The Hearts of the Fathers

THE HEARTS OF THE FATHERS By Frank C. Steele Rev. Archibald Smythe-Wight, D. D., pastor of Lee Street Meth- odist church, closed his Bible and looked out of the study window. It was a dull Saturday afternoon in October. A heavy drizzle was falling and the trams rumbled drearily along the street. Blurred blotches of light were already in their windows against which were silhouetted motley groups of Lancashire working people. It was a cold, clammy day outside, but inside the preacher's study the atmosphere was smug and quiet. Every detail of the room was in harmony, the whole bespeaking good taste and culture — Oxford cul- ture. Rows of richly-bound books lined the walls, flanked with rare paintings in oil, while about the place were, among other features, a sculptured bust of an eminent bishop, bits of antique from distant corners of Europe and the Holy Land, and here and there rugs of exclusive workmanship. A fire glowed in the open fire-place. Archibald Smythe-Wight rubbed a white, delicate hand across his eyes. He was plainly fatigued. He called a maid, who soon returned with a cup of steaming bovril. "Thanks, Martha," he said quietly, as the maid turned to go. "O, I say, Martha, if Mr. Horace Summers calls, show him in at once." On the writing desk beside the Bible lay a small pad of notes held together by three tiny rings. The clergyman, after he had fin- ished the beverage, turned on an electric reading light at his elbow, and read again the inscription across the top of the first page. "What of the Dead?" His face paled a trifle as it turned appealingly upward a moment later. The light from the fire fell directly on it. It was a strong, youthful face — but sad. Marks of struggle it bore, mental struggle, soul struggle. "O, this uncertainty, this doubt, this fear," he cried, "It is maddening. This parade, this show. What will be the outcome? Wilt thou not in thine infinite mercy, Lord, give thy church again the flaming torch of revelation?" And then all was still. The massive head of Dr. Smythe-Wight fell forward on his arms resting across the open pages of the Holy Word. And the fire in the grate burned low. Outside, the trams moved like spectres through the darkness. And a factory whistle, far across the canyons of dirty houses and shops, moaned — hoarsely. The clergyman was startled a quarter of an hour later when a light tapping fell on the door of the study, and a stout, immaculately- dressed gentleman appeared.

294 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Come in, Summers, come in," cried Smythe-Wight, heartily grasping the visitor's hand. "By Jove, Smythe-Wight, you look like a corpse. Too much work and worry, old man. Better come to the south of France with me next week. Would be delighted to have you. You need a rest. This after-war chaos is wrecking you as it is a good many more over-zealous men. Let Barrett, your assistant, take your place for a fortnight — why not?" "I'll see, Summers, I'll see. It's jolly decent of you, old chap, to suggest the trip, but really, you know, I can't promise. You see — " "Yes, go on." "Well — I'm facing a big issue, Summers." And the face of the minister was grave. "Rot! Forget your religion for awhile. I notice you are going to tell us something about the dead at service tomorrow night, Archie. Take my advice — you know. I'm what they call nowadays a hard- headed business man — well, let the dead alone, Smythe-Wight. Look after the living, including yourself, or you'll be needing a first class undertaker." "Yes, Summers, that is all very well for a cold, business intellect that looks upon religion as more or less of a necessary ballast to so- ciety, but which hesitates to acknowledge its divine character. But religious folk — like my people, Summers — refuse to let the dead alone. They are asking questions — now." "Oh, I know. It's this after-war restlessness — a temporary worid insanity. And it is being fed by this silly spiritism of Lodge and Doyle and others of their ilk. It is upsetting the nation; that is, the common classes. It is not reaching the thinking people, the great leaders of business and public affairs. Thanks to good old Anglo- Saxon conservatism, these men and women have maintained their equilibrium." "Quite true, Summers, but my congregation for the most part ;.>: composed of working people and tradesmen, and they are inquisitive. I tell you, they are inquisitive." "Well— " "Well — I must speak, and — and — I must tell them — " "Nothing." "What do you mean, Summers?" "Just what I say. I repeat, tell them nothing about their dead. You don't know anything about the dead, anyway, now do you, old chap? I like to pin down you fellows of the cloth to hard facts. It is mentally stimulating and no less amusing at times." "Yes, Summers, I confess frankly — we have little specific knowl- edge of that 'unknown country.' Not since the days of St. John the Beloved, has any traveler returned to tell us about it. You are right, our knowledge of the state of the dead is limited, very limited." Summers laughed.

THE HEARTS OF THE FATHERS 295 "A little more light is due, isn't it, Archie?" "That is just it, Summers, just it. The church needs another Pentecost, additional light on the fundamental truths of the great Christian faith. Fundamental principles are being ruthlessly attacked by critics, learned and otherwise. The Bible, unfortunately, is not always clear, and for this reason it is being picked to pieces by these militant materialists. And the masses are falling hopeless victims to the many, many lies abroad in the earth." "Of course, they are. And there is a reason, Smy the- Wight. The church, sound at heart though she is, has not kept pace with the times. Doyle has the edge on you old-fashioned preachers. He is stark mad, I confess, but he can tell your Lancashire mill-hand all about his son, Bob, killed at the Marne. Why, even the 'Mormons' have a clearer hope to offer him than the pale, fragile church of my father, dear though she is." "My dear Summers, concerning these new movements — spiritism, Russellism, Adventism, 'Mormonism,' these strong delusions spoken of by the ancient apostles — I tell you, Summers, 'the mystery of iniquity doth already work.' This cobbler, living beneath the very shades of my church, is spreading this dangerous doctrine of hope beyond the grave. And I fear, yes, I tremble, in knowing that he is being listened to by members of my own flock." "I am not surprised," cried Summers, waving his hand. "His new doctrine sounds mighty good to simple, plodding hearts. And, speaking bluntly, old top, you preachers sing beautiful songs and deliver polished prayers and sermons, but when the working-folk ask you for bread you are forced to give them a stone, for, unfortunately. Luther and Knox and our own dear Wesley made no provisions for the salvation of poor Private Jones, who thought little of God and heaven and such things until he got in the way of a German bullet and prepared to 'go west' with thousands of his mates. No, Private Jones was not religious — but he was a pretty good chap, just the same, Summers. And you can hold out no hope for him. Your religion is pretty, but it isn't red-blooded, Archie, it isn't red-blooded." "Well, Summers, you are exceedingly critical, and I cannot al- together agree with you, but go on." "What's the use? The whole matter is of no permanent interest. Personally, as a business man, I'm for the old order, and I'm convinced that it will be restored. These waves of passion, as history shows, run their course. But we must take a sensible stand. We must do nothing to encourage this revolution of ideas that is disturbing the nation, Smythe-Wight. It is bad for business. Efficiency is away below the pre-war mark. Contentment must be restored, and the power to restore it lies in the solid, sober, unmoveable old church, the very church I have been calling a laggard." "But, Summers, while I agree with you in the main on these points, what stand must the church take in the crisis?"

296 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Archie, think a minute. As I view it, the church must stand on the rock of her traditions. To renounce these would undermine the faith of the masses in the integrity of the church and her clergy. Stick to dogma. Fight shy of these new theories that put new and dangerous thoughts in the minds of the working classes. Denounce them Preach of heaven and of angels if you must, Smythe-Wight, but make sure your angels are not like Doyle's — make sure they wear wings." "But, Summers, if it should happen that deep down in your heart there is a lurking question concerning the scope of Christ's great plan of redemption — what then? What if your view should conflict with those of the church, as handed down through the centuries and still held as authoritative?" "Why, think as you like, Archie, but listen, don't preach it. I know how you feel. Many of us think the old church is a bit out-of-date and should be ventilated. But, my dear man, it doesn't pay. Stick to orthodoxy. Take my advice. I know men. The church will win in the end. It is merely a matter of time. She has weathered the storms so far, and although she is somewhat feeble, she'll buck up." "But this sermon tomorrow, Summers," cried Smythe-Wight despairingly. "I'll have to give the poor souls something — something to cheer them. They are looking for it." There was a merry twinkle in Summer's eyes as he said: "That ought to be easy for a shrewd preacher, Smythe-Wight." Then — "Tell them the truth — of hell, if you choose. But don't give an inch of ground. If you stick to the solid principles of the church doctrines they have been accustomed to hearing, that traditional awe, now waning a bit, will be restored. Waver, and you are lost. And listen to me, Archie, don't compromise with this simple-minded 'Mor- mon' cobbler. It is all a fraud, anyway. 'Mormonism' is an outcast among the churches, if I am not mistaken. It is neither Roman, Protestant, or Jewish. It is nothing but a — bubble." "Yes, yes, a bubble, Summers, but it doesn't burst." "Well, it will." "Yes, yes, of course, it will. The false always falls to the earth a ruin, doesn't it?" "And, Archie, hear me again. Cut out this question box at your services, at this revival you are staging against my advice. This question box will yet prove your undoing." "Nonsense, Summers, nonsense. It is one of the biggest attrac- tions at our meetings." "Very well, I suppose you know best. But do be prudent, old man. I want to see you rise in your profession. You are in line, you know, for one of the best pastorates in London. You are edu- cated, keen, virile, ambitious. Don't be a fool. Don't get carried away by these revolutionary movements. It doesn't pay, Archie. The

THE HEARTS OF THE FATHERS 297 substantial people of the nation won't stand for it, I tell you. They know what they want and they demand it." The young minister thought for a moment before he spoke. "I guess you are right, Horace, you always were." "Of course, I'm right. Come. You need a change — the sea, the salt breezes, the blue sky, the green fields — golf. These ignorant, mill folk and smoke, the monotony of the north will send you mad, stark mad." "Thanks, Summers. I'm glad you called. I feel relieved — bet- ter, steadier. You know, I just believe I'll chuck my job for a couple of weeks and go abroad with you. I really do believe it would put me on my feet." "Righto, now you are talking like your old self, Archie. The chap I knew in dear old Oxford." "Dear old Oxford." "Do you remember," cried Summers, "the day of the last boat race with Cambridge, when — " And the two men of rank were back in the delicious realm of col- lege memories. And Sunday's sermon, and the hungry hearts of plain folk sitting about lonely hearths, were forgotten. It was growing dark in the little shoe shop on Lee Street. The cobbler finished sewing a sturdy pair of children's boots, tied them neatly together, and placed them beside other boots, large and small, ranged on the shelf against the wall. This done, he adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles and lighted a sputtering gas jet. The face of the cobbler was kindly, grave and dignified, and yet humor twinkled out of a pair of clear, blue eyes. His hair was gray, his head well-shaped and striking. It sat on a pair of shoulders, slightly bent but still strong. His movements were spry and graceful. Altogether, he was what is described today as a well-preserved man. A girl, perhaps twelve, came into the little shop, running up to the cobbler and kissing his hand. "On time, I see, Lucy. I've just this minute finished them. Here they are," said the cobbler, smiling, as he wrapped the boots and handed the parcel to his agreeable little patron. "Thanks so much, Grandpa Gregory," said the child, as she threw her arms around the old man's neck and kissed his cheek. "Us children all love you so much. I just can't tell you how much I love you, grandpa." "No more, Lucy dear, than Grandpa loves you." And great tears came to the eyes of the cobbler. "And when the men down around the mill swear about you, it makes me mad, and I tell them you are a good, kind Grandpa Gregory." "I know you do, Lucy. You are loyal to your grandpa, aren't

298 IMPROVEMENT ERA you? But, Lucy dear, these men won't always laugh at me because I'm old and tell them about God and the gospel." "That is so, Grandpa. They will be sorry they ever called you bad names. I know God must feel like thrashing them." The cobbler laughed outright at this outburst of youthful indig- nation. And Lucy clenched her chubby little fists. "No, Lucy, God is patient and kind and forgiving — yes, very forgiving, just like his children should be." "Yes, Grandpa, but when they call you old 'Mormon' I just feel like thrashing them myself. I do. And then — when — I get alone I cry 'cause I know you are good and kind to poor people like us." The old man wiped his eyes. "And, Grandpa," Lucy sobbed, "they do say you are going a long, long way off over the sea to America. But you are not, are you? We won't let you." "Yes, Lucy dear, some day Grandpa Gregory may leave Bolton." "O no, no," cried the little suppliant tearfully. "You wouldn't go away, would you, without me and Bobby and Mama?" "Lucy, my child, calm yourself. I am not going to leave you for a long time yet. Besides, you must stay in Bolton and go to school, help your mother with Bobby, and grow up to be a good and noble young lady, a school teacher, perhaps. But look, Lucy, it is getting dark outside. You must run home now." Reluctantly, the child obeyed, pressing a farewell kiss on the cobbler's hard hand. "Goodnight, Lucy. God bless you and Bobby and your mama." "Goodnight, dear Grandpa." And the mite was swallowed up in the fog. Later, in the same evening, Lucy sat at the feet of her mother before a blazing grate fire. Bobby was busy making a ship on one side of the polished fender, while Flossie, the family cat, lay comfort- ably curled up on the opposite side. Out of doors it was raining, the gusts of wind and sleet pelting the windows in intermittent volleys. "Isn't God good to us, Lucy? We have plenty to eat and wear and a nice warm house to live in," said Mrs. Curtis, as she stroked her daughter's curls. "Yes, indeed, Mama, and Grandpa Gregory says the Lord will always care for his children no matter where they are. He'll even for- give sinners, Mama, if only they'll be real, real sorry and pray to him." "Did Grandpa Gregory say that, dear?" "Yes, Mama, and many more grand things." "What other things, Lucy?" "Well, he says that Brother Jack is alright, and that he will not be tormented forever and ever. He says he will hear of Jesus and some day will accept him as his Savior, and that we shall meet Jack again

THE HEARTS OF THE FATHERS 199 in heaven if we live right. And, Mama, this made me feel very happy." Lucy's wistful, brown eyes lighted up with joy. There was silence in which the minds of both mother and child recalled a precious memory — the memory of Jack Curtis, who with thousands of British Tommies had given his life, young, vigor- ous and full of promise, in the Great War, at that time, just ended. "Can this be true?" said the mother softly, as she gazed into the grave eyes of her child. "Lucy, your brother was a good boy, an honest, hard-working boy, but rough and careless at times, especially after daddy left us. But he was a good boy, was Jack." "I know he was, Mama, and so does Grampa Gregory. He knew brother so well, you know, Mama. I believe what Grandpa Gregory says. I wouldn't like God if he punished Brother Jack forever and kept him in the dark place that Miss Halpenny tells us about in Sunday school class. Mama, was brother a sinner?" "He wasn't perfect, Lucy, and he never joined the church. He didn't like the minister and his sermons. He used to say they didn't agree with the Bible. Jack knew his Bible, Lucy. No, he wasn't really a sinner, dear. He wasn't bad at heart, and he was clean — yes, I know my boy was clean." "Mama, is Grandpa Gregory a sinner?" "I don't know, Lucy, why?" "Well, Uncle Tom Weatherby doesn't like him, and says he is stirring up trouble in Bolton. He says he's a 'Mormon' and will have to get out pretty soon." "But you're mistaken, Lucy1. Your Uncle Tom has read some of Mr. Gregory's books. Why, we were only talking about them yes- terday." "Well, when he's with the crowd he says mean things about Grandpa Gregory. I've heard him. Mama, do you believe Grandpa Gregory's books?" "How could I, Lucy? The pastor says he is a false teacher, one of the enemies of Christ spoken of in the Bible. Why Lucy he is a 'Mormon'." The child's face was a study. "But, Mama, he is good and kind to poor people like us, and the pastor never sees me when he passes me. Mama, are all 'Mormons' wicked?" "The pastor says so, Lucy." "Then I don't believe the pastor." "Lucy!" "Well, Mama, I don't, for Grandpa Gregory loves me and every- body else in the world, even the men who hate him. And, Mama, he mends lots of boots for nothing. I love him, and so does Bobby." "Yep, Mumsy, he's my Grandad, I don't care what the pastor says," chimed the young ship-builder, looking up at the mention of his name.

300 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Children, hush! I forbid this talk. Remember that the pastor is God's servant and we must honor him. And, Lucy, Mr. Smythe- Wight is going to preach a sermon about our dear, dead boys tomor- row night. He is going to settle all this talk we've been hearing since this dreadful war." "O, Mama, may I go to the service with you? I am so interested, and I would love to hear the pastor preach in a real service. We only hear him in Sunday school, you know." "I'll see, Lucy, perhaps I'll take you this time." "And may I take Grandpa Gregory with us, Mama? Please let me." "Why, dear, this is ridiculous. Of course not. If Mr. Gregory wishes to attend service he knows the way. The church is near his shop. No, Lucy, we'll go — alone." Lucy made no answer. Her manner during the remainder of the evening was quiet and thoughtful. Soon after the talk before the fire, she kissed her mother goodnight, and with Bobby went upstairs to bed. Downstairs, Mrs. Curtis still sat before the fire. The rain was now a torrent, and the wind sighed through the half-naked branches of the trees outside the windows of the flat. The gas jet flickered. The cat, stretched at full length before the lowering embers, mewed wierdly. And the clock struck eleven. An open book lay on the floor at the woman's feet. It was a small volume, little more than a tract, and across the cover was printed the name: Rays of Living Light. The clock struck eleven-thirty. Twelve. Still the woman was be- fore the fire. But now she was kneeling in prayer — the tract clutched tightly in her two hands. * * * * * And just at that hour, in another part of the city, Rev. Dr. Archibald Smythe-Wight of Lee Street Methodist Church, awakened with a start. His head was swimming, disordered. He was cold. The room was very dark and very quiet. He was alone. Yet, was he alone? He could not answer, for he had seen a light, an open Bible, a familiar but mystifying passage from the fourth chapter of St. Peter's first epistle, sixth verse. He could not forget it. "For for this cause was the gospel preached also to them that are dead, that they might be judged according to men in the flesh, but live according to God in the spirit." The words stuck fast to his whirling brain. The experience he could not crowd out of his mind — dream, manifestation, trance, hal- lucination, vision or whatever his perplexing mental disturbance was. He was not a believer in such things. Visions were things of the past. And yet he had seen a light, the Book, the flaming words of the chief apostle.

THE HEARTS OF THE FATHERS 301 It was after three o'clock before sleep again came to the eyes of the young clergyman. * * * * * It was Sunday in Bolton. ' The cotton mills were idle, the chimneys, smokeless and gaunt, rising like lonely sentinels to meet the fog. It was another wet day, one typical of the north of England climate. A pale sun flickered feebly through the drizzle veiling the city — vast, brooding, mysterious. From his room, Dr. Archibald Smythe-Wight looked out. It was an ugly view that greeted his eyes — the backs of dingy houses, hideous in the ghastly half-light of the early morning. The minister shuddered. His face was drawn and haggard. He had slept little and the memory of the perplexing experiences of the night pursued him. What could it all mean? Arising to the issues confronting him, Smythe-Wight summoned to his aid that reserve force natural to vigorous youth. It was a momentous day — a holy day on which he had resolved to cry down the enemies of the church, to solemnly warn his flock against current evils, and to set them right once and for all on the great basic truths of the faith of their fathers. Specifically, he had resolved to denounce "Mormonism" with all the power and authority of his ministerial office, holding up before them the quiet but menacing propaganda of this ignorant shoemaker — Andrew Gregory. Yes, this "Mormon" should be the type — the Anti- Christ — he decided. It would form a dramatic climax to the sermon of the last of a series of remarkable revival meetings. As he dressed, the young clergyman felt relieved. He had reached a decision. How very important are our decisions! His course was clear. His brain was once more that cool, analytical member that had made Smythe-Wight the giant of his last year at Oxford. He ate a hearty breakfast. As he finished the meal the morning sun burst through the fog, flooding the room with its warmth. "How glorious! Methinks this is a good omen. O Lord, send us, we pray, more of thy great Light," fervently cried the pastor, as he drank in the sunshine. Scarcely had the last word of the prayer escaped his lips, than the vision of the night before appeared in startling distinctness before him. Later, when he climbed the stairs to his room to prepare for the morn- ing service, he clung to the banister. Lee Street Methodist church was crowded. The subject of the pastor's sermon had spread on wings. Com- ing at the close of the revival, a premonition of some new revelation had seized the hearts of the church folk of the neighborhood. With

302 IMPROVEMENT ERA grave and expectant faces the worshipers took their seats in the stately old church, rich in its traditions. The pulpit was high above the heads of the people. When the pastor appeared, tall and handsome in his flowing surplice, his first move was to look over the sea of faces. He was visibly moved. For a moment he surveyed the scene before him. He noticed many strangers sprinkled among his own flock. There sat Horace Summers, his trusted friend, in his pew at the front of the church, while across the aisle sat the Widow Curtis and her girl, and another. Could it be true? The cobbler of Lee Street — that "Mormon." The preacher's voice was halting as he began to speak. But soon it gained its fluency and clearness. In a stream his ringing utterances fell on the ears of his congregation. They were following every word he spoke. There was a note of victory in his voice as he threw out the challenge of the church. Fearlessly and clearly he presented the position of the church on the absolute necessity of conversion in this life; of the fixity of one's destiny at death; of the agony of the sinner, and the joy of the re- deemed. In describing the punishment of sinners his polished manner gave place to one of almost fiendish triumph. It was a bold, sweeping effort, and the people stirred in their seats. Never had they heard such preaching. In truth the preacher had ventured farther than he had dared to imagine, and when he reached the point before appointed for the grand denoument of the gray-haired cobbler sitting respectfully before him, speech failed. He could not go on. An intangible something choked back the words. And he closed his sermon abruptly. The questions came next. Hurriedly, one by one, they were disposed of, for the pastor was plainly nervous and weary. • Suddenly his face burned crimson. The sheet of paper in his hand shook violently. "The Anti-Christ!" he cried. "The Anti-Christ is here — here in our midst tonight. Look about you, beloved. I warn you again. He has submitted a question, innocent on its face as are his ways, but damning in its import. Beloved, with this solemn warning I shall leave you. I shall not answer the question submitted." "No, no, Pastor," came from half a dozen in the body of the church, "give the devil his due. Let's hear the question and your answer." "Question! Question!" Excitement was seizing the people, and staid church folk looked around them in silent condemnation of such an outrage in the sacred edifice and during divine service. "Never. I shall not soil my hands with it. Our church has already been desecrated by the presence of this man, this Anti-Christ. And yonder, yonder he sits. There is the deceiver."

THE HEARTS OF THE FATHERS 303 And the pastor pointed at Andrew Gregory, the cobbler. A hush fell over the church as hundreds of eyes followed the accusing finger of the minister. "Mormon," someone hissed. And a subdued wave of anger swept over the assemblage. Then the cobbler arose, calmly facing the young priest, now trembling with emotion. "There is some mistake," he said, and his firm, pleasing face seemed to still the waves of gathering passion as did the voice of the Master, the billows of Galilee. "I asked no ques- tions, Mr. Smy the- Wight. I came to listen and to learn." "That's true, pastor," shouted a voice in the rear. "I put in that question. Mr. Gregory had nothing to do with it." A cynical smile swept over the preacher's countenance at this. "Very well, Brother Weatherby, perhaps you can tell us the question." "That I can, sir that I can. I know the question you are now holding in your hand." "Very well — go on, tell us." There was a breathless stillness. Then the broad Lancashire voice of Tom Weatherby rang out: "Please explain the sixth verse of the fourth chapter of First Peter: 'For this cause was the gospel preached also to them that are dead, that they might be judged according to men in the flesh, but live according to God in the spirit.' " The face of the young pastor was ashen. He started to speak but failed, and the slip of paper in his hand fluttered to the aisle beneath him. It fell at the feet of Horace Summers, who crumpled it in his hand. Dr. Smythe-Wight disappeared. A confused assistant stumbled through the remainder of the ser- vice. The people, strangely silent, filed through the lighted portals of the church into the night. The fog grew denser, and a tram grouped its way through the shadows. Widow Curtis and Lucy were again seated before the fire. The child was smiling into the face of her mother. "And some day, Mama, let's go to America and again live near Grandpa Gregory." "Perhaps, Lucy, if the Lord is willing. It is my prayer that we shall be able to emigrate to the Land of Zion and become saviors for our loved ones." "I don't exactly understand you, Mama, but I know these things make you very happy — this new gospel." "Yes, dear, O so very, very happy!" "We are very happy tonight, aren't we, Mama, just we three, and

304 IMPROVEMENT ERA somehow I feel that Brother Jack and Daddy are not far away from us, and that they are happy, too." "I, too, feel their presence, Lucy. I have for the last two weeks." "Indeed they are close, Mama, for Grandpa Gregory says they often visit the earth — that the hearts of the fathers turn to the children and the children to the fathers. That's how he says it. I don't under- stand it, Mama, yet, but it sounds so beautiful." "It is beautiful, my dear. And, Lucy, didn't Grandpa Gregory look grand when he spoke tonight. His dear, old face shone like an angel's. As soon as I saw him arise to speak, Lucy, I knew he was a man of God." "And wasn't Uncle Tom Weatherby a brick, Mama, to face the pastor and all those people? Perhaps he was thinking of Cousin Wil- ford and Cousin Lloyd killed in the war, Mama." "O, it was splendid of Uncle Tom, and I think I shall never forget the passage from St. Peter that he read." "Read it again, Mama. It has brought us so much happiness, I want to learn it by heart and surprise Grandpa Gregory tomorrow." Eagerly the mother turned the pages of the family Bible, and from the epistle of the chief apostle read: "For for this cause was the gospel preached also to them that are dead, that they might be judged according to men in the flesh, but live according to God in the spirit." And tears — tears of joy — came to the eyes of the mother and the child. Lethbridge, Canada. i This is a picture of the Providence rock quarry which supplies limestone for the Amalgamated Sugar Company's factories. It is the biggest and best of its kind in the intermountain region, so pronounced by H. L. Hammond, who took the picture at Providence, Utah.

Map showing the trail traveled from Hanksville, Utah, at the upper lefthand corner to Hite, or Tic-a-boo, at the crossing of the Colorado river, and thence to Blanding, Utah, at the extreme lower right of the map. TALES OF THE TRAILS By Joe Hickman The past is always interesting to the present. Youth sits on the knees of old age, looks into his eyes and says, '.'Tell me a story, Grandpa." Imagination makes realistic to youth that which to us older ones is bare history. Yet we would love to live over the dreams of our childhood. We would give much to realize the actual event of the Indian raid, as we did when as children we heard the story from the old man's lips and took part with him in our imagination. The past lives. Primitive man may be studied in the wilds of the African swamps. Prehistoric conditions may be known by a study of the peoples living in similar conditions today. The West of '49 may be found in isolated spots in many parts of America. One of these spots is in Southeastern Utah. On the trail that leads from the "end of the road" at Hanksville, Utah, for two hundred miles, through deep canyons, over high divides, and fords the roaring Colorado, then leads on to the end of the trail at Blanding, Utah, one may study, one may enjoy, the life of the West of '49, '65, or '80, as he chooses. In company with a congressional party, led by Congressman Daniel R. Anthony, Jr., of Kansas, and Congressman Louis C. Cramp- ton, of Michigan, I followed the trail outlined above. Along the trail

306 IMPROVEMENT ERA Top: Bell Butte on the trail about thirty miles from Hite. Bottom: Cutting out steers near Kigalia, ranger station, La Sal National Forest on our trail. we studied the life that is now past history. We heard tales of the trails, — the trail that we traveled, and those which led from it. These tales of the trails were interesting to us, the youth of today, spoken by the old man of the past. So here I chronicle a few of those Tales of the Trails. The oldest tale, not the first we heard, must be of how the trail came to be. This must be legendary, for the makers of the trail were not historic, — they did not know the art of writing. They were Indians, coming from the desert region east of the river to hunt for deer on the Henry Mountains, west of the river. They had found the possible fords before the first whites came into the region. The name of one, Tic-a-boo still exists. Friendly, is the English version

TALES OF THE TRAILS 307 of the word, and such no doubt the Indians found the crossing in comparison with the other crossings of the region. I have said that the makers of the trail did not know how to write; but they did leave records. On the rocks along the trail are the markings they made before white man came to the region. Of some of these, one may easily guess the meaning; others seem devoid of any meaning, but doubtless were clear to the red man. Of the first class is a drawing on the face of a rock at the mouth of Four Mile canyon. This canyon enters the Colorado about six miles above Tic-a-boo. The drawing is plainly of the trail that leads up the canyon to Mt. Ellsworth, one of the Henry mountains. The moun- '■ii, ^^*"- Taking the leader across the Colorado river at Hite, Utah. tain is indicated by a circular drawing and the trail is truly pictured by a crooked mark leading from what is; representative of the river. Every turn of the trail is indicated and a more true road map would be hard to find. Drawings of deer and goats in outline indicate that these animals may be found on the trail, most, however, on the moun- tain. This remains true today. Among the first to use the trail in historic times were the pros- pectors. They use it mostly to this day. Still following the lure of the evasive yellow streak they are to be found at unlooked-for inter- vals along the trail. Amasa M. Lyman, now residing at Teasdale, Utah, informs me that he drew the first buckboard over this trail ex- actly forty years ago. Copper, discovered across the river at what is known as Copper Butte, sent him on a three-hundred mile trip to Moab to record his claims. Others were after the same claim, think- ing, as did he, that it would make the one who first established his legal claims, a man of wealth. But Lyman was too quick for the

308 IMPROVEMENT ERA Top: Jess shoeing horses at noon day halt at Trachyte Canyon, near Mexican cave. Bottom: Typical sheepherder's camp along the trail on the Henry mountains in the summer, or on the deserts near the Colorado river in the winter. others, one of whom was a man named Cass Hite, for whom Hite, on the Colorado, was named. This trip of Lyman' si in the early 80's was full of excitement. As Hite was camped at the usual ford, Lyman's party made their crossing higher up the river, and under great difficulty, as the river was high and running swiftly. Swimming horses without packs furnished our party, last July, with some real excitement; and to think of taking a horse across, loaded with supplies weighing over a hundred pounds and of considerable bulk, gives one the idea that something highly important must have led them on. After making a record of their claims, Lyman's party returned and decided to cross the river at

TALES OF THE TRAILS 309 the usual ford in the night time, and thus avoid being discovered by Hite and his men. This latter party had been camped on the west side of the river all the time, thinking that if anyone desired to cross they the river all the time, thinking that if anyone desired to cross they would come there to cross and be intercepted. They themselves in- tended to cross as soon as the river lowered, and make the trip to Moab and have their claims recorded. But Lyman had beaten them. "We crossed the river," said Lyman, "nearly losing a mule on the way. We made the landing and started up the canyon. It was a dark night. Almost before I knew where we were, my horse stop- ped and pricked his ears forward. I looked and there was a campfire on one side of the trail and a bed with two men in it on the other. It was Hite's camp. Later when he heard how we had beaten him, he sent me word that he would kill me the first time we met. But when Cabinet height. we did meet he reached his hand across the table that was between us and said, 'How are you, Mr. Lyman?' " The largest stream entering the Colorado in the neighborhood of our trail is the Dirty Devil river. What is there in a name? Some- times very much. The story here is that when Powell made his his- toric trip of exploration of the Colorado river, he made camp on the banks of the river, at a spot near which is now the Hite cabin. He sent a few of his men up the river to see what they might find and about six miles up the river they observed a very muddy stream enter- ing from the west. Returning to camp, Powell asked the leader, "What kind of a river is it?"

310 IMPROVEMENT ERA "She's a dirty devil," came the response, and hence the name. Alongside the trail, across the river about twenty miles from Hite, are two graves. Zeke Johnson, the famous San Juan guide who has accomplished such feats as swimming the Colorado river at its highest, tells the story that these two graves are of soldiers killed by the Indians in the 80's. One, a local man, had been bereaved as the result of the killing of his brother by the Indians. Obtaining per- mission to go into the canyon after the savages, he was accompanied by another regular army man, and the two were set upon by the Indians. After being badly wounded they were left to be killed by the dogs of the tribe. Johnson says that this is how the story has been told to him. But D. F. Lewis, of Linwood, Kansas, says that he was with the soldiers at the time of the killing by the Indians of these two men. He says that neither of them was a soldier, though one of them did wear a soldier's uniform. They were the guide and the packer of the outfit, and were warned by the lieutenant not to go into the canyon for fear of hidden Indians. He says that if the Indians set the dogs on the wounded men, none of the soldiers ever heard them, and did not know what became of the men until thirty days afterward when they found the skeletons with some clothes left on them. These they buried alongside the trail. He says that one of the men's name was Joe Wormington, but that he does not recall the name of the other. Bishop R. A. Meeks, of Bicknell, Utah, a Representative to the State Legislature for three terms from Wayne county, is possibly the best informed man on the tales of the Henry mountains and nearby territory. He has grown from a boy, sitting in the saddle, and riding after the wild herds of cattle that his father before him started on the range in the region described. He was one of the party that traversed the trail shown on the map, and, as we lay on our blankets' in the cooling breeze that the roaring Colorado river brought to us on a July night at Hite, he told me of some of his experiences. "Did you notice the dripping cave we passed in the canyon to- day?" he asked. "That is what we call the Mexican Cave. A Mexi- can was camped in it one night to keep out of the rain, when two men rode up and asked to stay with him. He said, 'alright,' and they unsaddled and had supper with him. Then they got into a card game. When they found out that he had some money, according to the Mexican's story, because the white men were never seen again, one of them drew his gun and shot the Mexican in the jaw. The Mexican ran, and they shot at him in the dark. He hid, and three days later he crawled into Hanksville, which is about fifty miles away, and had the people there help him bind up his wound." "Is it not a little dangerous to take strangers into your camp that way out here on the range?" I asked the Bishop. "I hardly think so," he replied. "Most people are perfectly safe out here, and if they aren't, it is likely that they will be worse if you

TALES OF THE TRAILS 311 Congressman Crampton (holding the camera) trying to snap Congressman Anthony while the latter sews on a button at the cabin at Hite. do not entertain them, than if you do. I slept out in my saddle blankets in a man's dooryard, on the south end of the Henry once, though. I guess he thought I was one not to trust, or else he had something in the house that he did not want me to see. I rode into his field just at night and told him I would like to stay with him as my camp was about thirty miles away. He said he couldn't take care of me, so I just unsaddled and turned my horse in his pasture and rolled up in my saddle blankets right in his dooryard. "I remember once when I was a boy that my father and I saw a bareheaded man across one of our desert flats on the other side of the Henry. When we called to him, he began to run. We chased

312 IMPROVEMENT ERA him and finally he got cooled down and told us that he had been lost in the region for six weeks. We tried to get him to go with us, but he told us that he was going in a different direction, so we gave him all the food and other supplies that we could get him to take, and he left us the next morning. I never heard of him again. "Sometimes I have met men here who would not tell their names, nor their business. A fellow rode into our camp about twenty years ago after we had gone to bed. Father asked him who he was and he said, 'Rip Van Winkle, and if anyone comes along this way later you tell them that Rip Van Winkle stayed with you tonight.' He stayed with us and left the next morning. When we got home later, we read of a bank robbery in San Pete county, and often won- dered if this man was one of the holdups." "This trail used to be one of the principal routes for outlaws to get away from justice. And it could not have been better arranged for that purpose. One being pursued could stop at any number of points that would afford him observation of his pursuers and make it practically certain that the followers could be shot before seeing their quarry. For this reason, the outlaws found themselves practically safe, once they got on the trail. Following it they could make their way to the Colorado which they would ford and then find them- selves in a practically new territory. Meeks says that in the early days great herds of cattle and bands of horses were often stolen and driven off the Henry mountain range and across the river at Hite, or Tic-a- boo. But he does not believe that any of this kind of work is being done at the present time, because of the close relationship now exist- ing between the legitimate stockmen on both sides of the river. Those on the east side of the river look out for the interests of those on the west side, while those on the west do likewise for their neighbors on the east. Cattle rustling over this trail is now a thing of the past, in the judgment of the men who use the neighboring ranges. Bxknell, Utah Kanab, Utah