Missionary Stories of North America
Grenfell Mission—Alexander's Challenge
Alaska—Her One Request
Indian—The Streak of Red
Negro—Under the Elm Tree
Rural Missions—Big Bill
ALEXANDER'S CHALLENGE
"I NEED your help, Alexander," said the Superintendent of the church school, as a group of boys were filing out of the department. "Will you wait a moment, please?"
A merry, freckle-faced, orphan lad turned quickly about and faced the Superintendent, while all the other boys waited to see what he was about to say.
"Help! Did you say help?" he asked, with a cynical smile. "I am never a help, you know—always a hindrance—a nuisance here at the church. Isn't that right, boys?" he added, turning for a moment to his friends. "But just what did you think I could do?"
"I should like to have you read this book, which is the story of the life of Dr. Grenfell of the Labrador," she replied, "and then I should like to have you take the part portraying Dr. Grenfell in the pageant which we are to give the latter part of the month. There is little to say, but the part is a very important one, and I felt sure you could do it well if you wanted to try."
"Get it, boys?" called Alexander, with a merry laugh. "She wants me to be a missionary."
"Not to be a missionary," said the lady, "but to act like one for five minutes. Thank you just the same. Several other boys have said they were glad to help, if needed, and I will ask one of them," and she went on into her office.
A half-hour later, when all the boys had gone, Alexander sidled up to the Superintendent, saying:
"I wasn't nice to you this afternoon, and you are good to me. I will read the book anyway. Did you really mean it when you said that you needed me? I'm never needed by anybody, you know; I never have been; but I think I should like to be. Thank you for asking me."
Well, Alexander read that book and several others about Dr. Grenfell before he took his part in the pageant. Because he had learned to love the Labrador Doctor through reading the books, he made him seem very real in the pageant, so he was thrilling with the praise he had received as he left the church after the service was over.
"Maybe some day I can do some good work like does," he said to himself. "I just hope they need me again some day. That was good fun."
One day, fifteen months later, Alexander read in the morning paper that Dr. Grenfell was to speak in a church in his town that afternoon, so he secured permission to be away from his work for two hours in order to go to hear him. The church was packed when he arrived, but by making good use of his elbows, he was able to get up dose to the platform. There he sat down upon the steps that led directly to the chair where Dr. Grenfell was seated, and the boy found himself longing to reach up and take hold of the Doctor's left hand, which was quite close to his face. He pictured to himself, as he sat through the opening service, how that hand had given food, medicine, and courage to the people about whom he had read in the books.
Alexander listened to every word that Dr. Grenfell said, even though he had to put himself in a very uncomfortable position in order to be able to see around a great pillar which was in his way when Dr. Grenfell had risen. But he remembered only a few sentences of all that was spoken. Toward the close the Doctor said:
"I need your help in my work there. Some of you can give money; some can tell others what I have told you today, and perhaps get others to give; others can go to Labrador, if the opportunity ever comes, and help in the work for the fisher-folks. We need diggers of ditches, builders of houses, makers of cement, electricians, plumbers, as well as teachers, doctors, and nurses. I need your help, folks. I need your help."
Alexander heard no following hymn, for he was listening to those four words ringing in his ears again, "I need your help"—the very same words which he had heard once at the church. What fun it would be to help a great man! For a whole half-hour he waited about to put his dirty hand into the friendly one of the Doctor, and then he left the church, saying: "Some day I'll help him. I'll go if the chance ever comes. I could do some of those things that he told about, and I will."
Eight years went by. Alexander had finished high school and was a Junior in college. Every time he had earned money since the day when he had found that dream for his life in the church, he had put aside, a little of it for a trip to the Labrador. Finally he had enough in the bank, so he volunteered to go, and was accepted. He had been on the Labrador coast for nine weeks, digging ditches, piling lumber, caring for children, or doing anything which a husky, willing boy could do. He had never been so happy in his life—neither had he ever worked so hard.
One day, just before he was to go back to college, Alexander lay on the deck of Dr. Grenfell's ship, the Strathconia, as she plowed her way through a very heavy sea. Dr. Grenfell was on board and was talking to the boys as they rode along toward the distant hospital.
"God needs us all in his work of making this old world a better place for little children," he said, "even though we do seem to be of so little use in our small sphere of life. When you give your life to God, you are no longer alone, for He works in you and through you, making you one of the lifters of the world. God needs every one of you to help Him in the same good spirit that you helped me."
Alexander sat up quickly. There was that same challenge again, only this time it was, "God needs you." Darkness had fallen, and a bright star had appeared in the sky. It seemed to Alexander like the eye of God watching to see what he was going to do. Finally he said, quietly:
"Doctor Grenfell, would you tell us how you found out what God wanted you to do with your life?"
A wonderful smile spread over the face of the Doctor as he sat under the deck light. Here was a chance to help a boy. "Alexander," he replied, "you don't have to find out all at once, you know. You just begin by being kind to the first person you meet who has a need, and most folks have needs. As soon as you have done that kindness, another need will be waiting for you, and another, and another. Soon your days will be full of work for God. He gives the opportunity, and you do the work."
"God needs me, too," said the college boy as he looked at the beautiful star, long after the rest had scattered. “That is a wonderful thought. I'll begin as my Doctor says he did. Maybe if I live long enough, I shall be a little like him, and if I am, I sure will please God."
Over Alexander's desk in a busy city office in a New England city today there is a small frame containing a little white card. On the card are printed three words; "I need you." They are the three words which challenged him to a life of great and willing service for the sick and the old of his city, in home and in hospital, and when he looks at them he raises his eyes to a beautiful picture of the man whom he calls, "My Doctor." It is Sir Wilfred Grenfell of the Labrador.
HER ONE REQUEST
"IT WILL do the sick wife good to see some one from home. Please come to see us if you possibly can." That was the ending of the letter which the Secretary of the Home Mission Board held in his hand. It had come from a lonely island off the coast of Alaska—Hoonah Island—where two loyal, uncomplaining missionaries were stationed. Mail came to them once a month during the summer, but perhaps not for many months in winter.
The Secretary turned the letter over to read it again. "I don't see how I can go there when I am in Alaska,” he thought. "I will write him that I will try, but that I fear I cannot come."
Several weeks later the Secretary had visited all Mission Stations as far as Juneau and was ready to back to San Francisco, but he had not been able to get to Hoonah. He felt very uncomfortable in his mind, he had heard that the only child of the missionaries was not expected to live. Finally he went to the agent of the steamship company to ask what he could do.
"We couldn't possibly go to Hoonah," said the "That is twenty miles out of our way and the channel is none too good. I am sorry to disappoint you, but it is impossible."
The Secretary stood thinking for a while, and he said: "I should like to tell you why I want to go to Hoonah. Our church has two missionaries out on that island who haven't seen a soul from home for over two years. The wife has not been well for months, and the little child has not been expected to live. Read this letter and you will know why I want to go."
The agent took the letter, read it, and then seemed to be thinking seriously.
"I should like to help those folks," he said. "That must take a lot of courage to stay there and help those islanders. I'll see what I can do."
When he came back later, he said to the Secretary: "The Captain isn't at all pleased, but he will stop at Hoonah Island for a very short visit."
"Thank you," said the visitor. "I'll tell my friends of your kindness to them."
When the boat whistled for Hoonah Island, the Captain said to the Secretary:
"We have just an hour. If we stay longer, we shall miss the tide and be seriously delayed."
"I shall be ready when you are. Whistle five minutes before you want me to come," said the visitor, as he went down the rope ladder over the side of the Boat and into the little rowboat which carried him to the island.
The missionary and his wife were standing on the beach with outstretched hands and with tears in their eyes as they welcomed their visitor. After he had told them of the short time which he had to stay, they sat right down there on the beach, not wanting to waste time to take him to their crude island home. They talked of the work—its problems, its successes. The missionary told of things that were needed, and of the loyalty of the men and women who had become Christian. Then the Secretary asked about their own needs, but they were slow to tell him. Their whole interest lay in the work which they loved. Finally they told him of the little one who had been so ill and might have to be sent to the States. "We are trusting God and doing our best," said the father. The Secretary had brought literature, fruit, and gifts for the parents and for the child; these were happily stowed away in the basket which the mother carried.
Suddenly the boat whistle blew. The three silently knelt there on the shore, and then the Secretary asked God to guide and comfort and help the two who were so brave and trusting. As they rose from their knees, he turned to the courageous wife who looked so frail as she stood holding the hand of her husband.
"Mrs. Thompson," he said, "is there anything can do for you—anything at all?"
"Yes," she answered, quietly, "there is one thing.”
"And what is that?" asked the visitor, almost afraid that she was going to ask to be taken back to San Francisco.
Smiling up at her husband, but holding out her hand to say good-by to their guest of one little hour, she said;
"Just let us stay here on Hoonah Island and work for the Master."
As long as the vessel was in sight they stood together, waving their hands to their friend. Then went back home, eager to read and enjoy the new that had come to them from the big outside world of they could know so little.
THE STREAK OF RED
BEFORE the tepee of old Long Foot, the Indian brave, sat Deep River, his squaw, weaving a blanket.
Her face was brown and wrinkled, but it was full of strength and purpose and spiritual beauty. Long Foot and Deep River had both been Christians for many years, and they had tried to be loyal to their faith. For nearly thirty years Deep River had woven blankets—beautiful ones that people came from far to see and to buy. She was known all over the countryside, not only for her ability eave, but also for the intricacy of the designs which she wove into her blankets. She had made many of different shapes and sizes, but the one before her was the finest of them all.
On a stool beside her sat her granddaughter, Lena Beartracks, a tall, intelligent girl of fifteen, a favorite in the tribe. Once Deep River had had four granddaughters, but the prairie fire had taken the other three, and had left her the tiny baby to love and to tend. It was the old squaw who had dipped her into the icy spring that she might strong; who had hunted far and wide for a rare herb that she might put a bit of it into the baby's mouth to give her a chance to be wise. She had taught the child to weave, and to make rare baskets; to cook and to sew; to read and to pray; and she loved her better than life itself.
During the last weeks Lena Beartracks had often sat on the stool by her grandmother's side, for every line and color, used in the blanket was to be a symbol of some event in the life of the tribe, or the grandmother, or the girl. The yellow in the center ran about like the prairie fire; blue on the edges told stories of the long walks they had taken together; the cross on each side represented their Christian faith. As they sat together, the grandmother told her stories of the events which were symbolized the pattern.
In the corner of the blanket, which was just being completed, there was a streak of red, red wool. It was very beautiful, and the girl liked to look at it.
"When the blanket is done and I give it to you, I will tell you what it means," said the old squaw. "Just now it must be a secret here," and she pointed to her heart.
On that bright summer's day the old grandmother made her hands fly as she wove in the last strands of the border of the blanket. Word had come that the missionary was on his way back to the School for Indian Girls, many miles away. When he reached their village, Lena Bear tracks was to go with him to that school. She had finished the school on the Reservation, and, because of her ability to learn and to lead, she was to be given more training. As they sat together, the old squaw was silent and thoughtful; the girl was dreaming of the new life that lay just ahead. Usually the old grandmother hummed a tune as she wove. Now she sighed and looked troubled.
What would become of the girl when she was alone so far away? It was not right to expect one so young to know how to live alone. Why did she need to go when the old squaw wanted to be near to guide her? She watched the girl longingly as she rose from the stool and hurried down the little street to put more things into, the box which was to go with her to the new school. Yes, Deep River loved her better than her own life.
Just as the, sun went down, the old squaw reached for her knife and cut the blanket from its frame. Then she sat down in the twilight and ran her fingers over one and another of the figures which she had woven into it. How lovely they were! She had done her very best work, hoping that the blanket would be a treasure for Lena to cherish as long as she lived. Would it remind her of the love of her grandmother when she was no longer living in the tepee near the spring? Finally her hand rested on the streak of red.
"She must," cried the old squaw as she rose to her feet—"she must, no matter how hard it is. I must help her before she goes. I will ask our God to show me the way." So, there by the tepee, the old squaw knelt on the new blanket and prayed for wisdom and for courage.
The next day Lena Beartracks, in her new dress and hat, stood before the door of the tepee, waiting to say goodbye. Her face shone with happiness as she waited for her grandmother to come out. It was wonderful to go to the Mission School where she could learn to help her race. Looking up, she saw her grandmother with the new blanket on her arm.
"Sit here," said Deep River, slowly, pointing to the bench where they had so often talked together. "Tell me, little one, what this means—and this and this," and she pointed to different parts of the blanket. The girl laughed merrily as the old squaw tried to find some symbol which she did not know.
"Oh! the streak of beautiful red!" said the girl. "Now that the blanket is to go to school with me to use on my own bed, you must tell me what it means. I have waited long to know. Tell me quickly, grandmother."
"I will show you," answered the old squaw. Taking a sharp knife, she quickly cut a deep gash in her arm, and the red blood ran in a little stream down the brown, arm. The girl started forward to help her, but the grandmother pushed her aside.
"See," she said, putting her arm close to the red the blanket. "This red is for blood. All the years of life there have been hard things—hunger, thirst, fire, anger, death, hate—to try to make me forget that I belong to a tribe of strong men and women. Even to the shedding of blood, my tribe has always stood for right. Like this, I, too, have tried to stand," and the old squaw sprang quickly to her feet, winding a cloth about her arm as did so. She threw back her head, put her right foot more firmly on the ground with a little stamp, and wrapped the new blanket about her, throwing the corner over shoulder in such a way that the red streak ran from head to her heart. She was a picture of strength and courage as she stood there, and the girl loved her.
"I have stood, granddaughter, unafraid. Though I have to lose my life by the shedding of blood, I shall still stand for God, and for what I think is right."
Suddenly the broad shoulders drooped. She had heard the sound of wheels. Lena Beartracks was going away.
Taking the blanket from her own shoulders, she wound it lovingly about the girl whom she loved better than life itself, throwing the blanket over her shoulder so that, again, the streak of red ran from head to heart. Turning the face of the girl up to hers, she said, almost fiercely:
"You are a part of me—of my tribe—of my race. You too, must stand. You must never be a coward—never run because a thing is hard. Show me how you will stand when I am not there to help you."
Just as the grandmother had done, the girl threw back her pretty head, straightened her shoulders, stamped her right foot on the ground, and looked the grandmother squarely in the face.
"I will try to stand when things are hard, just as I have seen you stand," she said, as she pointed with her finger to the red streak.
"Do not say, 'I will try.' " cried the squaw. "Say, ‘I WILL STAND!' I cannot let you go away unless I know that you will be brave and true. My blanket, with its streak of red, will help you, child."
The girl's face grew suddenly very sober—she saw clearly now that it was a great step to take, when she left the tepee of the one who had loved her so well and who had helped her so much, to go away alone. Her hand gripped the beautiful blanket as she said, very slowly:
"Grandmother, God helping me, I WILL STAND."
For a moment the old squaw held her very close. It seemed the hardest thing she had ever done to let her grandchild go into the big, unknown world. Then she took the blanket from Lena's shoulders, wrapped it carefully, and handed it back to her.
"You are the light of my eyes—the sun of my life, child," she said. "Goodbye. May God go with you and help you to stand." Then the old squaw went wearily into the tent, while the girl climbed quickly into the wagon where the missionary sat waiting to take her to school.
Lena Beartracks never saw her grandmother again, but the blanket, though used for many years, still shows the skill and the care of its maker. Some of its colors have faded, but the red, red streak is still bright and beautiful.
The home in which the blanket has been used has been one with little money, but one where there have been great ideals. Poverty, sickness, temptation, injustice, greed, and death have all beat against its door, but Lena Beartracks has stood—a strong student, a good wife, a great mother, a real Christian.
UNDER THE ELM TREE
"Let nothing bend or break you."
A STRONG, good-looking African-American girl read the words from the card in her hand for the fifth time, "Let nothing bend or break you." Her young face was troubled she sat under the tall, spreading elm tree, close beside a bubbling brook.
"Miss Mary always seemed to know what was right do," she said, wistfully. "I wish I could talk to her right now. Why did she die and leave me just when I needed her most? I don't want to bend," she cried, aloud, "but what can I do? How can I please father, and Miss Mary too?" She leaned heavily against the trunk of the tree and closed her eyes wearily. Life seemed very hard to the girl of twenty.
"S'pose if I showed this card to my father, he would say that my teacher thought as he does—find the right and then do it," she said, as she rose to her feet. "Teaching folks to hate each other isn't being Christian, even if it is helping my race, and I won't do it"
Hepzibah More—called Sheba, for short, by her family—was unhappy in her home. She never remembered the time when she had seemed to fit there, and things been worse since she had been a student at the Mission School. Sheba was naturally neat; her mother and sisters were not.
Sheba wanted an education; her parents thought she had more than she needed already. She had learned at school to love Jesus Christ and to try to do what she thought was right; she had learned to work for peace and brotherhood; her father continually talked of the injustice of the white race, and of the new society which he had joined which said it would finally eliminate all thoughts of race, creed, and color.
"We must fight for our rights," her father had said at the table that very noon. "The negro must have justice, equality, freedom, and a living wage, equal to all others. We must fight! fight!"
Sheba had seen her father change with the days as he met with his new friends over the store on the corner; she knew he had lost his faith in religion, and she longed to help him. Instead, he urged her to come with him; to write down on paper what he was thinking; to learn the new songs which he brought home from time to time. She was afraid of his new beliefs.
"Let nothing bend or break you." Sheba turned the card over in her hand. She had adored the teacher who had written those words for her before she left school. Sheba had been her eager pupil in the classroom; she would gladly have been her slave the rest of the day, if that had been permissible.
Mary Parks had been Sheba's ideal of justice, sympathy, and leadership. She had told Sheba stories of the great women of the Bible, of literature, and of everyday life. Some of those women had had black skins, and Sheba had thrilled at the thought that there might be work for black women to do in building the new world.
Miss Parks had shown Sheba the need for new, and stronger, Christian leadership in the black race, if brotherhood and justice were ever to come; if the whites and the blacks were to live in peace. She had created in the girl the desire to become one of those leaders some day, if possible. She had given Sheba the opportunity to go to school, had taught her most of what she knew of religion, and had interpreted Jesus to her as a Friend. Sheba loved Miss Mary; longed for her; desired, more anything else, to be what Miss Mary would want to her be.
The old elm shaded Sheba as she lay in the grass. "Only God can make a tree like that," she mused. "He cares for the birds up there. Miss Mary would say that He will show me the way to go. I wish some one would help!” Near her feet a little brook rushed over the stones as if a hurry to get to the sea.
"It's like me," said Sheba. "It wants to get away. I wish I could go to Miss Mary. If only I could get away from home!"
Sheba wanted an education, but how could she get it without money or friends? Her father had whispered to her several times that his new friends would educate her if she would give up her foolish religious notions and sing for them, or write for them.
"Never!" said Sheba, bitterly. "Never! Not even an education! Not even for my race! Christ comes first. I will never bend there. Miss Mary would be ashamed of me."
Sheba longed for a friend with whom she could and play and talk. Where was such a friend to be found? Not among her former friends. She no longer liked the things they used to do together, and they left her out of their good times.
She wanted some work to do, so that she could earn money to pay for another term at school. Where was work to be found? She had gone from one agency to another but the reply seemed always the same, "We have no work. White girls are doing much of work that you colored girls used to do, and many people are too poor to hire any help today." Was there no work for her? Must she stay at home and do nothing? Her pocketbook was empty; her mind seemed in a daze; life seemed very hard and useless.
Two ways of escape only seemed open: to accept an offer of marriage from a man whom she had known for a long time, but disliked, or to do as her father insisted she should do—help those who were antagonistic to Christianity and to the church that she loved.
"Neither is right," she said, as a tear rolled down her cheek. "I must not bend. I will not lose my ideal that I found at school. I cannot marry when I do not love, and I cannot help father." Covering her face with her hands, as though to shut out anything which might tempt her to yield, she sobbed as if her heart would break. She was lonely, discouraged, puzzled, afraid.
The sound of a child screaming caused Sheba to jump to her feet and hurry to the road dose by. With out-stretched arms and horror-stricken face a little motherless black girl was almost flying toward her, followed by a great friendly dog.
"Help me! Help me! Send the dog away!" she cried when she saw Sheba waiting for her. "He is going to bite me!" she screamed.
Sheba gathered the little one into her lap, soothing her as best she could, while the great dog trotted on to the next house, where he belonged. The child's body shook with sobs and she clung to the older girl, looking often see if her enemy were coming back again. Soon Sheba began to sing to her some of the songs that she had learned at Mission School: "Jesus Loves Me, This I Know";
“Thou Art My Shepherd"; "I Love to Tell The Story"; and many more. After a long time Emmy Lou looked into the face of her rescuer and said:
"Father says if I am good I may go to your Mission School some day. I tell him all the stories you tell and he likes than. I told Jimmie about the boy who gave his lunch to Jesus, and he wants to hear more stories. Please tell me another," and she nestled down contentedly into the story-teller's lap.
"Sheba," said the child a little later, interrupting the story, "I want to be like you some day. I wish you lived in my house."
"Why?" said Sheba, while a warm glow seemed to permeate her whole body.
"Because you are good and kind and I miss mother. I like to watch you go by our house and smile at me”, the little one replied.
"Just as Miss Mary told us at school," thought Sheba "'Remember, someone always loves you, if you are kind and good; some one is always watching, and longing be like you, if you are really trying to be Christian; somebody needs you to live at your best. I am so glad.”
She drew Emmy Lou very close to her, kissing the streaked cheeks, and said: "And I am lonely, too, Emmy Lou. We will make other happy."
"Let nothing bend or break you," the little card in pocket seemed to whisper as she pushed it aside in get a handkerchief with which to wipe the face of the little one.
“Will you tell me about the little girl that Jesus made well?" asked the child. "Minnie is sick, you know. I wish Jesus would make her well. Couldn't Jimmie come to hear this story?"
"Run and get Jimmie, if you like," said Sheba. "I will tell you both one good story, and then I must go home.”
Away went the little flying feet; and away went the imagination of the girl who sat under the tree, as a wonderful plan began to unfold itself to her.
"Why shouldn't I teach all the little ones that will come out here under this big tree?" she thought. "When it rains, I could take them under the bridge there, or maybe the farmer would let us go into his barn. If I study my Bible so that I can tell them about it, then I shall know more when I go back to school. If I am kind to the children, they will love me and then I won't be lonely. I will teach the children to love the Prince of Peace. Maybe I can help them to live as brothers. This won't cost any money, so I don't care if I have none."
When the children came back, she was ready to outline her plan to them, and they listened with wide-open, happy eyes and smiling faces. They would have a class each morning, and she would teach them all the songs she knew. If John would come with his mouth organ, they could have some music. When they had learned their Bible verses and she had told them a story, then they could play together, and sing together, or perhaps they could wade in the brook sometimes.
"We will come every day," they both cried again and again. "John would like to play. Mike likes to sing, and he will help. Lena will be the first one here." On and on they went, these new missionaries-to-be, naming over their possible recruits.
Sheba smiled at them happily. They reminded her of ripples on the surface of the brook, as they tried to out-run one another. Gone was all her loneliness and distress. Her chance to work and to lead had come. She told them the promised story, sang them another song, and then they all knelt under the great elm tree to ask God to care for and help the little sick sister at home. Handin-hand the three went back over the dusty road to the miserable little houses where they lived, but in their hearts was a new happiness and a new hope.
That is how Sheba's growing, enthusiastic, outdoor school began. It is under no Mission Board; it has no denominational affiliation; it might not please a modern educator; but it is making good American citizens and Christian boys and girls. It is creating a spirit of good will and brotherhood in a section where it is sorely needed. It is helping a strong, fine-looking African-American girl to live under hard conditions, and under constant taunts and temptations, with a smile on her face and a purpose in her life. Nothing seems to bend or break her.
She is a Missionary volunteer who heard the call, saw the need, and answered gladly, "Here am I. Use me."
BIG BILL
ON THE corner of a tiny church-yard in Maine sat a group of boys waiting for their church-school teacher. They were boys whose fathers worked in a lumber-camp nearby. They had big, strong bodies and ruddy complexions. When they heard that a real missionary was coming the church, they sent Big Bill, their leader, to the superintendent to ask if he might teach their class. No teacher ever stayed long with that class of boys, and they needed a new substitute.
As they sat talking about the questions they intended ask him, the superintendent entered the room with the missionary. He was tall, thin, gray-haired and very pale.
"Look at him!" said Mike, the mischief-maker. “He never could hunt elephants or tigers in Africa."
"Or fight with men who wanted to kill him, like our book said John G. Paton did," said Big Bill.
"I ain't going to stay and listen to a white-faced like that," said Tom.
"Then let's stay and have some fun with him," said Mike. So, with minds that were full of mischief, the boys waited for the missionary to come to their class.
"Every red-blooded boy likes to read and hear stories of fights and hunts," said the missionary, a few moments later, pulling his chair up close to Mike's, "so I am going to tell you a little about three hunts that I have seen within a year, and then let you ask me questions. Look at these pictures first," and he drew three from his pocket.
Every boy was on the edge of his chair in a minute for the first picture was one of a great lion, with shaggy mane, lying dead at the feet of some big African men, and having a long spear stuck into his side.
"This old fellow had stolen three little children from one of our African towns before the men finally succeeded in driving him into a place where they could kill him," said the missionary, and then he described the lion-hunt.
"And this old witch-doctor," he continued, holding up a picture of a ragged, ugly, painted man, "was hired by the village to hunt for a woman whom they might put to death for being a witch. One of the head men in the town had died and they were sure some one had bewitched him. This witch-doctor chose a mother who lived far away and who knew nothing about the man's death, but he tortured her until she said that she was a witch and had killed the man." Then he told them about that witch-hunt, and how he had saved the life of the woman.
"Now this boy," he said, holding up a picture of a fine-looking African boy about the size of the boys in the class, "was hunted by men with spears because his own father wanted to kill him. Chivela had become a Christian, and his father would rather see him dead than to see him change his religion. He put poison in the boy's food; he tried to make him fall into a trap. Finally Chivela ran away from home into the woods, and had to hide in caves for many days to get away from the men whom his father had hired to kill him."
"Chivela walked nearly a hundred miles before he reached the school where I am a teacher," continued the missionary. "He lived on raw fruits and the flesh of little animals which he could kill with his knife. Chivela wanted to go to school, so he has been working hard for three years to pay his own way. He isn't one bit afraid of his father now, and he wants to go home, next year and try to win him for Christ. "
For a few moments it seemed as though every boy the class wanted to ask questions all at once about big lion or the witch-doctor or the schoolboy. Suddenly Big Bill, who had been very quiet during the story of all three hunts, said:
"I should like to know what a boy has to do if he wants to be a missionary. I thought missionaries had to preach and have church school, but I liked that story of John G. Paton which I have just read, and now I like your story. That's the kind of life I should like to live."
After a little discussion as to what the boys thought a missionary was like, the man told them how the Boards, required that a young Christian volunteer be well in body and have a good education and good habits ; how he must be recommended highly, and have a big desire to work for God in any field to which he might be sent, if they were to invest money in him and send him to the Mission field.
When the bell rang the boys were sorry, for they enjoyed the hour, and they had learned much that they did not know about missionaries and their work.
"Hm-m-m!" said Big Bill to himself as he walked home "I hain't finished our school here. I don't have very good habits, but I'm not afraid and I'm well. That is something. I think I'd like to be a missionary, if I can.”
The next day Big Bill began to try to stop swearing. "'Cause I think a missionary oughtn't to do it," he said to himself. When the men laughed at him and tried make him angry so that he would swear, he would think of the African boy, Chivela, and grit his teeth. He tried to be more kind about the lumber-camp. One day he pulled out the Testament which had been given to him in a city Sunday school many years before, and began to try to find out what Jesus was like, and what he wanted a boy to be and do.
Big Bill had always been a good story-teller, and he could tell the story of the lion-hunt in a way that made the boys shiver as they listened to it. When the men sat about the camp fire at night they would often ask him to tell them a story. Sometimes he told of the lion or the witch-doctor, but sometimes he told one of the stories which he had read in his Testament—the cleansing of the temple, the feeding of the five thousand, or the stilling of the storm. Big Bill could make those stories live. Only to his mother had he confided that some day he hoped to be a missionary, but all who knew him realized that something very real had happened to Big Bill.
That fall Big Bill asked to be allowed to go back to school, although he was almost a man compared with the little ones who attended the school in the village nearest the lumber-camp. The children made fun of his mistakes, and sometimes he found it very hard to stick to his purpose. But whenever he wanted to turn coward, be said to himself, "Chivela wouldn't do that," and he stuck to his work.
In five years he had finished the high school with good grades and wanted to go to college. The minister in the church where he had been trying to help during his high-school course had told him where to write, but when September came, he had had no word of an opportunity to study and at the same time to earn money. However; William, as he was now called by his school friends, had become so well acquainted with the life of Jesus that he was banking on the value of work and prayer to open a way. He had written many letters, and day after day he prayed that some one would need him. Then one day a wonderful letter came—at least it seemed wonderful to the boy;
"We have only one place in which we could use you,” it said. "Some one has to keep the furnaces going in fall and winter, and work in the gardens in the spring. There is a large quantity of coal and ashes to handle, if you care to do this, it will pay for your board and tuition. There is a room in the basement which is not attractive, but which some students in the past have chosen to use. You are welcome to the use of it if you decide to tend the furnaces. If you are strong and well, and if you have good habits, we shall be glad to have you come, we will do our best to help you get the education which you so much desire."
"Strong and well, and with good habits," said Will, "That's part of what the Mission Boards expect. Well this time I can say that I have some good habits, and am still well and strong." So he went to college and shoveled coal to pay for it.
Four years later he was graduated with honors and with fine recommendations for character and service. That fall William La Crosse sailed for the foreign field, a missionary of the Cross.
"Off for a lion-hunt or a fight against a witch-doctor, perhaps," he said, laughingly, to a group of his friends who knew what it was that had created his desire to be a missionary. "If that fight with the lion is any harder than the fight I have had with myself to get ready to go, it will take some courage to win it. I can show you now how the first fight came out. When I come back in five or six years, watch me try to find a group of boys away back in my little old town in Maine and tell them about some other fights.