A captivating blend of fact and legend, painting a vivid portrait of Native American life in 19th-century Oregon. First published in 1890, The Bridge of the Gods by Frederic Homer Balch, weaves a tale of the American Indians of the Northwest. Experience missionaries striving to convert, tribes uniting against white settlers, and ancient legends shaping the land. Balch's classic captures the essence of Northwest tribes: their food, dress, shelters, canoes, gambling, beliefs, and children's pastimes. More than just stories, this is a journey into a world of cultural clashes, enduring traditions, and the powerful spirit of a people facing change. Discover a romance amidst the struggle, and explore the legends that define a land. Perfect for readers seeking historical fiction, Native American lore, and tales of the Pacific Northwest. Frederic Homer Balch was a minister and the author of Genevieve: A Tale of Old Oregon . The Bridge of the Gods A Romance of Indian Oregon By Frederic Homer Balch Trine Day LLC Copyright © 2016 Frederic Homer Balch All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-63424-021-5 CHAPTER 1 The New England Meeting Such as sit in darkness and the shadow of death. – Bible. One Sabbath morning more than two hundred years ago, the dawn broke clear and beautiful over New England. It was one of those lovely mornings that seem like a benediction, a smile of God upon the earth, so calm are they, so full of unutterable rest and quiet. Over the sea, with its endless line of beach and promontory washed softly by the ocean swells; over the towns of the coast – Boston and Salem – already large, giving splendid promise of the future; over the farms and hamlets of the interior, and into the rude clearings where the outer limits of civilization mingled with the primeval forest, came a flood of light as the sun rose above the blue line of eastern sea. And still beyond, across the Alleghanies, into the depth of the wilderness, passed the sweet, calm radiance, as if bearing a gleam of gospel sunshine to the Indians of the forest. Nowhere did the Sunday seem more peaceful than in a sheltered valley in Massachusetts. Beautiful indeed were the thrifty orchards, the rustic farmhouses, the meadows where the charred stumps that marked the last clearing were festooned with running vines, the fields green with Indian corn, and around all the sweep of hills dark with the ancient wood. Even the grim unpainted meeting-house on the hill, which was wont to look the very personification of the rigid Calvinistic theology preached within it, seemed a little less bare and forbidding on that sweet June Sabbath. As the hour for morning service drew near, the drummer took his accustomed stand before the church and began to thunder forth his summons – a summons not unfitting those stern Puritans whose idea of religion was that of a life-long warfare against the world, the flesh, and the devil. Soon the people began to gather – grave men and women, dressed in the sober-colored garb of the day, and little children, clad in their "Sunday best," undergoing the awful process of "going to meeting," yet some of them, at least, looking at the cool shadowed wood as they passed, and thinking how pleasant it would be to hunt berries or birds' nests in those sylvan retreats instead of listening to a two hours' sermon, under imminent danger of perdition if they went to sleep – for in such seductive guise did the Evil One tempt the souls of these youthful Puritans. Solemn of visage and garb were the groups, although here and there the gleam of a bit of ribbon at the throat of some young maiden, or a bonnet tastefully adorned, showed that "the world, the flesh, and the devil" were not yet wholly subdued among them. As the audience filed through the open door, the men and women divided, the former taking one side of the house, the latter the other – the aisle forming a dividing line between them. The floor was uncarpeted, the walls bare, the pulpit undraped, and upon it the hour-glass stood beside the open Bible. Anything more stiff and barren than the interior of the meeting-house it would be difficult to find. An unwonted stir breaks the silence and solemnity of the waiting congregation, as an official party enters. It is the Governor of the colony and his staff, who are making a tour of the province, and have stopped over Sunday in the little frontier settlement – for although the Governor is an august man, even he may not presume to travel on the Sabbath in this land of the Puritans. The newcomers are richly dressed. There is something heavy, massive, and splendid in their garb, especially in the Governor's. He is a stately military-looking man, and wears his ample vestments, his embroidered gloves, his lace and ruffles, with a magisterial air. A rustle goes through the audience as the distinguished visitors pass up the aisle to the front seats assigned, as the custom was, to dignitaries. Young people steal curious glances at them;