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MISSION STORIES 
 
 A LIFE OF FAITH 
 
 By JESSIE BROWN POUNDS 
 
 It is a sigiiiticant fact that one of the most familiar names in 
 the history of foreign missions should be that of a man who was 
 not a foreign missionary. Louis Harms had neither the physical 
 strength nor the mental adaptability necessary to work in the for¬ 
 eign field; and yet his life made possible the labors of scores and 
 even hundreds of laborers abroad, while his own direct efforts were 
 confined to a single parish. 
 
 He was born in 1808, and, when he was nine years old, he went to 
 live in Hermannsburg, Germany, afterward the scene of his noble 
 labors. At sixteen he entered the high school at Celle, and two years 
 later Gottingen University. Here lie was an ambitious student, but, 
 influenced by unfortunate associates and surroundings, he drifted into 
 infidelity. At length, in a quiet study of God's word, there came 
 faith; 'and faith was swiftly followed by consecration. Henceforth 
 he belonged to Christ, and lived but to serve Him. 
 
 For a number of years he was a teacher. He received calls to 
 large fields, but he seems to have held, with singular tenacity, to 
 the conviction that his best work would be done in his old home at 
 Hermannsburg. Thither he went, in 1843, to become assistant in 
 the church of which his father was pastor. 
 
 The death of his father, in 1849, left him the only minister in 
 Hermannsburg. He came to exert a marvelous influence in the com¬ 
 munity. There were great ingatherings of souls, and religion became 
 the chief theme of conversation, in the field and at the fireside. 
 “The people are like one Christian family,” an observer wrote. 
 
4 
 
 Mis sio n Stories 
 
 There now grew up in the heart of Louis Harms a desire that his 
 people might share in the work of the world’s evangelization. A 
 seminary was established, and the training of missionary volunteers 
 undertaken. As volunteers of widely varying gifts and tempera¬ 
 ments came, the idea of a missionary colony from Hermannsburg 
 presented itself. There was no money in hand for such an enter¬ 
 prise, but Harms was in the habit of making large drafts upon the 
 bank of faith. 
 
 The ship “Candace” was built, and launched in October, 1853. 
 In it the first colony of Hermannsburg missionaries was sent out to 
 work in South Africa. They had breathed their pastor’s spirit of 
 faith, and pressed their work, in spite of threatening obstacles, to 
 rapid and permanent success. Within seven years eight stations 
 had been established, one hundred settlers had begun work, forty 
 thousand acres of land acquired, and fifty heathens baptized. 
 
 Meanwhile, the work of faith went on at Hermannsburg. Many 
 came from unexpected sources, and new missions were undertaken. 
 “It is wonderful,” said Harms, “when one has nothing, and ten thou¬ 
 sand crowns are laid in his hand by the dear Lord.” 
 
 Louis Ilarms was through much of his life a great sufferer, and 
 he succumbed to disease before old age was reached. His death, 
 like his life, was a triumph of faith. He had seen the travail of 
 his soul, and he was satisfied to go, and to leave the work to other 
 hands. 
 
 That work is his memorial. More than sixtv mission stations, 
 scattered over South Africa, India, Australia and New Zealand, and 
 manned by workers from the Hermannsburg society, testify to the 
 power of his life of faith. 
 
 THE STORY OF DIGGING A WELL 
 
 By ANNIE EWING DAVIDSON 
 
 Hear Boys and Girls: Many of you have been giving your 
 money to help erect the buildings in which our missionaries can work 
 in heathen lands. I wonder how many of you ever read about the 
 lives of great missionaries. I have been reading about a great and 
 good man who has spent the greater part of his life in Christianizing 
 the people of the New Hebrides. 
 
 Look on your map and you will see that these islands are near 
 Australia. The people there were the lowest degraded savages. They 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 o 
 
 were caimiabls (you know this means that they killed and ate human 
 heings) ; they killed and hurned people for offerings to their idols. 
 When men died, their wives were hurned or huried alive with their 
 hushands’ bodies. When their parents grew old and unable to work, 
 they were killed to get rid of the care of them. These are some of 
 the wicked things these people did before John Patou went to them 
 and taught them about Christ. It would take volumes to tell all that 
 this noble man did and endured for these people. What I want to 
 tell you about is how the digging of a well led many people to become 
 Christians. 
 
 When John Paton took his family to one of these islands he found 
 they had no wells or cisterns. (Sea water is too salt for human 
 use). During the rainy season, from December to April, they had 
 fresh water; the rest of the year they used the milk of tlie cocoanut 
 and juice of sugar cane to quench their thirst. It seems strange to 
 us that they could live without water to wash with. Paton knew 
 that he and his family would not live without fresh water, so he re¬ 
 solved to dig a welb Because he had been very kind to the people 
 and made many presents to the chief, they allowed him to stay, but 
 when he told them he was going to dig a hole in the ground to find 
 water, they thought he had gone crazy. The only fresh water they 
 knew of was rain. The chief said, “Why, you can’t find rain in a hole 
 in the ground; rain comes only from above!” He told them he be¬ 
 lieved that his God would send rain through a hole in the ground. 
 So he began to dig. The chief begged him to quit and not let his 
 people hear him talk about rain coming up from the ground, or they 
 would think his head was wrong, and would never believe him again. 
 
 The old chief appointed men to watch him, thinking he was crazy. 
 Paton hired some of them to help him a little, paying them with fish¬ 
 hooks. After long, hard work under the hot sun, when he had made 
 the well twelve feet deep, one night it caved in. The chief again 
 begged him to give up the crazy notion of finding rain in the ground, 
 and came near driving him away from the island. 
 
 The natives would not help him with the second well, and grew 
 more and more afraid of him. When he had gone down thirty feet 
 the ground began to feel damp. He prayed earnestly to God to give 
 a spring of fresh water. He knew he could not hold out much longer 
 at the work, and if he did not find water soon, the people would drive 
 him away or kill him. He finally told the chief that he believed God 
 would give him water in that hole by tomorrow. The chief said, “No, 
 you will never see rain coming up from the earth, on this island. 
 We expect daily, if you reach water, to see you drop through into 
 
6 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 the sea, and the sharks will eat you!” After praying through the 
 night, he went next morning and made a small hole at the bottom of 
 the well, and water rushed in. He fell on his knees in the muddv 
 water and thanked God. Ihe chief and his people were waiting a 
 little way off, afraid to come near the -well. He brought up a jug 
 full, and when they had tasted it and found it really was rain (as 
 they called fresh water) they asked where he got it. He told them 
 God gave it through that hole in the ground and they could all use 
 it. At first they were afraid to go near the well until they formed a 
 long line, holding to each other, the bravest man looking in first, 
 then going back to the end of the line to help hold the rest. At last 
 they were convinced that they could indeed be blessed with fresh 
 water all the year round. Then they said, “If his God can do this, 
 we will hear about Him,” and soon many of them believed. They 
 were finally led to destroy their idols, to give up their awful customs, 
 and become an enlightened Christian people. 
 
 John Paton translated the Bible into their language, and they 
 were so anxious to have copies of it that they worked fifteen years 
 preparing arrow root (all they had) to sell, to make the money 
 necessary to send to Australia to have it printed. How many of you 
 think so much of your Bibles? And yet it is the Bible which tells us 
 of Jesus, the Water of Life for us as well as for them. 
 
 IN MONTEREY, MEXICO 
 
 By HELEN E. MOSES 
 
 I hope you will enjoy a ride to the Bishop’s Palace, up the moun¬ 
 tain side northwest of Monterey. We had better take a carriage, for 
 the evening is advancing rapidly. Here we call it Coche (pronounced 
 Ko-tchay). We must mtake a definite bargain with our driver, for 
 as we are Americanos he may think we have enough money so that 
 we will not be particular about the price charged us. 
 
 How narrow the streets are! We almost run over the two little 
 mules hitched tandem to the ancient looking street car. Hothing 
 looks familiar. The houses are all Mexican, are but one story high 
 and are built close upon the street. Where there are any sidewalks 
 they are very narrow and are made just as the owner of the property 
 pleases. The doors to the houses are very heavy and the windows 
 which are also double doors having glass in the upper half, are cov¬ 
 ered with iron gratings. The patios, or yards, have walls around 
 them almost as high as the houses, which makes the street very 
 uninteresting. 
 
M i s s i on Stories 
 
 7 
 
 Here is a group of little thatched cane huts of the very poor 
 people. Can women and children really live in such miserable places? 
 Surely they must, for the children are coming out to look at us. 
 Their mother follows. No wonder her face looks hopeless, but the 
 children are very bright. The baby is on the shoulders of her brother 
 who staggers under her weight. If we were walking, the little brown 
 hands would be outstretched toward us with the cry, centavo, 
 centavo, for these little folks are as fond of pennies as the children 
 of the homeland, and do not hesitate to ask for a gift—that is, the 
 children from these poor little abodes. The children of our school 
 and those we meet in the homes in which we visit are very gentle and 
 thoughtful for your pleasure. 
 
 As we near the foot of the great hill upon which the palace stands, 
 we pass beautiful homes in the midst of orange groves and delightful 
 gardens. The air is perfumed with roses and sweet violets and the 
 beautiful scarlet poinsetta, or Mexican Christmas flower, which 
 grows here as large as our garden azalia, and flaunts its glorious 
 blossoms almost in our faces. 
 
 Near the foot of the hill we leave our carriage and begin the up¬ 
 ward march. The wild flowers growing in the scanty soil in the 
 crevices of the rocks tempt us. They are all new and strange, all 
 are tiny and delicate, yet having tints of brightest blue, pink and 
 
 vellow. 
 
 «/ 
 
 The palace is in full view as we climb the slope. It looks much 
 more like a fortress than a palace, and its walls bear many scars 
 from American guns. This grim-looking building was commenced in 
 1782 and completed in 1790, by Bisliop Verger, for a summer res¬ 
 idence. It was assaulted by the American army September 21, 1849. 
 At this time it received its many scars. Time, too, has battered it, 
 until now it has fallen into disuse and decay. Still a lonely sentinel 
 keeps watch at its portal, the only reminder of the gallant army 
 which so bravely defended the city long ago. 
 
 After going through the empty ruins of the palace we will pause 
 on the summit of the hill for a view of Monterey. Can this beau¬ 
 tiful city, looking as though it were one great garden with white 
 walled palaces and orange groves of green and gold be the city of 
 narrow streets and blank walls we saw when below? It is even so, 
 and when we are tempted to call Monterey monotonous and uninter¬ 
 esting we will remember our view of it from the Bishop’s Palace. 
 Do not begin the descent yet. Stand quietly and lift your eyes above 
 the city just north of Cerro de la Silla. The moon is rising, a lum¬ 
 inous sphere of silver. Turn to the west. The Cerro de las Mitras 
 
8 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 are outlined against the sky in the clear rose of the afterglow, while 
 just above the mountain hangs the evening star, mingling its golden 
 radiance with the rose pink of the afterglow. 
 
 Surely the Lord is in this holy temple of nature. We will be 
 silent before Him ere we go below into the dust and noise of the city. 
 
 CRIPPLED JOE 
 
 By A. G, ALDERMAN 
 
 Poor crippled Joe lives just across the street from our Mission 
 in Monterey. In Spanish his name is Jose', and it is pronounced 
 “Ho-sa'y.” When Joe was a tiny five-year-old boy he went one day 
 with his father to the station to bring a load of lumber. The sun 
 was not yet up when they started to the far-away station, and the 
 morning was cool and refreshing. The big ox-cart trundled slowly 
 beneath the aguacate trees that lined the roadside, and hundreds of 
 pretty birds were ready to bid them good morning. Huge clusters 
 of date blossoms united with still more fragrant orange blossoms to 
 sweeten the summer air, and along the roadside ran a great irri¬ 
 gating ditch full of sparkling water, fresh from the lofty mountains. 
 Joe had never traveled so far from home, nor seen so many beautiful 
 things, and though you would think an ox-cart a clumsy means of 
 locomotion, Joe had never seen anything better, and he was quite 
 content to jog along until the shadows had crept close up under the 
 wheels. 
 
 At length the road turned abruptly across the irrigating ditch. 
 The big oxen plunged in up to their sides and stopped to drink. Joe 
 thought it was fine sport to watch the water running swiftly under 
 the cart, and to see the thirsty oxen expand as they drank eagerly 
 from the cold stream. 
 
 Then they came to the railroad—the first that Joe had ever seen. 
 The whistle of a locomotive was heard away in the distance, and 
 Joe’s papa pointed away down the track, saying, “There comes a 
 train!” But Joe had very little idea of what the word train meant, 
 and before he had time to ask any questions the train went roaring 
 by. “Tengo miedo!” (I am afraid!) said Joe, as he crouched behind 
 his papa, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Joe called it the “fire 
 wagon,” and for a long time it was a mystery to him how any 
 wagon could go so fast without any oxen hitched to it. 
 
 At last the station was reached. The sheaves of wheat that had 
 served as cushions were now given to the hungi > oxen, and Joe and 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 9 
 
 his papa sat down to eat their corn-cakes and cold beans in the shade 
 of a great tree. Soon they were discovered by some old friends who 
 shared their dinner with them and brought in return several bottles 
 of liquor that the men seemed to like very much, and that seemed 
 to make them very merry. Joe thought he would like to taste it, 
 but the men did not offer him any, and they grew so boisterous that 
 he was afraid to ask for it. 
 
 After they had drunk and told strange stories for a long time, 
 the oxen were hitched up to the cart and driven up beside a flat-car 
 loaded with long, heavy planks. These were laid upon the cart, the 
 long ends passing between the oxen and several feet in front of them, 
 and resting upon the yoke. Then Joe was left with the oxen in the 
 sun while the men went into a neighboring cantina (saloon) to drink 
 more mescal. They remained a long time, and when they came out, 
 Joe saw that his papa could hardly walk, and he thought he must be 
 very ill. The men embraced each other, and then they talked a long 
 time, then embraced again, and Anally Joe was placed upon the 
 great load of lum.ber, and his papa climbed up beside him. 
 
 Joe was glad to get started for home, for he felt that something 
 Avas wrong, though he could not understand it. His papa began to 
 prod the oxen fiercely Avith the sharp, steel-pointed goad, and they 
 started down the slope at a gallop. Joe was terribly frightened, and 
 he thought they must be going nearly as fast as the “Are wagon.” 
 After a while his papa’s zeal gave Avay to drowsiness, and he was 
 soon sound asleep. The oxen knew that they were going toAvard 
 home, and for a long time they kept on their way, though the load 
 Avas heavy and they made very slow time. Night came on, and Joe 
 rubbed his eyes and yaAvned. He was hungry and thirsty, but he 
 soon fell asleep. 
 
 The oxen grew very tired and thirsty, and Anally Avhen they came 
 to a little bridge Avhere a stream of water crossed the road, they 
 made an eager plunge for the Avater, causing one Avheel of the cart 
 to miss the bridge. Joe awoke Avith a sharp cry of pain to And 
 himself pinned fast between the great cart wheel and the stone curb¬ 
 ing of the little stream. His leg was crushed and broken, and he 
 tried in vain to pull it loose. His papa had fallen off beside him, 
 but he was so drunk that the fall did not awake him. You will not 
 wonder that poor little Joe thought he should die. He cried and 
 cried, and called to his papa and mamma all through the long dark 
 night, but no one heard him. Sometimes he would almost fall asleep. 
 Then the uncomfortable oxen Avould struggle again, and he would 
 scream Avith pain. It seemed to him like an age before the welcome 
 
10 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 light began to dawn in the east. Then he thought that mamma 
 would soon come. But suddenly everything seemed to grow dark, 
 and he knew no more until several hours later when he awoke to 
 find his frightened mamma bending over him in the little cane hut 
 that they called their home. Oh, how glad he was to see her! Her 
 black face looked to him like the face of an angel, and he almost 
 forgot the terrible pain in his joy at being at home. 
 
 There was no money to pay a doctor. It had all been spent for 
 tlie terrible liquor that had caused all the trouble. The neighbors 
 had gathered in and there was great excitement, but no one knew 
 just what to do, so poor Joe suffered on. Finally they thought of a 
 farmer near by who had some means, and one of them ran in great 
 haste to him. When he heard the pitiful story of Joe’s misfortune, 
 he sent a servant galloping to the town ten miles away to bring a 
 doctor. Night had come again before the doctor arrived. W’hen he 
 saw Joe he shook his head gravely, but went to work to save the 
 little sufferer’s life. It was impossible to save the crushed and 
 broken leg, and that is why Joe has a clumsy wooden leg. 
 
 Joe’s father went on from bad to worse, and finally filled a drunk¬ 
 ard’s grave; but Joe has never forgotten the terrible experience by 
 which he learned the horrors of strong drink, and he is a sober, in¬ 
 dustrious lad. We see him going about the streets every day. He 
 is selling charcoal, and that is the way he supports his widowed 
 mother and her family of children. From his door he can hear the 
 songs in our Sunday school, and we have asked him to come and sit 
 beside another boy with a wooden leg, so that together they may 
 learn of our Savior who made the lame to walk, and who taught us 
 how to reach that Home where sorrow never comes. 
 
 DOES IT PAY? 
 
 By JESSIE CLAIRE GLASIER 
 
 ’Nita was a little Mexican girl, brown, dirty and bare-legged. 
 ’Nita’s mother was, if possible, browner and dirtier than she. ’Nita 
 could remember when her mother wore gay earrings and a red ribbon 
 in her black braids, and she herself sometimes had a pair of shoes for 
 feast days and other great occasions—and perhaps a square of sweet¬ 
 meats to munch. But that was while father was alive, peddling 
 goats’ milk from house to house. Then came the awful fever and 
 carried off the milk-seller, Francisco, and his two younger children. 
 Now there were no ribbons or sweets—not much in life but rags and 
 dirt, and cuffs and harsh words when the mother had drunk more 
 pulque than usual. 
 
Mis si 0 n Stories 
 
 11 
 
 Then one day ‘‘Miswite” came, and the world was changed. “Oh, 
 mother! There is a lady like the face of the Moly Mother Mary 
 that hangs over our bed,’’ ‘Nita cried, bursting into the filthy little 
 court where her mother knelt on the bare ground, mixing iortillas — 
 the thin corn-meal cakes that served for most of their meals. “Such 
 eyes, mother! And hair like the sun! And she asked me to come 
 and hear the music—there is a school and they sing—little children 
 like me. And it matters not I have no shoes—she said so. She said 
 to come and ask for ‘Miswite.’ Say I may, mother, let me go,” ’Nita 
 pleaded, wringing her dark little hands, while her great black eyes 
 glowed with excitement. 
 
 It could do no harm, the mother reckoned. These rich Americanos 
 often spent money on the children they happened to fancy. No doubt 
 this beautiful lady with the fair skin and hair of gold had come from 
 the great land of plenty to the northward. And so Miss White, 
 whose name had jumbled itself so sadly in ’Nita’s little head, won her 
 most faithful pupil. 
 
 I wish you could have seen the ecstasy on the little Mexican girl’s 
 face when she first heard the songs the children sang, grouped around 
 the little organ “Miswite” played with such spirit. And no one could 
 have learned faster than she did to strike the right note in her clear, 
 bird-like soprano. Other things she learned, too—that it was worth 
 the trouble of carrying heavy pails of water a long way to look clean 
 and fresh and worthy of the white dress her teacher promised her. 
 Also, that the good Lord would rather that a poor milk-peddler’s 
 widow spent her few silver pieces to keep herself and her child clothed 
 and fed instead of paying them to the priest to have masses said for 
 her dead husband’s soul. ’Nita learned, too, that a little girl might 
 earn silver bits of her own by weaving pretty baskets when she was 
 not learning—wonder of wonders—to read real words out of the book 
 “Miswite” gave her. 
 
 As for the mother, her heart was quite won by the white dress 
 that made her little ’Nita look, she declared, like an angel. When 
 work was found for her in the laundry that was connected with the 
 mission school, her gratitude was genuine and deep. Now, if you 
 could look in any Sunday morning, you would see the two, mother 
 and little daughter, neatly clothed and with faces shining, listening 
 together to God’s word and joining in the songs that tell of the love 
 of Jesus. If you asked, “Does it pay to build schools and churches 
 in Mexico!” they would say “Yes,” most heartily. So would “Mis¬ 
 wite.” 
 
12 
 
 Mis si 0n Stories 
 
 A GREAT WOMAN 
 
 By MATTIE POUNDS 
 
 Pundita Raniabai, who spent some time in America, and who was 
 so warmly greeted in every city she visited, is one of the most 
 remarkable women now living. We would not be surprised at her 
 great fame had she been brought up in this land whose chief glory 
 is that it gives opportunity to all whether they be rich or poor, 
 men or women, to make the most possible of themselves and of their 
 lives; or in England, the country that has honored all womanhood 
 and honored itself by the love and loyalty it has shown its noble 
 queens; but that a daughter of India, the land that despises and 
 oppresses its women, shuts them up in zenanas, and keeps them in 
 ignorance, should have become such a famous author, lecturer and 
 philanthropist as to be known throughout all three of these countries 
 seems truly wonderful. 
 
 She was born in April, 1858, in a great forest named Gunga Mai. 
 Her parents had been driven into exile because her father, who was 
 a learned pundit (teacher) believed that women should be educated, 
 and spoke against the custom of child-marriage. He taught his own 
 wife until she became an educated woman, and then together they 
 taught their little daughters. Ramabai must have been a very apt 
 pupil, for when she was fifteen years of age she could read and speak 
 the Hindi, Marathi, Bengali, Guzerathi and Sanscrit languages. 
 
 About this time the dreadful famine, known as the ^‘India famine 
 of 1876,” but which began three years before that time, began to be 
 felt. Ramabai has told in one of her books of the horrors of that 
 time. The family went from one place to another on “holy pilgrim¬ 
 ages,” as they are called, trying to get the false gods they wor¬ 
 shiped to help them, for though the members of this family were 
 intelligent and educated, yet they were heathens, for they had never 
 heard of the true God. Had they known that the idols could not 
 help them, and remained in one place, instead of making these pil¬ 
 grimages, using their strength in work, they would have been far 
 better ofl'. As it was, the father and mother, and all of their children 
 but Ramabai and one son, died of starvation. 
 
 At this time Ramabai began lecturing on female education, and, 
 wonderful as it may seem, the people not only permitted her to 
 lecture, but listened with interest. The learned men of Calcutta 
 honored her by conferring upon her their learned degrees, an honor 
 never before given to one of the women of their country. 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 13 
 
 At twenty years of age she married a good man who approved of 
 her work and assisted her in it. The days seemed very bright and 
 happy and she felt that she was doing much to help the poor women 
 of her country. But in less than two short years her husband died, 
 and she became what is considered in India the most degraded of all 
 beings—a widow. 
 
 Instead of yielding to despair, as other widows do in that coun¬ 
 try, she employed her time in the seclusion into which she was forced 
 in writing books. These books had such a large sale that she soon 
 had money enough to make a journey to England, the land of which 
 the wonderful story was told that all the women living in it were 
 loved and well-treated. 
 
 But no Hindu woman—much less a Hindu widow—had ever made 
 a journey to a foreign country. The friends of Ramabai were 
 ashamed because she thought of doing such a thing and urged her 
 to give it up. But she said she must learn the customs of a country 
 that treated its women and girls so well. 
 
 One of the first things she saw in England was a home for home¬ 
 less women which some Christian people had founded. She looked 
 at it with wonder. She said to herself, ‘‘Well, this is a new kind of 
 a religion, which gives a home to the poor and the outcast. The 
 sacred books of the East tell us that help is only to be given to the 
 wise and the good, and command very different treatment for the 
 weak and the helpless!” She began at once a study of the Christian 
 religion and after a short time was baptized into Christ. 
 
 The people everywhere were delighted with her. She was made 
 Professor of Sanscrit in Cheltenham College, where she taught for 
 three years. In the meantime a desire had grown up in her heart to 
 found a home for outcast widows in India. She came to America to 
 lecture on the condition of the women of India. The people every¬ 
 where heard her gladly, and about $15,000 was raised with which to 
 found a Widows’ Home. She returned to India in 1889, secured a 
 fine location at Poona, and erected a good building. 
 
 At the beginning of the recent famine there were sixty widows 
 living in the home. Ramabai remembered how much she and her 
 friends had suffered during the other famine, and made a tour of 
 the country to relieve widows and deserted wives. 
 
 During this tour she visited our station at Mahoba, leaving some 
 little girls, whom she had found by the way, at the Orphanage, and 
 taking away some widows who were there. In the account of her 
 travels she speaks in the highest terms of Miss Graybiel and others 
 of our missionaries. She now has three hundred widows in her home. 
 
14 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 On November 15, 1897, a remarkable baptismal service was held 
 there. A missionary who assisted writes: “It was a novel and in¬ 
 teresting sight, when seventeen bullock-carts crowded with seven and 
 eight women in each, started out for the Bheema river, five and one- 
 half miles distant from the farm. Songs of joy arose, one after 
 another, as they slowly went along. A tent was pitched on the bank 
 of the river, which served as a dressing-room. A short service was 
 held, after which the baptisms took place. Pundita Ramabai’s 
 Brahman secretary (who was baptized on October 26, together with 
 a large number of widows in Poona) stood in the water and helped 
 the candidates to enter and return to the shore. One of the school¬ 
 mistresses on the shore called out the names of those to be baptized. 
 It was very interesting to hear each one repeat, with the minister, 
 ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.’ 
 The happy faces and frequent expressions of praise showed that the 
 Spirit teaches His children alike the world over, for these women 
 had never come in contact with many Christians, revivals, or bap¬ 
 tismal services. One hundred and eight women and girls and one 
 boy of twelve years of age were baptized.” 
 
 AN UNFORTUNATE 
 
 By BERTHA F. LOHR 
 
 The sun had again been sending his hot rays over the plains of 
 India. The whole day the heat had been very great. Now it was 
 beginning to get cooler. The evening shadows advanced more and 
 more and announced to the poor, languishing people the longed-for 
 refreshing coolness of the night. 
 
 At this time a fourteen-year-old herds’ boy was driving his 
 father’s cattle home. He seemed to be very happy for he was merrily 
 whistling all the way. All the people had quit working in the small 
 Indian village and were getting ready for the feast which the father 
 of the above mentioned boy, whom we will call Mangal, was to give. 
 It seems to the boy that the buffaloes and cows are walking very 
 slowly tonight. He was so impatient to get home, for already he 
 could hear the sound of the music coming to him from his father’s 
 house and several times he had been trying to get the leader of the 
 herd, a very thin and miserable looking cow, to walk quicker, but all 
 in vain. She does not understand the impatience and haste of the 
 boy which he manifests today, and is not to be brought out of her 
 usual leisurely walk. 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 15 
 
 Now the boy is getting somewhat angry. “I will make her go,” 
 lie thinks, and throws his stick after her. But oh, how dreadful! 
 Ihe stick goes the wrong way, and a small calf falls bleeding to the 
 ground. Frightened, the poor boy runs to the place and tries to help 
 bis little favorite on its feet; but his stick had hit a dangerous place. 
 One more convulsive movement and then its young life had ended. 
 
 Wild thoughts now go through the head of the poor little crim¬ 
 inal. He knows too well what dreadful punishment awaits him for 
 his olfense; he knows the penalty by which only he can be cleansed 
 from his sin. For a moment he thinks that he may be able to keep 
 the accident a secret, but other people have been witnessing the scene 
 and some are already running screaming and excited into the house 
 of the unfortunate boy’s parents, bringing the fearful news to the 
 frightened father: “Thy son has killed a calf!” Terrified, the father 
 runs to the place. The mother follows him with loud lamentations. 
 She takes the trembling boy in her arms and says, crying: “Oh! 
 my boy, how^ could you do such a dreadful thing? Now the gods 
 will hate you and their curse will be upon you, if you do not fulfill 
 ihe penalty wdiich the law prescribes! You will have to leave us 
 this very day, and only after five years can we receive you again. 
 0 my heart is almost breaking!” 
 
 The wailing people lead him out of the village, and then they give 
 him a small vessel and a staff in his hand; and now he is alone, cast 
 out of his father’s house and out of his village, forsaken by all w^hom 
 he loves. The unspeakable misfortune which has come upon the 
 hitherto happy boy is almost more than he can bear. During five 
 long years he wdll have to provide for himself, and in all this time 
 not a w^ord mmst pass his lips; he can only imitate the bleating of a 
 calf; only in this way he is allowed to make known his wants to the 
 people. This is the awful punishment which is prescribed by the law 
 for his offense. But although it seems almost impossible to bear his 
 hard lot, he will not resist the will of the gods, but he will try to 
 appease their anger by faithfully performing his penance. It is 
 impossible for him to go much farther today. It is dark now; he 
 can hear the sounds of the drums and the loud lamentations of his 
 father’s guests, who help him to bewail his son’s misfortunes, and, 
 sobbing, the poor outcast boy sinks down beneath a palm tree, for¬ 
 saken by men, at enmity with his gods, and unacquainted with the 
 dear, loving. Heavenly Father. 
 
 Early the next morning he awakes, a little strengthened by the 
 sleep he has had. and begins his long journey with courage and 
 energy. First, he has to visit the Ganges to wash away his sins in 
 
16 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 the waters of this holy river. We wonder if he will not starve to 
 death, or be torn to pieces by some wild animal. 
 
 But after three years we meet him again—his clothes are hanging 
 from his body in rags, his cheeks are hollow, and his feet are sore 
 and tired with much walking. Slowly he comes toward our veranda 
 and it seems as if he is going to ask, “Can you not help me at last? 
 How often have I been driven away, been cursed and shamefully 
 treated.” The expression of pain on his face, his sore knees, which 
 show us how much he has been praying before idols, the inarticulate 
 sounds by which he tries to make himself understood—by all this 
 we know at once whom we have before us, and it reveals to us a long, 
 sad story. He is asked many questions, but not a word comes from 
 his lips. If he breaks the law he will have to suffer for it after¬ 
 wards. Lovingly he is told about the Lord Jesus, and asked to be¬ 
 come His disciple and follow Him, but to this he answers only by 
 shaking his head. So we are not able to help the poor boy; we have 
 to let him go from us with bleeding hearts. May the dear Heavenly 
 Father be merciful unto him. 
 
 The dear friends in the homeland, who read this little story, will 
 receive an idea of the impenetrable darkness in which the poor 
 Hindus are yet languishing. The ground is yet hard and unfruit¬ 
 ful, although much labor has been spent in trying to make it soft 
 and yielding. But we shall work on with the happy assurance that 
 the Lord will bless the work which is done in His name and for His 
 sake, and our heart rejoices in the thought that “with God nothing 
 is impossible.” May He help us to remain faithful to the end. 
 
 BALLO 
 
 By HELEN L. JACKSON 
 
 It was that happy time which we who love Jesus call “Christ¬ 
 mas.” Hot so happy, though, to the poor little hoys and girls of 
 India, because, for one thing, they know nothing of the dear Jesus 
 whose birthday into this world we celebrate with so much joy. 
 Then another reason is this—the poor little boys and girls of India 
 —hundreds and thousands of them—can not find enough to eat. So 
 it happened that, just at the time when you, dear children, were 
 full of glee in anticipation of lots of fun, presents and good things 
 to eat, two little ones—Ballo and her brother, Mullu—were trudging, 
 with weary little feet, from village to village, seeking food. 
 
 But all in the villages were nearly as poor as they themselves, 
 so they joined a party of poor, starving people, who were traveling 
 
M i s s i 0 n S i o r i e s 
 
 17 
 
 to Hurda. They had no house to go to, and knew no one in the town, 
 so they dropped their little bundle of rags (which they call a 
 “bechona,” a bed) under a tree on the hanks of the river, and made 
 that their home. 
 
 But the long, weary trudge in the hot sun had been too much for 
 poor little Ballo and she lay down under the tree with a throbbing 
 
 headache and burning fever. All day long the cruel fever burned, 
 
 « 
 
 and her poor little lips were parched with thirst, while her legs and 
 back ached, oh! so badly. 
 
 There was no kind mamma to take her in her arms and soothe 
 her pain, and there was not even any one to go to the river and bring 
 her some water to drink, because her brother Mullu had gone off to 
 try and beg some food for himself and little sister. 
 
 So she lay there all alone until, as night was drawing on, Mullu 
 came back. 
 
 “Ballo,” says he, “there is a lady living in a bungalow, a long 
 way from here, and she gave me some curry and rice to eat; and see, 
 I have brought some for you. But she says she won’t give me any 
 more unless I take you along.” 
 
 “But I can’t go, brother, my legs ache so much, and when I stand 
 up I feel all dizzy. And I don’t want the food—you eat it—only get 
 me sonie water.” Boor little Ballo, she was too sick to eat, but she 
 drank the water which Mullu brought in their brass lota—the only 
 thing of any worth which they possessed. 
 
 So these two little lambs, for whom the dear Savior gave His life, 
 rolled themselves up in their poor rags, covered their heads over that 
 they might not see anything that might come to startle them, and 
 lay all night out there in the dark alone. Did I say “alone”? Oh, 
 no! they were not alone! Do you remember, dear children, that 
 verse which tells of our Savior’s words: “For I sav unto vou, that 
 their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in 
 heaven.” Yes, although no one saw them, there were two bright, 
 beautiful angels watching over those little forms down by the river. 
 
 The next morning Ballo began to cough and had a strange pain 
 in her chest, then she felt so tired—always tired—and she could not 
 walk that long distance to see the lady who had given brother such 
 nice food. So he went off again and left her by the river. 
 
 “Ballo, you must come with me tomorrow, for the lady thinks 
 that I am telling lies when I tell her that I have a little sister to 
 feed. She thinks that I just say so to get a double share of food.” 
 
 So the next day, with her brother’s aid, little Ballo came to my 
 bungalow. Poor little mite! How thin she looked! Her poor arms 
 
18 
 
 M i s s io )i S t 0 r i e s 
 
 wore like two sticks, and her legs the same; her cheeks were sunken 
 in, and her hig, black eyes looked out so mournfully. 1 fed them 
 both that day, and tried to induce them to stop with me, instead of 
 going back to the lonely river. But, strange as it may seem to you, 
 they did not want to. 
 
 For several days I saw no more of them, and I was busy with 
 many extra duties which Christmas brought with it, hut one evening, 
 a day or two after Christmas day, on returning to the bungalow 
 rather late, I saw on my veranda what seemed like a heap of rags. 
 But going ii}) to it 1 found, under the rags, Mullu and Ballo fast 
 asleep! 
 
 1 put my hand on the hoy, and he jumped up, saying, “Salaam.” 
 But Ballo was in a high fever, and hardh" recognized any one. 
 
 “We have come to stop,” said Mullu; “Ballo is sick, and can not 
 walk, and I don’t know what to do. There is a man up there who 
 keeps a drink-shop—he wanted to keep us, hut I know he would beat 
 us and make us work hard, and so we came to vou for fear he would 
 get us.” 
 
 “I am glad you have come,” said I, “for your poor little sister is 
 very sick, and needs good food and good medicine.” So they “came 
 to stop,” and in a little while, after careful nursing, Ballo’s little 
 cheeks began to fill out nice and round; she was able to run and 
 ])lay, and her eyes sparkled with health and happiness, and her laugh 
 was the merriest on my compound. 
 
 Such a happy, contented little maiden, and full of love and affec¬ 
 tion for “Mama je,” as she called me. “I’ll never leave you mamma! 
 never! You gave me good medicine, and made me well—and I love 
 A'ou”—this with a loving little hug. 
 
 But for Ballo’s sake I thought it best that she should leave me. 
 So, when INliss Judson was going to Mahoba, Ballo’s things were got 
 ready, too, and now she is a happy little girl among lots of other 
 little girls who, like her, have been rescued from death. 
 
 “Cod bless our dear little Ihillo!” T sav, “and make her a true 
 sei’vant of the dear Lord Jesus”—and I know vou will all sav Amen! 
 
 t 
 
 THE FACE IN THE LOOKING-GLASS 
 
 By A, E. G. 
 
 A missionary sat one hot summer afternoon beneath the veranda 
 of the mission house reading, when, suddenly looking up, she was 
 startled to find herself being intently r(‘garded by a ])air of eager eyes 
 
. 1 / i s s i 0 n 8 i o r i e s 
 
 19 
 
 belonging, it seemed to her at first, to some sort of monkey, for the 
 owner of tlie eager eyes began in an ecjually eager voice, and in 
 broken English, ‘'Lady, tell poor black girl about the good God of 
 whom you’ve come over the great sea to teach”; and the face was 
 upturned to the missionary with a wistful, yearning look. 
 
 The lady looked curiously at the strange figure before her. Well 
 might she have taken the girl fo he an animal rather than a human 
 being. Imagine, if you can, a little stpiat figure, with filthy rags of 
 clothing hanging to it, face and hands incrusted with dirt, and the 
 unkempt, matted hair really gave one an idea of a wild creature of 
 the woods. 
 
 And yet within the dark heart of this h(‘a.theii child was a deep 
 longing, so real and so earnest that she had overcome fear and 
 timiditv, and had come from her unclean dwelling to know more 
 from the lips of the missionaries of the Lord and Savior of whom she 
 had heard rumors from those who had come under their teachings. 
 
 "Do tell poor heathen about the great God,” she said again, for 
 the missionary had sat without making reply to her first ap])ea!. 
 She had been thinking how and what she should answer. 
 
 At length she said, "Come to me tomorrow at this time aiul you 
 shall know what you wish.” The child looked her thanks, and then, 
 like a veritable thing of the woods, hounded away, and was cpiickly 
 out of sight. 1 he missionary sat there lost in thought, and soon 
 from her heart came the cry: "0 God, give me the soul of this poor 
 herthen; teach me what I shall say to her; help me that I may 
 reach her understanding!” 
 
 The next day the missionary awaited within the coming of the 
 heathen child. At length she saw the little form slowly and timidly 
 approaching, and could see that the child was surprised and disap¬ 
 pointed at not seeing her beneath the veranda. She sent the native 
 servant forth to meet the child, who told her that her mistress was 
 within, and awaited her there. The little form drew near to the 
 house and entered, following the servant. The missionary called the 
 child to join her in an upper room, and she quickly ascended the 
 stairs to the place whence the voice proceeded. 
 
 On her way she had to pass through a room in which hung a 
 large mirror. The lady suddenly heard a loud, piercing scream, and 
 the girl rushed breathless into her presence, nearly fainting with 
 terror, and at length gasping, “Why didn’t you tell me?” as she 
 pointed to the stairs up which she had just come. Then slowly she 
 explained, when the missionary had soothed away her fear, how that 
 she had seen in the I'oom below, as she passed through, a terrible 
 
20 
 
 Mi s sio n S lories 
 
 looking wild beast, which approached her, and seemed ready to spring 
 upon her. 
 
 “But there’s no wild beast there,” said the lady. “You surely are 
 mistaken.” 
 
 “No, no,” pleaded the girl, “don’t go,” as the missionary 
 descended the stairs to ascertain the cause of the child’s terror; but 
 finding she still went on, the child, for A^ery fear of being left alone, 
 followed her. 
 
 “Where?” asked the missionary, on reaching the room and look¬ 
 ing around. “Where is that which so affrighted you?” 
 
 “There! there!” said the girl, pointing to the mirror, Avherein 
 were reflected her face and form. 
 
 “But that’s yourself there,” said she, “and not a wild animal at 
 all.” 
 
 “Me!” was the surprised question. 
 
 “Yes; that’s vour own face there.” 
 
 The child wonderingly drew near and gazed at her form in the 
 glass, and, when the truth dawned upon her, said slowly: “Dirty, 
 horrible, ugly!” And then, turning to the missionary, “I’d like to 
 be clean, lady.” 
 
 When, soon afterward, trim and clean, Avith the long unkempt 
 hair nicely braided up, and in the place of rags of clothing a pretty 
 dress AAdiich the mission people had given her, the girl again stood 
 before the mirror, she dreAV herself up, and Avith a pleased, beaming 
 face, kept repeating, “Clean nOAAq pretty now, neat now!” 
 
 “Yes,” said the lady, who was an amused spectator of it all, “but 
 only outside.” 
 
 Then, draAving the child gently toward her, she told her, Avith 
 love in her tones, of the spiritual deformity and defilement; to all 
 of Avhich the child listened Avith earnest attention. When the mis¬ 
 sionary had ceased speaking, the girl, Avith tears in her eyes, said 
 the old Avords: “I’d like to be clean, lady.” A feAV days had passed, 
 and the girl had had many long and happy talks Avith the mission¬ 
 ary, Avhen one afternoon she cautiously, almost Avith aAve in her face, 
 crept up the staircase once again and stood in front of the glass 
 Avhich had before been such a source of terror. The missionary, Avith 
 joy and thankfulness to God in her heart for the Avondrous Avay in 
 Avhich lie had brought this little one to Himself, Avatched. Looking 
 at her face and figure, noAV so bright and clean, she repeated, “Clean, 
 pretty, neat”; and then, while heaven itself seemed to be reflected 
 in the SAveet face, “and clean inside, too! ” 
 
M i .s‘ s i 0 n 8 t 0 r i e s 
 
 21 
 
 My little tale is told. Have you caught its meaning? Have you 
 seen yourselves in God’s looking-glass—His Word? Have you been 
 troubled and made wretched by the sight? Can you say today with 
 the heathen child, “I’ve been cleansed?” If not, come at once, and 
 let your prayer be, “Lord, show me myself.” When that is answered, 
 as it soon will be, let this prayer go up to Him, “Lord, show me 
 Thyself,” and the look of faith at Him shall save you. 
 
 BRANDING A GIRL WIFE 
 
 By MATTIE W. BURGESS 
 
 “In the Court of the Third Presidency Magistrate an interesting 
 case of cruelty to a Hindu girl came on for hearing, but terminated 
 unexpectedly, the accused escaping punishment. The accused were 
 a lad of seven years and his father, the former being the brother-in- 
 law of the girl and the latter her father-in-law. They were charged 
 with having branded the girl, who is eleven years of age, and the 
 wife of another son of the second accused. In opening the case the 
 following facts were laid before the court: The girl was given some 
 bread to bake. She was sleepy at the time, it being 8 o’clock p. m., 
 and while dozing the bread was burnt. This made the father-in-law 
 very angry. During this time the girl had been chained up, both 
 of her legs being shackled. She was able to move about slowly. 
 Upon the spoiling of the bread the enraged father-in-law said to 
 the boy, ‘Burn her.’ He himself then placed a poker in the fire. 
 After making it red hot he gave it to the boy, who burned the girl. 
 She complained to her mother and tvas taken to the hospital. The 
 police were informed and the case sent up after due incpiiry. The 
 poor girl, when called, gave a different version, and the court re¬ 
 luctantly allowed the case to he withdrawn.” 
 
 How often such cruelty occurs only One knows. All over India 
 the little wives are afraid to testify against their husbands or their 
 husband’s people. The houses of the fathers-in-law are the only 
 homes, and should their evidence he the means of convicting any 
 member of a family their later tortures and sufferings would be far 
 worse than anything yet experienced. And yet how many daughters 
 sit at east in Zion! 
 
22 
 
 M i s s i 0 n t 0 r i e s 
 
 MISERABLE HOMES IN INDIA 
 
 By OLIVIA A. BALDWIN 
 
 Ihere are some wealthy people in India. Hieir homes are built 
 of stone or brick. Ihere are no frame houses there. Timber is os 
 scarce that a frame house Avould cost more than one of brick. 
 
 The houses of the poor are made of mud, and as nearly all of the 
 people are poor, mud houses are the rule. Economy must be used 
 even in building a mud house. The one-room house is the rule 
 among the lower castes. This one room is often not more than ten 
 or twelve feet square. At each corner of the house, on the outside, 
 is a rough post or sapling as a support for the mud walls; these 
 walls are often but four or five feet high except at the gable end. 
 
 The roofs are of cheap tile or grass theatch, the framework being 
 made of bamboo poles. 
 
 The doors vary with the height of the wall. Some are only three 
 feet high and two feet wide. Some houses have no doors—instead, 
 a piece of bamboo matting is used to close the doorway when desired. 
 When a door can not be afforded the doorway is made unusually 
 small. Often I have bumped my head and broken my pith hat be¬ 
 cause I failed to steep low enough in going in or out at these crude 
 doorways. 
 
 Windows are not considered a necessity in Indian houses. One 
 window to a house is ample and the windows are usnally not more 
 than three feet wide and one foot high. Glass is rarely used. 
 Wooden bars running up and down are common. In cold and rainy 
 weather the windows are closed with matting. In the cold season 
 six to ten people sleep in one room with the window and door closed. 
 Fortunately ventilation is secured through spaces unintentionally 
 left between the top of the walls and the roof of the house. 
 
 d'he houses in India are built without chimneys. Stoves are not 
 used. A crude little fireplace Iti a corner of the room is used for 
 cooking. The poor can not afford fire for heating purposes. 
 
 I was once called to doctor a little girl, very sick with pneumo¬ 
 nia. It was in the winter, and as the people were in comfortable 
 circumstances, they had a big fire in the middle of the room. It was 
 a big smoke, rather. I could stay in the room but a few minutes at 
 a time. The Indian people do not mind smoke; they are accustomed 
 to it. They were trying to keep the sick child warm, and never once 
 thought of the suffiocating effect of the smoke. 
 
J/ i s s ion iS t 0 r i e s 
 
 2;j 
 
 The high caste people in India must liave two rooms, even if they 
 are poor, for they keep tlieir women shut up and must have a room 
 especially for thon. it is considered a shame for a woman to be 
 seen by any man outside of her own family. Often girls of nine or 
 ten 3 ’ears, when married or betrothed, are shut up. This cruel cus¬ 
 tom prevents the girls from going to school after they are nine or 
 ten years old, even when tlieir people are willing for them to be 
 educated. The purdah (curtained) girls and women often have a 
 little back yard, siu-Kuinded by a high wall, where they may walk or 
 sit. In the cities many are deprived of even this much of out-of-door 
 life; so the homes of the high caste and the wealthy, even, are made 
 miserable bv the heathen customs. 
 
 Small houses can be built in India for from $3 to $5, yet many 
 of the people are too poor to own or to rent a house, and live out of 
 doors except during the rainy season. 
 
 So gieat was the poverty of the people, when I was there, that 
 they could not live inside of even such a house. 'Now, on account of 
 the plague and the famine, the poverty and the suffering are ver} 
 greatly increased. 
 
 How thankful we should be for our comfortable, happy homes! 
 Hut if we are truly thankful, will we not do something to help the 
 people of India? 
 
 In C hristian lands, any such poverty and suffering is impossible. 
 Clod has promised a special blessing upon His people. Then, where 
 people love Christ, they love each other and are ready to help each 
 other. In heathen lands, the missionaries are able to teach the 
 people how to make more money, and ho^v to save it, that they may 
 be readv for the time of trouble. The native Christians of the lower 
 
 t/ 
 
 castes in India are much better off' than their heathen brethren. So, 
 whenever you help in missionary woik you help to convert the people 
 to Christ, and you also relieve their poverty and distress. When a 
 high caste man becomes a Christian, he no longer keeps his wife shut 
 up, for he is taught that this is wrong; and his daughters are not 
 married when children, but are sent to school. Do you see how 
 much you can help? TTw to do more for the Builders’ Fund this 
 year chan you have ever done before. Save your nickels and dimes 
 given you, and try to earn some money for this great work. 
 
 Remember that Jesus said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto 
 one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto Me.” 
 
24 
 
 Mis sion Stories 
 
 A BAPTISMAL SCENE AT MAHOBA, 
 
 INDIA 
 
 By ADELAIDE GAIL FROST 
 
 Last evening ten of our girls were buried with their Savior in 
 baptism in the sunset waters of Kirat lake. It was a beautiful time 
 in the day, when the air is cool and the glare of the tropical sun has 
 given place to the softly fading light of the afterglow. 
 
 All the larger children went down to the lakeside two by two, 
 softly singing, down past the suttee piles and temples, which did not 
 speak any language to these little souls rescued from idolatry. For 
 them it is “Jesus only.” They stood in a row on the bank, looking 
 indeed “chosen” in their clean dresses and neatly braided dark hair. 
 One would not think of these things did she not see girls running 
 about in the road with wild, unkempt hair, and a rag for a covering. 
 There was dear little Rupiya (“silver”), whose elder sister, Mam- 
 bhai, is in the Orphanage too. Mambhai had a high fever and could 
 not go last night. She grieved so over it, but told Rupiya she need 
 not fear, that it was a service that would seem good to her. There 
 was Parmi, who came to us only a little over two years ago, a thin, 
 spiritless child, who had not energy to smile. I see her yet with her 
 shoulder blades protruding through the rents of an old dress, and her 
 face with the old, old look. She can laugh and sing after two years; 
 she reads in the Third Hindi Reader; she is “like other children,” 
 and she went down into the baptismal waters with a believing and 
 understanding heart. Each of the ten has her history, I wish I 
 could tell you a bit about each. We sang “What Can Wash Away 
 My Sin?” and “I Will Keep Jesus in My Lleart”—the latter has a 
 native air. Then, as the last was being baptized and the sunset glow 
 was fading from the waters, Ave sang: 
 
 “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide. 
 
 The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide.” 
 
 We turned homeward where the glorious full moon Avas sending 
 up a gloAV behind the orphanage and I saAV the girls, Avho have been 
 Christians for some time, kissing the cheeks of their neAV sisters in 
 Jesus. As Miss Gordon and I Avalked back together AA^e repeated that 
 beautiful text about His being able to “keep.” I have selected this 
 text from Colossians for these ten as my resolve for them: “Labor- 
 ■ing fervently for you in prayers, that ye may stand perfect and com¬ 
 plete in all the will of God.” 
 
Mis si 0n S t ories 
 
 25 
 
 A TRIP TO INDIA TO DO MISSION 
 WORK —In Three Parts 
 
 By JOSEPHA FRANKLIN 
 
 PART I. TAKING CARE OF THE SICK 
 
 Frank Stockton, I think, has written a story about a man who 
 had power to transfer his aches and pains upon his friends simply 
 by thinking of them very liard. I have gotten an idea from this, 
 and so, dear young people, will try to get relief myself a while by 
 indicting my aches and pains on you. I will even go farther. I 
 will make you boys and girls in turn come to India and share my 
 work with me. Just as I need you I will call your names. But 
 drst, all of you think: Josepha Franklin has dfty-three children 
 who should be taught dve hours a day; thirty-eight babies, some of 
 whom need attention every moment; a Christian Endeavor Society, 
 the members of which need unheard-of teaching and preparing; a 
 Sunday school which is very much like her daily Bible class in 
 school; a house to be kept; and, last of all, her own health to take 
 care of. 
 
 Mary Brown, you are a strong girl, with lots of good sense. 
 Wake up! You are in India now. It is August, 1896. Do you 
 hear that rain? It sounds like a March wind at home, only in 
 addition you hear a sound like a river rolling. What makes you so 
 sad? You are thinking of the babies—some lame, some blind, some 
 deaf, and many quite well in their mud house in your yard. You 
 are grieving that all can not have warm clothes; that they will be 
 drenched to the skin; that many are sick; that you have no doctor 
 to help you, and you yourself can not understand the sickness of 
 some, and can not help others, because you have no accommodations 
 or money. But chalo (move) ! You can not waste time in aimless 
 grieving with so much work on hand. The rain leaks through in 
 every room. You can not help that—so chalo on. You say: “Will 
 the rain ever stop?” Streams of water flow everywhere, and your 
 yard has turned into a lake. Put on your heaviest shoes, your rain¬ 
 coat, and your sun topi (hat). This last is necessary, or you may 
 get a sunstroke, even through the clouds. Let us go into the largest 
 room first, and take a look at the children in it. Now you are dis¬ 
 gusted and angry, too. Call the sweeper-woman, who should have 
 done the cleaning up. As an excuse for all the filth, she says the 
 water-man has not yet brought the water. He should have been here 
 
M i s s i 0 ii S t 0 'T i e s 
 
 L>(; 
 
 two liours ago. So she has not done any of lier work. On a bed, 
 with three other little boys, is Bhura, and you notice that he has 
 sure signs of choleia. And there are twenty other babies in this 
 ) ooni crying with pain and hunger, while the water runs in streams 
 on the dirt door, dell the sweeper-woman to put all the boys who 
 aie in two small houses into one immediately. But do not lose 
 patience if she takes an hour to do it. At last it is done. Now take 
 your poor cholera-stricken babe to the empty house, and do what you 
 can for him. 
 
 Bred Starr, you hope to be a physician and surgeon some day, so 
 1 will call you. You must prescribe for the cholera patient, and tell 
 the nurse what to do. Get hot water for his feet. Bring Rubina’s 
 camphor and give it every ten minutes. Do not give him any food. 
 Rub him constantly to keep up a circulation, and keep him between 
 the coarse blankets you have for the children. Marv is to watch 
 him closelv for a week or two if he does not die before that time. 
 
 t/ 
 
 d hen if he gets well, she must fumigate the house and allow no one 
 near for days. As she never saw sickness to speak of until she came 
 to India, this is enough for her. 
 
 But, Doctor Fred, you must come and see my starvelings, and 
 advise me how to save their lives. This child is Hera Lai. His 
 mother died of cholera some months ago, and left him without home 
 or friends. He could walk then, but he can not take a step now. Do 
 you see the bones coming through his wrinkled old skin ? And the 
 hollow holes into which his eyes are sunk ? Your professional knowl¬ 
 edge tells you that this child is dying—was dying when he came, 
 d hat for days and days and days—so many that the poor mite does 
 not know when they began—hunger gnawed and gnawed his stomach, 
 d hat sometimes he ate cow’s food, and sometimes a bitter berry, and 
 sometimes the skin and seed of fruit thrown away by wealthier chil¬ 
 dren. Do you see that the wholesome and nourishing food I give the 
 child does not taste good to him? If he could he would have again 
 the same stuff he ate when a beggar. Perhaps you know how a 
 healthy ap})etite is depraved by the use of tobacco and beer. But in 
 all wide America, I am sure you never saw appetites so depraved as 
 those of the starveling children of India. Make poor Hera Lai as 
 comfortable as possible to die. You can do no more. 
 
 Now, doctor, this little dried up waif has fever; this one a cough 
 for which you may know a name—I do not; this one raw, open sores; 
 and this one general weakness. You must stand by and see that the 
 ayah (nurse) in charge obeys all your orders, or you must wash 
 and bind on clean cloths, and dress and feed, and give medicines 
 
Miss io n S t o ri e s 
 
 27 
 
 yourself. Besides tlie sickness, so many have deformities which are 
 caused by the wretched state in which they have been living. VVe 
 will do what we can for them, but other duties must now have our 
 attention. 
 
 PART II. KEEPING HOUSE AND TEACHING 
 
 SCHOOL 
 
 Mistress Martha Workman, you are so careful and neat. Won’t 
 you do my housekeeping? Call the cook and the table-servant and 
 give orders for meals, and, jingling your keys, go to your storeroom. 
 See the cook take out six eggs for a pudding requiring four, and 
 make him put back two, and also be careful that he does not take too 
 much sugar and other things as well. Watch one man fill the lamps, 
 or he will steal the oil. Take your daily account from the cook, 
 weighing or counting all things brought from town, and be very sure 
 you do not allow him to charge you too much for everything brought. 
 Do not lose your temper when he tells you your meat is worth four 
 or five cents when for months you have given only three cents for 
 this much. Simply note that his wages are to be cut for per¬ 
 sistent deceit and impudence, if you so regard it. WTfite down no 
 account of anything you have not seen and weighed yourself. After 
 this give out clean dish and dust cloths and towels. You must give 
 about four daily. See that all tins, pots, etc., are cleanly scoured. 
 Talk to your table-man again about the dirty dishes and cupboards. 
 When you despair of seeing order, system and neatness, console your¬ 
 self with the thought, Hindu-like, that such things “always have 
 been and alwavs will be.” See that a certain amount of butter has 
 been made from the milk taken 3 "esterday, and see that today’s milk 
 is properly boiled. Since you have not been able as yet to afford an 
 oil stove, you are alm.ost wholly helpless in the hands of your cook. 
 You could in nowise go into that little tight cook-house unless you 
 wished to commit suicide. Besides, you were sent out by the home 
 people to teach and preach to the heathen. How many teachers or 
 preachers at home do their own cooking ? Here I will leave you 
 waging war to the teeth with walle (people) of all descriptions— 
 butchers, bakers, wood-sellers, store-keepers, etc., but most especially 
 with your cook. 
 
 Tom Hardy, it is your turn now. Today my well boys, of whom 
 I have perhaps twenty-five, must have a bath and clean clothes. 
 These clean clothes must be gotten from the washer-woman. There 
 is a book on that shelf in which the number she took last week is 
 
28 
 
 Mis si0 n Stories 
 
 written. Be sure she has brought all back, and after you have noted 
 down the number brought and the number missing, watch that she 
 does not slyly carry away an article or two under her voluminous 
 sari (cloak). You must be very sharp, because these women do 
 steal the clean or dirty clothes from under your ver}^ eyes. Won’t 
 you be glad when only trustworthy native Christians need be em¬ 
 ployed, when we can have such at our command ? Now lock up the 
 soiled clothes until tomorrow, when you may with great care give 
 them to the washer-woman. 
 
 Now you may come and see if you can help Martha. First, see 
 that sweeper-woman, and get her to clean up all the tilth about the 
 place, and sprinkle lime about all the ditches. Ihen you will go and 
 see that the water-man has boiled gallons of drinking water to cool 
 today for tomorrow’s use, and that plenty of boiled water was cooled 
 and set away for the children to drink today. Then will you see 
 whether your ayah (nurse), who has charge of the milk, has properly 
 boiled it. After this will you go to the woman who cooks the chil¬ 
 dren’s food, and see that everything is clean about the kitchen, that 
 she has emptied no slops on the floor, or by the door, and has left no 
 dirty pans or dishes about, nor allowed the children to carry away 
 the utensils or food. Later, you may relieve Martha by going with 
 the cook while she gets out the provisions from the storeroom for 
 the mid-day meal, for remember that neither she nor those who are 
 prowling around can be trusted. Will you do this every day for me, 
 and Martha, do it twice a day besides; and then will you two see the 
 children when they eat, so that the sickly ones won’t be given too 
 much? If you will, it will be a great rest for me. 
 
 Long ago my school bell rang, but how could I have gotten in on 
 time without help from you boys and girls ? Today my native Chris- 
 tion helper is sick, so I will need two substitutes for my school. I 
 will take a young lady and a young man. You will both sing 
 hymns, read the Bible and pray together with the fifty-three boys. 
 Then, Bessie Thomas, you take one class of First Readers, and 
 Charlie Marshall take another and teach them the Bible. Before you 
 begin teaching, however, just look on the veranda of my bungalow 
 (the school is held in the bungalow itself), and you will see the 
 highest First Reader class and my pupil teachers, Balli, Sirawan and 
 Benji, and blind Banmali, all quietly reading their Bibles. After 
 the Bible lesson you will each in turn teach numbers, reading, writ¬ 
 ing and spelling. You will put each class, when doing slate work 
 of any kind, in charge of one of the pupil teachers, and when you are 
 teaching yourself you will also have one of them present so that he 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 29 
 
 can learn some sensible method of teaching instead of the sing-song 
 parrot-like memorizing method used in India. So a training school 
 in miniature is also started here. The school opens at 7 o’clock. At 
 10:30 jNlrs. McGavran will give a singing lesson. Then the First 
 Headers all go home and you will have one hour to teach geogra¬ 
 phy, grammar, reading, arithmetic, English and the Bible to the 
 pupil teachers. At 12 eat your breakfast and rest a while. Then 
 get up, lay out lessons, think up methods and charts, etc., for your 
 own and the boys’ use next day. At 5 o’clock be ready to read 
 Hindi poetry, or in any way prepare yourself in the language not 
 }Our own to teach school the next day. 
 
 PART III. SOME SORROWS AND SOME JOYS 
 
 Come, tender-hearted Grade Morris, with me to the veranda, 
 ^vhere I threw out a rug a while ago. What is that? A form, dirty 
 and black, with long, matted hair, is creeping from under the rug. 
 A naked child, you say. Yes, and a poor, little, starving child, as 
 well. Ask her how she came there. Oh! but she will not speak, for 
 she is very much frightened. Give her some bread, and that may 
 make her so that she will not be afraid of you. See how she grabs 
 it and how hungrily she eats! “Now speak, little girl,” you say, 
 “and tell me how you came here.” “Your mother brought you?” 
 “When did she bring you ?” “While you were eating dinner,” the 
 child said, in her Hindi language, of course. “Why did she bring 
 you ?” “Because,” you hear her say, “we are starving. For three 
 days we have eaten no food. My mother was dying and she left me 
 for you to protect.” “And,” you ask, “why did she put you here?” 
 “Because,” she replied, “we were told you could take no more chil¬ 
 dren to care for; so, while you were eating, she hid me here and ran 
 away.” Poor Gracie, why are the tears running down your cheeks? 
 You are pitying this poor child, but you are also thinking of dear 
 Miss Frost, who is so much overworked; and her crowded Orphanage, 
 how that she has many more girls there now than can well be accom¬ 
 modated, or than she should be asked to care for. And you also 
 think of Miss Burgess, who can not take one child more. So we 
 must report the child to the police. If she does not die at once in 
 the overcrowded charity hospital or poor-house, she will be sent 
 away, at last, to more misery, perhaps to fall into everlasting shame. 
 
 You feel that the air is stifling here on the veranda since you 
 have had this sad experience, and you ask me to walk out into the 
 road. A lame child creeps alone along it. It is wholly defenseless 
 
30 
 
 Mis si 0 n S t o r i es 
 
 from the blinding rain. You can not pick it up. You must think 
 again that our rooms are over-crowded. Besides you dare not bring 
 til is child among the others until you know whether it be sulTering 
 
 from some contasious disease. 
 
 So let us go on to the bazaar, 
 
 Now 
 
 the tears stream from your eyes. You are not used to such sights. 
 ( hildren on all sides of you. Children in all stages of sickness look¬ 
 ing at you. Children stretching out their tiny hands to you. Chil¬ 
 dren falling on their faces before you. Children moaning, and weep¬ 
 ing, and crying, and dying, before your eyes. Listen, if you can dis¬ 
 tinguish an intelligent sound above the sickening, heart-rending con¬ 
 fusion. “I am dying!” “I am hungry!” “I am cold!” “I will live 
 with you!” “I have no parents!” “Take pity on me!” “Give me 
 bread!” “Give me money!” “Bread! bread! bread!” “We are 
 starving! starving! starving!” Shut your eyes and ears and heart. 
 Thrust every dirty beggar from you and run. Only a few days ago 
 Miss Frost wrote you that she had seventy children and not 5 cents 
 on hand to care for them. To be sure these are “little ones” of 
 Christ. For two months before the rains, even a cup of water could 
 not be obtained for days by many of them; brooks, streams and rivers 
 had dried up, and that helped to bring about their present condition. 
 But you are accustomed to misery now. Go home and forget what 
 you have seen. It is foolish to feel that such scenes take all your 
 lifeblood from you. 
 
 But what is that now that starts your flesh creeping? A naked 
 dead body of a child tied by hands and feet to a pole like some dead 
 animal, and being carried away by the sweepers to be buried. Two 
 months ago you could have saved that child. But what does it 
 matter? Thousands of others now die like it. You know very well 
 that it is useless to think of trying to take care of all these children 
 until more buildings are built for their accommodation, and more 
 missionaries sent to care for them. When the missionaries who are 
 already on the held are so overworked as to endanger their lives, 
 even your tender heart would not ask that they attempt to do more. 
 But do you not wish that the dear boys and girls at home would 
 send some more money out of their abiuidance to the Builders’ Fund, 
 so that all the needed buildings could immediately be erected? And 
 that the Board could have sufficient funds })laced in its hands to be 
 enabled to send out the needed workers? If you can work toward 
 accomplishing this end, it will be much better than sitting down and 
 grieving over the misery about you. 
 
 But it is not fair to make boys and girls know only aches and 
 pains and sorrows. There are things to tell which will lighten your 
 
M i s s i 0 II IS t 0 r i e s 
 
 31 
 
 hearts, and some wliicli will make you most happy. My sister, who 
 is studying so hard now, will come to the plains in the fall and help 
 us with our work. Our youngest sister is coming out from America, 
 and in a year she, too, can work. Dr. Mary McGavran will also be 
 with us in the fall, and there are other missionary helpers promised 
 as soon as they can be sent. Besides these things, it so delights our 
 hearts that the children whom we care for soon become well and 
 strong. Tom Hardy, when you saw the boys bathe, did you observe 
 what roly-poly, laughing, merry youngsters they were? And do you 
 remember how you laughed in sympathy with them ? Later, did you 
 see how perfectly delighted they were with the monkey which a kind 
 English lady gave to me ? I am sure you saw what tremendous and 
 healthy appetites the boys had. I can tell you, young people, that 
 six months ago most of these children were begging in the town as 
 Giacie saw the uncared for children doing today. The missionaries 
 are rejoiced to do this good work for these dear children. The mis¬ 
 sionaries in Damoh have taken in one hundred and twenty during the 
 year, and ]Mrs. iMitchell and Miss Frost have perhaps taken as many 
 more. Not only do we have rejoicing in seeing the children become 
 well and strong, but also in seeing this poor benighted peo[)le brought 
 out of sin and wickedness, and learning better things. 
 
 Bessie Thomas and Charlie Marshall, you, I am sure, noticed that 
 the First Reader class of boys are old, but you also noticed that they 
 are intelligent and can read their Bibles well. Less than one year 
 ago not one could read; one was in the poor-house, one a beggar in 
 the hospital, one a beggar in Bina, one in the Orphanage, but so 
 wicked that Mr. McGavran sometimes thought he must be sent away 
 for the sake of the other boys. Now all those boys are Christians, 
 and most trustworthy in eyery respect. In our Christian Endeayor 
 Society they read or pray, or even talk a little in a stammering way 
 at every meeting. I have reason to believe that ten or twelve others 
 will soon intelligently obey the Gospel. Besides, Mr. McGavran 
 teaches the boys to be manly and independent by training them in 
 many kinds of manual labor. A hen we realize that these people, 
 who do not know any better than to steal and lie, who would rather 
 beg than work, can be made to be honest, industrious citizens and 
 conscientious Christians, our cup of joy overflows. 
 
 I felt very sorry to tell you in my last letter that the men and 
 women were so depraved that they would steal your property under 
 3 our very e\’es, but I was compelled to do so in order that you might 
 know how wretched a condition heathenism is. And it is with a 
 greater happiness than 1 can express that I think of the change that 
 
32 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 is being wrought through the knowledge of our Master. It is a great 
 privilege to be permitted to teach these poor people about Jesus, and 
 to do what we can toward relieving their sufferings and sorrows. 
 
 On the whole, my boys and girls, would you prefer to have the. 
 aches and sorrows along with the joys, or would you give up the 
 joys in order to escape the inconvenience and the suffering which go 
 with the work ? 
 
 A VISIT TO SAN JUAN, PORTO RICO 
 
 By NORA COLLINS IRELAND 
 
 Last Saturday I had to go to San Juan, and I wish the Junior 
 boys and girls could have been with me. I went to the market first. 
 Surely you have never seen a market like this. The stores are built 
 to form a hollow square. Do you know what that is? If not, take 
 a square piece of paper and cut out the center, and you will know 
 what I mean. The edge of your paper will represent the place for 
 the stores. These, of course, had roofs over them. On one side of 
 the square were only meat stands; on another, grocery stores; but 
 the third was the funniest of all. Two or three restaurants are on 
 this side. Do you go in and order beefsteak and potatoes, ice cream 
 and cake, or whatever you like? Oh! no. The tables are covered 
 with oil cloth, you would have white iron dishes to eat from, like 
 some of 5'our mamma’s basins, and be expected to eat what was 
 cooked that day, and eat it with j-our knife or spoon. Perhaps it 
 would be beans, rice and garlic cooked together; perhaps it would be 
 rice, codfish and other things, or it might be nearly everything to¬ 
 gether as soup. Does it make you feel hungry? No? I did not feel 
 hungry, either, so did not stop. 
 
 In this same side is a store where thev sell curios. Tinv 
 baskets, curious musical instruments, native belts, spoons made from 
 something like a gourd, cups, and other dishes made from the same 
 fruit; so many strange and curious things are found here. The 
 fourth side is just used for people to walk in. Now the center that 
 you cut from your paper, or the liole that is left, represents the open 
 square. This has no roof. On the floor sit men and women with 
 their fruits and vegetables to sell spread out on old pieces of canvas 
 or right on the floor. You will find oranges, bananas, pineapples, 
 corazones or whatever fruits are then ripe, potatoes, cucumbers, beets, 
 turni])s and many other vegetables that we have at home, as well as 
 many iiew ones for sale. From here I went to the square or plaza 
 again, 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 33 
 
 Saturday is beggars’ day. In all your life you have never seen 
 so many poor, helpless people as you will see in one day in San Juan. 
 Men whose limbs from their knees down have not grown since they 
 were boys, so there is no strength in them, and they have to walk on 
 their hands and knees; some that almost have to creep along the side¬ 
 walk because they can not stand up straight; some that are all out 
 of shape, the poor, the blind and the lame. It is a sad sight. When 
 I see these poor people I often imagine I can see Jesus walking among 
 them giving sight to this blind man, healing that lame man, taking 
 this one by the hand and lifting him up, going from one to the other 
 until all were healed; for we read, “And they brought unto Him 
 many that were sick and He healed them all.” These people and all 
 the others in Porto Rico need Jesus just as much now as the people 
 did so long ago when He was on earth. Ho one now can make these 
 poor, crooked bodies straight; but they can be told about Jesus who 
 will save them from their sins, and this is the most necessary part. 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN THE SUMMER 
 
 By MRS. W. J. BURNER 
 
 “Oh! mamma, it was just the best Christmas we ever had.” This 
 was Jarvis’ opinion of our second Christmas in Argentina, so I am 
 sure you will enjoy hearing about it. In this far southern land 
 Christmas comes in midsummer and Fourth of July in midwinter. 
 Margaret’s birthday, June 30, was in the summer time in our old 
 home. Here, in our new home, it is in midwinter. Queer, isn’t it ? 
 
 It was so hot I thought I could not get up any enthusiasm over 
 the preparations. But the children were so enthusiastic I soon be¬ 
 came enthusiastic also. Philip had said he intended to hang up his 
 stocking very early Monday morning, so you see, in spite of the heat, 
 he felt as if Christmas was really coming. A branch from the very 
 large magnolia tree in our yard was our Christmas tree, and a num¬ 
 ber of small flags Grandma Burner sent us were the principal deco¬ 
 rations. At its base we set a pot of beautiful jasmine. Fortunately, 
 Christmas eve there came a ‘‘pampero ^’—a cold wind from the south. 
 “A cold wind from the south?” Yes, down here the cold winds are 
 from the south and hot winds from the north. So Christmas day 
 was quite pleasant. Some American friends brought us some home¬ 
 made candy, which, of course, tasted better than the new kinds we 
 buy here. These friends all board in the center of Buenos Aires, so 
 they have their food cooked native style all the time. We and they 
 
34 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 decided to have an American Christmas dinner at our house. Straw¬ 
 berries and roasting ears are not just the things for such a dinner, 
 but we had them so some of the party who are going home soon could 
 tell they had fresh strawberries Christmas. The rest of us were 
 more interested in the mince pies—pies are a luxury here. We tried 
 to give the dinner a more homelike flavor by salting the butter and 
 by leaving garlic, dried mushrooms, etc., out of the chicken. There 
 were no other children here, but our children said they had a fine 
 time anyway. It has been more than four months since they played 
 with any English-speaking children. 
 
 Last year our children were very homesick. But this year they 
 seldom complain. One night after the boys had disturbed our serv¬ 
 ices by breaking the window, throwing little stones into the room and 
 doing many other naughty things, Philip said, ‘‘Oh, mamma, don’t 
 you wish we were back in North America?” But usually they are 
 very glad to be where their father can preach Jesus to people who 
 know so little of Him. 
 
 In the churches here we have seen little children kissing the knees 
 and feet of images of Jesus. We thought, “How much better to know 
 His words than to kiss His image.” They never heard how He said 
 “Suffer the children to come unto me.” 
 
 We are all very glad when the Junior Builders comes, and we read 
 it through and through. 
 
 CHILDREN IN ARGENTINA 
 
 By MRS. W. J. BURNER 
 
 One missionary said to me, “I believe the children of Argentina 
 are the prettiest and the meanest in the world.” I know some of 
 them are very pretty and also that some of them are very mean. 
 There is very little family discipline and almost no discipline at all 
 in the schools, so the boys especially get the idea very early in life 
 that they can do just as they please. It is because of this that police¬ 
 men are so much more numerous than they are in American towns 
 and cities. A policeman seems to be the only person for whom these 
 children really have any respect or fear. I am not writing of the 
 ignorant poor in the crowded tenements, but of all classes. 
 
 Most of the people here are very dark-skinned, dark-haired and 
 dark-eyed. They are fond of bright colors and very fond of music. 
 Most of their games are played to the accompaniment of music or 
 song. In La Plata it seemed to me we were always hearing a street 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 35 
 
 organ or an accordion. Boys and girls seldom, if ever, play together. 
 Only in English schools are boys and girls in the same school room. 
 
 This race of people is naturally a smaller race than ours, but 
 even when we remember that, many of the children look ill-fed and 
 undersized to us. An Argentine mother thinks nothing of giving her 
 little baby wine or beer. We often see little tots going to the drink 
 shops for the day’s supply of wine and beer. Margaret has taken 
 dinner with two little native girls. In each house she has been 
 offered beer and wine. When she declined both, they said, “Well, 
 what do you drink ?” 
 
 Though they are all supposed to be members of the Catholic 
 Church, having been baptized when babies and when twelve years old 
 going through an elaborate ceremony of confirmation, they are totally 
 ignorant of the Bible and of how to worship God. We are very glad 
 to have them come to our services. But it is trying when they 
 behave so badly, as they often do. I sometimes think it would not 
 be so trying if they were half-naked little savages. But these people 
 are civilized and are well dressed—many of them in the extreme of 
 fashion—and they can be so dignified that it is disappointing when 
 they misbehave. A great deal of the misbehavior is due to ignorance, 
 of course. 
 
 Our children can now talk Spanish very well with other children. 
 Some of the games they play are the same games you play. “Pussy 
 wants a corner” is called “I ask for bread.” 
 
 Wishing the Juniors success in all their undertakings, the three 
 Juniors in Argentina send their love. 
 
 THE BOY WHO WOULD GO TO 
 
 SCHOOL 
 
 By MORTON D. ADAMS, JR. 
 
 You have heard of caste, though of course you do not know much 
 about it in this country from personal experience. Still you must 
 not imagine that we are the most democratic and consistent people 
 there are. We claim all men are born equal, and commonly act as 
 if we didn’t really think so; while in the East, where no one minds 
 such matters, they claim that all men are unequal and live up to 
 their belief, yet in their inmost hearts are beginning to admit that 
 “a man’s a man for a’ that.” 
 
 Here is a true story that may dimly show how caste works. 
 Saddhu was a thin, underfed boy of ten or twelve years, whose father 
 
36 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 and mother were grass-cutters, living in a hut about six feet by eight, 
 on the outskirts of a town. Very early in the morning they went off 
 to the jungles with their sharp little sickles, and hacked all day at 
 the tough, rasping grass, the sweat pouring from their faces. In 
 the evening they trotted back again with two bundles of hay apiece 
 swinging from poles slung over their shoulders. They sold their hay 
 in some corner of the howling bazaar for a pitifully small sum of 
 money, and a little later were on their way home with two or three 
 pounds of rice—tlie sole reward for the day’s work. 
 
 No, not quite the sole reward, because every night Saddhu’s 
 mother managed to tie a pice, a coin worth less than a fifth of a 
 cent, into a corner of her sari, and on Saturday, which is market 
 day, she took her hoard to the bazaar, where she untied the hard 
 little knot of cloth heavy with the week’s savings and spent it all 
 on three red peppers, a mud cup full of “khopra ke tel” and a little 
 green bottle half full of ‘^mutti ke tel.” The “khopra ke tel” was 
 cocoanut oil with which even a poor grass-cutter loves to anoint him¬ 
 self, and the “mutti ke tel” was Standard oil, to be burned in a tiny 
 saucer for light. This last was an unheard of extravagance, where¬ 
 by hangs my tale. 
 
 For Saddhu, their son, was unusually bright and had somehow 
 picked up the art of reading. Instead of cutting grass with his par¬ 
 ents he worked as stable boy at a rich man’s house, earning a slender 
 salary; and every now and then he brought home a badly soiled dog¬ 
 eared little book from which he read by the light of the wretched 
 lamp. In the warm, still dark, while the cooking smoke of evening 
 hung low and heavy over the land and the voices of crickets mingled 
 with the throb of some far-off kettledrum, a plaintive sing-song rose 
 from the little hut under the stars. It was Saddhu reading over the 
 fable of the “Tortoise and the Hare,” or perchance a simple version 
 of the “War of the Mahabaratta.” 
 
 Saddhu’s parents liked to listen and somehow grew proud of their 
 boy, so that one day when he was seized with a desire to go to school 
 they sent him quite gladly. Then came cruel disappointment. The 
 school was meant for high caste boys only, and Saddhu was anything 
 but high caste. Just his shadow falling on a high caste boy would 
 have eternally defiled that high caste boy. Hardly had Saddhu en¬ 
 tered the school yard when a crowd of boys yelled “Ghassia” (“Grass- 
 cut”), and chased him out with sticks and stones. 
 
 “Why mightn’t I have known?” he thought. He went to a well, 
 washed out his threadbare dhotie, pounding it well on a stone and 
 bleaching it Avhite in the sun, and next day appeared fit school as a 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 37 
 
 Hindu. His dirty, tell-tale coat left off, airy white dliotie worn long 
 and full and the customary string over his bare shoulder, he saluated 
 a master, “What caste?” asked the master suspiciously. “Hindu,” 
 replied Saddhu, but his thick lips and black skin gave him the lie. 
 “Modest dog,” said the haughty Brahmin, “it is well the sun throws 
 your shadow aside. Get out, watching carefully that your base-born 
 hide touch none of us. Here, chaprassie!” A tall, gaunt man with 
 an official red ribbon and brass badge caught poor Saddhu, held him 
 by the ear and jerked him out through the gate. The boys in the 
 courtyard hooted in delight and threw dust and evil language over 
 the wall at the poor low caste boy as he went off. 
 
 All this was just as well for Saddhu. If his disguise had let him 
 contaminate fifty boys and a master or two before being caught it 
 would have been as much as his life was worth. The puloos (police) 
 are not obtrusive in such cases. Next day a humble low caste boy in 
 soiled coat and a rag of a dhotie appeared once more beneath a win¬ 
 dow of the school. At his knock the wooden leaves of the window 
 opened and a well-dressed young master, carrjTng a long rattan cane, 
 asked what was wanted. “Master Sahib, this is the governmaint 
 madrasseh (government school) in which for a ghassia there is no 
 room. Where am I to go?” “What do we care where you go?” re¬ 
 plied the master. “I can read to the Fourth Book,” said the boy; 
 “that is a Jographee in your hand.” The master opened to the first 
 page of his little book, and the boy, reading through the window, 
 said slowly, “Jographee—tir-eats—of thee—airth’s—surface.” “I 
 know a little Angrezi (English),” he explained, A half-starved low 
 caste boy who can read at all, to say nothing of reading English, the 
 supreme ambition of a native mind, is indeed a wonder. The master 
 may have had some smoulding instincts of the teacher, though Indian 
 school masters usually do not. At any rate, perhaps half in curiosity 
 to see what would come, he took a pencil and wrote, “Name—Saddhu. 
 Caste—Ghassia,” and said, “Saddhu. Ghassia, your seat is under this 
 window. When the sun is right I may hear your lesson.” He tossed 
 him a few oily Hindustanee books and closed the window. 
 
 From that time on Saddhu sat on the hot sand under the window, 
 droning over his lessons by himself. When the sun was sure not to 
 throw his shadow into the school you might have seen the window 
 open and the master inside listening to Saddhu’s recitation on the 
 oustside, correcting the results Saddhu called off from his arith¬ 
 metic slate, and setting fresh lessons in “Jographee,” “Reering,” 
 “Girammar,” etc. The master would never have bothered about 
 Saddhu at all if it hadn’t been that the low caste ragamuffin did a 
 
38 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 great deal better work than some others inside. So while the hot sun 
 blazed upon him, Saddhu studied in his little corner, from time to 
 time reciting through the window. After a while the master who 
 heard his lessons became his friend and was almost kind to him, but 
 the boys inside took him as a special gift from heaven on whom they 
 might shower their cruel attentions. All pencil parings, bits of 
 waste paper and other rubbish were carefully stored till there was a 
 respectable pile to throw on Saddhu’s head. An epidemic of mouth 
 washing, requiring water to be squirted from a window, set in, and 
 Saddhu’s window seemed the only one to which a hundred and fifty 
 boys could resort for this purpose. And the number of hands held 
 up with fingers snapping and voices calling, ‘‘Master Sahib, may 1 
 go out?” increased from day to day. Each boy as he went out had 
 his fling of one sort or another at the quiet fellow sitting in the sun. 
 
 When the hot weather came on the sun beat dazzlingly against 
 the hot wall. Other boys could sit in the cool, dark room inside. 
 They were fair-skinned, born to purple and fine linen, and gaudy little 
 caps, and the joy of flying patangs (kites) and playing with shiny 
 marbles and crossing the street when they felt like it to buy three 
 pice worth of jalebis from the sweetmeat seller. 
 
 When the tall, white minarets of the mosque blazed so in the sun 
 that it hurt to look at them, and the river just visible through the 
 mango trees narrowed to a silver ribbon in a belt of sand, Saddhu 
 brought banana leaves from the garden across the way and built 
 himself a little shelter. But the whistling hot winds made short work 
 of it, and dust clouds swirling down the street filled his mouth with 
 sand as before. Still he stuck to his post. 
 
 One day the noise of scores of boys studying out loud suddenly 
 stopped. A stern looking Sahib, all booted and spurred, in a khaki 
 suit and a big sun hat, clattered up on a horse and came into the 
 school. It was the terrible Inspector Sahib for whom the boys had 
 been getting ready for weeks. He went the rounds, examining each 
 class and picking out individuals here and there. Then his eyes fell 
 on Saddhu sitting out in the sun. “For what punishment is that 
 boy sitting there?” he asked. “Only a low caste vagabond. Sahib, 
 who is there at his own pleasure,” replied the head master. “Bring 
 him in,” said the Sahib. The same chaprassie who had taken him 
 out with such rough treatment now told Saddhu it was the Sahib’s 
 order that he should come at once onto the school veranda. Here, 
 trembling and all alone while the rest of the school looked on from 
 a safe distance, Saddhu was examined by the Inspector Sahib. Hard 
 questions in grammar, knotty little passages in his new panchwa 
 
Mission Stories. 
 
 39 
 
 pustak (fifth reader), earnest scratching on his arithmetic slate, and 
 a crowning effort in the Eenglaesh Reemur (English reader) — 
 Saddhu went through it all, his big, black eyes sparkling with excite¬ 
 ment. “That will do,” said the Sahib, pushing back his chair. 
 Saddhu gathered up his books and went out quietly through the gate. 
 
 It seems that the Sahib made a speech to the whole school after 
 that. He said that Saddhu stood at the head of the school—he even 
 praised the master for so well-taught a pupil, and intimated that the 
 sole good thing he had found in that high caste boys’ government 
 school on that trip was the “low caste vagabond who sat under the 
 window for his own pleasure.” Wherefore the master now presented 
 Saddhu with two rupees (sixty-six cents) and a new coat and six 
 annas (about ten cents) worth of sweetmeats, asking that he would 
 say not a word about this to anyone. He also forgot himself and 
 patted Saddhu on the back; then begged him not to tell lest he should 
 lose caste and have to pay a thousand rupees to the priests to be 
 purified. But Saddhu’s master was a real teacher and one who loved 
 the truth, and he afterward disgraced himself in the eyes of the 
 priests by becoming a Kiristan (Christian). As for Saddhu, when 
 the clean white mission school house rose in that town he became its 
 head master and taught other low caste boys in the shade what he 
 had fought for in the sun. Later on, he became a power in the state. 
 
 RAMAN OF THE ROUND HAT 
 
 By MORTON D. ADAMS, JR. 
 
 In India, before the red sun has peeped over the rim of the earth 
 and turned the short twilight into morning, before even the birds are 
 awake, the cows start off to the jungles to pasture. You will hear 
 them in the early dawn by the jingle tinkle of their bells as, with 
 shuffling feet that raise much dust, they jangle down the great cool, 
 shadowy roads that lead off to their feeding grounds. They go in 
 herds of fifty or a hundred or more, all in charge of a little naked 
 boy who sits sideways on a big buffalo and dreams while he is car¬ 
 ried shuffling along. Through the hot day that little boy sprawls in 
 the shade while the cattle browse, but when evening comes he takes 
 his long stick and lets fall half a dozen loud whacks on the back of 
 some scrawny cow or buffalo, which scampers off with its tail in the 
 air, and this starts the whole herd homeward. So in the evening 
 along all the roads the cows come back again, trailing clouds of dust 
 that spread everywhere and make the sunset like a ball of crimson 
 fire. 
 
40 
 
 Mission S t 0 r i e s 
 
 Now, small, naked Eaman had been born to such work as this. 
 His skin was dark—about the same shade as that of Mya, his favorite 
 buffalo—and his hair was long and black and tousled, and his eyes 
 were as black as his hair. But he had a row of flashing white teeth 
 that showed very plainly one day when a conceited crow sitting on 
 Mya’s back got caught by a sudden swish of Mya’s tail that sent him 
 flying before he could open his wings. If you had seen Raman’s eyes 
 just then you would have caught in them a merry twinkle. 
 
 On his head Raman wore a round hat made of bamboo matting, 
 wliich was nearly as big as he was and shaded him like an umbrella. 
 When he took his hat off and leaned on it it was just like a round 
 shield. As far as clothes went, it was all he had, for beside his big, 
 round hat little Raman wore nothing at all except a necklace of 
 copper coins. 
 
 Seated one morning on Mya’s back while the herd was going down 
 the road, Raman met two white Sahibs, one of whom called to him 
 from his horse: “Ohe Raoot, how many cows have you in your 
 herd?” Now a Sahib is always a very great man, and Raman was 
 afraid this one was going to drag him off to school or put him in 
 jail, but he felt he must reply, so he said he had a great many cows 
 in his herd. “How many?” demanded the Sahib. Raman looked 
 blank. He cudgled his little brain, but since he couldn’t count very 
 far he fell back on his old reply that there were a great many. “Tell 
 me how many,” said the Sahib. Raman grew afraid. “Very many,” 
 he replied. “About five hundred?” asked the Sahib. “Yes, yes. 
 Sahib, five hundred,” said Raman. The Sahibs rode off. “There 
 were just thirty cows in the herd,” said one to the other. “But at 
 any rate the youngster stuck to his post. All the other herd-boys I 
 try to ask that question run off before I get near ’em.” 
 
 Down the road with his herd went Raman. The sun was getting 
 high now and the people going on foot from one village to another 
 passed him in little crowds, the men carrying bundles slung from 
 each end of a pole balanced on their shoulders, the women with 
 baskets on their heads. Now and then a rich Malguzar would go 
 proudly by on his pony, with his oxcart and servants behind. “Get 
 out of my way, crazy,” he would call to Raman, riding right through 
 the middle of the herd and scattering it right and lift. Then Raman 
 would have to jump off Mya’s back and chase the silly cows back to 
 the road again with many shouts and whacks of his stout stick on 
 their lean ribs. But for once he was repaid for his extra work. 
 After the Malguzar had passed and the herd were quiet again, he 
 saw something flash by the roadside. He ran to the spot and found 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 41 
 
 a little mirror, which the Malguzar’s wife must have dropped from 
 her cart. He picked it up and it gave a dazzling flash. Oh, how 
 fine it was! He thought he had never seen such a beautiful thing 
 before. When he looked in it—there, wonder of wonders—was his 
 own face! And when he turned it from side to side it sent a spot 
 of white light up and down the road. 
 
 He climbed up on Mya’s back and stroked the smooth mirror with 
 his little fingers. ‘‘Kaisa soonder! Kaisa soonder!” (how beautiful) 
 he kept saying softly. Now the herd had come to the end of its 
 journey on the high road. No longer stretched the level brown poddy 
 fields right off to the sky, but on either side was rough, broken 
 ground covered with thickets through which you couldn’t see far. 
 This was the jungle, and the herd rushed into it by a footpath that 
 traveled from the main road and took them into a shady tangle, 
 where they browsed ravenously on any grass they could find. Raman 
 hopped off Mya’s back and lay down under a babool tree and played 
 with his mirror. 
 
 “Hai, Langri!” he called to a little lame cow near him. “See 
 this! see this!” and he made a spot of light dance before her eyes. 
 Thin, starved Langri was so busy tearing at the dry grass that 
 nothing short of an earthquake would have budged her—except the 
 mirror. Once the spot of light reached her eyes she kicked up her 
 heels and shook her head and ran off as fast as her lame foot let her. 
 
 “Aha! aha!” chuckled little Raman. “Dar gya!” (she’s scared!) 
 Here was a new sport! Now how would the rest act? He turned 
 the glass on them one after another and as the mischievous flash 
 caught their eyes the cows did as Langri had done before them and 
 ran off with many antics of feet and tails, much to a small boy’s 
 delight. Presently Raman was all alone. The cows were scattered 
 through the thicket, feeding in the warm sun, with here and there a 
 solemn king crow perched on their backs. The air was full of the 
 fragrance of wild jasmine and other jungle flowers, and overhead the 
 clouds sailed in white puffs across the sky. Everything was lonely 
 and very still. Raman wanted company. “Wao, Mya! Mya! Mya! 
 Wahoo!” he called. The old buffalo answered with a jangle of his 
 bell. Raman hunted him out and found the herd feeding around 
 him. He climbed upon his back and lay down. How still it was! 
 He must have gone to sleep for a moment, for when he opened his 
 eyes a strange thing had happened. The herd was all in a bunch, 
 stamping feet, heads in the air, sniffing nervously, all huddled be¬ 
 hind Mya, who stood as if on guard with his horns lowered. Some¬ 
 thing stirred in the thicket ahead. There came a sudden crash of 
 
42 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 twigs and leaves as if a large body were moving through the under¬ 
 brush, and out walked a huge tiger. He came a few steps straight 
 toward the herd, then stopped and settled on his haunches, his tail 
 swishing from side to side. 
 
 Raman was too frightened to move. In front of him a spot of 
 light wavered on the ground as the hand that held a little mirror 
 trembled. And that spot of light wavered just far enough to find 
 the tiger’s eye—one moment as the great cat caught the Hash he 
 stiffened for a spring and the next he flew througli the air, landed 
 to one side and was bounding back to cover when bang! came a loud 
 report and a little cloud of smoke drifted over Raman’s head. It 
 was the white Sahib on his horse who rode up to Mya’s side and took 
 off the round hat and looked into Raman’s face. ‘‘What have you 
 seen, little son?” he asked. 
 
 “Bagwa, tahib,” said the boy simply (“a tiger, sir!”) “I saw 
 it, too,” said the Sahib. “It had its eyes on this fat buffalo and it 
 would have jumped on you if it hadn’t been for that charm of yours. 
 Then there would have been a little less than five hunderd cows in 
 your herd—one buffalo and one boy missing, see?” But just then 
 Raman, who was only a little boy after all, burst into tears. “Tahib, 
 bagwa, bagwa!” (tiger, tiger) he cried. “No, he is dead. Come and 
 see,” said the Sahib. They took the tiger home in triumph—also 
 Raman, His mother tied the little mirror that had saved his life 
 into his necklace for a charm—and thereafter it was sweetmeats and 
 / a new white coat that the Sahib gave to little Raman of the Round 
 Hat. 
 
 THREE INDIAN HOMES 
 
 By BESSIE FARRAR MADSEN 
 
 They came at sunset. They had been traveling all day through 
 the jungle. Across his shoulders the man carried a bamboo, to each 
 end of which was suspended a basket, and in each basket sat a little 
 naked brown child. Several paces behind him came the woman, with 
 all their household possessions carried in a basket on her head. They 
 stopped at a clearing in sight of the tent where the missionary lived. 
 Gathering sticks, they builded a fire and in an earthen vessel cooked 
 Ihe handful of rice that was left to them. Leaves pinned together 
 with thorns served them as plates. After their evening meal they 
 piled more wood on the fire and lay down on the ground near by to 
 sleep. 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 43 
 
 In the early morning they came to the tent and bowed themselves 
 low before the missionary, “Protector of the poor,” they said, “we 
 come from a country where there is for ns no food, no work, where 
 there is hunger continually. For a year we have been wanderers. 
 We would have work. We would sit in your shadow and eat your 
 salt.” 
 
 The missionary demurred, Avondering how he could supply with 
 Avork all Avho Avere pleading for it. But the man again prostrated 
 himself. “Behold my children. Tliey die of hunger. Send us not 
 aAA^ay.” 
 
 Work Avas found for them. The man was to stand in a shallow 
 pit to dig and tread the earth, Avoiking it into a mortar in which 
 to lay the bricks of the building. The Avonian Avas to bring Avater 
 from the Avell nearby to moisten the earth, Avhile the children made 
 mud cakes on the edge of the pit and were satisfied. Though the 
 man received only fiA^e cents a day and the Avoman four, they Avere 
 very grateful, for this they looked upon as good Avages then. 
 
 When the noon hour came and the Avorkmen had two hours to 
 rest, this little family made ready to build for themselves a house. 
 They cleared a small piece of ground and plastered it over Avith mud. 
 They cut doAvn small branches from the jungle and made them into 
 a kind of Avigw^am. They lined it Avith dried grass. They covered 
 the small opening Avhich serA'ed as a dooinvay Avith a screen made 
 of bamboo and grass. It Avas a tiny place, but it served as a shelter 
 many months. “To me there is a house and food, nearby is a well 
 of AA’ater; Avliat more can I Avish?” he would say, 
 
 A year passed and these Avayfarers of the jungle had builded for 
 themselves a new house. It Avas more spacious than the old. It 
 Avas ten feet square on the inside. The uprights at the corners of 
 the frameAvork had been chosen with forked ends, and on these were 
 laid the crosspieces. Taller pieces supported the ridgepole. The 
 vA^alls Avere made of brush, and they Avere plastered without and 
 Avithin Avith mud. The roof Avas covered Avith thatch. Inside there 
 Avas a cot and an earthen cooking place. The smoke found its way 
 out through crevices in the roof. Through these same crevices the 
 rain found its Avay in. They Avere proud of their little home. There 
 Avere many like it in the villages round about. The man Avore a 
 calico coat to church these days and the Avoman a clean, coarse sari. 
 Even the children AA^ere clothed on these special occasions. 
 
 Taa’o years later an addition Avas put to this house. A shed Avas 
 built out from it and a room roughly fashioned as a shelter for the 
 oxen, for the family uoav OAvned a yoke of oxen, a Avooden plow and 
 
44 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 a small rice field. It was about this time that in the house a bin 
 was built of bamboo and plastered with mud to hold the grain of 
 fhat first year’s harvesting. It was said that somewhere inside the 
 house was buried the earthen pot vhich contained the savings they 
 were continually putting by. Just wdiere this spot w^as no one knew% 
 but it might have been under the cooking place or beneath the cot. 
 
 Four years passed. Again the family had builded. This new’ 
 liouse had taken their spare moments for many months, for it was 
 a good house. It was a real mud house, with walls two feet thick 
 at the ground. The roof was thickly thatched. There was a ver¬ 
 anda in front nearly three feet wide. There wms a partition reach¬ 
 ing nearly to the ceiling dividing the house into two small rooms, 
 and the bin for the harvest of grain was built larger. The secret 
 hanking place was somewhere in the thick mud walls now\ The 
 cot and the earthen cooking place were there, hut there was also a 
 box for clothing and some brass cooking vessels. There w’as a shelf 
 of mud to hold the tiny tin lamp that would never know a chimney. 
 The house w’as finished with a coating of white earth. A separate 
 house nearby sheltered a pair of strong black buffalo, the pride of 
 the family. A roughly made wagon stood near. Its wheels were 
 but cross-sections of a large tree, with holes burned through the 
 middle for the axle, but it served its purpose and the young farmer 
 received payment for hauling heavy timbers from the far jungles 
 for the timber contractor in the town. The old wagon never failed 
 to proclaim its part in the family life with screeches and scrooches 
 whenever it was brought into service. 
 
 I have forgotten to mention the group of castor oil trees that 
 grew near the door, the tiny mud house for the chickens, the great 
 straw stack in a gnarled old tree in the yard and the garden, with 
 its fence of brush, where grew the peppers and mustard, the gourds 
 and beans, the cucumbers and pumpkins. 
 
 Few of the farmers of that district had better homes and few 
 were so respected as was this Christian farmer, for God had pros¬ 
 pered him. 
 
 “Man, through all ages of revolving time. 
 
 Unchanging man, in every varying clime. 
 
 Deems his own land of every land the pride, 
 
 Belov’d of heaven o’er all the world beside: 
 
 His home, the spot of earth supremely blest, 
 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.” 
 
Mission Stories 
 
 45 
 
 LEGEND OF THE VIRGIN 
 GUADALUPE 
 
 By LILLIAN WALLACE 
 
 Churches are numerous in Mexico. Even in very small towns 
 we find as many as three or four Catholic churches. The richness 
 of decoration, the beautiful paintings, the costly railings of gold and 
 silver make them places of interest to the stranger. Added to all 
 this, the legend of the Virgin Guadalupe makes her church the holi¬ 
 est shrine in all Mexico. 
 
 In 1521, just after the Spanish conquest—when the Mexicans 
 seemed reluctant in accepting the new faith—it was decided by Cor¬ 
 tez and the Spanish priests that if in any way the Mexicans could 
 have a Virgin of their own they would the more readily embrace 
 Romanism. The cunning Spaniards were not long in devising a way 
 for the “Mother of God” to show her love for the Indians. With 
 great wisdom they chose as the place for tliis wonderful apparition 
 a spot already sacred to the superstitious Indian; for here on this 
 barren hill they had long whispered “Tontantzin,” a heathen mother 
 of the gods. 
 
 The legend that they made up tells us that great was the sur¬ 
 prise of the devout Indian, Juan Diego, when the Virgin Guadalupe, 
 in the guise of an Indian maiden, appeared to him one chill Decem¬ 
 ber morn. She commanded him to gather flowers. To gather dowers 
 on such a spot seemed impossible. In humble obedience to her wish 
 he searched and found them. Soon the astonished Juan had a large 
 bouquet of beautiful roses, which he carefully wrapped in his tilnia, 
 or blanket, and carried them to the priest. Trembling with fear and 
 in a somewhat excited tone, he tells the priest of the wonderful ap¬ 
 parition of the Virgin; but greater yet is his surprise—upon empty¬ 
 ing the flowers from his tilma he finds stamped therein the image 
 of the Virgin. Soon this miracle of miracles is circulated among 
 the ignorant Indians. The incredulous story is never doubted A 
 suggestion from the priest is all that is necessary; the Church in 
 honor of the Virgin is soon erected. The tilma, with its mysterious 
 picture, is encased in a gold frame and is hung just over the altar 
 For almost four hundred years the Virgin Gradalupe has been the 
 most exalted object of adoration in all Mexico. Even today her 
 shrine is visited, not only by the untutored Indian, but the well- 
 dressed, well-bred Mexicans kneel before this image of the Virgin 
 and offer up their devotions. 
 
46 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 The image is described as being a wooden doll about a foot high, 
 bolding in its arms an infant Jesus. Dressed in satins and pearls, she 
 calls forth the admiration of the people, who gaze long and lovingly 
 at her. In 1905—only a few short years ago—a costly gold crown 
 was placed above the image. The coronation of tlie Virgin was a 
 scene of great pomp and ceremony, not only attended by the ecclesi¬ 
 astical dignitaries of Mexico, but also by an archbishop of the United 
 States. As a result, the popularity of the worship of the Virgin 
 Guadalupe has been marked and strong. Yes, this idolatrous devo¬ 
 tion continues today because the poor Indian knows no better, but 
 tlie prelates of the Catholic Church well know that this legend is 
 all a myth—that it has no foundation—for there never was such an 
 apparition, nor any Juan Diego. The superstitious Mexicans cling 
 with great tenacity to the traditions and legends of the church. The 
 missionary is telling the beautiful story of Jesus, our Savior, and 
 many have burned their saints and images and are today rejoicing 
 in a Savior’s love. 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LUJAN 
 
 By ZONA SMITH 
 
 I want to tell you of a visit I made to one of the Catholic 
 shrines. A party of seven North American missionaries went out to 
 Lujan (Lu-han, accent on the last syllable and pronounce a as in 
 father), a small town thirty-five or forty miles from Buenos Aires, 
 to see the shrine and image of “Our Lady of Lujan.” After going 
 a distance of perhaps a mile and a half from the station in a horse 
 car we found ourselves before a magnilicent church edifice. Within 
 we found the clay image, thirteen inches in height, which was cor¬ 
 onated by the authority of the Pope in May, 1887. She is the pro¬ 
 tector of Uruguay, Paraguay and Argentina, and considered one of 
 the greatest saints in all South America. Many pilgrimages, some 
 of them official ones, are made to this shrine. Only a few weeks 
 ago, when the Spanish Infanta was here, she and Argentine govern¬ 
 ment officials made a pilgrimage there, and the Infanta left a beau¬ 
 tiful offering. Our lady is claimed to be one of the richest virgins 
 in all the world, so numerous and valuable have been the offerings 
 made to her. Her age is three hundred years. 
 
 Two elaborate staircases of marble, with onvx columns in the 
 bannisters, lead up to the small chapel where this image is kept. 
 It is dressed in blue and white satin, decked Avith jewels and a 
 
Mi s sio n Stories 
 
 47 
 
 crown, and stands above a luxiirions altar where colored candles are 
 kept burning. Vases, candlesticks and other accessories to this altar 
 are overlaid with gold leaf. Beneath the image is an enclosure 
 where the holy water is kept. Still below this is a bas-relief in gold 
 of the burial of Jesus. 
 
 From this chapel we went to other chapels in the building and 
 viewed many articles left there for this virgin. The marbles in the 
 shrines are very beautiful. It was both amusing and heart-rending 
 to see the votive offerings left there by the poor, ignorant, deluded 
 ]>eople. Most of them Avcre beneath glass and enclosed in frames 
 and hung on the walls. They were of various materials, some em- 
 liroidery, some inscriptions on gold and silver plates telling what 
 the virgin had done for the donors, and some very interesting ones 
 were of tin. A tin arm or leg, or whatever part of the body had 
 been healed, there represented the gratitude of the healed one. 
 Crutches abounded. There were scores of bridal wreaths left by 
 brides who trusted the virgin to bless their marriage. With some 
 of them were the bridegroom’s gloves or a piece of his necktie. 
 
 Let me tell you the story of how the image came to be there. A 
 wealthy man bought her in Brazil for his own private chapel. When 
 transferred she wns accompanied by an African slave wTio cared 
 for her, and continued to care for her as long as he lived. Attend¬ 
 ants attempted to carry her from Buenos Aires to the man’s house 
 in a cart. The cart stuck in the mud and the attendants were un¬ 
 able to proceed. They thought that the virgin absolutely refused 
 to go on, so a chapel was erected for her there. At a later date 
 a certain woman was very anxious to have the virgin in lier homo 
 and to care for her, and so she was removed to this liome without 
 this African slave. In the night she disappeared, and after a dili¬ 
 gent search she wars found in the chapel. The wmman was greatly 
 distressed, and she was so anxious to have her in her house that 
 she tried taking her again. But again she disappeared in the night 
 and was found in her original place. So it was decided that she 
 would not stay because the slave was not with her. The present 
 building is five leagues from wdiere they say the virgin stopped. 
 The people believe that this virgin worked miracles a long time 
 ago, and I am told that they base their belief on the stories told by 
 this ignorant, superstitious African slave who cared for her. While 
 we wnre in the chapel five worshipeis, a man and four women, came 
 in, bowed before the piece of clay and said prayers to it. One woman 
 kissed the lace altar-cloth as she retired. The others were still on 
 their knees when we passed out Close by the church is a shop 
 
48 
 
 Mission Stories 
 
 wliere images of various sizes and kinds are sold. These are all of 
 “Our Lady of Lujan” and are to be put in the shrines in private 
 homes or worn on the person to keep off evil and disease. In the 
 town of Lujan, where several hundred people live, there is no evan¬ 
 gelical work of any kind. 
 
 Let me give you another instance of idol worship. Our German- 
 Swiss brother who was recently baptized was helping a family move 
 a few days ago. Among their belongings were three images which 
 were greatly prized by the senora (lady). One was an image of the 
 boy Jesus, and she said it had helped her boy so often that when his 
 lessons were so difficult that he could not get them, he would pray 
 to this boy image and it helped him learn them. Another was a 
 virgin which she said had worked miracles in her home. Ihe chiee 
 
 o , , 
 
 images were taken in a carriage, and one, the miracle-working vii - 
 gin, was lost. The woman was heart-broken over it and cried bit¬ 
 terly. When her grown son came home in the evening he found her 
 weeping. After learning the cause of her grief he told her it was 
 no use to weep—that the image could not do anything, and e\en 
 if it could, that there were plenty others being manufactured all the 
 time; that it would be an easy matter to replace it. Then our 
 brother learned that the son had at some time been in an evan¬ 
 gelical Sunday school, where he had learned that the images were 
 powerless. Our brother talked with the woman about her religion, 
 and at first she was very angry, but as they talked further she be¬ 
 came calm, and before the conversation ended she admitted that she 
 did not believe in The confessional. He said he would give her a 
 Bible. 
 
 Many of these people know no Christ. Others know only a Christ 
 on the cross and in the tomb. Have we not a living Christ? Have 
 we not a peace-giving Christ? Do not these people need to know our 
 Christ?