The summer following the visit of Oowikapun, Kistayimoowin had taken his wife and his niece and gone out to an island in one of the large lakes to hunt and fish. Theirs was the only wigwam on that island that summer. While out in a small canoe on the lake one day shooting ducks, his gun, which was an old flintlock, unfortunately burst, and, not only severely wounded him, but caused him to upset the canoe while out about half a mile from the shore. His wife and Astumastao heard his wild whoop of danger, and quickly realised the sad position he was in. Unfortunately they had no other canoe and no friendly helper was within range of their voices. Astumastao, however, like all Indian girls, could swim like a duck; and so without hesitancy she sprang into the lake and as rapidly as possible swam out to the rescue of her wounded uncle, who sorely needed her assistance. The explosion of the gun had nearly blown off one of his hands, and some pieces of the barrel had entered into his body. The result was that he was very helpless and weak from the loss of blood.
Astumastao reached him as soon as possible, and finding it impossible to right the canoe, she succeeded in tying a deerskin thong around the wounded wrist, and then resolved to try to swim with him to the shore. It was a desperate undertaking, but she knew just what to do to succeed, if it were possible. The wounded man could do nothing to help himself, so she placed him so that he could put his unwounded hand upon her back, and thus keep afloat, then she bravely struck out for the distant shore.
Only those who have tried to rescue a helpless person in the water can have any correct idea of the fearful task she had to perform; but buoyed up by hope and her naturally brave, true heart, she persevered, and, although at times almost exhausted, she succeeded in reaching the shallow water, out into which her feeble aunt had ventured to come to assist her. As well as they could, they helped or carried the almost exhausted man to the wigwam, and immediately made use of every means at their disposal to stop the wounds from which his life's blood seemed to be ebbing away.
The poor man was no sooner laid on his bed, weak and exhausted, than he turned his eyes toward Astumastao and startled her, although he spoke in a voice that was little above a whisper.
What he said was, "Nikumootah!" ("Sing!")
Astumastao hesitated not; but choking back her emotions she began in sweet and soothing notes the song we have already heard her sing:
"Jesus, my all, to heaven is gone,
He whom I fix my hopes upon;
His track I see, and I'll pursue
The narrow way, till him I view."
When she had sung two or three verses the sick man said, "Who is this Jesus?"
Not much was it that was remembered through all the long years that had passed away since Astumastao had received her last Sabbath school lesson, but she called up all she could, and in that which still clung to her memory was the matchless verse: "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." The sick man was thrilled and startled, and said, "Say it again and again!" So over and over again she repeated it. "Can you remember anything more?" he whispered.
"Not much," she replied, "only I remember that I was taught that this Jesus, the Son of the Great Spirit, said something like this: 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'"
"Did they say," said the dying man, "that that included the Indian? May he, too, go in the white man's way?"
"O yes," she answered; "I remember about that very well. The missionary was constantly telling us that the Great Spirit and his Son loved everybody--Indians as well as whites--and that we were all welcome to come to him. Indeed it must be so, for there are the words I have learned about it out of his great book: 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'"
"Sing again to me," he said. And so she sang:
"Lo! glad I come; and thou, blest Lamb,
Shalt take me to thee, as I am;
Nothing but sin have I to give;
Nothing but love shall I receive."
"What did you say his name was?" said the dying man.
"Jesus," she sobbed.
"Lift up my head," he said to his weeping wife. "Take hold of my hand, my niece," he said. "It is getting so dark I cannot see the trail. I have no guide. What did you say was his name?"
"Jesus," again she sobbed. And with that name on his lips he was gone.
Call not this picture overdrawn. Hundreds of these Indians have long lost faith in paganism, and in their hours of peril, or in the presence of death even, many of them who have learned but little about Christianity cling to those who have some knowledge of the great salvation and strive to grope into the way.
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