A Prophetic Dream

A PROPHETIC DREAM. BY LOU LEWIS. Teyarroko, the Indian medicine man, tali of stature, with a tread not unlike that of a panther, could not have felt more proud than I, as I walked along the mountain passes toward my nook near the river's side. Perhaps it was Teyarroko, whom we met in the region of the Pottawatamie tribes, near Mt. Pisgah, that had suggested to me the idea of making medicines from herbs, for use in the camps of the pioneers. And perhaps it was Wilda's naming me Teyarroko, and my success in my enterprise, together with my big sombrero, and sun- burned face, that caused me, almost unconciously, to imitate the bold, free air of an Indian chief. And Wilda was my little Pocahontas, for so she looked, with her dusky hair and dark eyes — eyes that had grown sightless! Others, more romantic than I, would call her "The sweet songstress of the woods," but to me she was just Wilda — Wilda that could laugh and sing, though blind. I can hear her now, as I stand here adding brush to the fire which I have built under my still. Listen! She is coming along the path which I so carefully made for her. and which she has become accustomed to. She is singing her favorite song. Hear her: I slow the sail, unship the mast, Iwooed you long, but my wooing's past; My paddle will lull you into rest, Oh, drowsy wind of the drowsy west. Sleep, sleep,

A PROPHETIC DREAM. 677 By your mountain, sleep, Or down where the prairie grasses creep. Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle swings. The sun is laughing across the sky, Laughing while paddle, canoe and I, Drift, drift, Where the hills uplift On either side of the current swift. "Ah! where are you, Teyarroko?" she calls, and I run to met her, lest she get too near the river's bank. Taking her by the hand, I lead her to a moss-covered stone in the shadow of a pine, where she can talk while I work, or listen to the birds, the river, or the soughing of the winds. "Have you nothing for me to do, brother? Must I sit here always, empty-handed?" she asks. And then I run along the bank to gather wild flowers which I bring to her, and let them fall like a shower into her lap, saying, "You may play with these, and after a while I shall have you hold the bottles while I fill them with oil." With an ecstatic "0, my!" she lifts up a double handful of flowers and buries her face in them, drinking in their sweet perfume. And then she sits laughing and chatting while the great copper kettle bubbles and boils, and hums a song of faith and hope. You can almost hear it say, "It is coming, coming, coming," and the steam passes on through the pipes which lead from a wooden lid into a "bed bug" steamer, the best substitute for a condenser that could be found in camp. "What are you boiling?" asks Wilda. "I have peppermint on now." "And what will it make?" "Essence of peppermint for Mrs. Weber's baby. They say it is good for colic. "You cured grandmother's rheumatism with oil of sage, didn't you? 0, Leonard, why don't you cure my eyes, so that I can see?" The little tanned fingers reach out to me till she stands by my side, then in a burst of wild desire she cries,

: "If I could only see, if I could only see! You say we're in the Rocky mountains, and will soon reach the end of our journey; and to think that it will always be a land of darkness to me. 0, Teyarroko, can't you heal me? Believe that you can. Pray, and God will inspire you. Oh, I know he will! I know he will! She clings to me like a helpless child, and my whole being; trembles with a mighty prayer, while the boiling kettle sings on joyfully, hopefully, peacefully. My lips are close against her smooth, innocent brow, and I murmur eagerly "Let the spirit of the saints fill our beings, and in close communion with the Infinite, let us live so that the powers we crave may be ours. Little girl, you have aroused a hope upon which is staked my whole religion and future life; for why came we into this barbarous wilderness, trusting, worshiping the God of miracles, if not that we might obtain his power to make our own works marvelous in the sight of men, marvelous because of the truth, the light, the inspiration in them?" "How much like a prophet you speak, and how your words thrill me,Leonard. Now hand me the bottles, and pour in the essence of peppermint, for I am sure it is done." The bottles being filled I lead Wilda back to camp; and the afternoon finds me wandering alone among the wild growths of the hills, thinking thoughts like these: "How else could I ever know or believe? What greater testimony could I have of the truthfulness of the words spoken by these men and women who are risking all the dangers of the plains for their faith? Revelation! How beautiful is the gospel which teaches us the way such a gift is obtained. What greater gift could be given to man than that divine power to see eternal truth, and to commune with heavenly beings?" "I was but a lad of five when my own mother, whose influence was no small factor among the cultured classes of her time, left me in the hands of good natured Mrs. Ramone and joined the immortals. I had fared well in the home of the Ram ones; Aunt Harriet and Uncle Daniel, as I called them, had never shown any partiality; I was treated as one of their own, and, being the same age as their oldest son Myron, I found a companion that was brother in every way, except through the same parentage. In a

A PROPHETIC DREAM. 679 great stampede that happened upon the plains, it was Uncle Daniel who nearly lost his life in saving mine. And through a long winter of illness, it was Aunt Harriet and little Wilda that nursed me day and night. How I should like to repay them! I wonder if that mother who dwells with the spirits immortal can breathe intelligence from the unknown world, and help me to restore the sight to Wilda's eyes? "I sit down upon a bed of violets; my breath coming and going as though a great, vital, life-giving power had taken possession of my mind and soul. Twice, thrice, I rise to go, and, twice, thrice, the violets seem to call me back. Sweet violets, the tenderest of the flowers! Surely a God so full of purpose placed you here for something more useful than to adorn the lonely forest! Then, snatching up handful after handful, I carry them down to the copper kettle, build a fire under them, and offer them up as a sacrifice to a God of inspiration. Sitting with my face in my hand, I watch the flames flicker and lick the sides of the kettle, till the violets began to sing their farewell song. An hour passes; the embers die down, the life of the violets has gone into a strange essence, which I carefully put into bottles and cork tightly, returning to camp just as twilight, like a spirit swathed in some soft veil, goes creeping over the hills." * * * * The morning dawns. The choir invisible seems to send forth its- glad song upon the rays of light. There is joy bursting forth from the throats of birds, and beauty from the flowers. From her tent comes Wilda, like the goddess of justice, and as beautiful to me as the daughter of Jephthah. "This way;" and I guide her to a bit of green, take from her eyes the bandage, and gently bathe her eyes. "Where are we?" she asked. "By the last mountain that we shall have to cross." "Has it not been a long, wearisome journey? It has been three years since we left our old farm in Pennsylvania." "There! How do your eyes feel?" "I think the ulcers are gone. Tie the bandage on again." "Will you not try to open your eyelids first?"

680 1MPROVEMEN7 ERA. "Not yet. Is this the seventh day since you began to bathe them with that new oil?" "Yes." "Let us wait until the evening, the light might pain them too much. Sit down here and talk until they call us to breakfastDo you believe in dreams?" "I would not be a child of the pioneers if I did not. But all people do not dream dreams that are inspirations." "I am always dreaming things which seem almost like prophecies. Do you remember a year ago, before the ulcers began to come on my eyes, that I told you I dreamed of being so happy in the bright sunlight, among the long grasses of a meadow, when a big, black cloud arose and covered the sky, and all around me was dark. Last night I had such a different dream. I thought a beautiful city rose before my eyes. On one side a lake glistened like gold beneath the sun, and toward the east and north rose terraced hills covered with magnificent trees. Near the center, a place like a temple stood. It wa3 called the Temple of Light, and those who entered there were healed." Rising to my feet impulsively, I cry, "Come, Wilda, and look upon the future city of your dreams." We climb the rugged mountain side, as did Moses to the summit of Sinai, to worship a God of revelation, mercy, love. Almost tearing the bandage from her, "Look, Wilda, look!" — The eyelids tremble, open, close again but her arms are clasped around my neck: "Too much light," she cried in hysterical joy. Then, lifting her head while I shade her face, I look into her eyes, exclaiming, "The true light, the divine light, has come, to you and to me —eternal light!" Salt Lake City, Utah.