A GRAND OPPORTUNITY WASTED.
By S.
ONE of the saddest stories of neglected opportunities is that brought out in the following bit of Indian history. A heathen nation was longing for the Gospel, and its doors were open to receive it. It sent out its emissaries to find and bring back a knowledge of the Way. The frontier trading post, now a great city, could not teach them the way, and it was not in harmony with the practice of the St. Louis priest to put the great Book in their hands, and teach them to read it. The story of the incident follows:— One hundred years ago the Flatheads or Nez Perces held undisputed possession of a large area of country comprising portions of Montana, Idaho, and Oregon. They were the first to break away from the doctrine that there was no country to the east of the Rocky Mountains, and in the desire to learn more of the white man, a band of five chieftains was sent, in 1832, to St. Louis, the western trading point on the Mississippi River, to secure information about the God of the whites. They had heard that there was a Book owned by the white man that taught the way to the great happy hunting-grounds, where dead warriors were given seats of honor beside their chiefs. The journey was made on foot, and required a tramp of several months. The braves were given blankets, whisky, and shoes; but the great Book was not revealed. When ready to return home, the three chieftains who had survived the journey selected a spokesman, and thus addressed their friends:— “I came over a trail of many moons from the setting sun. You were the friend of my fathers, who have gone the long way. I came with one eye partly opened for more light for my people, who sit in darkness. How can I go back with both eyes closed? How can I go back blind to my blind people? I made my way to you with strong arms through many enemies and strange lands, that I might carry back much to them. I go back with both arms broken and empty. The two fathers who came with us—the braves of many winters and wars—we leave by your great water and wigwams. They were tired in many moons, and their moccasins worn out. My people sent me to get the white man's Book of heaven. You took me where you allow your women to dance, as we do not ours, and the Book was not there; you showed me images of good spirits and pictures of the good land beyond; but the Book was not among them to tell us the way. I am going back the long, sad trail to my people.” “You make my feet heavy with the burden of gifts, and my moccasins will grow old in carrying them; but the Book was not among them. When I tell my poor blind people, after one more snow in the big council, that I did not bring the Book, no word will be spoken by our old men or by our young braves. One by one they will rise up, and go out in silence. My people will die in darkness, and they will go on the long path to the other hunting-grounds. No white man will go with them, and no white man's Book to make the way plain. I have no more words.” The Flathead missionaries returned from their long journey to get the white man's Book, and reported that there was no God that excelled the Great Spirit whom they worshiped. They resolved to wage a war of extermination on those who would try to rob them of their homes, and for almost a half-century this tribe was the most formidable opponent of Northwest civilization. Not long ago an order was sent out from the government that these Indians cut their hair, and abandon the tribal blanket, and for some weeks it was feared that they would take up arms against the government. Their heathenish ghost dances were kept up for some time, and a bloody war barely avoided. How different might have been the story of these people, if the people of God had been awake to their opportunity—if Christ and His Word could always be found in those who profess His name! But while sorrowing over the opportunity which they let slip, let us not be found slumbering in the midst of the opportunities that come to us. S.