The Gateway

By N. L. Nelson

I

The low southern sun has entered holy week. The air is

crisp. At sunrise, a frost line gilds the wheel tracks, and the

dust is too lazy to fly. Yesterday was still Indian summer, but

today a subtle change has come; the copper sky of the morning

has merged into a sullen grey, accompanied with a raw bitter-

ness of cold that brings in the farmer, again and again, to warm

his benumbed fingers at the kitchen range.

It is growing late as we approach a thrifty but rather

elongated village on the eastern plain of Great Salt Lake. The

sun, instead of setting, fades into a gradually deepening mist.

From a score of chimneys brave wreaths curl upward. Presently

as many lights will begin to twinkle ; and a full moon, haloed by

an ominous circle of half -knit clouds, will cross the Wasatch.

South of the village, near the first step of the mountain,

and well set back from the road, is an old-fashioned farm-house,

standing tall and white in a grove of naked poplars, and lighted

behind only a single pair of windows. The twilight still serves

to tell what has been, and what is. The yards are scrupulously

clean. Behind a chopping block stand, neatly on end, two or

three cords of railroad ties, ready for their final service to

man. On the north, neatly ordered but somewhat ancient-

looking, are the out-buildings ; a roomy barn, once bursting with

the eloquence of rich harvests, now containing provisions for

two lonely inmates, a black horse, and a jersey cow^ a pig pen,

evidently long in disuse; a white-washed chicken-coop, still alive

within, and querulous as we approach; a spacious farm-shed

with only a single-seated buggy left for furniture.

Let us see if the melancholy story of a big past, dwindling

to a little present, is confirmed as we enter the house. We pause

at the threshold, which is ever the most eloquent monument of

a "Mormon" home. This one has been worn deep, but manifest-

ly by feet that have gone life's ways; for the neat brown paint

now on it shows scarcely a scratch. As we step within, the same

scrupulous cleanliness and order meet us on every hand — the

same effacement, by kalsomine and varnish, of little finger

marks and jack-knife carvings. No toddlers' playthings now

litter the floor, nor children's shoes and stockings.

THE GATEWAY 209

i

Yet here are still the furnishings which did noble duty a

generation ago. But today everything is spick and span; the

chairs are painted, doilied, and fixed each in its place ; and there

they stand on their good behavior from Christmas to Christmas.

The kitchen stove smiles a shiny smile at the sideboard,

which smiles back from multiple rows of glistening tin and

sparkling china. Home-made carpets deaden the footfall, and

mats — such wonderful mats, some of them dating almost to pio-

neer days — are scattered about, as if eloquent of past rather

than present comfort.

We pass hastily through the spacious parlor or living room,

for we are to meet here again; noting only that instead of the

red glow on walls and ceiling which characterized pioneer days

there is now only the cold, ghostly light of the moon, dimly

reflected, even from the whitewashed throat of the great chim-

ney.

Up sfairs — but we will not venture upstairs — yet. A long

clumber has overtaken the half-dozen chambers with their neat

but old-fashioned furnishings. And so also of the cellar, once

so full of earth's good things: a single set of shelves, boarded

off in a corner, suffice for the needs of the present occupants.

Indeed, the life-blood flows but feebly in the extremities of

the fine old home; but the house still has a warm heart, which

let us now enter with all reverence.

Can anyone doubt what that heart of the home is? Moth-

er's room is the name it has gone by ever since the mystery of

motherhood began here nearly fifty years ago. Tonight it is

aglow with a rosy sheen from the mica windows of a parlor

heater. This is Grandma Wakefield's way of answering the

sullen challenge of the skies.

II

The color scheme of the glowing stove is enhanced by the

reflection of a large, red-fringed lamp-shade, throwing its irised

circle on the snow-white cloth of the little round table, and set-

ting off with artistic effect the tall glass pitcher of milk, the two

quaint blue bowls, each with its silver spoon, the brown loaf

with its two white slices and a knife tentatively inserted for a

third, lastly a pyramid of polished Jonathans and by the side

of it a folded copy of the Deseret News.

Two chairs only, of the pretty modern set, seem to be in

use. They are both rockers. On one, invitingly near the stove,

is a pair of embroidered slippers, getting warm. In the other

chair sits — the heroine of this story.

Grandma has been knitting. One pair of men's socks, done

in gray with heel and toe of red, lie finished on the little work

210 IMPROVEMENT ERA

table by her side; and another pair, exactly similar, are nearly

done in her hands.

For the moment the nimble fingers cease, and an intense

longing comes into the sweet, sad face. Lifting the unfinished

work, she presses it to her pale cheek. It is her eyes which now

arrest attention; deep, dark eyes that are looking a thousand

miles away. Waves of tenderness surge over the fine, spiritual

face, and a tear falls unrestrained.

"God bless my noble, big-hearted boy," she prays, "and

bring him home to me."

And the "peace which passeth understanding" comes swiftly

to reassure her, as on a hundred previous occasions. "In the

Lord's own time," she murmurs, as the divine comfort sinks

into her mother's heart. Then she resumes her knitting, but

her fingers are no longer consciously guided, for her mind is

with the past.

She remembers herself a girl of eighteen in England, and

how easy it was for her to know the voice of the true Shepherd.

No sooner had she heard the Gospel message, than her heart

thrilled with a testimony; and she could not wait the advent of

spring, but needs must have the ice broken on the river to be

baptized.

Those are halcyon days in girlhood memory; for out of

her glowing spiritual reliance grew presently the romance of her

life. Among the elders was a fair-haired young man, of fi»e

form but troubled face — her own Tom through the long yeara

since — who, although he had accepted a mission, did not then

know that Joseph Smith was a prophet. Only the elders who

have passed through the same crisis, can appreciate how Tom

Wakefield felt. Amid glowing testimonies of his fellow mis-

sionaries, his heart had remained cold, his message hollow even

to himself, until his mission had become almost unbearable.

Then it was — in the hour of his Gethsemane — that she had come

like a savior into his life.

The tears of sympathy start afresh tonight, as she remem-

bers with what broken sobs the strong man confided in her;

then how they knelt together, and she taught him how to pray.

Like the breaking of a human heart — like the passionate cry,

"My Lord and my God," of that other Thomas — came to him

the dawning of the divine life, the beginning of his testimony.

And he had needed her steady, effulgent faith during all the

years since that time ; for thereby a thousand doubts had yielded

and passed into spiritual victories. The one cloud that hung

over his life now was — Tom. "Mother!" he would often ex-

claim, "if I could only have put my arms around the lad that

night, instead of sending him away!" And on these occasions

THE GATEWAY

211

it was only her rich, intuitive faith and trust that had power

to reassure him.

From thinking of Tom, Grandma Wakefield's mind moved

by easy transition to Nat, Tom's twin brother — Nat, the spir-

Drawings by Anna Lewis, Mesa, Arizona.

"Nat and Tom. her babies. * * * What reveries indeed, for the

ruddy glow of a winter evening!"

itual-minded, the incarnation of her own triumphant faith;

Nat, the fair-haired replica of her husband, the pride of his

father's heart, who had never given his parents one moment of

anxiety in his life.

Nat and Tom — her babies! With what ineffable tender-

ness her memory dwells on the lengthening chain of their inter-

212 IMPROVEMENT ERA

woven lives; the dark head pillowed by the side of the fair, as

she used to kiss the drowsy eyes good night; the thousand inci-

dents of their boyhood. What reveries for the ruddy glow of a

winter evening!

Small wonder that the elder children — she was grandmother

fifty-nine times at the family's last reunion for their golden

wedding — were almost crowded out. It was not that she loved

them less; it was only that they were the sheep safely within

the fold, while her boy, her Tom, was tonight out among the

wolves.

Ill

Painfully she traced the steps leading to Tom's wayward-

ness. He had learned to smoke cigarettes while out with a sur-

veying party during the summer of his sixteenth year. There,

also, his inherited tendency to doubt and question had been

awakened into fierce life. Naturally his skepticism led him into

negative company, and soon he had learned to drink. For in-

dulging these habits he had been dismissed from a prominent

church school the following winter.

It had been a trying time for the boy. Once he had even

turned on his own parents and laid bare, with astonishing ve-

hemence, all the doubts and objections which his negative at-

titude had encouraged to lurk in the shadows of his mind and

heart.

The father was overwhelmed.

"My boy," said he, more in grief than in anger, "you are

wrong — wrong; but it is not in my heart to censure you, for I

had to pass through all that, and know the agony of it. Go to

your mother; that's where I went to find peace."

The event proved, however, that the younger man was not

seeking peace; like Saul of old, who became Paul, he was con-

stantly primed for a fight. But Tom's mother was not seriously

alarmed. Others of her sons had been on "fool's hill;" indeed,

she reflected, it is rather the rule than the exception for boys

at a certain age to be callous to parental appeal.

Both instinct and experience taught her, moreover, that a

mother's love is never really wasted, though it may sometimes

lie fallow for years. Thus it came about that by a hundred

little unobtrusive attentions, Tom was made to feel the ten-

derness of a mother's heart.

And this quiet sympathy was beginning to tell. More and

more he turned to her as one who could understand him! The

most hopeful sign came one night when he confided to her that

Dorothy Avery was the only girl in the world for him.

Then, alas, there occurred, a few weeks later, in quick suc-

cession, the two fateful events that undid all her good work.

THE GATEWAY 213

Bishop Avery had never taken kindly to the boy since his

disgrace; perhaps because he had shown no sign of regret or

repentance. He had even gone so far as to warn his daughter

against Tom's evident infatuation.

One Friday evening, at a social in the Bishop's parlor, the

discussion having turned to religious topics, as it was wont to do

whenever Tom chose to air his strident opinions — the boy quite

forgot himself, nettled, perhaps, by the opposition of a rival

suitor of Dorothy's. Among other aspersions which he pro-

fessed to credit against "Mormonism" he declared his belief

that "Brigham Young had been responsible for the Mountain

Meadow massacre."

The whole company was shocked into silence. "0 Tom,

Tom," exclaimed Dorothy in a voice full of grief, "how could

you!" And a minute later the young people, to emphasize their

disapproval, arose in a body and bade their hostess good-night.

Tom stood for a moment at the door, apparently unable or

unwilling to frame an apology, when Bishop Avery walked in

from the library.

"I could not help overhearing," said the bishop, after Tom

was seated, "and I should like you first to understand that it has

been out of respect for your father and mother that I have re-

frained hitherto from saying what I desire to say now.

"It is not unusual to meet young men saturated with opin-

ions such as you expressed tonight; but as a rule they are young

men also saturated with tobacco and whisky, and moving in the

dissolute society implied by such personal habits. I am sorry

you have chosen such associates, and indulge such habits, even

if only occasionally; but since you have, I can only remind you

that you 'can't have your cake and eat it too.' You can no

longer continue to be a link connecting my house and my daugh-

ter with saloon bums and cheap slanders against my religion and

my people. I hope I make you understand."

Without a word the boy reached for his hat and started for

the door; stopping only an instant to glance at the set, white

face and quivering lips of Dorothy Avery. Before he reached

the gate, he heard the girl's broken sobs; but she did not call

him back.

Tom failed to go home that night. His heart was full of a

dull, voiceless pain, and he needed consolation, if mortal ever

did; but not being repentant, he instinctively avoided his

mother, and, like all his negative kind, sought surcease in dis-

sipation.

His father learned next day that he was in an Ogden sa-

loon, and was about to order his arrest, the boy being under

age, but hesitated for reasons urged by his wife. On Sunday

214 IMPROVEMENT ERA

afternoon an auto-load of uproarious joy-riders stopped at the

old farm-house; and the young man that alighted, walked un-

steadily up the path toward the house. Nat and his mother were

at meeting, but the father having seen him approaching, met

him before he reached the door.

In justification of what followed, we must remember that

the report of Bishop Avery and that of the police officer were

both fresh and rankling in the father's mind. Nevertheless, the

older man was more sorely punished than the younger; for this

parting scene left an ineffaceable grief on the father's heart.

"0 mother, mother, if you had only been here!" he cried

when, on coming home two hours later, his wife found him pros-

trated with sorrow. "I missed the opportunity God gave me of

putting my arms around the lad. But I was angry; and when I

told him the latch string was no longer on the outside for him

until he made a man of himself, his face turned white, and a

kind of fearful, hunted look came into his eyes — your eyes,

mother, only for that look, which I had never seen before.

" 'Is mother in?' he asked feebly, and that was all he said.

When I told him no, he turned and walked toward the gate; but

oh, sweetheart, it was not like the walk of our manly Tom! I

shall never forget how weak and hopeless it seemed!"

For a moment the knitting ceases, and the woman's heart

turns in pity and solicitude for the gray-haired man who through

fifty years of pioneer trials has never failed in duty or tender-

ness toward the girl he found and first loved in England.

The fact that the boy could not be found that night, al-

though they searched far and wide, preyed so continuously upon

her husband's feelings as seriously to impair his strong consti-

tution. When, therefore, the following spring, their only re-

maining son left for a mission to Australia, the farm was leased,

and life in the old home gradually narrowed itself to the limits

we found at the opening of this story.

Then came Tom's letter, undated and without address, but

postmarked San Francisco. Here are some excerpts from it:

"Tell Dorothy I was too stunned that night to say a word,

but I have done a lot of thinking since. It was she that first

opened my eyes. * * *

"I want you to thank Bishop Avery for the jolt he gave me.

I had never before thought how much the manner of a man's

thinking depends on the manner of his living. I don't know

yet that 'Mormonism' is true, but tell him that the 'Mormon'

people themselves look mighty fine to me at this distance. * *

"You're the sweetest little mother on earth; but next to you,

I'd like to get down on my knees and ask father to forgive me

• *     *     Tell  him  I'm  going  to  make  a  man  of  myself;  also
  

THE GATEWAY 215

that I'm no weakling, whatever else he may think me; for when

once I set my teeth, I found I could quit smoking and drinking

and not half try. * * *

"I can't say I'm happy — life has become too big and serious

a thing for that. I am like a man lost in the woods, and earn-

estly seeking a way out."

The letter closed with this rather mysterious passage:

"I had a friend rooming with me here — but how can I tell

the story? I simply can't, till it's done. I shall be in more

deeply before I am out, with a black cloud settling down

over me.

"But you will pray for me, won't you, mother? You are

the one being I tie to in all the world; somehow I always feel

you near me, when I need you most. Good-bye — till I make

myself worthy to lift the latch. Lovingly, Tom."

At first this letter gave hope and encouragement ; but as one

— two — three years went by without further token from the boy,

the "black cloud" settled down also over the whole Wakefield

family — with one notable exception. Tom's mother — such is the

power of those who find rest in Christ — felt a peace that radi-

ated hope to all who came within the circle of her spiritual

charm; and that meant especially two persons, her husband and

Dorothy Avery.

"The boy is in the hands of the Lord," she would assure

them. "If he is being chastened, it is because the Lord loves

him."

And so ended again this moving retrospect, with a patient

waiting of the due time of the Lord, and a fervent faith in the

outcome.

IV

Grandma Wakefield's reverie was broken by familiar foot-

falls approaching from the gate. A moment later the still splen-

did form of her husband stood in the doorway, his breath paint-

ed white, his eyes aglow with sudden admiration.

"Sweetheart!" he exclaimed in surprised delight, "you are

more beautiful tonight than when you were a girl."

And, indeed, by certain deft touches reminiscent of by-

gone days, grandma had calculated on just such an impression.

Moreover, added to the effect of the warm, rich glow of the room

about her, there was tonight a certain spiritual exaltation in

her face that seemed like a transfiguration.

"Good news, little mother — guess," he teased, as he pre-

pared to put on his slippers.

"Tell me quick," said she, fondly smoothing out the knitting

she had just completed.

"Yes, it has to do with that pair of socks. The good ship

216 IMPROVEMENT ERA

Melbourne touched at Honolulu yesterday. They may warm

the feet and also the heart of our dear missionary on Christmas

day."

"Good news, indeed, then. But what of these?" asked

Grandma, holding up the companion pair, "and of these and

these?" lifting two similar pairs from her pretty work-box —

previous Christmas gifts not yet delivered.

A shadow fell on grandpa's fine face as he looked long

into the glowing coals.

"You dear, doubting Thomas," said his wife, putting her

arms around his neck, "let me give you some good news. Tom,

our Tom, will be here for Christmas."

"O mother, mother, I do want to believe it; but how do you

know?"

"I have had a wireless — just now, since you came into the

room. I don't know how I know it, but I do know it," and her

tears of joy were already falling.

"We must have the family here to meet him; I'll telegraph

them all to come," said her husband eagerly.

"There will be no need of that, dear. I believe I dare ven-

ture this prophecy also. Did you see, as you came in, that pile

of wood cut to fit the old fireplace — half a cord of it?"

"Yes, and that reminds me I met Ralph and Will on their

way home from this direction, their cheeks as red as the axes

they swung over their shoulders.

" 'Hello, Grandpa,' the young rogues laughed. 'We're dea-

cons today. We've been out choppin' fur the widders and or-

phans, ha, ha, ha!'

"You're right, little mother; there's something brewing be-

sides a snowstorm. But we won't know nuthin' — we old ones,

will we? We'll let 'em surprise us to their fill — they can't pile

happiness of that kind on us too high, can they, dearest?"

And, indeed, locked in each other's arms, they chuckled

about the prospect, like any pair of boy and girl sweethearts

planning their first May day picnic.

"Oh, I almost forgot," exclaimed grandpa, a half hour later

as they were finishing their evening meal. "Dorothy met me at

the store and said, 'I'm coming down tonight to read you and

grandma the finest story since that about David and Jonathan.'

That's the bishop's buggy now."

"How cosy you are!" exclaimed Dorothy, entering a minute

later, followed by her father. "You two always seem like lovers

— don't they, papa? But tonight mother's room itself seems

glorified."

(Continued on page 252)

Navajo Hogan, or House. The homes of the Navajos consist of houses

made by setting poles in the ground, the sides and roof being covered with

bark, grass and earth; or, where it can be afforded, the roof is covered with

canvas, as shown in the illustration.

Traveling Over|Forgotten Trails

By Hon. Anthony W . Ivins

I — Navajo Depredations in Southern Utah

The Navajo (Na-va-ho) Indians occupy a large area of coun-

try in the northeastern part of Arizona, and are to be found, in

small numbers, in southeastern Utah and northwestern New

Mexico.

They are more numerous than any other Indian tribe in the

southwestern United States, and a people of fine physique, great

natural intelligence, and unusual industry. They are a pastoral

people, and practice agriculture to a limited extent. As long ago

as 1855, it was estimated that they had five thousand acres of land

under cultivation, principally corn, but producing small quanti-

ties of fruit, squash, melons and other vegetables.

Their homes consist of conical-shaped houses, made by

standing poles on end, which are covered with grass, bark and

earth, and are called hogans. Their dress is comfortable, and in

some instances expensive. The men wear a shirt which fits

rather closely to the body, sometimes made of cotton or woolen

cloth, often of smoked buckskin, and where it can be afforded,

of velvet, a very popular cloth among them; trousers of cloth,

buckskin or velvet, and moccasins of smoked buckskin, in the

218

IMPROVEMENT ERA

manufacture of which they are very expert; a belt, frequently of

silver ornaments, made by their own silversmiths, and a hat or

band around the head to hold back the hair. When on horseback

they wear knee leggings, and a blanket to

protect them from cold and rain.

The women wear a garment similar to

that of the men to cover the body, a short

skirt, which is held in place by a girdle of

their own weaving, buckskin leggings wourijl

round the lower limbs, and moccasins. The

hair, of which there is usually a profusion, is

gathered and tied in a knot behind.

They are the owners of many thousands

of sheep, large bands of horses, and herds of

cattle.

Women, among the Navajos, are treated

with greater respect than among any other

Indians with whom the writer is familiar. The

women among them are the equal of the men,

and this equality of the sexes is fully respect-

ed. The greater part of the outdoor work is

done by the men, while the women attend to

their domestic duties and household affairs.

The women also appear to have the greater

part of the responsibility in looking after the

sheep and horses, the girls acting as shep-

herdesses, and a Navajo would not think of

disposing of his flocks and herds without first

consulting his wife, a custom which might be

profitably adopted by more civilized people.

The excellence of the blankets, and other

fabrics woven by the Navajos is recognized

wherever these goods are found. They raise

the sheep; they shear them, card, spin and

weave the wool in the most primitive manner, six months some-

times being consumed in the manufacture of a single blanket.

Their silver-smiths are very expert workers, and many interest-

ing designs are worked out in bracelets, beads, belt ornaments

and other articles, with which they adorn their persons.

The Navajos never touch the body of a person who has died,

when it can be avoided, do not eat pork nor allow swine in

their country, and do not scalp or mutilate the bodies of en-

emies who have been slain in battle. A man has absolute con-

trol of his children while they remain under his roof, but when

grown to man and womanhood, and gone to homes of their own,

parental authority ceases. They practice plural marriage, arnf

Navajo Warrior.

His dress is of vel-

vet, the ornaments

on his belt, and

around his neck

are of silver, and

made by himself.

Note how excellent-

ly the moccasins are

made

TRAVELING OVER FORGOTTEN TRAILS 219

their form of government is patriarchal. These customs indi-

cate their Israelitish origin.

While not preeminently a warlike people, the Navajos are

brave, and fight with great courage and intelligence when at-

tacked, or fighting in defense of what they consider their

rights.

When the treaty of Gaudalupe Hidalgo was signed, in 1848,

the Navajo country, together with the remainder of this western

territory, became the property of the United States. Up to that

time little trouble had occurred between the Navajos and Amer-

icans, but for centuries they had been at war with the Mexicans,

their hereditary enemies. Under the treaty referred to, the peo-

ple of New Mexico, who were almost exclusivly Mexicans, be-

came citizens of the United States, and it became the duty of our

government to give them protection. The Navajos could not

readily understand the changed condition which made the Mex-

icans, the wards of the United States government, while the Mex-

icans, taking advantage of the greater protection which our gov-

ernment gave them, were active in acts of reprisal against their

old enemies, the result being, as might be expected, that soon

after the acquisition of the Arizona territory, war broke out be-

tween the Americans and Indians, a war which continued, with

Navajo Woman Baking Bread. She wears the ordinary costume of

women of the tribe.

only short intervals of peace, until the time that the coloniza-

tion of southern Utah and northern Arizona was undertaken by

the "Mormon" people, in the early sixties.

The Navajos, hard pressed by government forces on their