BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS.
By A. Stuttaford
THE following story, among several others, was related a long time ago by a missionary who labored for many years among the North American Indians. On the occasion of one of his return visits East, the missionary made an appeal from the pulpit in behalf of the red man. The audience became very much impressed with his story as it progressed, and finally, losing all control of themselves, gave expression to the satisfaction they felt by stamping with their feet on the floor, making a most deafening uproar. An Indian who was sitting patiently in the pulpit beside the speaker, had never before heard anything like this tumult in a place of worship, and in surprise he asked the missionary, who could not proceed for the noise, what the disturbance all meant. The missionary told him that the people were very happy. The Indian could scarcely comprehend this strange manifestation of happiness and replied, "When Indian is happy he is happy in his heart and not in his heels." This well-merited rebuke for behavior so out of harmony with the occasion and surroundings, so humorously made, could scarcely, perhaps, have been administered in a more gentle yet effective manner by his more cultured white brethren.8 But this is not the story the writer had in mind when he began this sketch. The missionary had the painful confession to make that Satan was at one time very busy sowing discord among his flock. Chiefs and leading Indians were becoming embittered against each other, and he feared a rupture between the brethren. As a final resource in the effort to bring about a reconciliation, he took into his confidence a trusty Indian and invited him to conduct service the following Sunday, and improve the occasion to lay before the brethren their error as well as he was able. The faithful, God-fearing man accepted the difficult task. When the sermon began, the Indian wove into his discourse a story which bewildered the missionary, for he could not see any fitting application that could possibly be made of it to meet the case as designed. It ran somewhat as follows:— A fine, noble fish, whom we will call Mr. Maskinonge, was one day sunning himself in a stream, when he was accosted by Mr. Mink. "Hello, Mr. Maskinonge!" said the Mink. "Good-morning, sir!" Mr. Maskinonge did not move, but only looked at him through the corner of his eye. He knew his character well and despised him. "Mr. Maskinonge, it’s a fine, bright morning, sir; isn’t it? Don’t you hear me, sir?" Still no sign of recognition, and he feels the snub most keenly. Moving off along the bank he by and by saw Mr. Sturgeon basking in the sun like his companion higher up the stream. "Pleasant morning, Mr. Sturgeon. Glad to see you enjoying yourself." No answer. Mr. Sturgeon also thought him beneath his notice. Shortly after he skulked away through the bushes and found his way back to where Mr. Maskinonge was taking things easy as before. "Mr. Maskinonge, your friend Mr. Sturgeon is just a little way from here. I thought I’d come over and tell you. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you. He’s having a good time over there alone. You had better go over and see him. [How provoking that I cannot get him to speak! Well, I’ll go down again and see if Mr. Sturgeon is there yet.]" "Hello, Mr. Sturgeon! I mentioned to Mr. Maskinonge a while ago, in passing, that you were here, and asked him to come down, but he made no answer. I thought you were great friends, but I am mistaken, perhaps; if so, I would not have interfered." "I said I thought you and Mr. Maskinonge were great friends until he refused to come to see you. I should have thought he would have been glad to pay you a visit, seeing how near you are to each other. But then it’s none of my business." "You had better be off about your business then." He sneaked away like a coward, half frightened, but recovering himself he continued to pass boldly between the two neighbors, with false reports, endeavoring to create a disturbance, until Mr. Maskinonge decided to go over and see for himself if anything was the matter. "How do you do, Mr. Sturgeon? Let’s take a spin together." "I hear you have been talking about me." "Nonsense; who told you so?" As they went along together Mr. Maskinonge accidentally bumped against his friend, and apologized. Mr. Sturgeon was getting irritated, but said nothing. Further on he got another harder bump than before, when he lost his temper completely. "Now I believe you have been scandalizing me, and I am not going to be insulted and abused in this manner." He thereupon turned upon his neighbor and hurt him worse than he had intended. Smarting with pain, Mr. Maskinonge returned the blow, and then a battle began in earnest, until finally, making desperate plunges at each other, and being blinded with rage, they found themselves carried by the shock of the last encounter high and dry upon the bank, beyond the reach of help, and at the mercy of their common enemy, Mr. Mink, who gloated over the success of a deep-laid plot to accomplish by slander what could not have been done by the ordinary methods employed for entrapping smaller fish. Whatever misgivings the missionary may have had at the commencement of the sermon as to the appropriateness of the story, they certainly vanished before its close. NOTE.—The missionary hailed from the Maritime Provinces bordering on Eastern Canada, and after many years of faithful service for the Master in the field of his choice among the red men of the prairies of the Great Canadian Northwest, the sad intelligence was received by telegram just before the close of a Sunday-evening service in the Methodist Church at the Canadian capital that his lifeless body had been found buried in the snow, where he had perished while in the discharge of duty.