looked as though the opening doxology had become a large part of her very self.
* * * * *
the visit of the home mission superintendent is always a great day in these isolated places, and when on his next visit he welcomed the new members into full communion, and took father, mother, and two children from the little log-house, not a few felt it was the greatest day the schoolhouse had seen.
during the subsequent days of the missionary's term of service, whenever there was work to be done, bill sanders could be counted on.
* * * * *
in the summer of 1912, after a lapse of ten years, the missionary stood once more in the valley. as is true of most western communities, everything was changed. a little city had arisen—the old schoolhouse was no more, and the once well-known places could no longer be located. but there stands a beautiful little church not far from where the old schoolhouse once stood, and one of the honoured elders bears the name of william sanders. two of his daughters teach in the sabbath school, and of the five children, a well-known business man said, "why, you'd just be proud of every one of them, if they were your own."
in the churchyard a marble slab bears the name, "mary perry sanders," and near the base, "she hath done what she could." as was her desire in the days of struggle and isolation, the patient, faithful mother had left the precious legacy of a good character to her children.
thus had the seed sown brought forth its fruit after many days. among hallowed memories, few are so precious to the missionary as that of the day when his now old friend "queenie" took the wrong road. and whenever on lonely prairie, in quiet hamlet, or noisy city, he hears a congregation sing cowper's hymn, "god moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform," he thinks of that distant, stormy winter day when a barking dog led him to a home that is now transformed, and to a darkened life that was in god's goodness guided into that light "that shineth more and more unto the perfect day."
