The Minute Man on the FrontierPuddefoot, William George
History
The Minute Man on the Frontier
Puddefoot, William George
Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.); Missions -- West (U.S.)
"As nigh as one can say, that mought be mine."
"And a fine chap he be, surely."
"A purty fine one, I reckon myself."
"How many young ones mought you have, my friend?"
"Well, stranger, that's where you have me. Sally, I say,
come to the door there! You count them childer while I name
'em--no, you name 'em, and I'll count."
So they counted out seventeen children. Paxton had his cue
now, and was ready.
"Stranger, I say," he said, "this seems to me a curious kind
of a kidntry."
"Why so, stranger?"
"Because, when I axed ye how many hogs ye had, ye could tell
me plum off; but when I axed ye how many children ye had, ye
had to count right smart before ye could tell. Seems to me
ye pay a lettle more attention to your hogs than ye do to
your childer."
"Stranger," shouted M----, "ye mought sure be the missioner.
You've got me, sure! You shall have the church in the
holler next Sunday, and me and my wife and my seventeen
shall all be there."
True to his word, he helped Paxton to establish a school.
When I was in St. Louis, there was a Sunday-school
convention there. A fine-looking young man came up to Father
Paxton, who was then in charge of the Sunday-school
Depository, and said,--
"Don't ye know me, Father Paxton?"
"No," said Paxton; "I reckon I don't recall ye."
"Well, I am from ----; and I am one of the seventeen
children of M----. And I am a delegate here, representing
over one hundred Sunday-schools sprung from that one."
VI.
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.
Perhaps no man gets such a vivid idea of the dark and bright sides of
frontier life as the general missionary. One week among the rich,
entertained sumptuously, and housed with all the luxuries of hot air
and water and the best of cooking; and then, in less than twelve
hours, he may find himself in a lumber-wagon, called a stagecoach,
bumping along over the wretched roads of a new country, and lodged at
night in a log house with the wind whistling through the chinks where
the mud has fallen out, to sit down with a family who do not taste
fresh meat for weeks together, who are twelve miles from a doctor and
as many from the post-office.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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