When Boy Meets Bear

When Boy Meets Bear By Wreno Bowers "Bear! Bear!" The fearful yells came from my young friend as he tore his way through the dense serviceberry-bushes toward me. I ran out into a little opening among the trees to get a glimpse of the bear before he vanished into the woods. "Let's go!" gasped the boy as he broke out of the bushes beside me. "Let's; go!" "Don't be afraid," I said. "That bear, at present, is too busy dodging trees to harm anybody." The boy was pale as death and he wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his trembling hand. I pointed to the opposite hillside where a waving line of brush-tops were draw- ing hurriedly up over the horizon. After the bear had disappeared over the hill I asked : "Who do you think got the biggest scare — you or the bear?" And a silly grin passed over the boy's pale face. "Let's go down and see how big his tracks are," I sug- gested. "But there might be some more in there," he immediately objected. "No danger," I assured him. "All the bears within hear- ing distance have taken to the woods." We went down to the spot where the scene had taken place, and from the boy's story, the bear's tracks, and my im- agination, I got the following narrative: The boy had been standing by a clump of serviceberry- bushes eating berries when the bear walked out from behind another clump of bushes a few rods to the west. As the boy turned, the bear rose upright on his haunches and stood with a surprised, inquiring look on his face. For a second the boy stood there as immovable as a statue, staring at the bear as if he could not believe his eyes, while the bear's face changed from an exclamation-point to a question-mark, and back to an exclamation-point again. Then suddenly the boy seemed to awaken from his trance. "Oh, Lord!" he groaned, and began to cry at the top of his voice, "Bear! Bear!"

884 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Woof! Woof!" said the bear. ("I'd better beat it or I'm a gonner.") And they both wheeled and fled. The boy spared no energy, either vocal or physical, as he plunged through the bushes to my side, while the bear was running for his life in the opposite direction. The boy's first groan had started the bear on his retreat and the fearful yelling had stimulated him into action. His huge foot-prints were left deep in the soil where he had planted his claws in his extreme hurry to get over the hill to safety. Most boys have a wrong impression of a bear. They picture him as a terrible, dangerous beast that roars and attacks people on sight. But to think of a bear in this way is to deceive your- self. When you meet a real bear you will see a harmless kind of wanderer who is just as surprised and curious as you are. The trouble is that you do not stop and open your eyes frankly to see what kind of a fellow-blunderer is before you. You are eo frightened by the innocent beast that you terrify him with your first fearful yell, and you both break all speed records in retreat. When you become better acquainted with the bear, how- ever, you will know him as a peaceable fellow, and an interest- ing one, well worth studying. He will not be the ferocious beast that you have read about in the story-books. You will find him a shiftless, clumsy brute, that roams about, eating roots and mice and ants and berries and meat and honey, and performing many laughable capers when he thinks there is no living creature watching him. Kanuis, Utah Mount King Monarch of the old Uintahs, Hail, thy majesty! Muffled in thy royal mantle, Huge form, tow'ring free; Regal head reared o'er thy fellows, Grand, majestic, proud! Crowned by lightnings 'midst the thunders Of ten million clouds. Countenance, with mien benignant, Moved by God's own hand, Record of God's will triumphant, Thee, I understand. Tridell, Utah Alice Mortal

In Memory of Ira Hatch Indian Missionary, Interpreter and Scout of Southern Utah By John R. Young A few days since I read in an old copy of the Improvement Era: "Old Jacob Petersen is dead — "As idly down the street I went I saw some wagons driven slow, And turning to an urchin, said, 'Say boy, where do these wagons go?' He lightly tossed his cap in air, And loud, and just as lightly said, 'They're going to the grave yard, sir, Old Jacob Petersen is dead.' " And then there followed ten, deep sympathetic stanzas, telling in sweet, tender tones of the noble, truthful, helpful life the quiet and humble Petersen had led. O, what a flood of recol- lections rushed through my sleepy brain. Again the sand dunes of southern Utah are before me. I hear the low, soft tones of Jacob Hamblin, when seated in the Council Circle of dusky warriors, he is pleading with them to cease indulging in their Jbrutal squaw fights and to live in peace with one another and with the white man. I also see Thales Haskell and William M. Maxwell, whose strong, heroic figures won admiration and obe- dience from the proud and haughty warriors of both the Ute and Navajo. nations. I aslo see John L. Blythe and Ira Hatch whose devotion to duty and implicit trust in Providence— the Great Spirit that governs the universe — was not surpassed even by Jacob Hamblin himself. During the struggles, trials and dangers of Dixie Indian warfare, those two men were equal to any of their heroic colaborers. Ira Hatch was born, August 5, 1835, in Cataraugus county, New York; he died September 13, 1909, in Fruitland, New Mexico. In 1852, when in his seventeenth year, he was set apart as an Indian missionary by Elder Parley P. Pratt, of the Coun- cil of the Twelve, and labored faithfully all his life in that calling. When Jacob Hamblin undertook to visit the Moqui Indians, and George A. Smith, Jr., sent on a mission to this tribe, was

886 IMPROVEMENT ERA killed by the Navajos, on Nov. 2, 1860, Ira was with the expe- dition. The company had made a dry camp. Soon after they started in the morning, they emerged from a chain of sand dunes into an open field. Here Ira and his Indian wife, Sarah, stopped to readjust their pack. They were just ready to mount their horses again, when a band of Navajo warriors swept out of the ravine, and with a war whoop, swooped down upon them. Sarah's horse in fright broke away from her, and by the time Ira could mount his horse, a plumed warrior had caught Sarah and was trying to lift her on to his horse behind him. Ira galloped up and with his whip, struck the Indian a stinging blow across his face. He dropped the woman and sped away after the war party. That was the beginning of the onslaught that ended with the death of the young missionary, George A. Smith, Jr., a sacrifice which made it possible for Jacob Hamblin and his heroic companions to return to their homes. Here is an incident which is a twin match to Jacob's fear- ful experience when the Navajos were going to roast him, un- less he would promise to have the "Mormons" give them 350 head of cattle to pay for their three sons who were murdered in Circle Valley. There seemed to have been a misunderstanding between Brother Hamblin and the Navajos. Jacob said that he was to meet them in twenty-five days at Mawabby, while they said he was to come to Peokon's (the war chief's camp), where Jacob and the Smith brothers passed through their crucial trial. At all events, when Peokon learned that Jacob had been to Mawabby, and then returned home without meeting him, he sent a messenger to Moen Coppy and notified Elders Blythe and Hatch that if they did not come at once to his camp to talk the matter over, he would come and scalp every man, woman and child at the mission. The brethren went at once. When they reached the Indian encampment they were placed in the same hogan that Jacob was placed in, the Hamblin panorama was re-enacted, the same blood-thirsty spirit was manifested, the wounded Navajo was brought in, the shirt stripped from his back and the wounds pointed to, and blood was demanded to atone for the foul deed in killing the three sons of one of their leading chiefs. All night long the thrilling trial went on, the young warriors hacked every button of from Blythe's coat. Ira told me that at least a dozen times they drew their glistening knives across Blythe's throat, yet he never trembled nor batted an eye. Happily, several of their leading old men stood up courageously for Jacob and their "Mormon" friends. About day break it was decided that Ira, who acted as interpreter, should be released, but they would keep Blythe and burn him at

IN MEMORY OF IRA HATCH 887 the stake, that his screams and his scalp should comfort the hearts of the kindred of their murdered sons. Ira told me that John L. Blythe was the bravest, most self-possessed man that he ever saw. When told what the decision was, he mildly said, "Brother Ira, tell them that / want to pray before they put me on the coals." When the request was interpreted to Peokon, he said, "Tell him to pray, and then we will put him on the coals and see whether he will cry or not." Blythe and Ira knelt down, and a spirit of pity, forgiveness and love for their dark-skinned brethren enveloped them. No anger nor revenge was manifest, but warm, heart-felt pleadings to the Great Father to bless their Navajo friends, to open their eyes that they might know who their friends were. The prayer ended, Brother Blythe asked if he should disrobe, but no answer came. For five minutes a breathless silence reigned in that hogan, then the chief spoke low to two young men, "Bring their horses and saddle them." When that was done, he said, "I believe your hearts are good and that you are our friends, but our young men are crying for blood. Get on your horses and go straight home, don't stop nor turn to the right or left, for if you do, my men will kill you, now go!" Morning had come — for twelve hours they had been under the cloud and shadow of death — as missionaries of peace, loyalty to their calling led them into the lion's den, and God in whom they trusted had delivered them. O, how I love the memory of such men, and how little the world knows of the many sacrifices our noble "Mormon" boys have made. My acquaintance with John L. Blythe was short, but his personality impressed me with the idea, that as a Scotchman, he was as true and unyielding in his loyalty to his convictions as John Knox or Sir William Wallace. But I knew Ira Hatch well; for years I had slept under the same blanket with him. To me he was a second Porter Rockwell — in courage and fidelity to his friends, noiseless and modest; yet when duty called, his enemies might have cut him into inch pieces, and he would not have cried nor begged for mercy. The last stanza, dedicated lovingly to "Old Jacob Petersen" would apply as fittingly to Ira Hatch: "He reached no heights of brilliant fame, In war, in learning, wealth or power — But with the talent God had given, He wrought his task out, hour by hour, And paved to Heaven a path of gold, By doing duties that God gave. Who'd think a hero slept beneath Our "Ira Hatch's" humble grave?" Blanding, Utah