N. AMEIt. HOME MISSIONS ON THE BORDER ALICE M. GUERNSEY ^ ^ "You'll probably get through all right, but we won't guarantee it. We never know what those fellows are going to do." We wanted to go — we three Home Mission workers — • very much. We had seen conditions in El Paso — we EOSE GREGORY HOUCHEN SETTLEMENT wanted a glimpse, at least, of the "real thing" in Juarez, the Mexican town just across the Rio Grande. To be sure Juarez was a Villa town, and Carranza had just been "recognized" by the United States government, so that los Americanos were not in very good favor there. But we would be discreet; we would not leave the trolley car, for we had no mind, even for the sake of sight- seeing and curio-searching, to risk being arrested as spies and shown the inside of a Mexican jail. No, we would only cross on one international bridge over the sand- banks that then did duty for a river, ride through the town and come back across the other bridge. We did it — and returned safely from our trip "abroad," though one of the trio confesses to a feeling of satisfaction when well past a small crowd of Mexicans in front of a public building of some sort. We saw con- ditions in Juarez, a typical city of Old Mexico, and we agreed that nothing we saw compared in desolateness, in need, in opportunity, with the Mexican quarter of El Paso. "Pictures? No, we have none," said the post-card dealers. "Why should we? We are not proud of that part of the city. You don't take pictures of your slums, do you?" The Mexicans are scattered all through the city of El Paso, in both residence and business sections. But an area of fully a square mile is practically given up to them. How can I describe it? Imagine a sand waste, to begin with, the streets of which have been but slightly hardened by the tramping of many feet. The sidewalks are no better, and through the deep sand pedestrians and riders alike must plow their way. Thick-set along the sides of the so-called streets are single adobe cabins, or long rows of one or two-roomed "apartments" in adobe tenement houses but one story high. With these are tiny shacks, largely oc- cupied by refugees, and built of nondescript materials — old boards, sheets of rusty corrugated iron, tin cans flattened out, straw thatch, the flotsam and jetsam of commerce. It was pathetic to see the attempts at the patios of happier days — the tiny bits of yards, reclaimed from waste by diligent watering and literally crowded with leaf and flower. Goats and dogs, chickens and parrots shared the huts with the human occupants, and in the midst of the wildest disorder a senorita, perchance, was busy with an exquisite bit of drawn work that one could not fail to covet. A piece of a torn lace curtain stretched across the center of a door showed attempt at decora- tion, but the one article in the creed of cleanliness seemed to be a careful sweeping of the sidewalk in front of the door each morning. Of the many calls made one stands out beyond the others as a symbol of desolation. The mother of two girls who had been for a while in Harwood Home, had been buried the day before. The funeral had been at the home of a brother, but as we approached the house we saw the bow of black on the door — there to remain until too weatherbeaten to hold its place. From the doorsteps we looked into an empty room — ^nothing on the bare walls, nothing on the bare floor, nothing but one hard chair, and on this, with the inevitable black shawl over her head and thrown around the shoulders of her black dress, was seated the eldest daughter. A curious crowd of lookers-on watched the mourning of the girl through the open door, and watched us as we tried to bring sympathy and help. The mother, we understood, had been a nominal Protestant; the daughters had wanted a Protestant funeral. But the word of the man is law in a Spanish family, and by dint of unknown powers of per- suasion the brother had secured a funeral under the charge of the pries't, and burial in the Roman Catholic cemetery. And for these girls, such a little way re- moved from superstition and ignorance — what awaited them? Only the good God knows. We attended high mass in the Roman Catholic church on All Saints' day and longed to bring light into the worn, weary faces under the black shawls by the old message, "Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you." It is in the very heart of scenes like these that our Rose Gregory Houchen Settlement House is located. Its playground is the only green spot of earth any- where around. And in the Settlement, in the very center of desolation and need — a need emphasized by the fact that a large share of the "neighbors" are refugees — here they had a community Christmas tree! Think of it! Oh, you cannot feel the thrill of all that it meant unless you have really seen the picture. "Home Missions an educative force?" Yes, in this very settlement house, through its kindergarten, where the children learn lessons of the Christ-Child, with their gifts and occupations; through its English class, in which Mexican men and boys, rising to greet the visitors with the courtesy of their Castilian forbears, are struggling with the strange tongue; in the cooking class, where merry girls made pies quite "good enough to eat" — a fact proven by the growing demand of the men in these homes for "American cooking." "I can't cook that way," said a mother. "I haven't any stove." "We'll fix that," said the boys. And they came from their work that night, bringing an American stove on their shoulders. And into each class, of whatever sort, are carried at every session the Scripture word and the earnest prayer. Education? Directly and indirectly, consciously and un- consciously, all the time, and in unnumbered ways, Houchen Settlement is a force for Christian education. WOMAN'S HOME MISSIONARY SOCIETY METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH 150 Fifth Avenue, New York City 50 or less, 6 cents; 50 to 100, 10 cents