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“One of the Least” 
 
 Astrid Awes 
 
 
 Lutheran Board of {Missions 
 {Minneapolis, {Minn. 
 '92S 
 
o 
 
 o 
 
 Ragna Dahle 
 
 O 
 
 o 
 
Dedicated to all who 
 have given sons and daughters to the 
 mission field 
 
I have not prepared this little pamphlet on the life of 
 Ragna Dahle because she deserved a booklet more than 
 any other missionary, for as far as deserving is concerned, 
 there are assuredly many others far more deserving than 
 she. Nor have I written about her because she was great 
 in any way; she is perhaps reckoned among the ‘least 
 of these.” But I have written as I did because as her 
 sister, one year her senior, and as her inseparable com¬ 
 panion for years, ,1 know her better than I know the other 
 heroes who laid down their lives for the heathen. More¬ 
 over I have chosen her life because it seems to me typical 
 of the aspirations, the struggles, and the joys of most 
 young people who follow Christ. It is with reluctance 
 that I quote from her daybooks, as I frequently do, be¬ 
 cause she considered her books so personal that no one 
 but herself saw them until after her death. She began 
 them at the age of twelve and wrote steadily in them 
 until within a week of her death. I have tried, therefore, 
 to select from her life as I remember it and from her day¬ 
 books only that which many of us have in common, and 
 that which finally made her a missionary. 
 
 For the progress of missions, 
 
 ASTRID AWES. 
 
“One of the Least ” 
 
 am happy because I am at last in the place I 
 have longed for all my life. I am so contented 
 that I feel as though I am made for this place. I 
 hope I shall not prove a failure. Strange to say, I 
 was born the year this station was begun; so we were 
 saving the other day that I was born for the place.” 
 Thus wrote Ragna Dahle in her private daybook dur¬ 
 ing her first week in Madagascar. 
 
 It is true that she was born the year the station 
 at Manasoa was started. On July 23, 1890, in the city 
 of Duluth, Ragna Dahle was born. And while Mr. 
 Ton and his young wife were struggling with tropical 
 heat, malaria fever, and native robbers in Madagascar, 
 tittle Ragna was trying to earn for herself a welcome 
 from her sister one year her senior and her brother 
 two and a half years older. She cried her bitter, baby 
 tears over the reception her sister gave her, for it was 
 only a slap—a good resounding slap at the newcomer 
 who had monopolized mother—and brother cared very 
 little whether she remained or not. 
 
 Visitors, of whom the manse always had a goodly 
 number, tell that few of them could long remain chilly 
 toward the plump baby girl who cooed and laughed 
 all day long. It was said of Ragna by many that she 
 had the missionary spirit from the very first in that 
 she was never of a peevish or whining disposition. 
 As she approached the age of four, her mother’s wise 
 
6 
 
 regulations confining her to the green lawn about the 
 house were extremely hard to obey for a frolicking, ac¬ 
 tive child. She wanted to play in the street where she 
 could see scores of wagons and people pass by. Al¬ 
 though rules hampering her play were exasperating, 
 still worse was opposition to her young opinions. Pos¬ 
 sessing an exceptionally independent mind, she was 
 frequently having disputes with all who cared to cross 
 swords with her, and not in the least with her father, 
 who nicknamed his young daughter “Papa’s little 
 Protestant”—a name of which she was justly proud. 
 
 When her brother and her sister went to Sunday 
 School, she insisted on going too, although she was 
 only four years old. She begged a book from her 
 father to take with her, and one day mother was great¬ 
 ly surprised to find that her baby could read—she 
 had learned in Sunday School by watching the other 
 children, and thus it happened that at the age of four, 
 little Ragna read the Bible. She had begun the read¬ 
 ing of a book which for the length of her young life 
 was her constant companion. 
 
 She was greatly hurt when her brother of six and 
 her sister of five began to attend the public school 
 and she was not allowed to go too. When told that 
 she was too young, she persisted with great emphasis. 
 “But I am four years old, papa, I am four years old.” 
 Schooling in the city, however, became still farther 
 outside Ragna’s reach during the space of the next 
 few years when her father’s ill health compelled him 
 to leave the city. Out on a northern Minnesota home¬ 
 stead among- the evergreen pines, with mother, Nature, 
 and God as teachers, little Ragna with her many 
 brothers and sisters grew up. Those years in the 
 beautiful out-of-doors were wonderful indeed and 
 
7 
 
 made a sweet background of tender memories for the 
 rest of her life. That she could never forget the 
 loveliness of these £arly days is shown in an extract 
 from her daybook written at Manasoa, Madagascar, 
 six months before she died: “A beautiful Sunday 
 morning! The sun is shining brightly and the air is 
 cool. Far below us we see the mist rising from the 
 river. 1 have been playing “Landstad’s Saliner,” the 
 airs of which ever take my memory back to old Furuly 
 where mother in the summer time used to' have devo¬ 
 tion with us every Sunday morning under the pines. 
 Beautiful, beautiful memory.” 
 
 Vet the early years, when Ragna did not have op¬ 
 portunity to go to school before the age of eight, were 
 not wasted, for her mother knew how to fill in the 
 time with many useful occupations. The children 
 studied books, papers, and articles from their father’s 
 library, and their mother taught them arithmetic and 
 history. She read them stories and adventures; she 
 studied with them the Bible and the catechism; she 
 gave them instruction in the rudiments of music so 
 that every evening the old home rang with the music 
 of the family singing. Many ardent discussions did 
 the children have about Alexander the Great and his 
 Bucephelus; Martin Luther and the Reformation; 
 Flarold Haarfager in Norway; Gauge Rolfe in Nor¬ 
 mandy, and other noted mythological or historical 
 figures. In the happy summer months the children 
 practised boating and swimming and picnicing. Every 
 autumn they skimmed over the glassy ice on skates, 
 inhaling health and love of freedom with every breath 
 of untainted forest air. No cramped skating rink with 
 city regulations here; and no atmosphere filled with 
 tobacco smoke and swearing. 
 
8 
 
 It was natural under conditions like these that 
 their mother should become the idol of the home; she 
 was the queen of the family. Ragna’s daybook is 
 filled with affectionate thoughts on her mother. It 
 was mother who tried to make a lady out of her lively, 
 nature-loving girl, so 1 that in spite of a free life Ragna 
 might become all that a woman ought to’ be. Hence 
 after frequent trips to the blueberry hill, to the swamp 
 where the iris and cattails grew, to the hiding places 
 of the fragrant pine cones,—after these escapades 
 came patient moments spent in learning how to darn 
 torn stockings, how to mend rips in dresses, and polish 
 muddy shoes. Their mother found time to watch over 
 table manners and to' speak about church behavior. 
 She taught them about the God in whom she herself 
 trusted fully, and she knew how to' make the devo¬ 
 tional hours interesting, for not one of all her nine 
 children ever complained that these gatherings were 
 tiresome. The quiet evenings in the cosy pine-sheltered 
 home with their stories, singing,' ethical discussions, 
 and prayers were ever sweet in the merry girl’s 
 memory. 
 
 When a teacher was finally secured for the district, 
 the children during the winter months studied in the 
 little, brown school. Ragna finished the grades with 
 high marks. She was always at the head of her classes 
 and could spell down the biggest boys and girls of her 
 district. Among her playmates in school she was a 
 general favorite because of her sunny temper, initia¬ 
 tive, and skill in games of all sorts. When she was 
 not playing darebase with the boys or housekeeping 
 with the girls, she was guessing or giving puzzles. She 
 found much delight in writing poems about her com¬ 
 panions : at one time especially did she throw her whole 
 
9 
 
 soul into a poem in hopes of reforming a naughty 
 Frank by persuading the girls to sing it to him until 
 he promised to be better. Frank’s sin lay in intruding 
 whenever the girls wanted to play house. 
 
 She was such an expert in argumentation that few 
 of the other children could hold their own against 
 her. Her keen, witty sallies silenced her little oppon¬ 
 ents. When, however, her mother made her realize 
 that it was not kind always to win, nor good for one¬ 
 self to be always on top, she tried bravely to curb her¬ 
 self. One evening as she returned from school, she 
 confided to her mother, “I tell you, mother, that I 
 could have given Charlie a cutting answer today when 
 he teased me; I had the answer burning on the tip 
 of my tongue, and had I spit it out, it would have 
 cowed him for hours. But I remembered that you 
 said that if I did not begin to> restrain myself now, 
 I should never be master of myself. I want to be 
 master of my tongue, but oh, it is hard. Charlie made 
 it harder by saying, ‘You keep still because you have 
 not a word to say.’ ” Her desire to control her quick 
 temper caused her much concern as she advanced in 
 her Christian life. Her daybooks frequently mention 
 remorse over some unguarded flash of temper. And 
 yet, I often felt later that she gave all the benefit to 
 others at the expense oh herself. Such an attitude 
 was frequently evident in Madagascar where she had 
 charge of the native teachers who repeatedly made 
 life hard for her by their defiant or supercillious airs. 
 One day after she had patiently tried to point out to 
 one of them a flagrant pedagogical fault and met only 
 exasperating obstinacy, I asked indignantly, “Why 
 don’t you tell him that lie is a rude, ignorant Malagasy 
 who needs to be taught much?’’ 
 
10 
 
 “Oh, no,” she replied, “I cannot do that to a man 
 who 1 does not know any better. If he had had our 
 opportunities, he would have been different. Besides 
 that is not the way God treats us.” 
 
 The happy years of childhood on the beautiful 
 homestead came to an end at last. Ragna finished the 
 grades with credit. Soon after her confirmation she 
 prepared to leave home in order to attend the Aitkin 
 High School. To go away to school, however, is no 
 easy task when there are several children wanting to 
 go and no money. Since Ragna was too young to 
 teach, it was decided that she gO' to school while the 
 two older ones tried to earn the money needed to 
 keep her there. Mother too did her share bv selling 
 cream, eggs, and whatever else the little homestead 
 could spare. Ragna, carrying extra studies during the 
 time she spent in Aitkin, finished High School in three 
 years and was graduated as valedictorian out of a 
 class of twelve, with scholarships from three standard 
 colleges, and with nineteen credits finished in place of 
 the required sixteen. 
 
 While studying she was harrassed by the thought 
 that she might have to- leave school before graduation, 
 and wrote in her daybook: “Oh, but I love school. 
 What if I should have to stay out next year, that 
 would be dreadful, for my class would get ahead of 
 me. I know I am terribly selfish, for brother and 
 sister, both older than I, are making their own way 
 and helping me too. I have it easy in comparison to 
 them; I know they are just longing for school them¬ 
 selves ; and Mother and Father who are making every 
 effort to see that we all get enough never complain 
 although I know they are hard up. In spite of her 
 pretended bravery, however, mother looks discour- 
 
11 
 
 aged, while father seems tired and sad. Pioneering 
 is hard work for a minister of his age; he is not 
 young any longer. Mother has not bought one new 
 yard of cloth this year; she has patched the old, and 
 talks of getting me a new dress, for she says I need 
 one. But I shall try to dissuade her from buying, and 
 make my old dress do although it is getting short in 
 the sleeves, for I am growing.” 
 
 As a high school girl in a reminiscent mood she 
 wrote: “How different are my school days now from 
 what they used to be when I was a child. Now I 
 make good use of my time because I realize the im¬ 
 portance of a good education. Now I have the sense 
 not to irritate my teachers, for I know how hard it 
 is to- be a teacher in a school of this size. Out in the 
 country I went to school just to have fun, and I cer¬ 
 tainly had it too. I studied my lessons enough to 
 slide through them when recitation time came around; 
 the rest of my study periods I spent reading stories, 
 writing letters, playing puzzles with someone, or I 
 told funny things to my seat-mate until we two nearly 
 died from suppressed laughter. I went to school 
 mainly to play at recess. I quarreled with the other 
 girls (only those I did not like) and T usually had the 
 last word. Moreover [ generally succeeded in en¬ 
 tangling them so that they did not know what to an¬ 
 swer ; then I had a good laugh at their expense. Dear, 
 dear, 1 was naughty, that is true; but now when I 
 long for that time to return, it has vanished like a 
 dream.” 
 
 Pike most young people she had dreams of some 
 day being great. She confided to her mother that of 
 all professions there was none that appealed to her 
 more than that of law. To be a lawyer seemed to her 
 
12 
 
 the acme of attainment. Arguing, debating, or dis¬ 
 puting was almost a passion with her. It was ap- 
 proximately at this time that she first began really 
 to feel a call to go to the mission field, and her battles 
 with herself on this qustion are well illustrated by a 
 few excerpts from her daybook: “I am thinking a 
 lot about what I want to become, for I want to be 
 something great. As I look into 1 the future, I see 
 myself as a teacher in a college where I instruct in 
 mathematics or Latin; at other times I feel I should 
 like nothing better than to be a lawyer. But I am 
 afraid that such thoughts as these are carnal, for ever 
 since I was confirmed, I have felt a call to become a 
 missionary. Still, if I become a missionary, I shall 
 never be great—great in the eyes of God maybe, but 
 
 .I know God needs workers out in the distant 
 
 heathen lands, I know too that because of lack of 
 workers many natives die without having heard a 
 word about Him at all. I have not told these thoughts 
 of mine to 1 anyone yet, for I have not actually deckled 
 to go. I do not think I am a fit tool for the mission 
 work because I am not a good Christian. Still, if 
 God has chosen me for this work, He can make me 
 what I ought to be. I pray daily that He will strength¬ 
 en me to decide right. When I stop to consider how 
 badly the cause needs workers; then I am willing to 
 go, but on the other hand when I think of the terrible 
 struggle of giving up friends, home, school, country, 
 and all the work that I love best to do, to go to' a 
 strange country among a strange people, I feel as 
 though I can never do it. But why am I writing thus ? 
 Wild fancies ! I have not yet decided to go ; the future 
 is still bright.” 
 
13 
 
 A few clays after writing this paragraph she met 
 Rev. Jerstad, a Lutheran missionary from Madagascar. 
 The personality of the man was so strong and devout 
 that few people who ever met him could forget him; 
 the whole being of the man seemed permeated with 
 God. Her daybook comments on the event: “I have 
 met Missionary Jerstad. What a man of God he is! 
 He spoke so much about the heathen that my desire 
 to- go to the foreign field was strengthened. He asked 
 me what I wanted to become when I grew up; but I 
 was silent, for I could not tell him that 1 wanted to 
 go when I had not even hinted such a thing to mother, 
 [t was perhaps wise that I said nothing when I still 
 am not sure whether mr not I shall ever go. At times 
 when I pray I almost promise God that I shall go; 
 then I quickly restrain myself because I know that a 
 promise to God is sacred, and I don’t want to promise 
 Him when my intentions may never be realized. It 
 seemed strange to hear Mr. Jerstad call me little! I 
 thought I was big.” 
 
 It was not easy for her to decide on the mission 
 field; nevertheless she could not get rid of the thought. 
 In 1910 she wrote: “This year there has been a 
 change in me. Whenever I think of the future now, 
 the mission field always comes to me. I have said 
 firmly that if I see clearly that God wills me to go, 
 I shall go. I have long been in doubt because I feel 
 I am too timid for such a field as Madagascar. To¬ 
 day I found this verse in Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, 
 ‘Unto me, the least of all the saints, is this grace given 
 that I should preach among the Gentiles the unsearch¬ 
 able riches of Christ.’ This verse seemed to speak 
 directly to me, and it has helped confirm my decision 
 to go. Every day I find something new which 
 
14 
 
 strengthens me in my resolution to gO' out as a mis¬ 
 sionary. Tonight I had a letter from mother which 
 said, ‘Missionary Skrefsrud of India is dead; det tyn- 
 dcs i reck kerne of aandens kjeemper / Oh, what an 
 effect this had on me, I felt as though God was really 
 calling me.” 
 
 May 31, 1910: “The Mission Board has accepted 
 my name as a volunteer, although nothing definite has 
 yet been done about it. If I go>, I am to go as teacher. 
 I begin to' dread it more and more, for I know I shall 
 never have a home of my own, nor any of those I 
 love the most to go to-, when I am discouraged. All 
 these thoughts make me melancholy; they have taken 
 the sun out of my life all winter, although I have 
 fought, them hard. I try to look at things from God’s 
 point of view: I know that in the long run there is 
 very little after all that the world can offer me, and 
 whether I work for God on this side of the globe or 
 the other makes little difference so long* as God’s work 
 is helped onward. My parents and my home, how 
 shall I ever be able to< give you up? God, you must 
 help me do it gladly.” Later—“It is now decided de¬ 
 finitely that I go. Poor Mother has cried many a 
 night as I have. But the worst is over, the fight is 
 won; there is only the final separation left.” 
 
 After this victory she seemed to grow happier 
 and to enter into her work with a new spirit. As a 
 teacher she had great success in her moral influence 
 over the communities into which she came to live. 
 Her pupils kept up a correspondence with her long 
 after she had left their schools; some of these devoted 
 letters arrived regularly in Madagascar until after her 
 death, and her work out there was followed with 
 
15 
 
 keen interest by many. Her daybook contains the fol¬ 
 lowing extract on one of the Sunday Schools which 
 she helped to organize : “I have begun a Bible class 
 here because many have begged me to do so. I ac¬ 
 cepted because I know I need to grow in fearlessness, 
 and now is a good opportunity to begin. I have prayed 
 God to put his words into my mouth that I may say 
 something really worth while, for I dread empty talk. 
 I have tried to lead my class in prayer, for I know it 
 will strengthen me to learn to pray aloud in public. 
 Then too, other young people who hear me pray may 
 be strengthened thereby. About each one of them 
 have I prayed, for I want them all to' be His as I am. 
 Fwen in this insignificant little corner of the world 
 I want to be God’s tool.” 
 
 Concerning this very class she wrote while attend¬ 
 ing the Duluth Normal School, “Several of the young 
 people who belonged to' my Bible class at McGrath 
 have expressed a wish to begin living better lives. A 
 few of these young people were my one-time pupils 
 in school. I pray God that they may finish what they 
 have begun.” 
 
 From the time the call to go to the mission field 
 became clear to her, all her plans, readings, studying, 
 and preparations were made with reference to the 
 needs of the field. The summer of 1911 she spent at 
 the University of Minnesota studying methods in 
 drawing and music because she felt these were essen¬ 
 tial to her future work. The year 1912 she entered 
 the Duluth Normal and finished the advanced course 
 with her usual record as a brilliant student. The 
 faculty permitted her to' carry outside her regular 
 course private lessons in French. A society in the 
 
16 
 
 city willing to give scholarship to studious girls so 
 as to enable them to attend the University free for a 
 year had asked her if she wanted to' go. Her daybook 
 reveals the sentiments on the suggestion, “Want to 
 go-—it is what I have wanted to do all my life, yet 
 never dared to hope for. If I went, I should be en¬ 
 tered as a junior. I feel as though I can never satis¬ 
 fy my thirst for knowledge. I wish I could go on so 
 as to he still better fitted for the work I want to do. 
 God knows how I want to> accept that scholarship. 
 The church which has paid for my Normal School 
 education naturally wish me to go to the field as soon 
 as possible because the need is great. Mother ven¬ 
 tured a wish that I might spend a year with her be¬ 
 fore I leave. What shall I do ? I am in darkness and 
 cannot see forward at all. Strange how doubts master 
 us. I do not know whether it is God’s will that I go 
 or not. Perhaps it is I who am forcing my will through. 
 I am not at all as I ought to be; I have too- much of the 
 resisting spirit in me. Unless God rejuvenates me 
 and makes me strong I shall amount to nothing. 1 
 am too- much in love with getting on, and not in love 
 with God’s work as I ought to be. I must first be 
 willing to' gladly give up the University, my pleasures, 
 my home, and just be happy that I shall be in God’s 
 work.Thy will, O Lord, and not mine.” 
 
 During her two years of study at the Normal one 
 finds but one single unfavorable comment on her 
 teachers; otherwise she was exceedingly fond of her 
 teachers and her school days. “Many of our teachers 
 are certainly heading out to be anti-mission people. 
 Some of them speak about mission and missionaries 
 as something nonsensical. But the more I hear them 
 speak like that, the firmer grows my resolve to go to 
 
17 
 
 the foreign field. And with a special prayer for each 
 of the teachers I love best I go through the day with 
 a heavy heart because of their lack of vision.” 
 
 Sunny spirited and refreshingly original as she 
 was with friends, she was timid in the presence of 
 strangers. Especially if she were to appear before 
 the public in any way did she suffer from this timidity. 
 She early began to battle with herself to overcome this 
 weakness. Before entering the Normal she wrote: 
 “A teacher is supposed to- know and dare everything. 
 1 must be able to teach, sew, draw, play, lead meetings 
 —how shall I ever dare that—visit, know all there is 
 to know from the Pole to which grade tobacco is the 
 most dangerous. I must always be congenial, willing 
 to help, and never sick.” Later, while at the Normal, 
 she resolved, “to have frequent communions with God 
 in order that I may grow in fearlessness to speak 
 
 about Him more than I have done formerly. 
 
 Today we had a poem on ‘Opportunity’; the story was 
 about a man who threw away a golden opportunity. 
 I felt the story just fitted me. I have had many op¬ 
 portunities to< speak a little about God, and yet I have 
 let them pass because I have felt utterly incapable of 
 expressing my innermost convictions. After this, with 
 God’s help, I shall make better use of my opportuni¬ 
 ties. Our Literary Society has chosen me for tlieir 
 president- At first I did not want to accept because I 
 dread leading meetings of any kind. Then suddenly 
 it dawned on me that maybe this was one of my golden 
 opportunities about to be thrown away. So I accepted 
 in spite of my being head over heels in work and in 
 spite of my long French lessons. I must practise self- 
 control now and see if I cannot overcome my ti¬ 
 midity.” 
 
18 
 
 Her dislike for public leadership was harder to 
 overcome than she realized; she wrote as follows of 
 such an experience in Madagascar while she was liv¬ 
 ing at the home of a French couple who were to- teach 
 her French: “I’ve had my first crying spell in Mada¬ 
 gascar today, and it is my same old selfish heart which 
 has caused it. This great self which is always so 
 prevalent in me, and with which I have had many, 
 many struggles. I have prayed God earnestly to fit 
 me for His work, to make me willing to accept any 
 opportunity that presents itself. Today at table Mon¬ 
 sieur Delord asked me to go with him to visit some 
 of his churches. I should preach, he said, and he 
 would translate. I rebelled at the word ‘preach’ ; but 
 I laughed at him as I thought he was joking. When 
 I realized that he was in earnest, I flatly refused, and 
 he reproved me for my conduct as a missionary. I 
 felt hurt because it seemed to me that he did not put 
 himself in my place, and I felt that he judged me too 
 severely. When he next began to tease me about be¬ 
 ing homesick I could; no longer keep the tears back. 
 
 .I am ashamed for losing my temper and acting 
 
 as I did- I am going with him after all and I have 
 promised to speak a few words at the close of his 
 sermon. May God give me His words to speak. This 
 victory, I think, may be considered the beginning of 
 my missionary work; and to think how nearly I re¬ 
 fused it.” 
 
 She was a great home girl. Her books bubble 
 over with terms of endearment, love, and admiration 
 for each member of the family in turn. While she 
 was teaching in McGrath, she walked many miles every 
 Friday evening to see her sister who taught in that 
 
vicinity. The memories of the delightful hours spent 
 on these walks she never forgot. The tall spruce trees 
 like cathedral spires against the rosy evening sky had 
 a peculiar fragrance all their own, the inhaling of 
 which was itself a joy. From branch to branch in 
 these trees flitted the blue]ays, the lumberjacks, the 
 chickadees, and the weird owls who hooted at night. 
 There one saw the shy partridge shot at by all passers- 
 by, also the noisy crows, and the bright scarlet tan- 
 agers. The snow like a wet carpet covered the mossy 
 roads, while far down the track puffed the heavy 
 logging trains. Through the quiet forest resounded 
 the ax of the loggers, and the cry of the hungry timber 
 wolf. When the two sisters met and the preliminary 
 tears and caresses were over, they had a short prayer 
 meeting before they went home. Her mother’s picture 
 she carried with her wherever she went- She could 
 not bear to be separated from it even for a day. “On 
 the little table before me I have put up Father’s and 
 Mother’s picture; so even though I cannot speak to 
 them, I can get inspired by looking daily into their 
 smiling, contented faces. I feel melancholy today as 
 I have dreamed about home much lately. In spite of 
 my resolution to have all the fun I can, I feel sad be¬ 
 cause of Father. Three of his churches which he had 
 organized and built up through fifteen years of hard 
 pioneer labor have been taken by a younger and more 
 brilliant man. Father at present has nothing, but God 
 who has watched over us SO' far will not forsake us. 
 He will still continue to care for us. I wish I knew 
 what is right—to help my folks or go to the foreign 
 field. Mother has sacrificed so much for us; she has 
 never stepped in our way. If I do not go, I can help 
 her. Ilowever, I know my help is needed out in 
 
20 
 
 Madagascar too, for there are few women who volun¬ 
 teer for that field. I do- not want to- slight my parents 
 who have sacrificed much for me, nor do I want to 
 slight God. 'God, help me do right.’ Dear, am I 
 growing extravagant? I paid out four dollars to get 
 a good picture of myself with a strong frame for 
 mother. But I took only one, and it was for mother 
 who will value it highly, I know.” 
 
 It is interesting to- notice the development of her 
 prayer life. At first her prayers were simply peti¬ 
 tions asking for something. “My, but Jesus is good 
 to me. In high school when there is a lesson in Caesar 
 which I cannot master, I ask Jesus not to let Miss 
 Wheeler call on me to. recite, and it happens as I wish 
 every time.” .As a senior three years later one finds 
 a growth: “I do not believe that I pray as I ought. 
 My prayers are dry, for I am selfish. When shall I 
 become all that I ought to be? I often recall that 
 beautiful verse from the Bible which expresses my 
 feeling entirely, ‘Likewise the spirit helpeth our in¬ 
 firmities ; for we know not what we should pray for 
 as we ought, but the spirit itself maketh intercessions 
 for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.” 
 Finally, as a missionary six years after, we find: “I 
 pray God to- reduce self to- nothing in my own estima¬ 
 tion. May He completely do away with self, if I may 
 but be a great worker in His eyes.” 
 
 She struggled against a premonition that her life 
 would be short. During her first year of teaching we 
 find: “There are thousands of things I want to do, 
 but time is speeding away so fast that I fear I shall 
 not get half of them done.” On her way out to Mada¬ 
 gascar she wrote, while in England: “It was not as 
 
21 
 
 hard to say gooclby as I thought it would be. Strange 
 how God gives one strength for every day- We all 
 seemed to have the assurance that we should meet 
 again.” A few months later from Manasoa, Mada¬ 
 gascar she writes: “Oct. 1916. This morning I visited 
 the graveyard and saw the graves of all those who 
 had given their lives for the work. I could not but 
 kneel in front of them and ask God to give me a long 
 time of service if it be His will—a term rich in work 
 and blessings,” In less than two-and-a-half years 
 after that prayer, the black-water fever took her life; 
 hence her prayer for a long term of service was not 
 answered. 
 
 Extracts from her daybook written during her trip 
 out to Madagascar: “July 24, 1916. Yesterday was 
 my first birthday abroad. I could not help thinking 
 and wondering if the folks at home were remembering 
 
 me. How self-important we are.We are on our 
 
 way to Africa. I am not homesick but I am thinking 
 more and more about home as we leave it farther and 
 farther behind. Especially do I think of mother wiien 
 I meet other missionaries who are going out—some 
 for two years, some for three, some for five, but we 
 
 for seven.This morning I was tackled by an 
 
 American who told me how very foolish and imprac¬ 
 tical mission work was; how utterly opposed he was 
 to it; how he pitied the young girls who went out, etc. 
 He has traveled all over the world and has seen some¬ 
 thing of mission work especially in South America. 
 Of course I stood by my principles; but somehow 
 what I had to say seemed empty and void when a good 
 rattler spoke on the other side- His talk only made 
 me read my Bible with more care and pray more 
 earnestly than ever.” 
 
22 
 
 September 1916 she reached Tulear, Madagascar; 
 from here she was to go< for a week in a small canoe 
 up the Onilahy River to Manasoa, where she was to 
 have her work. At night she, with Sister Petra and 
 Sister Milla, (who had been Ragna’s traveling com¬ 
 panion all the way) slept on the banks of the river 
 under the stars, with only natives to guard them. Such 
 a trip is an impressive one: after leaving Tulear the 
 traveler can push on for weeks without seeing a single 
 white face. If lie goes south he can push on for 
 days without seeing any living creature whatever aside 
 from his own retinue. Tangled foliage dresses the 
 crumbling cliffs along the river banks and enhances 
 the still beauty of the wild scenes; spreading tamarinds 
 shade the lowlands which spread out here and there 
 as a strong contrast to the cliffs, crags, and rocky hills. 
 In the river splash the crocodiles, and on the sandy 
 banks feed the timid, white egrets. Hundreds of bril¬ 
 liant birds emerge like a shot from the mabboo canes 
 as the canoes advance, while black crows with white 
 collars follow the boat in search of food. 
 
 That the natives are exceedinQ-lv likeable is the 
 
 o J 
 
 unanimous opinion of all travelers in Madagascar. 
 Ragna’s daybook also verifies this: “The more I see 
 of these people, the better I like them. Last night, 
 while darkness was coming on, Sister Petra read to 
 them the twenty-third psalm, after which all prayed 
 the Lord’s prayer together and sang several songs. I 
 did not understand because it was all in their native 
 tongue. Sister Petra told them a little of our trip 
 (Sister Milla’s and mine)- They asked if we had 
 come all the way from America just to tell them about 
 Jesus. Upon receiving an affirmative reply they asked, 
 ‘Does it not make you sad to come so far as this, and 
 
23 
 
 yet have many people refuse to her you?’ That ques¬ 
 tion was like an encouragement to me.” 
 
 The evening campfire is one of the many delights 
 of Madagascar canoeing. As soon as the sun sets, 
 the boats are landed on the sandbanks and a blazing 
 fire is built. The flames leap high and cast a ruddy 
 glow on everything round about; the natives, moving 
 about like so many mysterious shadows in the dark, 
 lie near the fire in the tropical night, and tell stories 
 or sing* songs. From the purple hills overhead come 
 the big, silent bats adding a sense of weirdness to all, 
 while the moon rises in the East, making the waters of 
 the river sparkle and shimmer. 
 
 At Manasoa at last: “I am happy because I am 
 at last in the place 1 have longed for all my life. I 
 am so contented that I feel as though I am made for 
 this place. I hope I shall not prove a failure. Strange 
 to say, I was born the year this station was erected; 
 so we were saying the other day that I was born for 
 the place. 1 have just come back from my early 
 morning walk and feel very much refreshed. The 
 air was cool, and calm; now I am ready for my violin 
 practice. How glad I am that I have my violin with 
 me as it affords me both pleasure and variety- I love 
 
 to let my fingers feel their way along its strings. 
 
 The native boys have an ‘orchestra’ here. I almost 
 shake with laughter every time we get together with 
 the guitar, the flute, the mouth-organ, the comb, the 
 organ, and my violin. I am glad, however, that they 
 are willing to try to have a band at all, for the Mala¬ 
 gasy are very musical, and they thoroughly enjoy their 
 orchestra, however primitive it may be.” 
 
 The hardest year of any in the mission field is 
 perhaps the first one, during which the newcomer is 
 
24 
 
 busy learning a new language, getting acquainted with 
 and understanding the older workers in the field and 
 trying with all humility to take graciously the lessons 
 the native and the work shower on him. The period 
 is hard moreover because of the long inactivity forced 
 on one'—without the medium of speech few can do 
 much of anything. Ragna too felt this and writes in 
 her daybook Nov. 5, 1916: “This afternoon for the 
 first time since I left home have I had a blue streak. 
 It seemed to me as if I were making no headway. All 
 about me people were talking, but I could not talk to 
 them. There was life everywhere, yet I could not 
 participate because there was no one to speak to, read 
 with, visit or walk with. 1 felt like a bird in a cage, 
 eager to get away; not away from people, but to 
 people. I snatched up a tennis ball and ran outdoors 
 to> play catch with the boys. Dear, dear, how en¬ 
 thusiastic they became- Since they have no balls of 
 any kind, Sister Henrietta and I made them some out 
 of rags this evening.” 
 
 She had not been many days at Manasoa before 
 plans were made to have her sent to Tananarive to 
 continue her studies in French. Because of the war 
 she had not been able to study in France according to 
 the first plan, and it was felt that if she were to make a 
 success as directress of the Manasoa Mission Schools, 
 she must have more training in French. To travel 
 hundreds of miles in a palaquin alone through an un¬ 
 known country, peopled by a race with an unknown 
 tongue, is not an easy thing for a young girl the least 
 bit timid. As usual she found her strength in prayer: 
 “I must go to the Interior—and go alone. I worry a 
 little because I can’t speak the language. God, make 
 me calm,”, . ., ,Nov, 15, “I am on my way; it seems 
 
25 
 
 strange to be in charge of a gang of men whose names 
 I do not even know, and whose language I do not 
 speak. Blit I am not afraid, seeing* that I have a very 
 capable man with me and two of the Manasoa school 
 hoys to' cook my meals for me. Last night I was 
 scared almost stiff when the men began to file into 
 the grass hut where I was sleeping: they rolled their 
 blankets about them and went to sleep, hut I dared 
 not sleep and suffered with nightmare. I have learned 
 now that they slept there to 1 take good care of me. 
 God is very good to me; He is helping me get ac¬ 
 customed to a little of everything. I must remember 
 too that I am not in my own country but in theirs. 
 Countries and customs are not alike. I have never 
 been eyed so in all my life before as now. I must be 
 as interesting to the people along the way as they are 
 to me.” 
 
 November 20, 1916: “blow surprisingly kind the 
 Malagasy people are. I thought that uncivilized people 
 were fierce; these people, being semi-civilized, have 
 pleasant, good-natured faces. There is a crowd about 
 me now eagerly watching me write. They are out¬ 
 side the grass hut and I am inside. I like them best 
 
 when they are not too friendly.Later: I am now 
 
 in the dirtiest, little town on earth, I believe. In the 
 streets (what else shall I call them) I see a cosmopo¬ 
 litan crowd of pigs, dogs, cattle, hens, and people. This 
 room which the government has put up for its travel¬ 
 ing officials, the natives have used as an icebox for 
 their milk; consequently it is filled with flies. We have 
 crossed rivers by the wholesale today. In some places 
 we have been rowed across, in other places the men 
 have waded over carrying the filanzana (palaquin) 
 high. How strange everything turn out .As I 
 
26 
 
 sat alone last night and felt irritable on account of 
 the dirt around me, I began to- think, ‘What did I 
 come to- Madagascar for? Did I come to help nice, 
 little children who already are clean, or did I come 
 to help them realize what it means to be clean, physi¬ 
 cally and spiritually?’ As I thought the question out, 
 I grew ashamed of myself and my fretting. I began 
 to play with the lively little children about me. Soon 
 I had a crowd, and we did our best to understand one 
 another. After a time, one of the men brought me a 
 fowl as a gift, and in the evening the young folks 
 gathered about me. One of the young men who could 
 read and write a little wanted to- show me what he 
 knew. He had never gone to- school, he said, he had 
 only learned from passers-by. My! what grit. How 
 I admire him. I wished sincerely that I could speak 
 to them all, and that wish made me remember what 
 was written of Christ, ‘And when He saw the mul¬ 
 titude, He had great compassion on them, for they 
 were as sheep without a shepherd.’ ” 
 
 By December third (1916) she had reached Tana¬ 
 narive, and was established in a French home to learn 
 the language more thoroughly. “I hear all the French 
 1 am able to- digest the whole day long. Occasionally 
 Madame lifts the curtain of mystery by speaking Eng¬ 
 lish.Dec. 11: When shall I ever conquer my tem¬ 
 
 per? This evening we talked politics, and Monsieur 
 was rather hard on America. I defended dear, old 
 U- S. A. with all my might; but when he hurled 
 stinging remarks about it, I felt the blood mount hot 
 to my cheeks and I could hardly speak for anger. 
 Fortunately he saw my wrath and stopped. Dear, 
 old U. S. A., how I love it! Brother wrote me some 
 time ago, ‘Doesn’t it make you proud to write U. S. A. 
 
27 
 
 at the bottom of your letter?’ Proud! well, I have 
 never known that I loved my country SO' dearly as I 
 do. I am happy I am one of her children. I am 
 registered as a U. S. A. citizen here in Madagascar, 
 and I feel safe as long as Uncle Sam is back of me-” 
 (1917)—Feb. 12: “Lincoln’s Birthday—I must put 
 up my little flag; ‘Oh, the flag that’s brave and true, 
 Is the flag red, white and blue. It’s the flag for me 
 and you. Hurrah !’ ” 
 
 “December 17: Sunday today: I don’t know what 
 is the matter with me at times. Although I want the 
 love mamma, my brothers and sisters give me, I want 
 more love than that. 1 wonder if it is not natural for 
 women to want to be loved. If it isn’t, I am not 
 natural. I am afraid that this longing for a home of 
 my own and for special love is a temptation, and I 
 reprove myself for my weakness. I fight that long¬ 
 ing for love as soon as I perceive it begins to breed; 
 but I am afraid that by checking it, I shall make my¬ 
 self hard or unsympathetic with others. Although I 
 know that God has created us with natures craving 
 the fellowship of love; still I feel it is the place of 
 some of us to remain alone. I wonder if it is not in 
 that capacity some of us can do the most for Him, It 
 is hard b> give up; but if it were not hard, it would 
 not be worth doing. Many others have dedicated 
 their lives to God before in this way ; so why should 
 not I? Still, at times love and home sound sweet to 
 me; but a true sacrifice is giving up what one loves 
 the most: and it was a true sacrifice I intended to 
 make when I planned on becoming a missionary- Why 
 should I feel concerned? God will lead me right as 
 He has done many times before. I am not worrying 
 any more now, for God will lead me through. 
 
28 
 
 Dec. 18: I am actually ashamed of myself and my 
 last night’s dreaming. Today I am free and happy 
 again, and I don’t need the comfort of anyone else.” 
 
 After two hard attacks of fever, she found what 
 most malarial patients find, that one is abnormally 
 sensitive: “blow weak I am, and cross with myself. 
 Yesterday I felt hurt about criticisms made on my 
 French; it was not the criticism itself which hurt, but 
 the way it was said. And last Sunday. I was actually 
 in tears right in church; I cannot explain why. Last 
 evening as I went out for a walk by myself, I thought 
 about the matter seriously. I came to the conclusion 
 that it is not Christian to yield to all these petty mat¬ 
 ters which chagrin us. I must fight that over-sensi¬ 
 tiveness of mine; I must think less of myself and re¬ 
 member that all trials are for my good. How can a 
 Christian grow when he has no battles, to fight? ‘A 
 battle fought and won’ is what I ought to be able to 
 say at the end of each day. Moreover I must not for¬ 
 get That the man worth while is the man who can 
 smile when everything goes dead wrong-’ ” The sub¬ 
 sequent two years of her short life in Madagascar, she 
 certainly lived up to her resolutions to smile no mat¬ 
 ter what her trials were. She remained strangely pa¬ 
 tient under the most trying conditions at times, and 
 seemed to- gain in longsufifering and sympathy every 
 day. 
 
 After nine months in the capital, she passed her ex¬ 
 aminations in French, oral and written, satisfactorily. 
 On her way back to Manasoa she visited various Eu¬ 
 ropean homes and with her sweet, unassuming ways 
 made fast friends. In August 1917 she arrived at 
 Manasoa with her French diploma, all eagerness to be- 
 
29 
 
 gin her work in the Mission School—a work for which 
 she had been looking forward to for years. 
 
 Her workday at Manasoa was not a long one; only 
 eighteen months in all, and during this period she 
 was ill most of the time from malaria or dysentery. 
 Her love for the work and her desire to be of ser¬ 
 vice far exceeded her physical strength. She tried to 
 introduce better methods into' the school, but met with 
 sullen opposition from the native teachers who re¬ 
 sented a change; she spent much time giving various 
 boys music lessons and was disappointed to find that 
 they would not practise; in short, she found, what most 
 missionaries find, that the native is an immature crea¬ 
 ture with countless perversities which wear one’s pa¬ 
 tience threadbare. Yet she was always hopeful, con¬ 
 fident that the good would eventually win out. The 
 fever slowly sapped her strength, and with her strength 
 her courage. Determined not to be conquered bv 
 despondency she struggled bravely on, and she suc¬ 
 ceeded so well in concealing her feelings that only her 
 daybook after her death revealed the anguish she at 
 times had suffered over her problems. She did not 
 seem to realize that her despondency was due to ill 
 health ; she labored under the delusion that she had 
 failed to master herself- She failed too, to see that 
 her difficulties were those of success, and it never 
 came to her that her students almost idolized her. 
 
 Three months before she died: “My what loving 
 sympathetic letters I get from home- How lovely to 
 be a member of a large family. At times I almost 
 wish that I had no family, no friends—then there 
 would be no pain of seperation. It would not be hard 
 to leave friends perhaps, but it would be hard to live. 
 Live without love—no that is impossible; that isn’t 
 
30 
 
 life. Oh, I hope this new year will be a happy one. 
 If only we can keep our spirits up, the rest will take 
 care of itself. It is our moodiness which makes cer¬ 
 tain days dark and others happy. I am almost afraid 
 to let myself be wholly glad for fear there will be a 
 reaction later on. I thought I had overcome getting 
 discouraged, but no, I still get downhearted very easily. 
 This is a shame, a big shame; I must try not to let it 
 
 get a hold on me.” 
 
 Seven days before she died, her daybook again told 
 of her struggles with her despondency: “I remember 
 when I first came to Madagascar how happy I was in 
 my studies, in my work, in the people. Now that hap¬ 
 piness has left me and I am unhappy. I have been 
 trying to find the reason for it, and I believe it is 
 all due to cowardice, although there may be many 
 more factors at work than I know. First of all I miss 
 
 home dreadfully; it never seems like home here-. 
 
 Perhaps it is because I am used to having mother as 
 
 a center.now there is no one I love as I do her' 
 
 and I feel lost. Secondly, both at home and here I 
 have been accustomed to 1 others taking the responsi¬ 
 bility. At home it was mother ; here Dr. Dyrnes has 
 taken the brunt of it all. Now that he is preparing' to 
 leave, and more and more is left in my hands, 1 vir¬ 
 tually shrink from my task. To supervise under his 
 direction is all right, but to take all myself of good and 
 bad, that is different. This shrinking must be cow¬ 
 ardice. I can get no comfort from the others on the 
 place, for they are all as inexperienced as myself. How 
 I should love to be near my strong brother and hear 
 him say, ‘Er det noget at bry sig om da ?’ Why must 
 there be such love and interdependence in families 
 when ties are so hard to break and the loss is felt so 
 
31 
 
 keenly. There—I have had my dinner, and 1 have had 
 my say, and now I feel better. I must fight hard not 
 to let the Tine streak’ master me.” 
 
 On the 29th of March she was prostrated with 
 blackwater fever, and lived only two days after that 
 day. Unconscious though she was most of the time, 
 her mind was ever praying-—the habit of a lifetime 
 reasserting itself at the close of life with renewed 
 persistency. She lay pleading over and over with 
 God half unconsciously—“Please let me live a little 
 longer, please let me live a little longer-” Perhaps 
 she felt that her work had barely begun and she 
 wished to finish it before leaving it. As she grew 
 weaker and weaker and the end drew near, she threw 
 her arm about her sister’s neck and whispered, “Aa, 
 Astrid, lad mig dd (oh, Astrid, let me die).” She 
 had finally given up and was ready to go when her 
 Master called her. On the midnight of the last day 
 in March she drew her last breath, and the work foi 
 which she had been preparing, so to speak, all her life 
 was again without a leader. In her room were found 
 the many books she had bought with her own money 
 for the good of the school; the music she herself had 
 written for the ocarinas in the “orchestra” (she had 
 several musical rehearsals daily) ; notebooks she had 
 prepared on the wild birds of the place; classics she 
 had translated into French for the benefit of the stu¬ 
 dents; scores of pictures or patterns she had collected 
 or traced or invented for the teaching of new ideas 
 in sewing to the girls; and on her table a half-finished 
 letter to her mother. She had lived her last, and the 
 following day she was carried by her sorrowing stu¬ 
 dents out to the graveyard where two- years previously 
 
32 
 
 she had knelt to ask God to give-her a long term of 
 service. In truth His ways are mysterious and past 
 finding out. 
 
 The resting place of Ragna Dahle, 
 Manasoa, Madagascar. 
 
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