Last summer I met a very old Catholic missionary whom I have known for years. We were both on an inspection trip in the depths of the Canadian wilderness. Our reasons for roaming so far north from civilization were absolutely different. Still we both had one main interest at heart, that of the Indian; and, instinctively, we chose that topic of conversation while we sat smoking around the camp-fire that evening.

Wise to the ways of the natives, broad-minded like all the missionaries of the old school, the Father was in a reminiscent mood. His stories referred chiefly to his early days when many Chippewayans were still pagans, refusing to accept Christianity, although allowing their children to listen to the missionaries and follow some of their instructions.

The following story, among many others, appealed to me the most.

In a certain district, not so far from where we were, the Father, forty years ago, was endeavoring to convert the last “die hards” of a small tribe. He had, then, a rival in the person of an English Anglican missionary, who happened also to speak the native language well and to be a great traveller.

Both men, strange to say, were the best of friends. For economic reasons, they often joined forces by canoe and dog-sleigh, and during their hundreds of miles of travelling invariably compared notes on their religious achievements.

Each baptism that one missionary added to his list spurred the other one to greater efforts. It was a close race with honors about evenly divided for, where one missionary failed, the other one was almost certain to succeed.

One Indian alone had withstood the assault of both religions, refusing steadfastly to give up his old beliefs. He was a venerable great grandfather, the nominal head of a large family whose members had all been converted one way or the other. He always received the priest and the clergyman with great friendliness but invariably turned a deaf ear to all their arguments.

The more both missionaries agreed that the old pagan was “unconvertible”, the keener each one felt to achieve the impossible and win a triumph over the other.

One day, in winter, my friend the Father was travelling alone when he heard that the old Chippewayan was dying. Instantly he swung out of his road and raced to the Indian’s camp.

He found him lying peacefully on a bed of spruce, very weak and surrounded by several of his children.

To quote the priest’s own words, “The time had come. Surely the old Indian would not refuse to be baptized at death’s door.” Accordingly, he asked him if he could pray for him at the foot of his bed. The Indian opened his eyes for an instant, recognized the priest and nodded.

The Father started praying out loud in Chippewayan. He prayed and prayed with all his might while he watched the dying man’s face.

After a long time, the shadow of a smile hovered on the latter’s lips.

The missionary thought that he was at last making an impression on the old native and resumed his prayers with even more fervor. Finally he stopped exhausted. Surely victory was his. He got up on his feet and gently touched the man’s hand.

The old Indian opened his eyes and looked up at the priest steadily. His lips moved and the Father bent forward to listen. His hour had come at last he thought! His religion had won!

“My! but there was a lot of lynx last winter—a lot of lynx—a lot of lynx...!”

The words rang out clearly through the silence of the tepee. Then the grey-haired pagan closed his eyes. He smiled once or twice softly to himself, and then died suddenly without a quiver.