Evening Star Newspaper, February 22, 1931, Page 84

Alone He Built It By Laura Miller A Man’s Fierce Courage and a Woman’s Great Love—A Stirring Story of the Pioneer Days. HE daguerreotype made on his wedding day tells something of Childres Parker. “You will sit here, Mr. Parker.” And Mr. Parker seated himself. But-when the photographer posed the young wife standing, a mere feminine adjunct, behind her husband’s chair, Childres Parker leaped to his feet. “Sir,” his voice boomed through the studio. “I'll not sit while my bride stands.” “Pashion,” the photographer “public opinion——" “A fig for public opinion. It is the part of the husband to stand in a protective attitude.” And stand he did, the 6 foot 3 of him looming, a tower of strength, above the little thing he had married, his broad hands on either side of her chair as if ready to snatch her from any danger, his huge frame rising to muscular shoulders, and above them the big plain face looking down at her, its inherent determination overlaid with gentleness. She was a very small person inside the voluminous hoops and furbelows of the period, but she had great spirit and he loved her greatly. The likeness is not complete. A complete portrait would show him, for instance, with a poppy in his hand, one of those red, silky poppies which he loved above all flowers and sowed broadcast about his pioneer cabin. It would show him with a brace of dusky grouse and a buck of several points, for he was a mighty hunter. In the heat of shooting he was forever cutting bits from his shirt-tail to use as gunwads, and Lucy must always be piecing new tails on. It would show him in his uniform of a lieutenant in the Mexican Wwar, and would somehow intimate the fact that, having no eggs to eat during the war, he had eaten three round dozen at a sitting when mustered out in New Orleans, and thereafter for the duration of his life none at all. He was & man who never did anything by halves, but everything completely, whether consuming a meal or saving a soul. sputtered, THE stringy cayuse pony he bestrode circuit- riding should be in the picture, an Indian under a tree, a double-bitted ax, and espe- cially the stanch log church he built, a citadel unto the Lord. From its first mention there was trouble over the meeting house. Childres Parker preached that Sunday under an oak on his donation land claim, a good place for service. The oak cast a pleasant shade, little breezes sang in the branches, and there was a natural granite pulpit on which the circuit rider banged home hopes of Heaven with his right hand and despairs of purgatory with his left. Lucy. demure in the background, thought—her mind would wander occasionally from Childres’ preaching to Childres himself—that he was sturdy as the oak as he stood there, solid as the rock. He closed his Book and bent forward over it. “My friends,” he said, “has it occurred to you that we must have a big, well constructed meetiy g house?” As he spoke he could see objections forming against it in the weasel face of Powell Killings- worth. Killingsworth was ever one to put him- self forward. He sat with his capable wife on the foremost puncheon bench and scowled at :he idea. Barton, behind Killingsworth, frowned and pulled at his golden curling beard. Even Harry Staley, who had happened in, bound for Southern Oregon with his pack train, looked dubious. The women set tight lips. Their men, they felt, had earned a Winter's rest. Tumwater Tom'’s was the only indifferent face. He stood, stolid, blanket draped, in the background. Tom, beyond trade jargon, did not grasp English. Kindiiness was the hest way to communicate wicth Tumwater Tcm. One single face smiled encouragement: Lucy felt the opposition and beamed at her busb:nd. “If each man will give a day’s work every week.” The men in the congregation glared at him. They had come West because an easy climate beckoned and the fat acres of donation land claims. The wagrn train was shaking down into a community, cabins had been built, the first grain reaped. They were ready to let down. The Winter they planned for themselves consisted of casual rail-splitting and shooting of the abundant wild game. Resentfully they glowered at him only to find him looking down on them unshaken, his jaw squared. Killingsworth’s thin lips framed protests. Killingsworth was a lawyer, cautious, ungen- er.us of physical effortt and free with his <4ongue. He had argued his way across the plains, argued himself into the best claim. He had even argued away the Indians who camped every Autumn in the valley. At this moment he arose to launch a controversy His wife pulled him back to the bench besid: her. “I speak cf it now,” Childres Parker went on, “pecause we must order a bell. It will take scme months to place it here by clipper round the Horn. Harry Staley is leaving tomorrow. A letter by his pack train will go to San Fran- cisco and East from there.” He quoted sizes and prices from a catalogue which had been in his toolbox when he left Ohio two years before. He named his choice, a large bell of well cast bronze. The service closed. He pronounced the bene- diction and left with Lucy sedate on his arm. Behind him the tongues of his congregation burst out in a clangor. - They allowed him time to change from his preaching black and the finely tucked white shirt of Lucy’s stitching, time to eat the roast wild goose and dry the willowware for Lucy. Then a deputation waited on Childres Parker. Hodges, Barton of the golden beard. Killings- worth, meager, pinched, barking as he step- ped in: “We're solid against your church, Parker. Everybody’s bone-tired. Not an extra lick of work is to be got out of a soul this Winter.” “Now, Killingsworth, one day a week's work never hurt any man yet. Be.seated, gentle- men.” THEY dropped into the rude chairs. Childres Parker remained standing. He could fight Lier standing. “There’s rails to split,” Killingsworth began. “There’ll be rails to split for a good many years in Oregon, Killingsworth.” Hcdges grinned. Barton laughed into his beard. Killingsworth was nettled. “Now, Parker, we're a committee appointed by the congregation. I'm chairman of course. There is a feeling that eventually w2 must have a church. Nothing precipitate. Nothing im- mediate. But eventually. A small church for a small community.” “Not small, Killingswcrth. Anocther wagon train is coming. This settlement will be dcubled next year.” “There you are. Wait,” the lawyer held up an admonishing hand; “the more settlers the sooner built. Your church can wait.” “It can’t wait, Killingsworth, when men are sheltered, well fed and idle. By the end of an idle Winter most of these claims would be in the hands of one or two men.” “Ahem! Ahem!” Killingsworth coughed, squirmed, looked to his committee for support. None came. Killingsworth had won a span of his neighbor’s oxen at poker on the plains. “If we were to have a church built this Winter, which I do not admit,” nimbly he found his tongue again, “that bell's too big. We're all agreed that bell's too big.” “It must be heard the length and breadth of the valley.” “Jasper Black doesn’t need to hear it.” Hodges snickered. Black was a solitary miner, a known renegade from justice, who lived south of them three days’ hard riding by fast cayuse. “Why a whale of a bell when the whole set- tlement knows the hour for service?” Killings- worth sniffed. “It may be necessary to call an extra meet- ing.” “A gathering of the entire community, an election, say,” Killingsworth pondered, “such a contingency might arise. Yes, a big bell. But nothing so expensive. A bell of cheaper mate- rial, Parker.” “The carrying tone would not be there.” “There’s no econgmy in a cheap bell,” unex- pectedly Barton wedged in a word. “No,” Hodges agreed, “no there ain't. of a thin sound to 'em.” Childres Parker had his way about the bell, “Now you plan to order this bell by the fast- est clipper round the Horn?” Killingsworth re- turned to the attack like a terrier worrying a bone. “What's the hurry, Parker?” “The church should be finished when that clipper reaches Oregon. Here I've drawn a working plan,” and he laid the drawing before them. They crowded around it. Killingsworth began to rail, striding up and down. “A person would think you'd be glad to hurry into any shelter from under that oak. But no. No church but a big church. Too big! Every- thing too big!” He paused to shake a vindictive forefinger. “I've chosen the very trees already,” Childres Parker said. “And who'll fell ’em?” Killingsworth's voice was a thin scream. “Who'll split out all those timbers?” “I'can if no one else will.” “And who'll build it?” “I can if no one else will. This is a mas- sive structure, I agree, When we have time and energy we can’'t insult the Almighty by putting up a shack. We should build, to endure for our time, a citadel unto the Lord.” Lucy, in the kitchen, heard that speech and clapped her hands softly. “I'm with you, Elder,” Barton said. And Hodges, “I'll help—some.” And Killingsworth fiercely, as he made for the door, “Not a hand's turn will you get out of me, Parker. Not a hand’s turn.” He gesticu- lated his way down the path. That was only the beginning. From the first ring of the circuit rider’'s ax in the forest to the first ring of the bell in the completed church Childres Parker built his church against con- tinual discouragement. Full two-thirds of the trees he felled himself. His heart rang with every rhythmic stroke. Dusk sent him homeward, spent, his big frame sagging, his calloused hands hanging heavy with fatigue. He dropped asleep over the late supper. At dawn he was back again in the for- est. Day after day, undaunted. He rode his circuit while the logs seasoned, marrying, burying, making peace between neigh- Kind £ THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. T, TEBRUARY 22, 1031, Lucy was inextricably bound up with the building. She carried their noonday meal to the woods where Childres was felling trees. bors, gleaning news. Harry Staley’s train had been held up and robbed of gold dust; a serious loss. THE foundation was laid. Slowly the great walls rose. Almost alone he built them. For the men the church remained too huge an undertaking. Barton gave only his day a week. Hodges worked intermittently, as did a few others. All were indifferent carpenters., He stayed to do their work over, deepened grooves, fitted joists, smoothed the rough hand-split boards. They kept hours. He was overtaken by the Winter night. It rained and they stop- ped working. He toiled on through the down- pour. True to his word, Killingsworth ,contributed not one hand’s turn. But endlessly he turned his tongue. He called the church “Parker's Folly.” He let every one know that his ox team—the best in the settlement—stood idle while Childers Parker snaked the great logs with worn-out beasts. He lured the half-hearted heipers away from the building. There was one violent spurt of interest in the church. Consciences flared up. Wives sud- denly nagged their husbands to help the elder. It was better, they said tartly, to work on the meeting house than to lose to Killingsworth at poker houschold furniture they'd carted pain- fully across the plains and could not replace. Every one worked. Then the men remembered the unsplit rails. He was left alone again. But the building grew. Lucy was inextricably b>und up with the building. With .the return of milder weather, she carried their noon-day meal to the woods when he was felling trees. While he washed away the sweat and ran wet hands through his hair, she spread the meal on the creek bank. He said grace and Lucy sat, correctly reverent of attitude, but with eyes sidelong to watch the ;unugm filter through the trees on his bowed ead. When he came home, wet to the skin, from laying up logs in the rain, she bit her lips and swallowed sensible protest. Childres, heaven knew, met protest encugh. She laid out dry clothes and had a hot bath ready in the wash- tub by the kitchen fire. It might be, as the neighbor women said, a mad project of the elder’s, but he was her husband and she loved him. She spurred him on, Lucy. The months passed, and he was straining every nerve now to finish the meeting house before Lucy's time should come, for it was drawing near. B»! Summer had come again before Childres Parker looked at his finished meeting house and found it good. The golden peeled logs had been built into a structure that was stanch, massive and enduring. The bell arrived on a Saturday morning, and Childres Parker hung it. A small crowd gath- ered in front of the doors, Killingsworth, his wife and several others. The circuit-rider’s broad face and shoulders emerged from the squat tower. He tapped the clapper lightly against the curve of the bronze. When the clear note died away he leaned out and spoke to them: “It will reach the ears of the farthest settler.” A thin smile veneered Killingsworth’s sharp features. ‘Do you reckon it will reach Jasper Black?” he asked the men. They laughed. “Or Tumwater Tom?"” They laughed again. “A Siwash in church in a blanket!" Killings- worth joined in their guffaws. Childres Parker came down and out through the front doors to face his neighbors. “We will have the dedication tomorrow at 10 o'clock,” he said in his booming baritone. “You'll all come?” But even now, that dedication was to be snatched from him. His church was never to be consecrated as he had planned. A stranger had joined the group and was dis- mounting, a slim beardless lad stiff from a long ride. “Jasper Black——" he began. “Jasper’s heard the bell already,” Killings~ worth grimaced. “He’s dying,” the messenger said. for Rev. Parker.” o “You can't go, Elder.” Mrs. Killingsworth touched Childres Parker’s sleeve. “It may be this week. The first one, and your wife is frail.” Killingsworth sided with his wife. “Pshawi He'll be dead when you reach him,” he said. The messenger, Tad Hemet, overheard. “No, something on his mind keeps him alive. It will hold him till we get there, but we’'ve got to go quick.” “Mr. Parker can't leave until after service to- morrow,” every one objected. THE circuit-rider dropped his palms gently . to Hemet's shoulders. “My lad, you're done. You must have a meal and two hours’ sleep to stand the trip back. Then come to my cabin. Barton, will you see to it, and get him a fresh horse? Mrs. Killingsworth”— he drew the lawyer's wife aside—“you are the most skillful woman here. I leave Lucy in your hands.” “Don’t go, elder,” she bigged; “Black’s a worthless renegade. You don't consider Lucy enough. I'll never forget how anxious I was for her when you kept Tumwater Tom's son in your cabin with the measles.” “Lucy wasn’t in danger, Mrs. Killings- worth. I waited on the child myself and so saved his life and made a friend of Tom.” “Friend of an Indian!” Killingsworth laughed. “Come, lad, in two hours,” Childres Parker repeated. A few minutes later he stood in his cabin. The wedding daguerreotype faced him on the mantel. He looked at it gravely. How pre- posterously towering and monumental he stood, as if nothing could topplie him! What was it he had sa'd that day about a pro- tective attitude? Now, when she needed him most, he must go away. Repentant sinners were part of his job. The dying were part of his job. But what—he gripped the portrait case in his big hands—what if Lucy should go down into the Valley of the Shadow of Death and he not there to call her back? “Childres.” She stood before him. “Lucy——" he faltered. She smiled.: “I know. I saw him coming.” “Jasper Black is dying.” “Of course you must go.” She lowered her lids so that he could not see’ the fear in her eyes. “I’ll return as soon as I can.” “We'll be waiting for you, Childres.” She helped him pack his saddlebags with necessities for the jeurney, such as his Bible, lamb’s wool socks she had knitted herself and shirts with tails newly pieced on. He was startled by a wail from her. If Lucy broke down he could not bear it. “Oh, Childres, how could you?” up one of his white preaching shirts. “Inadvertently——" “You wore it shooting. Childres, I'm going to prepare nothing but hard fried eggs for your journey.” They laughed immoderately at that above hearts full of tears. They talked of every- thing except the separation which dominated their thoughts. “At least the church is done,” he said; “all good, honest work.” “Of course it is,” she said. “That's true of whatever you do. Good work brought to completion.” When the messenger came she saw him off without tears. His last sight of the settlement as they took the trail over the hill was a ray struck “He sent It was a summons. She held