--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Nelson, N. L. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 22 number: 3 published: 1919-01 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Nelson, N. L., “The Gateway,” *Improvement Era* 22, no. 3 (January 1919): 208–219." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2203unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera2203unse start_page: 208 end_page: 219 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1919-01) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2203unse publication_year: 1919 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1919, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # 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