THE first task that William Van Orsdel found, as he journeyed westward, was at Oil City, Pennsylvania. He had a cousin at that place whom he visited, and who urged him to remain and run an oil-pump. He was offered more money for the work weekly than the country lad had ever seen at one time; so in April of the year 1870, and while on his way to a thrilling career in the West, the boy became a day-laborer. At the end of the first week in his new occupation, William was surprised to learn from the foreman that he was expected to run the pump on Sunday. When he protested against this use of the day of rest, he was told that it would be all right if he would hire a substitute.

“I’d as soon do it myself as to cause another to work on the Lord’s Day. I’ll do neither,” was the courageous reply.

William worked through the summer and into the autumn. When he announced his intention of quitting he was offered an increase in wages, although he had never worked on Sunday as his co-workers had done. Instead of earning on that day, he had used his time for the organization of a Sunday-school, and with true missionary spirit, had talked of sacred things with his fellow workmen. Just before the time that William was to leave the pumping job, the “bush meetings” were announced. Woodmen would go into the forests and cut a road as they went. When they reached a place fitted by nature for an auditorium, a rough pulpit would be erected, slab benches put in place, and all would be in readiness for a meeting.

The first night came and a large crowd, which was both serious and curious, gathered at the place of meeting, but no preacher arrived. The young oil-pumper who had organized the Sunday-school, and had talked with thoughtless workmen, was sought for and urged to preach. Modestly he assumed the role of evangelist to the waiting people, and three persons were led to know the saving power of God on that night.

For ten days the meetings continued; many people having their interest in religion rekindled, and many others made to feel the obligation of right living for the first time. From these inspiring gatherings William Van Orsdel went to Walnut Bend, an old settlement where, with the exception of funeral sermons, no religious services had been held for six years. Here a great revival occurred which lasted three weeks, and forty citizens set to work to make their community life mean more for faith and goodness than ever before.

Then followed meetings for three weeks at Oleopolis, where twenty-five people renewed their faith and endeavors. Meetings were held at Pit Hole, and continued for as long a period, and with the same encouraging result. The three places where successful meetings had been held were put into a circuit. One hundred and thirty-five members were received, and the Presiding Elder asked William to take the charge at a good salary for those days, and it included the privilege of boarding around.

The school-teachers and preachers in former times accepted “boarding around” as one of the compensations of their calling. They recognized its social value, even though dreading some of its privations. It meant that the homes of the community were opened in succession to the itinerant, who usually spent a week in the shelter of each home, sharing its luxuries and difficulties as a member of the family. He was then passed on to the next nearest neighbor until the round of homes had been made, when the process was started all over again.

But the boy evangelist turned his back on the joys of boarding around, for again came tidings from the West. The need of reinforcements for the missionaries in the Oregon territory was related to him, and tales of the settlers’ needs and of their privations. Stories reached him, too, of the brave freighters serving the people of the wilderness; so again the call of the West made the days of the boy preacher restless. That map of the Louisiana Purchase became very real in those days of decision.

Many years earlier Wilbur Fisk, who had been stirred by a strange story of the Indians, had made an appeal in the columns of The Christian Advocate. The incident which had come to the knowledge of Wilbur Fisk would stir the heart of any eager young Christian. In these days when all churches are giving to home missions as never before the story must be retold, for it brought the beginning of Christian work in the section where the quest was made.

Four Indians garbed in their odd dress appeared on the streets of St.Louis in the year 1832. All through the summer and fall they had traveled, for they had come two thousand miles in search of the “White Man’s Book of Heaven,” and to ask that teachers would be sent to Oregon. General Clark, the distinguished explorer, was then superintendent of Indian affairs. He had charge of all Indians in the far West, with headquarters at St.Louis. The Indians were received hospitably by General Clark and cared for through the winter. He was a Roman Catholic and they attended the church services regularly. During their visit to St.Louis two of the Indians died, and the other two decided to return to their people. Afarewell banquet was given to these well-entertained guests and at which one of them made the following speech:

“I came to you over the trail of many moons from the setting sun. You were the friends of my fathers, who have all gone the long way. Icame with an eye partly open for my people who sit in darkness. Igo back with both eyes closed. How can Igo back blind to my blind people! Imade my way to you with strong arms through many enemies and strange lands that Imight carry much back to them. Igo back with both arms broken and empty. Two fathers came with us. They were the braves of many winters and wars. We leave them asleep here by your great water and wigwams. They were tried in many moons and their moccasins wore out.

“My people sent me to get the white man’s Book of Heaven. You took me to where they worship the Great Spirit with candles, but the book was not there. You showed me the images of the Great Spirit and the pictures of the good land beyond, but the book was not among them to tell us the way. Iam going back the long trail to my people in the dark land. You make my feet heavy with gifts and my moccasins will grow old with carrying them and yet the book is not among them. When Itell my poor blind people, after the more snow, in the Big Council that Idid not bring the book, no word will be spoken by our old men or by our young braves. One by one they will rise up and go out in silence. My people will die in darkness and they will go a long path to other hunting grounds. No white man will go with them, and no white man’s Book of Heaven will make the way plain. Ihave no more words.”

Among the early missionaries, who became inspired by a knowledge of the quest for the “White Man’s Book of Heaven,” were Francis McCormick, known as the “man with the fist and the ax,” and John Kobler, the first Methodist preacher north and west of the Ohio River. Another of these leaders was Thomas Hall Pearne, a young man of great culture. He practically received his commission from Bishop Janes in 1851. “Go to Oregon; live there; work there and die there for Jesus,” said the bishop. Young Pearne went west by way of Panama and landed in San Francisco. William Taylor was then leading the religious forces of the sunset city, and Pearne preached in the streets of San Francisco for Taylor; then he sailed to the mouth of the Columbia River and finally reached Portland.

On the first Sabbath day the new missionary appeared in his wedding finery, for he had brought a wife to share in his labors, and the stalwart pioneers looked askance at the silk hat, kid gloves, silk necktie, and morocco shoes of the new preacher. “You do not look like the fortieth cousin of a Methodist,” said one of the men frankly. The young man asked to be given a hearing and preached with such spiritual power that the people gladly accepted him as their leader. Pearne erected the first Protestant house of worship on the Pacific coast from Cape Horn to the Straits of Juan de Fuca. When later this pioneer became presiding elder, his district included all of the United States from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean, the total area being 1,170,000 square miles, and it covered all that part now known as Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, North and South Dakota. The population was 13,294 white people and 100,000 Indians.

It was toward this vast territory that William Van Orsdel was working his way. He left Oil City with only enough money to carry him to Chicago. He stopped at Champaign to see a relative, and then went to Chicago, where he met with a man who made clear to him just what his future field was to be. This man was Chaplain McCabe, who was thrilling thousands by his lectures on the bright side of Libby Prison, and by his singing of such songs as “The Sword of Bunker Hill.” McCabe was secretary of the Board of Church Extension of the Methodist Episcopal Church, and had taken for his slogan, “Achurch a day,” as he sought funds for the building of churches in the south and west. To this man William confided his dreams and desires, and leading him to the South Park Avenue Church, his new friend invited him to preach. The Chaplain’s keen eyes twinkled as he listened, and visions came to him of the churches which this youth would help him to build.

From Chaplain McCabe William learned much of the work to be done in the west. “You are on the right track, young man,” he said. “Go west to Montana, and help to build the kingdom in the western wilds.” He backed his advice with some money and added, “You will realize what Paul meant when he rejoiced that he did not build on any man’s foundation. You will not find many foundations out there.” William Van Orsdel did not feel that he was yet justified in having aid from the Missionary Society, but he accepted the money as a personal gift from his new friend. He set out again on his journey for the unexplored land of his dreams.