“Waiter, you stand there, I may want you; and if anybody wants to know who
I am, tell him I am Hon. Joseph Meek, the delegate of the people of
Oregon.”

When it was known who Mr. Meek was, he was met by Mr. Dallas, the courtly Vice-President.

“I will attend you to the reception this afternoon, where you will meet the wives of the Congressmen,” said he.  “I will call for you at three.”

The Vice-President called, and was surprised to find Mr. Meek still in his buckskins.

“You do not intend to go in that habit to the reception?” said he.

“Yes,” said Mr. Meek, “or else not go at all.  In the first place, I have nothing else to wear, and what is good enough for me to wear among the people of Oregon is good enough for their representative here.”

We have given, in these two anecdotes, very nearly Mr. Meek’s own words.

A few days after the visit of this most extraordinary man, another visitor came.  She was an earnest-looking woman, on an Indian pony, and there was a benevolence in her face and manner that drew the whole school into immediate sympathy with her.  The lady was Mrs. Spaulding, one of the so-called “Brides of Oregon.”  Her husband had come to the Territory with Dr. Whitman and his bride.  The long missionary journey was the bridal tour of Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Spaulding.  They were the first white women who crossed the Rocky Mountains.  It was related of Mrs. Spaulding, who had a beautiful voice, and was a member of a church quartet or choir in a country town in New York, as a leading singer, that, just before leaving the place for her long horseback journey of more than two thousand miles, she sang in the church the hymn beginning—­

    “Yes, my native land, I love thee,”

in such an affecting manner as to silence the rest of the choir, and melt the congregation to tears: 

    “Home, thy joys are passing lovely,
      Joys no stranger’s heart can tell;
     Happy scenes and happy country,
      Can I bid you all farewell? 
        Can I leave thee,
      Far in heathen lands to dwell?”

This lady addressed the school, and spoke feelingly of the condition of the Indian race, and of the field for the teacher in the valleys of the Columbia.

Gretchen listened to the address with open heart.  There are moments of revelation when a knowledge of one’s true calling in life comes to the soul.  Faith as a blind but true guide vanishes, and the eye sees.  Such was the hour to Gretchen.  She had often felt, when playing on the violin, that the inspiration that gave such influence to her music should be used in teaching the tribes that were so susceptible to its influence.  This feeling had grown in the playing and singing of a school-song, the words of which were written by Mrs. Hunter, an English lady, and the wife of the famous Dr. Hunter, which showed the heroism and fortitude of the Indian character: