{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_29427/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_29427","id":"gutenberg_29427","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29427","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Parenthood & Family Relations","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Children -- India","India -- Social life and customs","Missions -- India"],"text":"E-text prepared by the Bookworm, Emmy, and the Project Gutenberg Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from digital material\ngenerously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries\n(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n file which includes the original illustrations.\n See 29427-h.htm or 29427-h.zip:\n (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/29427/pg29427-images.html)\n or\n (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/29427/29427-h.zip)\n\n\n Images of the original pages are available through\n Internet Archive/American Libraries. See\n http://www.archive.org/details/lotusbuds00carmiala\n\n\n\n\n\nLOTUS BUDS\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration: The Great Rock. (_Page 338._)]\n\n\nLOTUS BUDS\n\nby\n\nAMY WILSON-CARMICHAEL\n\nKeswick Missionary C.E.Z.M.S.\n\nAuthor of\n\"Things As They Are\"; \"Overweights of Joy\";\n\"The Beginning of a Story,\" Etc.\n\nWith Fifty Half-Tone Illustrations\nfrom Photos Specially Taken for This Work\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMorgan and Scott Ld.\n12 Paternoster Buildings\nLondon MCMXII\n\nCopyright, Morgan & Scott Ld., 1909\n\nFirst Edition, _Quarto_ (_Fifty Photogravure\n Illustrations_) 2,000 _Nov., 1909_\nEdition De Luxe (_Fifty Photogravures on Japon\n Vellum_) 250 _Nov., 1909_\nOctavo Edition (_Fifty Half-tone Engravings_) 5,250 _July, 1912_\n\n\n\n\n_TO THOSE WHO CARE_\n\n\n DOHNAVUR, TINNEVELLY DISTRICT,\n SOUTH INDIA\n\n _Christmas, 1909._\n\n Each for himself, we live our lives apart,\n Heirs of an age that turns us all to stone;\n Yet ever Nature, thrust from out the heart,\n Comes back to claim her own.\n\n Still we have something left of that fair seed\n God gave for birthright; still the sound of tears\n Hurts us, and children in their helpless need\n Still call to listening ears.\n\n OWEN SEAMAN.\n _From_ \"In a Good Cause.\"\n\n\n\n\n_FOREWORD TO THE PRESENT EDITION_\n\n\n_WHEN first \"Things as they are\" trod the untrodden way, it walked as a\nsmall child walks when for the first time it ventures forth upon young,\nuncertain feet. It has to walk; it does not know why: it only knows\nthere is no choice about it. But there is an eager looking for an\noutstretched hand, and an instant gratefulness always, for even a\nfinger. A whole hand given without reserve is something never\nforgotten._\n\n_It was only a child after all, and it had not anticipated having to\nfind its way alone among strangers. It had thought of nothing further\nthan a very short walk among familiar faces. If it had understood\nbeforehand how far it would have to walk, I doubt if it would have had\nthe courage to start; for it was not naturally brave. But once on its\nway it could not turn back; and thanks to those kindly outstretched\nhands, it grew a little less afraid, and it went on._\n\n_Then another small wayfarer followed. It also was very easily\ndiscouraged; an unfriendly push would have knocked it over at once. But\nnobody seemed to want to push so unpretentious a thing, so it gained\ncourage and went on._\n\n_And now a more grown-up looking traveller (though indeed its looks\nbelie it) has started on its way; more diffident, if the truth must be\ntold, than even its predecessors. For it thought within itself--Perhaps\nthere will be no welcoming hands held out this time; hands may grow\ntired of such kind offices. But it has not been so. And now the sense of\ngratefulness cannot longer be repressed._\n\n_All of which means that I want to thank sincerely those kings of the\nBook World--Reviewers--and those dwellers in that world who are my\nReaders, for their insight and the sympathy to which I owe so much._\n\n_Once I read of a soldier who wrote a letter home from the midst of a\nbattle, on a crumpled piece of paper laid upon a cannon ball. His home\npeople he knew would overlook the appearance of the paper and the lack\nof various things expected in a letter written in a quiet room upon a\nstudy table. And he knew he could trust them not to bring too fine a\ncriticism to bear upon the unstudied words hot from the battle's heart._\n\n_I have thought sometimes that these books were not unlike that\nsoldier's letter; and those who read them seem to me very like his home\npeople, for they have been so generous in the kindness of their\nwelcome._\n\n _Amy Wilson-Carmichael._\n _Dohnavur,_\n _Tinnevelly District_\n _S. India._\n\n _Feb. 19, 1912._\n\n\n\n\nTHE WRITER TO THE READER\n\n\nTHE photographs (except two) were taken by Mr. Penn, of Ootacamund,\nwhose work is known to all who care to possess good photographs of the\nSouth Indian hills. The babies were a new experience to him, and\nsomething of a trial, I fear, after the mountains, which can be trusted\nto sit still.\n\nThe book has been written for lovers of children. Those who find such\nyoung life tiresome will find the story dull, and the kindest thing it\ncan ask of them is not to read it at all.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n CHAPTER PAGE\n I. LOTUS BUDS 1\n II. OPPOSITES 5\n III. THE SCAMP 15\n IV. THE PHOTOGRAPHS 23\n V. TARA AND EVU 31\n VI. PRINCIPALITIES, POWERS, RULERS 41\n VII. HOW THE CHILDREN COME 51\n VIII. OTHERS 61\n IX. OLD DEVAI 67\n X. FAILURES? 75\n XI. GOD HEARD: GOD ANSWERED 85\n XII. TO WHAT PURPOSE? 95\n XIII. A STORY OF COMFORT 103\n XIV. PICKLES AND PUCK 113\n XV. THE HOWLER 121\n XVI. THE NEYOOR NURSERY 129\n XVII. IN THE COMPOUND AND NEAR IT 141\n XVIII. FROM THE TEMPLE OF THE ROCK 153\n XIX. YOSEPU 159\n XX. THE MENAGERIE 169\n XXI. MORE ANIMALS 183\n XXII. THE PARROT HOUSE 191\n XXIII. THE BEAR GARDEN 201\n XXIV. THE ACCALS 213\n XXV. THE LITTLE ACCALS 227\n XXVI. THE GLORY OF THE USUAL 235\n XXVII. THE SECRET TRAFFIC 245\n XXVIII. BLUE BOOK EVIDENCE 253\n XXIX. \"VERY COMMON IN THOSE PARTS\" 261\n XXX. ON THE SIDE OF THE OPPRESSORS THERE WAS POWER 269\n XXXI. AND THERE WAS NONE TO SAVE 279\n XXXII. THE POWER BEHIND THE WORK 291\n XXXIII. IF THIS WERE ALL 301\n XXXIV. \"TO CONTINUE THE SUCCESSION\" 309\n XXXV. WHAT IF SHE MISSES HER CHANCE? 321\n XXXVI. \"THY SWEET ORIGINAL JOY\" 331\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n PAGE\n THE GREAT ROCK _Frontispiece_\n LOTUS FLOWERS 3\n \"GOD'S FIRE\" 8\n \"AIYO! DID YOU THINK I WOULD HAVE DONE IT?\" 12\n CHELLALU WATCHING THE PICTURE-CATCHER 18\n \"OH, IT'S A JOKE!\" 20\n \"THAT THING AGAIN!\" 25\n PYARIE AND VINEETHA 26\n \"DISGUSTING!\" 28\n \"LOOK AT THE POSE!\" 30\n TARA 33\n STURDY AND STOLID, AND LITTLE VEERA 63\n PEBBLES 66\n LATHA (FIREFLY) BLOWING BUBBLES 72\n SEELA, MALA, AND NULLINIE 105\n THE COTTAGE NURSERY 108\n \"PICKLES\" AND HER FRIENDS 115\n THE DOHNAVUR COUNTRY IN FLOOD 124\n PAKIUM AND NAVEENA 126\n ON THE ROAD TO NEYOOR 131\n ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF NAGERCOIL 132\n THE NEYOOR NURSERY 136\n THE OLD NURSERY (THE \"ROOM OF JOY\") 143\n THE COURTYARD 144\n A COMING-DAY FEAST 146\n THE RED LAKE 148\n AT THE DOOR OF THE TEMPLE 150\n THE WATER CARRIERS 161\n THE BELOVED TINGALU 164\n TWO VIEWS OF LIFE 171\n MORE ANIMALS: DEPRESSED 185\n TUBBING 188\n RED LAKE, AND HILL AS SEEN FROM THE TARAHA NURSERY 193\n CHILDREN WADING 196\n CHILDREN WADING 197\n ESLI, AND LITTLE KOHILA 198\n PREETHA AWARE OF A FOE 200\n JULLANIE AMONG THE GRASSES 203\n ARULAI AND RUKMA, WITH NAVEENA 210\n PONNAMAL, PREETHA, AND TARA 215\n SELLAMUTTU AND SUSEELA 216\n SUHINIE, AND HER BABY, SUNUNDA 218\n THREE CONVERT WORKERS: SUNDOSHIE, SUHINIE, AND JEYANIE 220\n SEWING-CLASS IN THE COURTYARD 222\n THREE LITTLE ACCALS 229\n PREENA AND PREEYA 230\n AFTER HER BOTTLE 237\n NORTH LAKE AND HILLS 238\n FROM THE ROCK, DOHNAVUR 338\n THE PLACE OF BAPTISM 340\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nLotus Buds\n\n[Illustration: LOTUS FLOWERS.\n\nFrom that same pool, afterwards gathered by permission and given to\nus.]\n\n\n\n\nLOTUS BUDS\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nLotus Buds\n\n\nNEAR an ancient temple in Southern India is a large calm, beautiful\npool, enclosed by stone walls, broken here and there by wide spaces\nfitted with steps leading down to the water's edge; and almost within\nreach of the hand of one standing on the lowest step are pink Lotus\nlilies floating serenely on the quiet water or standing up from it in a\ncertain proud loveliness all their own.\n\nWe were travelling to the neighbouring town when we came upon this pool.\nWe could not pass it with only a glance, so we stopped our bullock-carts\nand unpacked ourselves--we were four or five to a cart--and we climbed\ndown the broken, time-worn steps and gazed and gazed till the beauty\nentered into us.\n\nWho can describe that harmony of colour, a Lotus-pool in blossom in\nclear shining after rain! The grey old walls, the brown water, the dark\ngreen of the Lotus leaves, the delicate pink of the flowers; overhead,\ninfinite crystalline blue; and beyond the old walls, palms.\n\nWith us was a young Indian friend. \"I will gather some of the lilies for\nyou,\" he said, with the quick Indian desire to give pleasure; but some\none interposed: \"They must not be gathered by us. The pool belongs to\nthe Temple.\"\n\nIt was as if a stone had been flung straight at a mirror. There was a\nsense of crash and the shattering of some bright image. The Lotus-pool\nwas a Temple pool; its flowers are Temple flowers. The little buds that\nfloat and open on the water, lifting young innocent faces up to the\nlight as it smiles down upon them and fills them through with almost a\ntremor of joyousness, these Lotus buds are sacred things--sacred to\nwhom?\n\nFor a single moment that thought had its way, but only for a moment. It\nflashed and was gone, for the thought was a false thought: it could not\nstand against this--\"All souls are Mine.\"\n\nAll souls are His, all flowers. An alien power has possessed them,\ncounted them his for so many generations, that we have almost acquiesced\nin the shameful confiscation. But neither souls nor flowers are his who\ndid not make them. They were never truly his. They belong to the Lord of\nall the earth, the Creator, the Redeemer. The little Lotus buds are\nHis--His and not another's. The children of the temples of South India\nare His--His and not another's.\n\nSo now we go forth with the Owner Himself to claim His own possession.\nThere is hope in the thought, and confidence and the purest inspiration.\nAnd, stirred to the very depths, as we are and must be many a time when\nwe see the tender Lotus buds gathered by a hand that has no right to\nthem, and crushed underfoot; bewildered and sore troubled, as the heart\ncannot help being sometimes, when the mystery of the apparent victory of\nevil over good is overwhelming: even so there will be always a hush, a\nrest, a repose of spirit, as we stand by the Lotus-pools of life and\nseek in His Name to gather His flowers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nOpposites\n\n\nBALA is nearly four. There are so many much younger things in the\nnursery, that Bala feels almost grown up: four will be quite grown up;\nit will be nice to be four. Bala takes life seriously, she has always\ndone so; she thinks it would be monotonous to have too many frivolous\nbabies. But Bala's eyes can sparkle as no other eyes ever do; and her\nmirth is something by itself, like a little hidden fountain in the heart\nof a wood, with the sweetness of surprise in it and very pure delight.\n\nWhen Bala came to us first she was between one and two, an age when most\nbabies have a good deal to say. Bala said nothing. She was like a book\nwith all its leaves uncut; and some who saw her, forgetting that uncut\nbooks are sometimes interesting, concluded she was dull. \"Quite a\nprosaic child,\" they said; but Bala did not care. There are some babies,\nlike some grown-up people, who show all they have to show upon first\nacquaintance and to all. Others cover the depths within, and open only\nto their own. Bala is one of these; and even with her own she has\nseasons of reserve.\n\nHer first remark, however, shown rather than said, was not romantic. She\nwas too old for a bottle, and she seemed to feel sore over this. But\nshe noted the time the infants were fed, and followed the nurses about\nwhile they were preparing the meal; and when they sat down to give it,\neach to her respective baby, Bala would choose the one of most uncertain\nappetite, and sit down beside it and wait. There was an expression on\nher face at such times which suggested a hymn, set it humming in one's\nhead in fact, in spite of all efforts to escape it. More than once we\nhave caught ourselves singing it, and pulled up sharply: \"Even me! Even\nme! Let some droppings fall on me.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"God's Fire.\"\n\nTaken on the bank of the Red Lake, near Dohnavur.]\n\nMost of our family remind us very early that they trace their descent to\nthe mother of us all. Bala, on the contrary, was good: so we almost\nforgot she was human, and began to expect too much of her; but she got\ntired of this after a while, and one day suddenly sinned. The surprise\nacted like \"hypo,\" and fixed the photograph.\n\nThe place was the old nursery, which has one uncomfortably dark corner\nin it. Something had offended Bala; she marched straight into that\ncorner and stamped. We can see her--poor little girl--as she rumpled her\ncurls with both her hands, and flashed on the world a withering glance.\n\"Scorn to be scorned by those I scorn\" was written large all over the\nindignant little face.\n\nAfter this shock we were prepared for anything, but nothing special\nhappened; only when the demands made upon her are unreasonable, then\nBala retires into herself and turns upon all foolish insistence a face\nthat is a blank. If this point is passed, the dark eyes can flash. But\nsuch revealings are rare.\n\nWhen Bala was something under three, she was very tender-hearted. One\nevening, after the first rains had flooded the pools and revived the\nmosquitoes, the nursery wall was the scene of many executions; and Bala\ncould not bear it. \"Sittie, don't kill the poor puchies!\" she said\npitifully; and Sittie, much touched, stopped to comfort and\nexplain. The other babies were delighting in the slaughter, pointing out\nwith glee each detested \"puchie\"; but Bala is not like the other babies.\nLater, the ferocious instinct common to most young animals asserted\nitself in a relish for the horrible, which rather contradicted the\nmosquito incident. Bala visibly gloats over the gory head of Goliath,\nand intensely admires David as he operates upon it. Her favourite part\nof the story about his encounter with the lion is the suggestive\nsentence, \"I caught him by the beard\"; and Bala loves to show you\nexactly how he did it. But then that is different from seeing it done;\nand after all it is only a story, and it happened long ago.\n\nI have told how the ignorant once called Bala prosaic. Bala knows\nnothing of poetry, but is full of the little seeds of that strange and\nwonderful plant; and the time to get to know her is when the evening sky\nis a golden blaze, or glows with that mystic glory which wakens\nsomething within us and makes it stir and speak.\n\n\"God has not lighted His fire to-night,\" she said wistfully one evening\nwhen the West was colourless; but when that fire is lighted she stands\nand gazes satisfied. \"What does God do when His fire goes out?\" was a\nquestion on one such evening, as the mountains darkened in the passing\nof the after-glow; and then: \"Why does He not light it every night?\"\n\n\"Amma! I have looked into Heaven!\" she said suddenly to me after a long\nsilence. \"I have seen quite in, and I know what it is like.\" \"What is it\nlike? Can you tell me?\" and the child's voice answered dreamily: \"It was\nshining, very shining.\" Then with animation, in broken but vivid Tamil:\n\"Oh, it was beautiful! all a garden like our garden, only bigger, and\nthere were flowers and flowers and flowers!\"--here words failed to\ndescribe the number, and a comprehensive sweep of the hand served\ninstead. \"And our dolls can walk there. They never can down here, poor\nthings! And Jesus plays with our babies there\" (the dear little sisters\nwho have gone to the nursery out of sight, but are unforgotten by the\nchildren). \"He plays with Indraneela--lovely games.\"\n\n\"What games, Bala?\" I asked, wondering greatly what she would say. There\nwas a long, thoughtful pause, and Bala looked at me with grave,\ncontented eyes:--\n\n\"New games,\" she said simply.\n\nBala's opposite is Chellalu. We never made any mistake about her. We\nnever thought her good. Not that she is impossibly bad. She was created\nfor play and for laughter, and very happy babies are not often very\nwicked; but she is so irrepressible, so hopelessly given up to fun, that\nher kindergarten teacher, Rukma, smiles a rueful smile at the mention of\nher name. For to Chellalu the most unreasonable thing you can ask is\nimplicit obedience, which unfortunately is preferred by us to any amount\nof fun. She will learn to obey, we are not afraid about that; but more\nthan any of our children, her attitude towards this demand has been one\nof protest and surprise. She thinks it unfair of grown-up people to take\nadvantage of their size in the arbitrary way they do. And when,\ndisgusted with life's dispensations, she condescends to expostulate, her\n\"Ba-a-a-a\" is a thing to affright. But this is the wrong side of\nChellalu, and not for ever in evidence. The right side is not so\ndepressing.\n\nIt is a brilliant morning in late November. The world, all washed and\ncooled by the rains, has not had time to get hot and tired, and the air\nhas that crystal quality which is the charm of this season in South\nIndia. Every wrinkle on the brown trunks of the trees in the compound,\nevery twig and leaf, stands out with a special distinctness of its own,\nand the mountains in the distance glisten as if made of precious\nstones.\n\nSuddenly, all unconscious of affinity or contrast, a little person in\nscarlet comes dancing into the picture, which opens to receive her, for\nshe belongs to it. Her hands are full of Gloriosa lilies, fiery red,\nterra-cotta, yellow, delicate old-rose and green--such a mingling of\ncolour, but nothing discordant--and the child, waving her spoils above\nher head, sings at the top of her voice something intended to be the\nchorus of a kindergarten song:--\n\n Oh, the delight of the glorious light!\n The joy of the shining blue!\n Beautiful flowers! wonderful flowers!\n Oh, I should like to be you!\n\n\"But, Chellalu, where did you get them?\" for the lilies in the garden\nare supposed to be safe from attack. Chellalu looks up with frank, brown\neyes. \"For you!\" she says briefly in Tamil; but there is a wealth of\nforgiveness in the tone as she offers her armful of flowers. Chellalu\nwonders at grown-up hearts which can harbour unworthy suspicions about\nblameless little children. As if she would have picked them!\n\n\"But, Chellalu, where did you get them?\" and still looking grieved and\nsurprised and forgiving, Chellalu explains that yesterday evening the\nelder sisters went for a walk in the fields, and brought home so many\nlilies, that after all just claims were met there were still some\nover--an expressive gesture shows the heap--so Chellalu thought of her\nAmmal (mother) and went and picked out the best for her. Then by way of\nemphasis the story is attempted in English: \"Very good? Yesh. Naughty?\nNo. Kindergarten room want flowers? No. I\" (patting herself approvingly)\n\"very good; yesh.\" With Chellalu, speech is a mere adjunct to\nconversation, a sort of footnote to a page of illustration. The\nillustration is the thing that speaks. So now both Tamil and English are\nilluminated by vivid gesture of hands, feet, the whole body indeed;\ncurls and even eyelashes play their part, and the final impression\nproduced upon her questioner is one of complete contrition for ever\nhaving so misjudged a thing so virtuous.\n\n[Illustration: \"AIYO!\"\n\n(Fingers and toes curled in grieved surprise.)\n\n\"Did you think I would have done it?\"]\n\nBut Chellalu wastes no sympathy upon herself. She is accustomed to be\nbelieved; and perfectly happy in her mind, casts a keen glance round,\nfor who knows what new delights may be somewhere within reach!\n\"Ah!\"--the deep-breathed sigh of content--is always a danger signal\nwhere this innocent child is concerned. I turn in time to avert\ndisaster, and Chellalu, finding life dull with me, departs.\n\nThen the little scarlet figure with its crown of careless curls scampers\nacross the sunny space, and dives into the shadow of a tree. There it\nstays. Something arresting has happened--some skurry of squirrel up the\ntrunk, or dart of lizard, or hurried scramble of insect, under cover out\nof reach of those terrible eyes. Or better still, something is \"playing\ndead,\" and the child, fascinated, is waiting for it to resurrect. And\nthen the song about the lilies begins again, only it is all a jumble\nthis time; for Chellalu sings just as it comes, untrammelled by thoughts\nabout sequence or sense, and when she forgets the words she calmly makes\nthem up. And I cannot help thinking that Chellalu is very like her song;\nhere is an intelligible bit, a line or two in order, then a cheerful\ntumble up, and an irresponsible conclusion. The tune too seems in\ncharacter--\"Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing\"; the swinging\nold Jacobite air had fitted itself to a nursery song about the brave\nfire-lilies, and something in its abandon to the happy mood of the\nmoment seems to express the child.\n\nIt is not easy to express her. \"If you had to describe Chellalu, how\nwould you do it?\" I asked my colleague this morning, hoping for\nillumination. \"I would not attempt it! Who would?\" she answered\nhelpfully.\n\n\"Chellalu! Oh, you need ten pairs of eyes and ten pairs of hands, and\neven then you could never be sure you had her\"--this was her nurse's\nearliest description. She was six months old then, she is three and\nthree-quarters now; but she is what she was, \"only more so.\"\n\nBefore Chellalu had a single tooth she had developed mother-ways, and\nwould comfort distressed babies by thrusting into their open mouths\nwhatever was most convenient. At first this was her own small thumb,\nwhich she had once found good herself; but she soon discovered that\ninfants can bite, and after that she offered rattle-handles. Later, she\nused to stagger from one hammock to another and swing them. And often,\nbefore she understood the perfect art of balance, she would find\nherself, to her surprise, on the floor, as the hammock in its rebound\nknocked her over. She felt this ungrateful of the baby inside; but she\nseemed to reflect that it was young and knew no better, for she never\nretaliated, but picked herself up and began again. These hammocks, which\nare our South Indian cradles, are long strips of white cotton hung from\nthe roof, and they make delightful swings. Chellalu learned this early,\nand her nurse's life was a burden to her because of the discovery.\n\n\"She could walk before she could stand\"--this is another nursery\ndescription, and truer than it sounds. Certainly no one ever saw\nChellalu learning to walk. She was a baby one day, rapid in unexpected\nmotion, but only on all fours; the next day--or so it seems, looking\nback--she was everywhere on her two feet. \"Now there will be no place\nwhere she won't be!\" groaned the family, the first time she was seen\nwalking about with an air of having done it all her life. And appalling\nvisions rose of Chellalu standing on the wall of the well looking down,\nor sitting in the bucket left by some careless water-drawer just on the\nedge of the wall, or trying to descend by the rope.\n\nBefore this date such diversions as the classic Pattycake had been much\nin favour. Chellalu's Attai (the word here and hereafter signifies Mrs.\nWalker, \"Mother's elder sister\") had taught it to her; and whenever and\nwherever Chellalu saw her Attai, she immediately began to perform \"Prick\nit and nick it\" with great enthusiasm. But after she could walk,\nChellalu would have nothing more to do with such childish things. \"Show\nus Edward Rajah!\" the older children would say; and instead of standing\nup with a regal dignity and crowning her curls with the appropriate\ngesture, Chellalu would merely look surprised. They had forgotten. She\nwas not a baby now. Such trifles are for babies.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nThe Scamp\n\n\n\"PAT-A-CAKE is a thing of the past, but the stage from the highest point\nof view is still distinctly attractive\"; so decided Chellalu, and\nresolved to devote herself thenceforth to this new and engrossing\npursuit. She chose the scene of her first public performance without\nconsulting us. It was the open floor of the church, on a Sunday morning,\nin the midst of a large congregation. This was how it happened.\n\nChellalu's Attai, who in those days was unaware of all the painful\nsurprises in store, had taken her to morning service, and allowed her to\nsit beside her on the mat at the back of the church. All through the\nfirst part of the service Chellalu was good; and as the sermon began,\nshe was forgotten. In our church we sit on the floor, men on one side,\nwomen and children on the other. A broad aisle is left between, and the\nIyer (Mr. Walker), refusing to be boxed up in the usual manner, walks up\nand down as he preaches. This interested Chellalu.\n\nThat morning the sermon was to children, and the subject was \"Girdles.\"\nThe East of this ancient India is the East to which the prophet spoke by\nparable and picture; and, following that time-worn path, the preacher\npictured the parable of Jeremiah's linen girdle: the attention of the\npeople was riveted upon him, and no one noticed what was happening on\nthe mat at the end of the church. Only we, up at the front with all the\nother children, saw, without being able to stop it, the dreadful\npantomime. For Chellalu, wholly absorbed and pleased with this\nunexpected delight, first stood on the mat and acted the girdle picture;\nthen, growing bolder, advanced out into the open aisle, and, following\nthe preacher's gestures, reproduced them all exactly. It was a moment of\ntension; but if ever a child had a good angel in attendance, Chellalu\nhas, for something always stops her before the bitter end. I forget what\nstopped her then; something invisible, and so, doubtless, the angel. But\nwe did not breathe freely till we had her safe at home.\n\n[Illustration: CHELLALU, WATCHING THE PICTURE-CATCHER WITH SOME\nSUSPICION.\n\n\"Whatever is he doing with that black box?\"]\n\nChellalu's visible angel is the gentle Esli, a young convert-helper, of\na meek and lowly disposition. At first sight nothing seems more\nunsuitable, for Chellalu needs a firm hand. But firmness without wisdom\nwould have been disastrous; so as we had not the perfect combination, we\nchose the less dangerous virtue, and gave the nursery scamp to the\ngentlest of us all. Sometimes, to tell the whole unromantic truth, we\nhave been afraid less Esli was spilling emotion in vain upon this\ngraceless soul; and we have suggested an exchange of angels--but somehow\nit has never come to pass. Once we almost did it. For a noise past all\nbounds called us down to the nursery, and we found the cause of it in a\nhuddled heap in the corner. \"Chellalu! what is the matter?\" Only the\nsoftest of soft sobs, heard in the silence that followed our advent, and\none round shoulder heaved, and the curly head went down on the arm in an\nattitude of woe. Now this is not Chellalu's way at all. Soft sobbing is\nnot in her line; and I turned to the twenty-nine children now prancing\nabout in unholy glee, and they shouted the explanation: \"Oh, she is Esli\nAccal! She was very exceedingly naughty. She would not come when Accal\ncalled; she raced round the room so fast that Accal could not catch\nher, and then she jumped out of her cumasu\" (the single small garment\nworn), \"and ran out into the garden! And Esli Accal sat down in a corner\nand cried. And Chellalu is Esli Accal!\"\n\nBut the pet opportunity in those glad days was when some freak of manner\nin friend or visitor suggested a new game. We used to wish, sometimes,\nthat these kind people understood how much pleasure they were giving to\nthe artless babe who was studying them with such interest, while they,\nall unconscious of their real use, imagined probably she was thinking of\nnothing more serious than sweets. After an hour in the bungalow,\nChellalu would wander off, apparently because she was tired of us, but\nreally because she was full of a new and original idea, and wanted an\naudience. Once she puzzled the nursery community who had not been\nvisiting the bungalow, by mincing about on pointed toes, with shoulders\nshrugged like a dancing master in caricature. The babies thought this a\nvery nice game, and for weeks they played it industriously.\n\nChellalu talked late--she has long ago made up for lost time--but she\nwas never at a loss for an answer to a question which could be answered\nby action. \"Who is in the nursery now?\" we asked her one afternoon when\nshe had escaped before the tea-bell, that trumpet of jubilee to the\nnursery, had rung. She smiled and sat down slowly, and then sighed.\nAnother sigh, and she proceeded to perform her toilet. When the small\nhands went up to the head with an action of decorously swinging the back\nhair up and coiling it into a loose knot, and when a spasmodic shake\nsuggested it must be done over again, there was no doubt as to who was\nin charge. No one but the excellent Pakium, one of our earlier workers,\never did things quite like this. No one else was so ponderous. No one\nsighed in that middle-aged manner, no one but Pakium. We never could\nblame Pakium for Chellalu's escape. As well blame a mature cat for the\nescapades of her kitten. Chellalu, watching for a clue as to her fate,\nwould sigh again profoundly. It was never easy to return her.\n\n[Illustration: \"OH, IT'S A JOKE!\"]\n\nWe were not sorry when this phase passed into something safer for\nherself, though perhaps not so charming to the public. Chellalu at two\nand three-quarters had surgical ambitions. Medical work she considered\nslow. She liked operations. Her first, so far as we know, was performed\nupon the unwilling eye of a smaller and weaker sister. \"Lie down!\" she\nhad commanded, and the patient had lain down. \"Open your eyes!\" At this\npoint the victim realised what she was in for, and her howls brought\ndeliverance; but not before Chellalu had the agitated baby's head in a\nfirm grip between her knees, and holding the screwed-up eye wide open\nwith one hand, was proceeding to drop in \"medicine\" with the other.\nMercifully the medicine was water.\n\nThwarted in this direction, Chellalu applied herself to bandaging. She\nwould persuade someone to lend her a finger or a toe; the owner was\nassured it was sore--very sore. She would then proceed to bandage it to\nthe best of her ability. But all this was mere play. What Chellalu's\nsoul yearned for was a real knife, or even only a needle, provided it\nwould prick and cause red blood to flow. Oh to be allowed to operate\nproperly, as grown-up people do! Chellalu had seen them do it--had seen\nthorns extracted from little bare feet, and small sores dressed; and it\nhad deeply interested her. The difficulty was, no one would offer a\nlimb. She walked up and down the nursery one morning with a bit of an\nold milk tin, very jagged and sharp and inviting, and secreted in her\ncurls was a long, bright darning needle; but though she took so much\ntrouble to prepare, no one would give her a chance to perform, and\nChellalu was disgusted. Someone who did not know her suggested she\nshould perform on herself. This disgusted her still more. Do doctors\nperform on themselves!\n\nChellalu's latest phase introduces the kindergarten. For an educational\ncomrade, perceiving our defects in this direction, furnished a\nkindergarten for us, and gave us a kind push-off into these pleasant\nwaters; so the little boat sails gaily, and the children at least are\ncontent.\n\nChellalu has never been so keen about this institution as the other\nbabies are. \"Do you like the kindergarten?\" some one asked her the other\nday; and she answered with her usual decision: \"Yesh. No.\" We thought\nshe was talking at random, and tested her by questions about things\nwhich we knew she liked or disliked. But she was never caught. \"Well,\nthen, don't you like the kindergarten?\" \"Yesh. No.\" It was evident she\nknew what she meant, and said it exactly. Bits of it she likes, other\nbits she thinks might be improved. The trouble is that she has an\nobjection to sitting in the same place for more than a minute at\nlongest. Other babies, steady, mature things of five, are already\nevolving quite orderly sentences in English--the language in which the\nkindergarten is partly taught--and we feel they are getting on. Chellalu\nnever stops long enough to evolve anything, and yet she seems to be\ndoing a little. From the first week she has talked all she knew in\nunabashed fashion. \"Good morning very much\" was an early production; and\nit was followed by many oddments forgotten now, but comical in effect at\nthe time, which perhaps may explain the otherwise inexplicable fact that\nshe sometimes learns something.\n\nOne only of those early dashes into the unexplored land is remembered,\nbecause it enriched us with a new synonym. It was at afternoon tea that\na sympathetic Sittie (the word means \"Mother's younger sister\"), knowing\nthat Chellalu had received something thoroughly well earned, asked her\nin English: \"What did Ammal give you this morning?\" Chellalu caught at\nthe one familiar word in this sentence (for the babies learn the names\nof the flowers in the garden before they are troubled with lesser\nmatters), and she answered brightly: \"Morning-glory!\" So Morning-glory\nhas become to us an _alias_ for smacks.\n\nThis same Morning-glory is the subject of one of the kindergarten songs.\nFor after searching through two or three hundred pages of nursery\nrhymes, and interviewing many proper kindergarten songs, we found few\nthat belonged to the Indian babies' world; and so we had to make them\nfor ourselves. These songs are about the flowers and the birds and other\nsimple things, and are twittered by the tiniest with at least some\nintelligence, which at present is as much as we can wish. All the babies\nsing to the flowers, but it is Chellalu who gives them surprises. One\nday we saw her standing under a bamboo arch, covered with her favourite\nMorning-glory. She had two smaller babies with her, one on either side.\n\"Amma! _Look!_\" she called; but italics are inadequate to express the\nemphasis. \"LOOK, Morning--glory--kissing--'chother,\" and she pointed\nwith eagerness to the nestling little clusters of lilac, growing, as\ntheir pretty manner is, close to each other. Then, seizing each of the\nbabies in a fervent and somewhat embarrassing embrace, she hugged and\nkissed them both; and finally wheeling round on the flowers, addressed\nthem impressively: \"For--all--loving--little--Indian--children--want--\nto--be--like--you.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nThe Photographs\n\n\n[Illustration: \"THAT THING AGAIN!\" (_Page 28._)]\n\nI DO not know how they will strike the critical public, but the photos\nare so much better than we dared to expect, that we are grateful and\nalmost satisfied. Of course, they are insipid as compared with the\nlively originals; but the difficulty was to get them of any truthful\nsort whatsoever, for the babies regarded the photographer--the kindest\nand mildest of men--with the gravest suspicion: and the moment he\nappeared, little faces, all animation before, would stiffen into\nshyness, and the light would slip out of them, and the naturalness, so\nthat all the camera saw, and therefore all it could show, was a\nsuccession of blanks.\n\nThen, too, when our artist friend was with us we were in the grasp of an\nepidemic of cholera. Morning and evening, and sometimes into the night,\nwe were tending the sick and dying in the village; and in the interval\nbetween we had little heart for photographs. But the visit of a real\nphotographer is a rare event in Dohnavur, and we forced ourselves to try\nto take advantage of it. Remembering our difficulties, we wonder we got\nanything at all; and we hope that stranger eyes will be kind.\n\n[Illustration: PYARIE AND VINEETHA.\n\n\"Do smile, you little Turk!\"]\n\nOften when we looked at the pretty little reversed picture in the camera,\nwith its delicate colouring and the grace of movement, we have wished\nthat we could send it as we saw it, all living and true. The photos were\ntaken in the open air; underfoot was soft terra-cotta-coloured sand;\noverhead, the cloudless blue. In such a setting the baby pictures look\ntheir brightest, something very different from these dull copies in\nsepia. An Oriental scene in print always looks sorry for itself, and\nquite apologetic. It knows it is almost a farce, and very flat and poor.\n\nThen there were difficulties connected with character. Our photographer\nwas more accustomed to the dignified ways of mountains than to the\nextremely restless habit of children; and he never could understand why\nthey would not sit for him as the mountains sat, and let him focus them\ncomfortably. The babies looked at things from an opposite point of view,\nand strongly objected to delays and leisureliness of every description.\nSometimes when the focussing process promised to be much prolonged, we\nput a child we did not wish to photograph in the place of one upon whom\nwe had designs, and then at the last moment exchanged her. But the baby\nthus beguiled seemed to divine our purpose; and, resenting such\nensnarements, would promptly wriggle out of focus. It was like trying to\nobserve some active animalculae under a high power. The microscope is\nperfect, the creatures are entrapped in a drop of water on the slide;\nbut the game is not won by any means. Sometimes, after spoiling more\nplates than was convenient, our artist almost gave up in despair; but he\nnever quite gave up, and we owe what we have to his infinite patience.\n\nPyarie was the most troublesome of these small sitters, though she was\nold enough to know better. My mother was with us when she came to us, a\ntiny babe and very delicate. She had loved her and helped to nurse\nher, and so we wanted a happy photograph for her sake; but nothing was\nfurther from Pyarie's intentions, and instead of smiling, she scowled.\nOur first attempt was in the compound, where a bullock-bandy stood.\nPyarie and Vineetha, a little girl of about the same age, were very\npleased to climb over the pole and untwist the rope and play see-saw;\nbut when the objectionable camera appeared, they stared at it with\naversion, and no amount of coaxing would persuade Pyarie to smile.\n\"Can't you do something to improve her expression?\" inquired the\nphotographer, emerging from his black hood; then someone said in\ndesperation: \"_Do_ smile, you little Turk!\" Vineetha, about whose\nexpression we were not concerned, obediently smiled; but Pyarie looked\nthunderclouds, and turned her head away. She was caught before she\nturned, poor dear, so that photograph was a failure.\n\nOnce again our kind friend tried. This time he gave her a doll. Pyarie\nis most motherly. She is usually tender and loving with dolls, and we\nhoped for a sweet expression. But in this we were disappointed. She\naccepted the doll--a beautiful thing, with a good constitution and\nimperturbable temper; and she looked it straight in the face--a rag face\npainted--smiling as we wanted her to smile. Then she smote it, and she\nscolded it, and called for a stick and whacked it, and called for a\nbigger stick and repeated the performance. Finally she stopped, laid the\ndoll upon the step, sat down on it, and smiled. But she was hopelessly\nout of focus by this time, and it was weary work getting her in. She\nsmiled during the process in a perfectly exasperating manner, but the\nmoment all was ready she suddenly wriggled out; and when invited to go\nin again, she shook her head decidedly, and pointing to the camera with\nits glaring glass eye, covered at that moment with its cloth, she\nremarked, \"Naughty! Naughty!\" and we had to give her up.\n\n[Illustration: \"DISGUSTING!\" SHE REMARKED IN EXPLICIT YOUNG TAMIL, AND\nLOOKED DISGUSTED.]\n\n\"Perhaps she would be happier in someone's arms,\" next suggested the\nlong-suffering artist; and so one morning, just after her bath, she was\ncaught up, sweet and smiling, and played with till the peals of merry\nlaughter assured us of an easy victory. But the camera was no sooner\nseen stalking round to the nursery, than suspicions filled Pyarie's\nbreast. That thing again! And the photograph taken under such\ncircumstances is left to speak for itself. Why did it follow her\neverywhere? Life, haunted by a camera, was not worth living--in which\nsentiment some of us heartily concur.\n\nOnce an attempt was made when Pyarie and two other little girls were\nbusily playing on the doorstep. Pyarie soon perceived and expressed her\nopinion about the fraud--for the camera's stealthy approach could not be\nkept from the children. \"Disgusting!\" she remarked in explicit young\nTamil, and looked disgusted. The photograph which resulted was perfect\nin detail of little rounded limb and curly head, but it was lamentable\nas regards expression; so once more our persevering friend tried to\ncatch her unawares. He showed us the result at breakfast in the shape of\na negative which we recognised as Pyarie. He seemed very pleased. \"Look\nat the pose!\" he said. There was pose certainly, but where was the\nsmile? Pyarie's one idea had evidently been to ward off something or\nsomeone; and our artist explained it by saying that in despair of\ngetting her quiet for one second, he had directed his servant to climb\nan almost overhanging tree, and the child apparently thought he was\ngoing to tumble on the top of her, and objected. \"I got another of her\nsmiling beautifully, but the plate is cracked,\" we were told, after the\ntable had admired the pose. That is a way plates have. The one you most\nwant cracks.\n\nPoor little Pyarie; we sometimes fear lest her \"pose\" should be too\ntrue of her. She takes life hardly, and often protests. \"_I_ want a\nbirthday!\"--this was only yesterday, when everyone was rejoicing over a\nbirthday jubilation. Pyarie alone was sorrowful. She stood by her poor\nlittle lonely self, with her head thrown back and her mouth wide open,\nand her tears ran into her open mouth as she wailed: \"Aiyo! Aiyo! (Alas!\nAlas!) _I_ want a birthday!\"\n\n[Illustration: \"'LOOK AT THE POSE!'\n\nHe said. There was pose, certainly, but where was the smile?\" (_Page\n28._)]\n\nBut she is such a loving child, so loyal to her own and so unselfish to\nall younger things, that we hope for her more than we fear. And yet\nunderneath there is a fear; and we ask those who can understand to\nremember this little one sometimes, for the world is not always kind to\nits poor little foolish Pyaries.\n\nI am writing in the afternoon, and two little people are playing on the\nfloor. One has a picture-book, and the other is looking eagerly as she\nturns the pages and questions: \"What is it? What is it?\" I notice it is\nalways Pyarie who asks the question, and Vineetha who answers it: \"It is\na cow. It is a cat.\" \"Why don't you let Vineetha ask you what it is?\" I\nsuggest; but Pyarie continues as before: \"What is it? What is it?\"\nvaried by \"What colour is it? What shape is it? Who made it?\" and the\nmischief in her eyes (would that our artist could have caught it!)\nexplains the game. It is decidedly better to be teacher than scholar,\nbecause suitable questions can cover all ignorance. Pyarie has not been\nto the kindergarten of late, and has reason to fear Vineetha is somewhat\nahead of her; so she ignores my proposals, and continues her safe\nquestions. We sometimes think we shall one night be heard talking in our\nsleep, and the burden of our conversation will be always--\"What is it?\nWhat colour is it? What shape is it? Who made it?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTara and Evu\n\n\n[Illustration: TARA.]\n\nOUR nurseries are full of contrasts, but perhaps the two who are most\nunlike are the little Tara and Evu, aged, at the hour of writing, three\nyears and two and a half. I am hammering at my typewriter, when clear\nthrough its metallic monotony comes in distinct double treble, \"Amma!\nTala!\" \"Amma! Evu!\" They always announce each other in this order, and\nwith much emphasis. If it is impossible to stop, I give them a few toys,\nand they sit down on the mat exactly opposite my table and play\ncontentedly. This lasts for a short five minutes; then a whimper from\nTara makes me look up, and I see Evu, with a face of more mischief than\nmalice, holding all the toys--Tara's share and her own--in a tight\narmful, while Tara points at her with a grieved expression which does\nnot touch Evu in the least. A word, however, sets things right. Evu\nbeams upon Tara, and pours the whole armful into her lap. Tara smiles\nforgivingly, and returns Evu's share. Evu repentantly thrusts them back.\nTara's heart overflows, and she hugs Evu. Evu wriggles out of this\nembrace, and they play for another five minutes or so without further\nmisadventure.\n\nOnly once I remember Evu sinned beyond forgiveness. The occasion was\nPyarie's rag-doll of smiling countenance, which had been badly\nneglected by the family. But Tara felt for it and loved it. She was\nsmall at the time, and the doll was large, and Tara must have got tired\nof carrying it; but she would not tell it so, and for one whole morning\nshe staggered about with the cumbersome beauty tilted over her shoulder,\nwhich gave her the appearance of an unbalanced but very affectionate\nparent.\n\nThis was too much for Evu, to whom the comic appeals much more than the\nsentimental. She watched her opportunity, and pounced upon the doll.\nTara gave chase; but Evu's fat legs can carry her faster than one would\nsuppose, and Tara's wails rose to a shriek when across half the garden's\nwidth she saw that ruthless sinner swing her treasure round by one arm\nand then deliberately jump on it. It was hours before Tara recovered.\n\nSuch a breach of the peace is happily rare; for the two are a pretty\nillustration of the mutual attraction of opposites. At this moment they\nare playing ball. This is the manner of the game: Tara sits in a high\nchair and throws the ball as far as she can. Evu dashes after it like an\nexcited kitten, and kitten-wise badly wants to tumble over and worry it;\nfor it is made of bits of wool, which, as every sensible baby knows,\nwere only put in to be pulled out. She resists the temptation, however,\nand presents the ball to Tara with a somewhat inconsequent \"Tankou!\"\n\"Tankou!\" returns Tara politely, and tosses the ball again. This time\nEvu sits down with her back to Tara, and proceeds to investigate the\nball. It is perfectly fascinating. The ends are all loose and quite\neasily pulled out. Evu forgets all about Tara in her keen desire to see\nto the far end of this delight. \"Evu!\" comes from the chair in accents\nof dignified surprise. \"Tala!\" exclaims Evu abashed, and hurries up with\nthe ball. \"Tankou!\" she says as before, and Tara responds \"Tankou!\" This\nis an integral part of the game. If either forgets it, the other\ncorrects her by remarking inquiringly, \"Tankou?\" whereupon the echo\nreplies in a tone of apology, \"Tankou!\"\n\nBoth these babies are devout, as most things Indian are. But Evu cannot\nsit still long enough to be promoted to go to church; and perhaps this\nis the reason why in religious matters Tara takes the lead, for she does\ngo to church. In secularities it is always Evu who initiates, and Tara\nadmiringly follows. The ball game was exceptional only because Evu\nprefers the _role_ of kitten to that of queen.\n\nThis little characteristic is shown in common ways. The two are sitting\non your knee entirely comfortable and content. The prayer-bell rings.\nDown struggles Tara. \"To prayers I must go!\" she says with decision in\nTamil. \"Evu too,\" urges Evu, also in Tamil. \"Tum!\" says Tara in superior\nEnglish, and waits. Evu \"tums,\" and they hastily depart.\n\nOr it is the time for evening hymns and good-night kisses. We have sung\nthrough the chief favourites, ending always with, \"Jesus, tender\nShepherd.\" \"Now sing, 'Oh, luvvly lily g'oing in our garden!'\" This from\nTara. Echo from Evu: \"Yes; 'Oh, luvvly lily g'oing in our garden!'\" You\npoint out to the garden: \"It is dark, there are no lovely lilies to be\nseen; besides, that is not exactly a hymn; shall we have 'Jesus, tender\nShepherd,' again, and say good-night?\" But this is not at all\nsatisfactory. Tara looks a little hurt. \"Tender Shepperd, _no_! Oh,\nluvvly lily!\" Evu wonders if we are making excuses. Perhaps we have\nforgotten the tune, and she starts it:--\n\n Oh, lovely lily,\n Growing in our garden,\n Who made a dress so fair\n For you to wear?\n Who made you straight and tall\n To give pleasure to us all?\n Oh, lovely lily,\n Who did it all?\n\n Oh, little children,\n Playing in our garden,\n God made this dress so fair\n For us to wear.\n God made us straight and tall\n To give pleasure to you all.\n Oh, little children,\n God did it all.\n\nThen Tara smiles all round, and you are given to understand you have\nearned your good-night kisses. Evidently to Tara at least there is a\nsense of incompleteness somewhere if the lovely lilies are excluded from\nthe family devotions.\n\nTo Tara and to Evu, as to most babies, the garden is a pleasant place.\nBut when they grow up and make gardens, they will not fill them with\nforbidden joys as we do. One of the temptations of life is furnished by\ninconsiderate ferns, which hold their curly infant fronds just within\nreach. Then there are crotons, with bright leaves aggressively yellow\nand delightful, and there are \"tunflowers\"; and the babies think us\ngreedy in our attitude towards all these things. The croton was\nespecially alluring; and one day Tara was found tiptoe on a low wall,\nreaching up with both hands, eagerly pulling bits of leaf off. She was\nbrought to me to be judged; and I said: \"Poor leaves! Shall we try to\nput them on again?\" And hand in hand we went to the garden, and Tara\ntried. But the pulled-off bits would not fit on again; and Tara's face\nwas full of serious thought, though she said nothing. Next day she was\nfound on the same low wall, reaching up tiptoe in the same sinful way to\nthe shining yellow leaves overhead. Quite suddenly she stopped, put her\nhands behind her back, and never again was she known to pick croton\nleaves to pieces.\n\nThe same plan prevailed with the ferns. The poor little crumples of\nsilver and green moved her to pity, and she left them to uncurl in peace\nwhen once she had tried and sadly failed to help them. But the\nsunflowers' feelings did not affect her in quite the same way. The kind\nwe have in abundance is that little dwarf variety with a thin stalk, and\na cheerful face which smiles up at you even after you behead it, and\ndoes not seem to mind. Tara was convinced such treatment did not hurt\nthem. They would stop smiling if it did. But one day she suddenly\nseemed to feel a pang of compunction, for she looked at the little\nuseless heads and sighed. I had suggested their being fitted on again,\nas with the croton leaves and ferns. But this idea had failed; and what\nworked the change I know not, for Tara never told. But \"tunflowers\" now\nare left in peace so far as she is concerned; and she is learning to\npick the free grasses and wild-flowers, which happily grow for\neverybody, and to make sure their stalks are long enough to go into\nwater, which is the last thing untutored babies seem to think important.\n\nThere is much to be done for all our children, but perhaps for Tara\nespecially, if she is to grow up strong in soul to fight the battles of\nlife. We felt this more than ever on the day of our last return from the\nhills, after nearly seven weeks' absence. On the evening when we left\nthem, we had gone round the nurseries after the little ones had fallen\nasleep, and said goodbye to each of them without their knowing it; but\nwhen we came to Tara's mat, and kissed the little sleeping face, she\nstirred and said, \"Amma!\" in her sleep; and we stole away fearing she\nshould wake and understand. Now in the early morning we were home again,\nand all the children who were up were on the verandah to welcome us,\neach in her own way. It was Tara's way which troubled us.\n\nAt first most of the babies were shy, for six weeks are like six years\nto the very young; but soon there was a general rush and a thoroughly\ncheerful chatter. Tara did not join in it. She stood outside the little\ndancing dazzle of delight--the confusion of little animated coloured\ndots is rather like the shake of a kaleidoscope--and she just looked and\nlooked. Then, as we drew her close, the little hands felt and stroked\none's face as if the evidence of eye and ear were not enough to make her\nsure beyond a doubt that her own had come back to her; and then, as the\nassurance broke, she clung with a little cry of joy, and suddenly burst\ninto tears.\n\nIf only we could hold her safe and sheltered in our arms for ever! How\nthe longing swept through one at that moment: for the winds of the world\nare cold. But it cannot be, it should not be, for such love would be\nweak indeed. Rather do we long to brace the gentle nature so that its\nvery sensitiveness may change to a tender power, and the fountain of\nsweet waters refresh many a desert place. But who is sufficient for even\nthis? Handle the little soul carelessly, harden rather than brace,\nmisinterpret the broken expression, misunderstand the signs--and the\nsweet waters turn to bitterness. God save us from such mistake!\n\nWe covet prayer for our children. We want to know that around them all\nis thrown that mysterious veil of protection which is woven out of\nprayer. We need prayer, too, for ourselves, that our love may be brave\nand wise.\n\nEvu's disposition is different. It would not be easy to imagine Evu\novercome by her feelings as Tara was at that hour of our return. One\ncannot imagine a kitten shedding tears of joy; and Evu is a kitten, a\ndear little Persian kitten, with nothing worse than mischief at present\nto account for. Of that there is no lack. \"Oh, it is Evu!\" we say, and\neveryone knows what to expect when \"it is Evu.\" Evu's chief sentiment\nthat morning, so far as she expressed it, was rather one of wonder at\nour ignorant audacity. \"You vanished in the night when we were all\nasleep, and now you suddenly drop from the skies before we are properly\nawake, and expect us all to begin again exactly where we left off. How\nlittle you know of babies!\" Doubtless this sentence was somewhat beyond\nher in language; but Evu is not dependent on language, and she conveyed\nthe sense of it to us. She backed out of reach of kisses, and stood with\na small finger upraised; much as a kitten might raise its paw in mock\nprotest to its mother. She soon made friends, however, and proved\nherself an affectionate kitten, though wholly unemotional.\n\nWhen Tara is naughty, as she is at times, like most people of only\nthree, a reproachful look brings her spirits down to the lowest depths\nof distress. Evu is more inclined to hold up that funny little warning\nfirst finger, and shake it straight in your face. This, at two and a\nhalf, is terrible presumption; but the brown eyes are so innocent, you\ncannot be too shocked. Sometimes, however, the case is worse, and Evu\ntries to sulk. She sits down solemnly on the ground, and throws her four\nfat limbs about in a dreadful recklessness, supposed to strike the\ngrown-up offender dumb with awe and penitence. Sometimes she even tries\nto put out her lower lip, but it was not made a suitable shape, for it\nsmiles in spite of itself; and then there is a sudden spring; and two\nlittle arms are round your neck, and you are being told, if you know how\nto listen, what a very tiresome thing it is to feel obliged to sin.\nThen, with the comforting sense of irresponsible kittenhood fully\nrestored, Evu discovers some new diversion, and you find yourself weakly\nwishing kittens need not grow into cats.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nPrincipalities, Powers, Rulers\n\n\nIT may seem a quick transition from nursery to battle-field; but rightly\nto understand this story, it must be remembered that our nursery is set\nin the midst of the battle-field. It is a little sheltered place, where\nno sound of war disturbs the babies at their play, and the flowers bloom\nlike the babies in happy unconsciousness of battles, and make a garden\nfor us and fill it full of peace; but underlying the babies' caresses\nand the sweetness of the flowers there is always a sense of conflict\njust over, or soon coming on. We \"let the elastic go\" in the nursery. We\nare happy, light-hearted children with our children; sometimes we even\nwonder at ourselves; and then remember that the happiness of the moment\nis a pure, bright gift, not meant to be examined, but just enjoyed, and\nwe enjoy it as if there were no battles in the world or any sadness any\nmore.\n\nAnd yet this book comes hot from the fight. It is not a retrospect\nwritten in the calm after-years, when the outline of things has grown\nindistinct and the sharpness of life is blurred. There is nothing\nmellowed about a battle-field. Even as I write these words, the post\ncomes in and brings two letters. One tells of a child of twelve in whom\nthe first faint desires have awakened to lead a different life. \"She is\na Temple girl. Pray that she may have grace to hold on; and that if she\ndoes, we may be guided through the difficult legal complications. Poor\nlittle girl! It makes one sick to think of her spoiled young life!\" The\nother is a Tamil letter, about another child who is in earnest, so far\nas the writer can ascertain, to escape from the life planned out for\nher. She learned about Jesus at school, and responded in her simple way;\nbut was suddenly taken from school, and shut up in the back part of the\nhouse and not allowed to learn any more. \"Like a little dove fluttering\nin a cage, so she seemed to me. But she is a timid dove, and the house\nis full of wickedness. How will she hold out against it? By God's grace\nI was allowed to see her for one moment alone. I gave her a little\nGospel. She kissed it with her eyes\" (touched her eyes with it), \"and\nhid it in her dress.\"\n\nOnly a little while ago we traced a bright young Brahman girl to a\ncertain Temple house, and by means of one of our workers we made friends\nwith her. The child, a little widow, was ill, and was sent to the\nmunicipal hospital for medicine. It was there our worker met her, and\nthe child whispered her story in a few hurried words. She had been\nkidnapped (she had not time to tell how), and shut up in the Temple\nhouse, and told she must obey the rules of the house and it was useless\nto protest. \"If we could help you,\" she was asked, \"would you like to\ncome to us?\" The child hesitated--the very name \"Christian\" was\nabhorrent to her--but after a moment's doubt she nodded, and then\nslipped away. Our worker never saw her again. The conversation must have\nbeen noticed by the child's escort, and reported. She was sent off to\nanother town, and all attempts to trace her failed.\n\nAnd the god to whom these young child-lives are dedicated? In South\nIndia all the greater symbols of deity are secluded in the innermost\nshrine, the heart of the Temple. In our part of the country the\napproach to the shrine is always frequented by Brahman priests, who\nwould never allow the foreigner near, even if he wished to go near.\n\"Far, far! remove thyself far!\" would be the immediate command, did any\npolluting presence presume to draw near the shrine. There are idols by\nthe roadside, and these are open to all; but they are lesser creations.\nThe Great, as the people call that which the Temple contains, is\nsomething apart. It is to these--The Great--that little children are\ndedicated; the whole Temple system is worked in their name.\n\n\"Have you ever seen the god to whom your little ones would have been\ngiven?\" is a question we are often asked; and until a few days ago we\nalways answered, \"Never.\" But now we have seen it, seen it unexpectedly\nand unintentionally, as we waited for an opportunity to talk to the\ncrowds of people who had assembled to see it being ceremonially bathed.\nWe cannot account for our being allowed to see it, except by the fact\nthat the Brahmans had withdrawn for the moment, and we being, as our\ncustom is, in Indian dress, were not noticed in the crowd.\n\nNear the place where the idol was being bathed, with much pomp by the\npriests, was a little rest-house, where we had waited till some child\ntold us all was over. Then we came out and mingled with the throng, not\nfearing they would misunderstand our motive. While we talked with them,\nthe Brahmans, who had been bathing in the river after the water had been\nsanctified by the god, began to stream up the steps and pass through the\ncrowd, which opened respectfully and made a wide avenue within itself:\nfor well the smallest child in that crowd understood that no touch might\ndefile those Brahmans as they walked, wringing out their dripping\ngarments and their long black hair.\n\nHow we searched the faces as they passed!--sensual, cynical, cold faces,\nfaces of utter carelessness, faces full of pride and aloofness. But\nthere were some so different--earnest faces, keen faces, faces sensitive\nand spiritual. Oh, the pathos of it all! How our hearts went out to\nthese, whose eager wistfulness marked them out as truly religious and\nsincere! How we longed that they should hear the word, \"Come unto Me,\nand I will give you rest\"! They passed, men young and old, women and\nchildren, and very many widows; and then suddenly two palanquins which\nhad been standing near were carried down to the awning where the idol\nhad been bathed; and before we realised what was happening, they passed\nus. In the first was the disk, the symbol of the god; in the second, the\ngod itself.\n\n\"We wrestle not against flesh and blood; but against principalities,\nagainst powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world,\nagainst spiritual wickedness in high places\"--this was the word that\nflashed through us then. That small, insignificant, painted, and\nbejewelled image, in its gaudy little palanquin, was not only that. It\nwas the visible representative of Powers.\n\nWe thought of a merry child in our nursery who was dedicated at birth to\nthis particular Power. By some glad chance that little girl was the\nfirst to run up to us in welcome upon our return home in the evening. We\nthought of her with thankfulness which cannot be expressed; but the\nsorrow of other children bound to this same god swept over us as we\nstood gazing after the palanquins, till they became a coloured blur in\nthe shimmering sunshine. There was one such, a bright little child of\neight, who was in attendance upon an old blind woman belonging to that\nTemple. \"Yes,\" she had answered to our distressed questions, \"she is my\nadopted daughter. Should I not have a daughter to wait upon me and\nsucceed me? How can I serve the god, being blind?\" We thought of\nanother, only six, who was to be given to the service \"when she was a\nsuitable age.\" Her parents were half-proud and half-ashamed of their\nintention; and when they knew we were aware of it, they denied it, and\nwe found it impossible to do anything.\n\nWe turned to the people about us. They were laughing and chatting, and\nthe women were showing each other the pretty glass bangles and necklets\nthey had bought at the fair. Glorious sunshine filled the world, the\nwhole bright scene sparkled with life and colour, and all about us was a\n\"lucid paradise of air.\" But \"only as souls we saw the folk thereunder,\"\nand our spirit was stirred within us. There is something very solemn in\nsuch a scene--something that must be experienced to be understood. The\npitiful triviality, the sense of tremendous forces at work among these\ntrivialities; the people, these crowds of people, absorbed in the\ninterests of the moment--and Eternity so near; all this and much more\npresses hard upon the spirit till one understands the old Hebrew word:\n\"The burden which the prophet did see.\"\n\nDoes this sound intolerant and narrow, as if no good existed outside our\nown little pale? Surely it is not so. We are not ignorant of the lofty\nand the noble contained in the ancient Hindu books; we are not of those\nwho cannot recognise any truth or any beauty unless it is labelled with\nour label. We know God has not left Himself without witnesses anywhere.\nBut we know--for the Spirit of Truth Himself has inspired the\ndescription--how desolate is the condition of those who are without\nChrist. We dare not water down the force of such a description till the\nwords mean practically nothing. We form no hard, presumptuous creed as\nto how the God of all the earth will deal with these masses of mankind\nwho have missed the knowledge of Him here; we know He will do right.\nBut we know, with a knowledge which is burnt into us, how very many of\nthe units live who compose these masses. We know what they are missing\nto-day, through not knowing our blessed Saviour as a personal, living\nFriend; and we know what it means to the thoughtful mind to face an\nunknown to-morrow.\n\nA Hindu in a town in the northern part of our district lay dying. He\nknew that death was near, and he was in great distress. His friends\ntried to comfort him by reminding him of the gods, and by quoting\nstanzas from the sacred books; but all in vain. Nothing brought him any\ncomfort, and he cried aloud in his anguish of soul.\n\nThen to one of the watchers came the remembrance of how, as a little\nlad, he had seen a Christian die. In his desperation at the failure of\nall attempts to comfort the dying man, he thought of this one little,\nfar-back memory; and though he could hardly dare to hope there would be\nmuch help in it, he told it to his friend. The Christian was Ragland,\nthe missionary. He was living in a little house outside the town, when a\nsudden haemorrhage surprised him, and he had no time to prepare for\ndeath. He just threw himself upon his bed, and looking up, exclaimed,\n\"Jesus!\" and passed in perfect peace. Outside the window was a little\nHindu boy, unobserved by any in the house. He had climbed up to the\nwindow, and, leaning in, watched all that happened, heard the one word\n\"Jesus,\" saw the quick and peaceful passing; and then slipped away\nunnoticed.\n\nThe dying Hindu listened as his friend described it to him. And this\nlittle faint ray was the only ray of comfort that lightened the dark way\nfor him.\n\nCompare that experience with this:--\n\nThe missionary to whom this tale was told by the Hindu who had tried to\nconsole his dying friend, was himself smitten with dangerous illness,\nand lay in the dim borderland, unable to think or frame a prayer. Then\nlike the melody of long familiar music, without effort, without strain,\ncame the calming words of the old prayer: \"Lighten our darkness, we\nbeseech Thee, O Lord; and by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils\nand dangers of this night; for the love of Thine only Son, our Saviour,\nJesus Christ.\"\n\nCould any two scenes present a more moving contrast? Could any contrast\ncontain a more persuasive call?\n\nAs we went in and out among the crowd, there were many who turned away\nuninterested; but some listened, and some sat down by the wayside to\nread aloud, in the sing-song chant of the East, the little booklets or\nGospels we gave them. We, who are constantly among these people, feel\nour need of a fresh touch, as we speak with them and see them day by\nday. We need renewed compassions, renewed earnestness. It is easy to\ngrow accustomed to things, easy to get cool. We pray not only for those\nat home, who as yet are not awake to feel the eloquence and the\npiteousness of the great \"voiceless silence\" of these lands, but we pray\nfor ourselves with ever deepening intensity:--\n\n Oh for a love, for a burning love, like the fervent flame of fire!\n Oh for a love, for a yearning love, that will never, never tire!\n Lord, in my need I appeal unto Thee;\n Oh, give me my heart's desire!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nHow the Children Come\n\n\nTHEY come in many ways through the help of many friends. We have told\nbefore[A] how our first two babies came to us through two pastors, one\nin the north, the other in the south of our district. Since then many\nIndian pastors and workers, and several warm-hearted Christian\napothecaries and nurses in Government service, have become interested;\nwith the result that little children who must otherwise have perished\nhave been saved.\n\nOne little babe, who has since become one of our very dearest, was\nredeemed from Temple life by the wife of a leading pastor, who was\nwonderfully brought to the very place where the little child was waiting\nfor the arrival of the Temple people. We have seldom known a more\ndefinite leading. \"I being in the way, the Lord led me,\" was surely true\nof that friend that day, and of other Indian sisters who helped her.\nLater, when she came to stay with us, she told us about it. \"When first\nI heard of this new work, I was not in sympathy with it. I even talked\nagainst it to others. But when I saw that little babe, so innocent and\nhelpless, and so beautiful too, then all my heart went out to it. And\nnow----\" Tears filled her eyes. She could not finish her sentence. Nor\nwas there any need; the loving Indian heart had been won.\n\nMy mother was with us when this baby came; and she adopted her as her\nown from the first, and always had the little basket in which the baby\nslept put by her bedside. When the mosquitoes began to be troublesome,\nthe basket was slipped under her own mosquito net, lest the little pink\nblossom should be disturbed. But the baby did not thrive at first; and\nthe pink, instead of passing into buff, began to fade into something too\nnear ivory for our peace of mind. It was then the friend who had saved\nthe little one came to stay with us; and she proposed taking her and her\nnurse out to her country village, in hopes of getting a foster-mother\nfor her there. So my mother, the pastor's wife, the baby, and her nurse,\nwent out to the Good News Village, and stayed in the pastor's hospitable\nhome. The hope which had drawn them there was not fulfilled; but the\nmemory of that visit is fresh and fragrant. We read of alienation\nbetween Indian Christians and missionaries. We are told there cannot be\nmuch mutual affection and contact. We often wonder why it should be so,\nand are glad we know by experience so little of the difficulty, that we\ncannot understand it. We have found India friendly, and her Christians\nare our friends. In these matters each can only speak from personal\nexperience. Ours has been happy. There may be unkindness and\nmisunderstanding in India, as in England; but nowhere could there be\nwarmer love, more tender affection.\n\nAll sorts of people help us in this work of saving the children. Once it\nwas a convert-schoolboy who saw a widow with a baby in her arms.\nNoticing the bright large eyes, and what he described as the \"blossoming\ncountenance of the child,\" he got into conversation with the mother, and\nlearned that she had been greatly tempted by Temple women in the town,\nwho had admired the baby and wanted to get it. \"If I give her to them,\nshe will never be a widow,\" was the allurement there. The bitterness of\nwidowhood had entered into her soul, and poisoned the very mother-love\nwithin her; and yet there was something of it left, for she did not want\nher babe to be a widow. The boy, with the leisureliness of the East,\ndropped the matter there; and only in a casual fashion, a week or so\nlater, mentioned in a letter that he had seen this pretty child, and\nthat probably, the mother would end in yielding to the temptation to\ngive her to the Temple--\"but it may be by the grace of God that you will\nbe able to save her.\" We sent at once to try to find the mother; but she\nhad wandered off, and no one knew her home. However, the boy was stirred\nto prayer, and we prayed here; and a search through towns and villages\nresulted at last in the mother being traced and the child being saved.\n\nChristian women have helped us. One such, sitting on her verandah after\nher morning's work, heard two women in the adjoining verandah discuss\nthe case of a widow who had come from Travancore with a bright little\nbaby-girl, whom she had vowed she would give to one of our largest\ntemples. The Christian woman had heard of the Dohnavur nurseries, and at\nonce she longed to save this little child, but hardly knew how to do it.\nShe feared to tell the two women she had overheard their conversation,\nso in the simplicity of her heart she prayed that the widow might be\ndetained and kept from offering her gift till our worker, old Devai,\ncould come; and she wrote to old Devai.\n\nHappily Devai was at home when the letter reached her; otherwise days\nwould have been lost, for her wanderings are many. She went at once, and\nfound the mother most reasonable. Her idea had been to acquire merit for\nherself, and an assured future for her child, by giving it to the gods;\nbut when the matter was opened to her, she was willing to give it to us\ninstead. In her case, as in the other, our natural instinct would have\nbeen to try to make some provision by which the mothers could keep their\nbabies; but it would not have been possible. The cruel law of widowhood\nhad begun to do its work in them. The Temple people's inducements would\nhave proved too much for them. The children would not have been safe.\n\nOnce it was a man-servant who saved a lovely child. He heard an aside in\nthe market which put him on the track. The case was very usual. The\nparents were dead, and the grandmother was in difficulties. For the\nparents' sake she wanted to keep the dear little babe; but she was old,\nand had no relatives to whose care she could commit it. Mercifully we\nwere the first to hear about this little one; for even as a baby she was\nso winning that Temple people would have done much to get her, and the\nold grandmother would almost certainly have been beguiled into giving\nher to them. How often it has been so! \"She will be brought up carefully\naccording to her caste. All that is beautiful will be hers, jewels and\nsilk raiment.\" The hook concealed within the shining bait is forgotten.\nThe old grandmother feels she is doing her best for the child, and the\nlittle life passes out of her world.\n\n\"It is a dear little thing, and the man (its grandfather) seemed really\nfond of it. He said he would not part with it; but its parents are both\ndead, and he did not know what might happen to it if he died.\" This from\nthe letter of a fellow-missionary, who saved the little one and sent her\nout to us, is descriptive of many. \"Not the measure of a rape-seed of\nsleep does she give me. I have done my best for her since her mother\ndied, but her noise is most vexatious.\" This was a father's account of\nthe matter only a week or two ago. \"Have you no women relations?\" we\nasked him. \"Numerous are my womenfolk, but they are all cumbered with\nchildren: how can they help me?\"\n\nGiven these circumstances of difficulty, and the strong under-pull of\nTemple influence--is it wonderful that many an orphaned babe finds her\nway to the Temple house? For in the South the child of the kind we are\nseeking to save is never offered to us because there is no other place\nwhere she is wanted. Everywhere there are those who are searching for\nsuch children; and each little one saved represents a counter-search,\nand somewhere, earnest prayer. The mystery of our work, as we have said\nbefore, is the oftentimes apparent victory of wrong over right. We are\nsilent before it. God reigns; God knows. But sometimes the\ninterpositions are such that our hearts are cheered, and we go on in\nfresh courage and hope.\n\nAmong our earliest friends were some of the London Missionary Society\nworkers of South Travancore. One of these friends interested her\nBiblewomen; and when, one morning, one of these Biblewomen passed a\nwoman with a child in her arms on the road leading to a well-known\nTemple, she was ready to understand the leading, and made friends with\nthe mother. She found that even then she was on her way to a Temple\nhouse. A few minutes later and she would not have passed her on the\nroad.\n\nThere was something to account for this directness of leading. At that\ntime we had our branch nursery at Neyoor, in South Travancore, ten miles\nfrom the place where the Biblewoman met the mother. On that same\nmorning, Ponnamal, who was in charge there, felt impelled to go to the\nupper room to pray for a little child in danger. She remained in prayer\ntill the assurance of the answer was given, and then returned to her\nwork. That evening a bandy drove up to the nursery, and she saw the\nexplanation of the pressure and the answer to the prayer. A little\nchild was lifted out of the bandy, and laid in her arms. She stood with\nher nurses about her, and together they worshipped God.\n\nThis prayer-pressure has been often our experience when special help is\nneeded to effect the salvation of some little unknown child. It was our\nPrayer-day, July 6, 1907. Three of us were burdened with a burden that\ncould not be lightened till we met and prayed for a child in peril. We\nhad no knowledge of any special child, though, of course, we knew of\nmany in danger. When we prayed for the many, the impression came the\nmore strongly that we were meant to concentrate upon one. Who, or where,\nwe did not know.\n\nFive days later, a letter reached us from a friend in the Wesleyan\nMission, working in a city five hundred miles distant. The letter was\nwritten on the 8th:--\n\n\"On the morning of the 6th, a woman who knows our Biblewomen well, told\nthem of a little Brahman baby in great danger; so J. and two others went\nat once and spent the greater part of the morning trying to save the\nchild. It was in the house of a so-called Temple woman, who had adopted\nit, and she had taken every care of it. For some reason she wanted to go\naway, and could not take it with her. Two or three women of her own kind\nwere there and wanted it. One had money in her hand for it. But J. had\nalready got the baby into her arms, and reasoned and persuaded until the\nwoman at last consented. They at once brought it here. Had the friendly\nwoman not told J., the baby would now be in the hands of the second\nTemple woman. I visited the woman afterwards. She had two grown girls in\nthe room with her, the elder such a sweet girl. She told me openly it\nwas all according to custom, and that God had arranged their lives on\nthose lines, and they could not do otherwise. It is terribly sad, and\nsuch houses abound.\"\n\nHappenings of this sort--if the word \"happen\" is not irreverent in such\na connection--have a curiously quieting effect upon us. We are very\nhappy; but there is a feeling of awe which finds expression in words\nwhich, at first reading, may not sound appropriate; but we write for\nthose who will understand:--\n\n Oh, fix Thy chair of grace, that all my powers\n May also fix their reverence . . .\n Scatter, or bind, or bend them all to Thee!\n Though elements change and Heaven move,\n Let not Thy higher court remove,\n But keep a standing Majesty in me.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[A] \"Overweights of Joy.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nOthers\n\n\n\n[Illustration: STURDY AND STOLID, AND LITTLE VEERA\n\n--whose story, however, is different.]\n\nWE have some children who were not in Temple danger, but who could not\nhave grown up good if we had not taken them. \"If peril to the soul is of\nimportance,\" wrote the pastor who sent us two little girls, \"then it is\nimportant you should take them\": so we took them. These little ones were\nin \"peril to the soul,\" because their nominal Christian mother had,\nafter her husband's death, married a Hindu, against the rules of her\nreligion and his. The children were under the worst influence; and both\nwere winning little things, who might have drifted anywhere. We have\nfound it impossible to refuse such little ones, even though danger of\nthe Temple kind may not be probable.\n\nSuch a child, for example, is the little girl the Moslem is ready to\nadopt and convert to the faith. Our first redeemed from this captivity\n(literally slavery under the name of adoption) was a cheerful little\nperson of six, with the sturdy air the camera caught, and a manner all\nher own. An American missionary in an adjoining district heard of her\nand her little sister, and wrote to know if we would take them if he\ncould save them. We could not say No; so he tried, and succeeded in\ngetting the elder child; the little one had been already \"adopted,\" and\nhe could not get her. \"The whole affair was the most astonishing thing I\nhave ever seen in India,\" he wrote when he sent the little girl. The\nchild upon arrival made friends with another, and confided to her in a\nburst of confidence: \"Ah, she was a jewel, my own little sister--not\nlike me, not dark of skin, but 'fair' and tender; and the great man in\nthe turban saw her and desired her, and he took her away; and she cried\nand cried and cried, because she was only such a very little girl.\"\n\n\"The business was being discussed out in the open street\"--the writer\nwas another missionary--\"the pastor heard of it from a Christian who was\npassing, and saw the cluster of Muhammadans round the mother and her\nchildren. It was touch-and-go with the child.\" These two, Sturdy and\nStolid, side by side in the photograph, are in all ways quite unlike the\ntypical Temple child; but the danger from which they were delivered is\nas real, and perhaps in its way as grave.\n\nOne of the sweetest of our little girls, a child with a spiritual\nexpression which strikes all who see her, came to us through a young\ncatechist who heard of her and persuaded her people to let her come to\nDohnavur. She is an orphan; and being \"fair\" and very gentle, needed a\nmother's care. Her nearest relatives had families of their own, and were\nnot anxious for this addition to their already numerous daughters; and\nthe little girl, feeling herself unwanted, was fretting sadly. Then an\noffer came to the relations--not made expressly in words, but\nimplied--by which they would be relieved of the responsibility of the\nlittle niece's future. All would not have been straight for the child,\nhowever, and they hesitated. The temptation was great; and in the end it\nis probable they would have yielded, had not the catechist heard of it,\nand influenced them to turn from temptation. It was the evening of our\nPrayer-day when the little Pearl came; and when we saw the sweet little\nface, with the wistful, questioning eyes like the eyes of a little\nfrightened dog taken away alone among strangers, and when we heard the\nstory, and knew what the child's fate might have been, then we welcomed\nher as another Prayer-day gift. We do not look for gratitude in this\nwork; who does? But sometimes it comes of itself; and the grateful love\nof a child, like the grateful love of a little affectionate animal\nlifted out of its terror and comforted, is something sweet and tender\nand very good to know. The Pearl says little; but her soft brown eyes\nlook up into ours with a trustful expression of peaceful happiness; and\nas she slips her little hand into ours and gives it a tight squeeze, we\nknow what her heart is saying, and we are content.\n\nTwo more of these \"others\" are the two in the photograph who are playing\na pebble game. Their parents died leaving them in the care of an aunt, a\nperfectly heartless woman whose record was not of the best. She starved\nthe children, though she was not poor; and then punished them severely\nwhen, faint with hunger, they took food from a kindly woman of another\ncaste. Finally she gave them to a neighbour, telling her to dispose of\nthem as she liked.\n\nAbout this time our head worker, Ponnamal, was travelling in search of a\nchild of whom we had heard in a town near Palamcottah. She could not\nfind the child, and, tired and discouraged, turned into the large Church\nMissionary Society hall, where a meeting was being held to welcome our\nnew Bishop. As Ponnamal was late, she sat at the back, and could not\nhear what was going on; so she gave herself up to prayer for the little\nchild whom she had not found, and asked that her three days' journey\nmight not be all in vain.\n\n[Illustration: PEBBLES.]\n\nAs she prayed in silence thus, another woman came in and sat down at the\nback near Ponnamal. When Ponnamal looked up, she saw it was a friend she\nhad not met for years. She began to tell her about her search for the\nchild; and this led on to telling about the children in general, and the\nwork we were trying to do. The other had known nothing of it all before;\nbut as she listened, a light broke on her face, and she eagerly told\nPonnamal how that same morning she had come across a Hindu woman in\ncharge of two little girls. The Tamils when they meet, however casually,\nhave a useful habit of exchanging confidences. The woman had told\nPonnamal's friend what her errand was. Ponnamal's talk about children in\ndanger recalled the conversation of the morning. In a few hours more\nPonnamal was upon the track of the Hindu woman and her two little\ncharges. It ended in the two little girls being saved.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nOld Devai\n\n\nSHE has been called \"Old Devai\" ever since we knew her, twelve years\nago; and she is still active in mind and body. \"As I was then, even so\nis my strength now for war, both to go out and to come in,\" she would\ntell you with a courageous toss of the old grey head. Her spirit at\nleast is untired.\n\nWe knew her first as a woman of character. One Sunday, in our Tamil\nchurch, a sermon was preached upon the love of the Father as compared\nwith the love of the world. That Sunday Devai went home and acted upon\nthe teaching in such fashion that she had to suffer from the scourge of\nthe tongue in her own particular world. But she went on her way, unmoved\nby adverse criticism. Some years later, when we were in perplexity as to\nhow to set about our search for children in danger of being given to\ntemples, old Devai offered to help. She was peculiarly suitable, both in\nage and in position, for this most delicate work; and we accepted her\noffer with thanksgiving. Since then she has travelled far, and followed\nmany a clue discovered in strange ways and in strange company. Perhaps\nno one in South India knows as much as Devai knows about the secret\nsystem by which the Temple altars are supplied with little living\nvictims; but she has no idea of how to put her knowledge into shape and\nexpress it in paragraph form. We learn most from her when she least\nknows she is saying anything interesting.\n\nWhen first we began the work, our great difficulty was, as it is still,\nto get upon the track of the children before the Temple women heard of\nthem. Once they were known to be available, Temple scouts appeared\nmysteriously alert; and it is doubly difficult to get a little child\nafter negotiations have been opened with the subtle Temple scout. How\noften old Devai has come to us sick at heart after a long, fruitless\nsearch and effort to save some little child who, perhaps, only an hour\nbefore her arrival was carried off in triumph by the Temple people! \"I\npursued after the bandy, and I saw it in the distance; but swiftly went\ntheir bullocks, and I could not overtake it. At last they stopped to\nrest, and I came to where they were. But they smiled at me and said:\n'Did you ever hear of such a thing as you ask in foolishness? Is it the\ncustom to give up a child, once it is ours?'\" Sometimes a new story is\ninvented on the spot. \"Did you not know it was my sister's child; and I,\nher only sister, having no child of my own, have adopted this one as my\nown? Would you ask me to give up my own child, the apple of my eye?\"\nOftener, however, the clue fails, and all Devai knows is that the little\none is nowhere to be found. Once she traced it straight to a Temple\nhouse, won her way in, and pleaded with tears, offering all compensation\nfor expenses incurred (travelling and other) if only the Temple woman\nwould let her take the child. But no: \"If it dies, that matters little;\nbut disgrace is not to be contemplated.\" When all else fails, we\nearnestly ask that the little one in danger may be taken quickly out of\nthat polluted atmosphere up into purer air; and it is startling to note\nhow solemnly the answer to that prayer has come in very many instances.\n\nThe clue for which we are always on the watch is often like a fine silk\nthread leading down into dark places where we cannot see it, can hardly\nfeel it; it is so thin a thread. Sometimes, when we thought we held it\nsecurely, we have lost it in the dark.\n\nSometimes it seems as if the Evil One, whose interest in these little\nones may be greater than we know, lays a false clue across our path, and\nbewilders us by causing us to spend time and strength in what appears to\nbe a wholly useless fashion. Once old Devai was lured far out of our own\ndistrict in search of two children who did not even exist. She had taken\nall precautions to verify the information given, but a false address had\nbaffled her; and we can only conclude that, for some reason unknown to\nus, but well known to those whom we oppose, they were permitted on that\noccasion to gain an advantage over us. We made it a rule, after that\nwill-of-the-wisp experience, that any address out of our own district\nmust be verified; and that the nearest missionary thereto, or\nresponsible Indian Christian, must be approached, before further steps\nare taken. This rule has saved many a fruitless journey; but also we\ncannot help knowing it has sometimes occasioned delays which have had\nsad results. For distances are great in India. Devai herself lives two\ndays' journey from us, and her address is uncertain, as she sets off at\na moment's notice for any place where she has reason to think a child in\ndanger may be saved. Then, too, missionaries and responsible Indian\nChristians are not everywhere. So that sometimes it is a case of\nchoosing the lesser of two evils, and choosing immediately.\n\n[Illustration: LATHA (FIREFLY) BLOWING BUBBLES.]\n\nOnce in the night a knock came to Devai's door. A man stood outside, a\nHindu known to her. \"A little girl has just been taken to the Temple of\nA., where the great festival is being held. If you go at once you may\nperhaps get her.\" The place named was out of our jurisdiction; but in\nsuch cases Devai knows rules are only made to be broken. Off she went on\nfoot, got a bandy _en route_, reached the town before the festival was\nover, found the house to which she had been directed--a little shut-up\nhouse, doors and windows all closed--managed, how we never knew, to get\nin, found a young woman, a Temple woman from Travancore, with a little\nchild asleep on the mat beside her, persuaded her to slip out of the\nhouse with the child without wakening anyone, crept out of the town and\nfled away into the night, thankful for the blessed covering darkness.\nThe child was being kept in that house till the Temple woman to whom she\nwas to be given produced the stipulated \"Joy-gift,\" after which she\nwould become Temple property. Some delay in its being given had caused\nthat night's retention in the little shut-up house. The child, a most\nlovable little girl, had been kidnapped and disguised; and the matter\nwas so skilfully managed, that we have never been able to discover even\nthe name of her own town. We only know she must have been well brought\nup, for she was from the first a refined little thing with very dainty\nways. She and her little special friend are sitting on the steps looking\nat Latha (Firefly), who is blowing bubbles. The other little one has a\nsimilar but different history. Her father brought her to us himself,\nfearing lest she should be kidnapped by one related to her who much\nwanted to have her. \"I, being a man, cannot be always with the child,\"\nhe said, \"and I fear for her.\"\n\nOn another occasion the clue was found through Devai's happening to\noverhear the conversation of two men in a wood in the early morning. One\nsaid to the other something about someone having taken \"It\" somewhere;\nand Devai, whose scent is keen where little \"Its\" are concerned, made\nfriends with the men, and got the information she wanted from them.\nCareful work resulted in a little child's salvation; but Devai hardly\ndared believe it safe until she reached Dohnavur. When that occurred we\nwere all at church; for special services were being held in week-day\nevenings, and old Devai had to possess her soul in patience till we came\nout of church. Then there was a rush round to the nursery, and an eager\nshowing of the \"It.\" I shall never forget the pang of disappointment and\napprehension. Several little ones had been sent to us who could not\npossibly live; and the nurses had got overborne, and we dreaded another\nstrain for them. It was a tiny thing, three pounds and three-quarters of\npale brown skin and bone. Its face was a criss-cross of wrinkles, and it\nlooked any age. But \"Man looketh upon the outward appearance\" would have\nbeen assuredly quoted to us, regardless of context, had we ventured upon\na remark to old Devai, who poured forth the story of its salvation in\nvivid sentences. Next evening the old grannie of the compound told us\nthe baby could not live till morning. She laid it on a mat and regarded\nit critically, felt its pulses (both wrists), examined minutely its eyes\nand the bridge of its nose: \"No, not till morning. Better have the grave\nprepared, for early morning will be an inconvenient hour for digging.\"\nOthers confirmed her diagnosis, and sorrowfully the order was given and\nthe grave was dug.\n\nBut the baby lived till morning; and though for two years it needed a\nnurse to itself, and over and over again all but left us, this baby has\ngrown one of our healthiest; and now when old Devai comes to see us she\nlooks at it, and then to Heaven, and sighs with gratitude.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nFailures?\n\n\nBUT sometimes old Devai brings us little ones who do not come to stay.\nFailures, the world would call them. Twice lately this has happened, and\neach time unexpectedly; for the babies had stories which seemed to imply\na promise of future usefulness. Surely such a deliverance must have been\nwrought for something special, we say to ourselves, and refuse to fear.\n\nOne dear little fat \"fair\" baby was brought to us as a surprise, for we\nhad not heard of her. It had seemed so improbable that Devai could get\nher, that she had not written to us to ask us to pray her through the\nbattle, as she usually does. The sound of the bullock-bells' jingle one\nmoonlight night woke us to welcome the baby. She had travelled fifty\nmiles in the shaky bullock-cart, and she was only a few days old; but\nshe seemed healthy, and we had no fears. \"Ah, the Lord our God gave her\nto me, or never could I have got her! Her mother had determined to give\nher to the Temple; and when I went to persuade her, she hid the baby in\nan earthen vessel lest my eyes should see her. But earthen pots cannot\nhide from the eyes of the Lord. And here she is!\" The details, fished\nout of Devai by dint of many questions, made it clear that in very\ntruth the Lord, to whom all souls belong, had worked on behalf of this\nlittle one; moving even Hindu hearts, as His brave old servant pleaded,\nmaking it possible to break through caste and custom, those prison walls\nof most cruel convention, till even the Hindus said: \"Let the Christian\nhave the babe!\" We do not know why she was taken. She never seemed to\nsicken, but just left us; perhaps she was needed somewhere else, and\nDohnavur was the way there.\n\nThe other meant even more to us, for she was our first from Benares, the\nheart of this great Hinduism; and her very presence seemed such a\nsplendid pledge of ultimate victory.\n\nThis little one was saved through a friend, a Wesleyan missionary, who\nhad interested her Indian workers in the children. The baby's mother was\na pilgrim from Benares, and her baby had been born in the South. A\nTemple woman had seen it and was eager to get it, for it was a child of\npromise. Our friend's worker heard of this, and interposed. The mother\nconsented to give her baby to us. It was not a case in which we dare\nhave persuaded her to keep it; for such babies are greatly coveted, and\nthe mother was already predisposed to give her child to the gods.\n\nWhen we heard of this little one, old Devai was with us. She had only\njust arrived after a journey of two days with a little girl, but she\nknew the perils of delay too well to risk them now. \"Let me go! I will\nhave some coffee, and immediately start!\" So off she went for five more\ndays of wearisome bullock-cart and train. But her face beamed when she\nreturned and laid a six-weeks-old baby in our arms--a baby fair to look\nupon. We gathered round her at once, and she lay and smiled at us all.\nHardly ever have we had so sweet a babe. But the smiling little mouth\nwas too pale a pink, and the beautiful eyes were too bright. She had\nonly been with us a month when we were startled by the other-world look\non the baby's face. We had seen it before; we recognised it, and our\nhearts sank within us. That evening, as she lay in her white cradle, the\nwaxy hands folded in an unchildlike calm, she looked as if the angel of\nDeath had passed her as she slept, and touched her as he passed.\n\nShe stayed with us for another month, and was nursed day and night till\nmore and more she became endeared to us; and then once more we heard the\nword that cannot be refused, and we let her go. We laid passion-flowers\nabout her as she lay asleep. The smile that had left her little face had\ncome back now. \"She came with a smile, and she went with a smile,\" said\none who loved her dearly; and the flowers of mystery and glory spoke to\nus, as we stood and looked. \"Who for the joy that was set before Him\n. . . endured.\" The scent of the violet passion-flower will always carry\nits message to us. \"Let us be worthy of the grief God sends.\"\n\nAnd oh that such experiences may make us more earnest, more self-less in\nour service for these little ones! Someone has expressed this thought\nvery tenderly and simply:--\n\n Because of one small low-laid head, all crowned\n With golden hair,\n For evermore all fair young brows to me\n A halo wear.\n I kiss them reverently. Alas, I know\n The pain I bear!\n\n Because of dear but close-shut holy eyes\n Of heaven's own blue,\n All little eyes do fill my own with tears,\n Whate'er their hue.\n And, motherly, I gaze their innocent,\n Clear depths into.\n\n Because of little pallid lips, which once\n My name did call,\n No childish voice in vain appeal upon\n My ears doth fall.\n I count it all my joy their joys to share,\n And sorrows small.\n\n Because of little dimpled hands\n Which folded lie,\n All little hands henceforth to me do have\n A pleading cry.\n I clasp them, as they were small wandering birds,\n Lured home to fly.\n\n Because of little death-cold feet, for earth's\n Rough roads unmeet,\n I'd journey leagues to save from sin and harm\n Such little feet.\n And count the lowliest service done for them\n So sacred--sweet.\n\nBut grief is almost too poignant a word for what is so stingless as this.\nAnd yet God the Father, who gives the love, understands and knows how\nmuch may lie behind two words and two dates. \"Given . . . Taken . . .\"\nOnly indeed we do bless Him when the cup holds no bitterness of fear or\nof regret. There is nothing ever to fear for the little folded lambs. If\nonly the veil of blinding sense might drop from our eyes when the door\nopens to our cherished little children, should we have the heart to toil\nso hard to keep that bright door shut? Would it not seem almost selfish\nto try? But the case is different when the child is not lifted lovingly\nto fair lands out of sight, but snatched back, dragged back down into\nthe darkness from which we had hoped it had escaped. This work for the\nchildren, which seems so strangely full of trial of its own (as it is\nsurely still more full of its own particular joy), has held this\nbitterness for us, and yet the bitter has changed to sweet; and even now\nin our \"twilight of short knowledge\" we can understand a little, and\nwhere we cannot we are content to wait.\n\nFour years ago, after much correspondence and effort, a little girl was\nsaved from Temple service in connection with a famous Temple of the\nSouth from which few have ever been saved. She had been dedicated by her\nfather, and her mother had consented. Devai got a paper signed by them\ngiving her up to us instead. But shortly after she left the town, the\nfather regretted the step he had taken, and followed Devai, unknown to\nher. Alas, the child had not been with us an hour before she was carried\noff.\n\nFor two years we heard nothing of her. Old Devai, who was broken-hearted\nabout the matter, tried to find what had been done with her, but it was\nkept secret. She almost gave up in despair.\n\nAt last information reached her that the child was in the same town; and\nthat her father having died of cholera, the mother and another little\ndaughter were in a certain house well known to her. She went immediately\nand found the older child had not been given to the gods. Something of\nher pleadings had lingered in the father's memory, and he had refused to\ngive her up. But the mother was otherwise minded, and intended to give\nboth children to the Temple. Devai had been guided to go at the critical\ntime of decision. The mother was persuaded, and Devai returned with two\nsheaves instead of one--and even that one she had hardly dared to\nexpect. Once more we were called to hold our gifts with light hands. The\nyounger of the welcome little two was one of ten who died during an\nepidemic at Neyoor. The elder one is with us still--a bright,\nintelligent child.\n\nThe only other one whom we have been compelled to give up in this most\nhurting way was saved through friends on the hills, who, before they\nsent the little child to us, believed all safe as to claims upon her\nafterwards. She was a pretty child of five, and we grew to love her very\nmuch; for her ways were sweet and gentle and very affectionate. Lala,\nLola, and Leela were a dear little trio, all about the same age, and all\nrather specially interesting children.\n\nBut the father gave trouble. He was not a good man, and we knew it was\nnot love for his little daughter which prompted his action. He demanded\nher back, and our friends had to telegraph to us to send her home. It\nwas not an easy thing to do; and we packed her little belongings feeling\nas if we were moving blindly in a grievous dream, out of which we must\nsurely awaken.\n\nThere was some delay about a bandy, but at last it was ready and\nstanding at the door. We lifted the little girl into it, put a doll and\na packet of sweets in her hands, and gave our last charges to those who\nwere taking her up to the hills, workers upon whom we could depend to do\nanything that could yet be done to win her back again. Then the bandy\ndrove away.\n\nBut we went back to our room and asked for a great and good thing to be\ndone. We thought of little Lala, with her gentle nature which had so\nsoon responded to loving influence, and we knew her very gentleness\nwould be her danger now; for how could such a little child, naturally so\nyielding in disposition, withstand the call that would come, and the\npressure that had broken far stronger wills? So we asked that she might\neither be returned to us soon or taken away from the evil to come. A\nweek passed and our workers returned without her; they evidently felt\nthe case quite hopeless. But the next letter we had from our friends\ntold us the child was safe.\n\nShe had left us in perfect health, but pneumonia set in upon her return\nto the colder air of the hills. She had been only a few days ill, and\ndied very suddenly--died without anyone near her to comfort her with\nsoothing words about the One to whom she was going. Even in the gladness\nthat she was safe now, there was the pitiful thought of her loneliness\nthrough the dark valley; and we seemed to see the little wistful face,\nand felt she would be so frightened and shy and bewildered; and we\nlonged to know something about those last hours. But one of the heathen\nwomen who had been about her at the last told what she knew, and our\nfriends wrote what they heard. \"She said she was Jesus' child, and did\nnot seem afraid. And she said that she saw three Shining Ones come into\nthe room where she was lying, and she was comforted.\" Oh, need we ever\nfear? Little Lala had been with us for so short a time that we had not\nbeen able to teach her much; and so far as any of us know, she had heard\nnothing of the ministry of angels. We had hardly dared to hope she\nunderstood enough about our Lord Himself to rest her little heart upon\nHim. But we do not know everything. Little innocent child that she was,\nshe was carried by the angels from the evil to come.\n\nOld Devai keeps a brave heart. When she comes to see us, she cheers\nherself by nursing the cheerful little people she brought to us, small\nand wailing and not very hopeful. She is full of reminiscences on these\noccasions. \"Ah,\" she will say, addressing an astonished two-year-old,\n\"the devil and all his imps fought for you, my child!\" This is\nunfamiliar language to the baby; but Devai knows nothing of our modern\nideas of education, and considers crude fact advisable at any age. \"Yes,\nhe fought for you, my child. I was sitting on the verandah of the house\nwherein you lay, and I was preaching the Gospel of the grace of God to\nthe women, when five devils appeared. Yea, five were they, one older and\nfour younger. Men were they in outward shape, but within them were the\ndevils. I had nearly persuaded the women to let me have you, my child;\nand till they fully consented, I was filling up the interval with\nspeech, for no man shall shut my mouth. And the women listened well, and\nmy heart burned within me--for it was life to me to see them\nlistening--when lo! those devils came--yea, five, one older and four\nyounger--sent by their master to confound me. And they rose up against\nme and turned me out, and told the women folk not to listen; and you--I\nshould never get you, said they; and so it appeared, for with such is\nmight, and their master waxes furious when he knows his time is short.\nBut the Lord on high is mightier than a million million devils, and what\nare five to Him? He rose up for me against them and discomfited\nthem\"--Devai does not go into secular particulars--\"and so you were\ndelivered from the mouth of the lion, my child!\"\n\nWe are not anxious that our babies should know too much ancient history.\nEnough for them that they are in the fold--\n\n I am Jesus' little lamb,\n Happy all day long I am;\n He will keep me safe from harm,\n For I'm His lamb--\n\nis enough theology for two-year-olds; but Devai's visits are not so\nfrequent as to make a deep impression, and the baby thus addressed,\nafter a long and unsympathetic stare, usually scrambles off her knee and\nreturns unscathed to her own world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nGod Heard: God Answered\n\n\nOLD Devai, with her vivid conversation about the one old devil and four\nyounger, does not suggest a conciliatory attitude towards the people of\nher land. And it may be possible so to misinterpret the spirit of this\nbook as to see in it only something unappreciative and therefore unkind.\nSo it shall now be written down in sincerity and earnestness that\nnothing of the sort is intended. The thing we fight is not India or\nIndian, in essence or development. It is something alien to the old life\nof the people. It is not allowed in the Vedas (ancient sacred books). It\nis like a parasite which has settled upon the bough of some noble\nforest-tree--on it, but not of it. The parasite has gripped the bough\nwith strong and interlacing roots; but it is not the bough.\n\nWe think of the real India as we see it in the thinker--the seeker after\nthe unknown God, with his wistful eyes. \"The Lord beholding him loved\nhim,\" and we cannot help loving as we look. And there is the Indian\nwoman hidden away from the noise of crowds, patient in her motherhood,\nloyal to the light she has. We see the spirit of the old land there;\nand it wins us and holds us, and makes it a joy to be here to live for\nIndia.\n\nThe true India is sensitive and very gentle. There is a wisdom in its\nways, none the less wise because it is not the wisdom of the West. This\nspirit which traffics in children is callous and fierce as a ravening\nbeast; and its wisdom descendeth not from above, but is earthly,\nsensual, devilish. . . . And this spirit, alien to the land, has settled\nupon it, and made itself at home in it, and so become a part of it that\nnothing but the touch of God will ever get it out. We want that touch of\nGod: \"Touch the mountains, and they shall smoke.\" That is why we write.\n\nFor we write for those who believe in prayer--not in the emasculated\nmodern sense, but in the old Hebrew sense, deep as the other is shallow.\nWe believe there is some connection between knowing and caring and\npraying, and what happens afterwards. Otherwise we should leave the\ndarkness to cover the things that belong to the dark. We should be for\never dumb about them, if it were not that we know an evil covered up is\nnot an evil conquered. So we do the thing from which we shrink with\nstrong recoil; we stand on the edge of the pit, and look down and tell\nwhat we have seen, urged by the longing within us that the Christians of\nEngland should pray.\n\n\"Only pray?\" does someone ask? Prayer of the sort we mean never stops\nwith praying. \"Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it,\" is the prayer's\nsolemn afterword; but the prayer we ask is no trifle. Lines from an\nAmerican poet upon what it costs to make true poetry, come with\nsuggestion here:--\n\n Deem not the framing of a deathless lay\n The pastime of a drowsy summer day.\n But gather all thy powers, and wreck them on the verse\n That thou dost weave. . . .\n The secret wouldst thou know\n To touch the heart or fire the blood at will?\n Let thine eyes overflow,\n Let thy lips quiver with the passionate thrill.\n\n\"Arise, cry out in the night; in the beginning of the night watches pour\nout thine heart like water before the Lord; lift up thine hands towards\nHim for the life of thy young children!\"\n\nThe story of the children is the story of answered prayer. If any of us\nwere tempted to doubt whether, after all, prayer is a genuine\ntransaction, and answers to prayer no figment of the imagination--but\nsomething as real as the tangible things about us--we have only to look\nat some of our children. It would require more faith to believe that\nwhat we call the Answer came by chance or by the action of some\nunintelligible combination of controlling influences, than to accept the\nstatement in its simplicity--God heard: God answered.\n\nIn October, 1908, we were told of two children whose mother had recently\ndied. They were with their father in a town some distance from Dohnavur;\nbut the source from which our information came was so unreliable that we\nhardly knew whether to believe it, and we prayed rather a tentative\nprayer: \"If the children exist, save them.\" For three months we heard\nnothing; then a rumour drifted across to us that the elder of the two\nhad died in a Temple house. The younger, six months old, was still with\nher father. On Christmas Eve our informant arrived in the compound with\nhis usual unexpectedness. The father was near, but would not come nearer\nbecause the following day being Friday (a day of ill-omen), he did not\nwish to discuss matters concerning the child; he would come on Saturday.\nOn Saturday he came, carrying a dear little babe with brilliant eyes.\nShe almost sprang from him into our arms, and we saw she was mad with\nthirst. She was fed and put to sleep, and hardly daring yet to rejoice\n(for the matter was not settled with the father), we took him aside and\ndiscussed the case with him. There were difficulties. A Temple woman had\noffered a large sum for the child, and had also promised to bequeath\nher property to her. He had heard, however, that we had little children\nwho had all but been given to Temples, and he had come to reconnoitre\nrather than to decide.\n\nThe position was explained to him. But the Temple meant to him\neverything that was worshipful. How could anything that was wrong be\nsanctioned by the gods? The child's mother had been a devout Hindu; and\nas we went deeper and deeper into things with him, it was evident he\nbecame more and more reluctant to leave the little one with us. \"Her\nmother would have felt it shame and eternal dishonour.\" We were in the\nlittle prayer-room, a flowery little summer-house in the garden, when\nthis talk took place. On either side are the nurseries, and playing on\nthe wide verandahs were happy, healthy babes; their merry shouts filled\nthe spaces in the conversation. Sometimes a little toddling thing would\nfind her way across to the prayer-room, and break in upon the talk with\naffectionate caresses. To our eyes everything looked so happy, so\nincomparably better than anything the Temple house could offer, that it\nwas difficult to adjust one's mental vision so as to understand that of\nthe Hindu beside us, to whose thought all the happiness was as nothing,\nbecause these babes would be brought up without caste. In the Temple\nhouse caste is kept most carefully. If a Temple woman breaks the rules\nof her community she is out-casted, excommunicated. \"You do not keep\ncaste! you do not keep caste!\" the father repeated over and over again\nin utter dismay. It was nothing to him that the babes were well and\nstrong, and as happy as the day was long; nothing to him that\ncleanliness reigned, so far as constant supervision could ensure it,\nthrough every corner of the compound. We did not profess to keep caste;\nwe welcomed every little child in danger of being given to Temples,\nirrespective altogether of her caste. All castes were welcome to us, for\nall were dear to our Lord. This was beyond him; and he declared he would\nnever have brought his child to us, had he understood it before. \"Let\nher die rather! There is no disgrace in death.\" As he talked and\nexpounded his views, he argued himself further and further away from us\nin spirit, until he became disgusted with himself for ever having\nconsidered giving the baby to us. All this time the baby lay asleep; and\nas we looked at the little face and noted the \"mother-want,\" the\nappealing expression of pitiful weariness even in sleep, it was all we\ncould do to turn away and face the almost inevitable result of the\nconversation. Once the father, a splendid looking man, tall and\ndignified, rose and stood erect in sudden indignation. \"Where is the\nbabe? I will take her away and do as I will with her. She is my child!\"\nWe persuaded him to wait awhile as she was asleep, and we went away to\npray. Together we waited upon God, whose touch turns hard rocks into\nstanding water, and flint-stone into a springing well, beseeching Him to\ndeal with that father's heart, and make it melt and yield. And as we\nwaited it seemed as if an answer of peace were distinctly given to us,\nand we rose from our knees at rest. But just at that moment the father\nwent to where his baby slept in her cradle, and he took her up and\nwalked away in a white heat of wrath.\n\nThe little one was in an exhausted condition, for she had not had\nsuitable food for at least three days. It was the time of our\nland-winds, which are raw and cold to South Indian people; and it seemed\nthat the answer of peace must mean peace after death of cold and\nstarvation. It would soon be over, we knew; twenty-four hours, more or\nless, and those great wistful eyes would close, and the last cry would\nbe cried. But even twenty-four hours seemed long to think of a child in\ndistress, and her being so little did not make it easier to think of her\ndying like that. So on Sunday morning I shut myself up in my room asking\nfor quick relief for her, or--but this seemed almost asking too\nmuch--that she might be given back to us. And as I prayed, a knock came\nat the door, and a voice called joyously, \"Oh, Amma! Amma! Come! The\nfather stands outside the church; he has brought the baby back!\"\n\nBut the child was almost in collapse. Without a word he dropped the\ncold, limp little body into our arms, and prostrated himself till his\nforehead touched the dust. We had not time to think of him, we hardly\nnoted his extraordinary submission, for all our thought was for the\nbabe. There was no pulse to be felt, only those far too brilliant eyes\nlooked alive. We worked with restoratives for hours, and at last the\nlittle limbs warmed and the pulse came back. But it was a bounding,\nunnatural pulse, and the restlessness which supervened confirmed the\ntale of the brilliant eyes--the little babe had been drugged.\n\nFrom that day on till our Prayer-day, January 6th, it was one long,\nunremitting fight with death. We wrote to our medical comrade in Neyoor,\nand described the symptoms, which were all bad. He could give us little\nhope. Gradually the brilliance passed from the eyes, and they became\nwhat the Tamils call \"dead.\" The film formed after which none of us had\never seen recovery. Then we gathered round the little cot in the room we\ncall Tranquillity, and we gave the babe her Christian name Vimala, the\nSpotless One; for we thought that very soon she would be without spot\nand blameless, another little innocent in that happy band of innocents\nwho see His Face.\n\nOn the evening of the 5th, friends of our own Mission who were with us\nseemed to lay hold for the life of the child with such fresh earnestness\nand faith, that we ourselves were strengthened. Next morning we believed\nwe saw a change in the little deathlike face, and that evening we were\nsure the child's life was coming back to her.\n\nIt was not till then we thought of the father, who, after signing a\npaper made out for him by our pastor, who is always ready to help us,\nhad returned to his own town. When we heard all that had occurred we saw\nhow our God had worked for us. It was not fear of his baby's death that\nhad moved the man to return to us. \"What is the death of a babe? Let her\ndie across my shoulders!\" He was not afraid of the law. After all\npersuasions had failed, we had tried threats: the thing he purposed to\ndo was illegal. The Collector (chief magistrate) would do justice. \"What\ncare I for your Collector? How can he find me if I choose to lose\nmyself? How can you prove anything against me?\" And in that he spoke the\ntruth. There are ways by which the intention of the law concerning\nlittle children can be most easily and successfully circumvented. Our\npleadings had not touched him. \"Is she not my child? Was her mother not\nmy wife? Who has the right to come between this child of mine and me her\nfather?\" And so saying he had departed without the slightest intention\nof coming back again. But a Power with which he did not reckon had him\nin sight; and a Hand was laid upon him, and it bent him like a reed. We\nhope some ray of a purer light than he had ever experienced found its\nway into his darkened soul, and revealed to him the sin of his\nintention. But we only know that he left his child and went back to his\nown town. God had heard: God had answered.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nTo what Purpose?\n\n\nAMONG the closest of our little children's friends is one whose name I\nmay not give, lest her work should be hindered; for in this work of\nsaving the little ones, though we have the sympathy of many, we\nnaturally have to meet the covert opposition of very many more, and it\nis not well to give too explicit information as to the centres of\nsupply. This dear friend's help has been invaluable. From the first she\nhas stood by us, interesting her friends, Indian and English, in the\nchildren, and stirring them into practical co-operation. Then, when the\nbabies have been saved and had to be cared for and sent off, she made\nnothing of the trouble, and above all she has never been discouraged.\nSometimes things have been difficult. Some have doubted, and many have\ncriticised, and even the kindest have lost heart. This friend has never\nlost heart.\n\nFor not all the chapters of the Temple children's story can be written\ndown and printed for everyone to read. We think of the unwritten\nchapters, and remember how often when the pressure was greatest the\nthought of that undiscouraged comrade has been strength and inspiration.\nNo one except those who, in weakness and inexperience, have tried to do\nsomething not attempted before can understand how the heart prizes\nsympathy just at the difficult times, and how such brave and steadfast\ncomradeship is a thing that can never be forgotten.\n\nAmong the babies saved through this friend's influence was one with a\nshort but typical story.\n\nThe little mite was seen first in her mother's arms, and the mother was\nstanding by the wayside, as if waiting. Something in her attitude and\nappearance drew the attention of an Indian Christian, whom our friend\nhad interested in the work, and she got into conversation with the\nmother, who told her that her husband had died a fortnight before the\nbaby's birth, and she, being poor though of good caste, was much\nexercised about the little one's future. How could she marry her\nproperly? She had come to the conclusion that her best plan would be to\ngive her to the Temple. So she was even then waiting till someone from a\nTemple house would come and take her little girl.\n\nThe news that such a child is to be had soon becomes known to those who\nare on the watch, and it is improbable that the mother would have had\nlong to wait. The Christian persuaded her to give up the idea, and the\nlittle babe was saved and sent to us. On the journey to Dohnavur a\nTemple woman chanced to get into the carriage where the little baby\nslept in its basket. There was nothing to tell who she was; and like the\nother women in the carriage, she was greatly interested in its story.\nBut presently it became evident that her interest was more than\nsuperficial. She looked well at the baby and was quiet for a time; then\nshe said to the Christian who was bringing it to us: \"I see it is going\nto be an intelligent child. Let me have it; I will pay you.\" The\nChristian of course refused, and asked her how she knew it was going to\nbe intelligent. \"Look at its nose,\" said the Temple woman. \"See, here is\nmoney!\" and she offered it. \"Let me have the baby! You can tell your\nMissie Ammal it died in the train!\"\n\nSometimes our babies have to run greater risks than this in their\njourneys south to us. The distances which have to be covered by train\nand bullock-cart are great, and the travelling tedious. And there are\nmany delays and opportunities for difficulties to arise; so that when we\nknow a baby is on its way to us we feel we want to wrap it round in\nprayer, so that, thus invisibly enveloped, it will be protected and\ncarried safely all the way. Once a little child, travelling to us from a\nplace as distant, counting by time, as Rome is from London, was observed\nby some Brahman men, who happened to be at the far end of the long\nthird-class carriage. Our worker, who was alone with the child, noticed\nthe whispering and glances toward her little charge, and wrapped it\ncloser in its shawl, and, as she said, \"looked out of the window as if\nshe were not at all afraid, and prayed much in her heart.\" Presently a\nstation was reached. The language spoken there was not her vernacular,\nbut she understood enough to know something was being said about the\nbaby. Then an official appeared, and there was a cry quite\nunderstandable to her: \"A Brahman baby! That Christian there is\nkidnapping a Brahman baby!\" The official stopped at the carriage door.\nShe was pushed towards him amidst a confused chatter, a crowd gathered\nat the door in a moment, and someone shouted in Tamil, above the excited\nclamour on the platform: \"Pull her out! A Christian with a Brahman\nbaby!\"\n\n\"Then did my heart tremble! I held the baby tight in my arms. The man in\nclothes said, 'Show it to me!' And he looked at its hands and he looked\nat its feet, and he said: 'This is no child of yours!' But as I began to\nexplain to him, the train moved, and he banged the door; and I praised\nGod!\"\n\nIndia is a land where strange things can be accomplished with the\ngreatest ease. As all went well it is idle to imagine what might have\nbeen; but we knew enough to be thankful.\n\nAmong the unwritten chapters is one which touches a problem. There are\nsome little children--often the most valuable to the Temple women--who\ncannot live with us, but can live with them, because the baby in the\nTemple house is nursed by a foster-mother for the sake of merit, and\nthus it is given its best chance of life; whereas with us it is\nimpossible to get foster-mothers. Indian children of the castes approved\nfor the service are not, as a class, as robust as others; the secluded\nlives of their mothers, and the rigid rules pertaining to widows\n(girl-children born after the mother becomes a widow are, as has been\nseen, in special danger), partly account for this; and in other cases\nthere are other reasons. Whatever the cause, however, the effect is\nmanifest. The baby is seldom the little bundle of content of our English\nnurseries. It may become so later on, if all goes well. Often it lives\nupon its birth-strength for four months, or less, and then slips away.\nWe have often hesitated about taking such babies; and then we have found\nthat by refusing one who is likely to die we have discouraged those who\nwere willing to help us, and the next baby in danger has been taken\nstraight to the house where its welcome was assured. So we have hardly\never dared to refuse, and we have taken little fragile things whose days\nwe knew were numbered unless a foster-mother could be found, for it\nseemed to us that death with us was better than life with the Temple\npeople; and also we have not dared to risk losing the next, who might be\nhealthy. \"One dies, one lives,\" say the Temple women in their wisdom,\nand take all who are suitable in caste and in appearance. \"She will be\n'fair,'\" or, \"She will be intelligent,\" settles the matter for them.\nThey give the baby a chance: should we do less?\n\nOne night I woke suddenly with the feeling of someone near, and saw,\nstanding beside my bed out on the verandah, the friend who has sent us\nso many little ones. She had something wrapped in a shawl in her arms,\nand as she moved the shawl a thin cry smote me with a fear, for a baby\nwho has come to stay does not cry like that.\n\nIt was a dear little baby, one of the type the Temple women prize, and\nwill take so much trouble to rear. The little head was finely formed,\nand the tiny face, in its minute perfection of feature, looked as if\nsome fairy had shaped it out of a cream rose-petal. Alas, there was that\nlook we know so well and fear so much--that look of not belonging to us,\nthe elsewhere, other-world look. But we could not do this work at all,\nwe would not have the heart to do it, if we did not hope. So we go on\nhoping.\n\nThe baby filled the next half-hour, for a thing so small can be hungry\nand say so; and together we heated the water and made the food, till,\nsatisfied at length that her little charge was comfortable, our friend\nlay down to rest. \"Jesus therefore being weary with His journey, sat\nthus on the well.\" There is something in the utter weariness after a\nlong, hot journey, ending with seven hours in a bullock-cart over rough\ntracks by night, which always recalls that word of human tiredness. How\nI wished that the morning were not so near as I saw my friend asleep at\nlast! A few hours later she was on her homeward way, and we were left\nwith our hopes and our fears, and the baby.\n\nFor three weeks we hoped against fear, till there was no room left for\nany more hope, or for anything but prayer that the child might cease to\nsuffer. And after a month of struggle for life, the tiny, tossing thing\nlay still.\n\n\"To what purpose is this waste?\" Was it strange that the question came\nagain to ourselves, and to others too? Our dear friend's toilsome\ntravelling--a journey equal in expenditure of time to one from London\nto Vienna and back again, and very much more exhausting, the faithful\nnurse's patience, the little baby's pain! And all the love that had\ngrown through the weeks, and all the efforts that had failed, the very\ntrain ticket and bandy fare--was it all as water spilt on the ground?\nWas it waste?\n\nWe knew in our hearts it was not. The dear little babe was safe; and it\nmight be that our having taken her, though she was so very delicate,\nwould result in another, a healthy child, being saved, who, if she had\nbeen refused, would never have been brought. This hope comforted us; and\nwe prayed definitely for its fulfilment, and it was fulfilled. For\nshortly after that little seed had been sown in death, information came\nfrom the same source through which she had been saved, that another\nchild was in danger of being adopted by Temple women; and this\ninformation would not have been given to our friend had the first child\nbeen refused. Nundinie we called this little gift: the name means\nHappiness.\n\nSometimes in moments of depression and disappointment we go for change\nof air and scene to the Premalia nursery; and the baby Nundinie,\notherwise Dimples, of whom more afterwards, comes running up to us with\nher welcoming smile and outstretched arms; while others, with stories as\nfull of comfort, tumble about us, and cuddle, and nestle, and pat us\ninto shape. Then we take courage again, and ask forgiveness for our\nfears. It is true our problems are not always solved, and perhaps more\ndifficult days are before; but we will not be afraid. Sometimes a sudden\nlight falls on the way, and we look up and still it shines: and what can\nwe do but \"follow the Gleam\"?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nA Story of Comfort\n\n\n[Illustration: SEELA IS THE BABY IN THE MIDDLE.\n\nShe slipped into the picture at the last moment, and so was caught\nunawares. Mala is to the right; Nullinie to the left. (This little one's\nleft hand and foot are partially paralyzed through drugging in\ninfancy.)]\n\nAMONG the stories of comfort is one that belongs to our merry little\nSeela. She is bigger now than when the despairing photographer broke\nthirteen plates in the vain attempt to catch her; but she is still most\nelusive and alluring, a veritable baby, though over two years old. Some\nmonths ago, the Iyer measured her, and told her she was thirty-two\ninches of mischief. For weeks afterwards, when asked her name, she\nalways replied with gravity, \"Terty-two inses of mistef.\"\n\nAll who have to do with babies know how different they can be in\ndisposition and habits. There is the shop-window baby, who shows all her\ninnocent wares at once to everyone kind enough to look. She is a\ncharming baby. And there is the little wild bird of the wood, who will\nanswer your whistle politely, if you know how to whistle her note; but\nshe will not trust herself near you till she is sure of you. Seela is\nthat sort of baby. We have watched her when she has been approached by\nsome unfamiliar presence, and seen her summon all her baby dignity to\nkeep her from breaking into tears of overwhelming shyness. Give her time\nto observe you from under long, drooping lashes; give her time to make\nsure--then the mischief will sparkle out, and something of the real\nchild. But only something, never all, till you become a relation; with\nthose who are only acquaintances Seela, like Bala, has many reserves.\n\nSeela's joy is to be considered old and allowed to go to the\nkindergarten. She takes her place with the bigger babies, and tries to\ndo all she sees them do. Sometimes a visitor looks in, and then Seela,\nnaturally, will do nothing; but if the visitor is wise and takes no\nnotice, she will presently be rewarded by seeing the eager little face\nlight up again, and the fat hands busily at work. Seela is not supposed\nto be learning very seriously; but she seems to know nearly as much as\nsome of the older children, and her quaint attempts at English are much\nappreciated. Seela has her faults. She likes to have her own way, and\nonce was observed to slap severely an offender almost twice her own\nsize; but on the whole she is a peaceful little person, beloved by all\nthe other babies, both senior and junior. Her great ambition is to\nfollow Chellalu into all possible places of mischief. Anything Chellalu\ncan do Seela will attempt; and as she is more brave than steady on her\nlittle feet, she has many a narrow escape. Her latest escapade was to\nfollow her reckless leader in an attempt to walk round the top of the\nback of a large armchair, the cane rim of which is a slippery slant, two\ninches wide.\n\nOn the morning of her arrival, not liking to leave her even for a few\nminutes, I carried her to the early tea-table, when she saw the Iyer and\nsmiled her first smile to him. From that day on she has been his loyal\nlittle friend. At first his various absences from home perplexed her.\nShe would toddle off to his room and hunt everywhere for him, even under\nhis desk and behind his waste-paper basket, and then she returned to the\ndining-room with a puzzled little face. \"Iyer is not!\" \"Where is he,\nSeela?\" \"Gone to Heaven!\" was her invariable reply. When he returned\nfrom that distant sphere she never displayed the least surprise. That is\nnot our babies' way. She calmly accepted him as a returned possession;\nstood by his chair waiting for the invitation, \"Climb up\"; climbed up as\nif he had never been away--and settled down to bliss.\n\nPart of this bliss consists in being supplied with morsels of toast and\nbiscuit and occasional sips of tea. Sometimes there is that delicious\nluxury, a spoonful of the unmelted sugar at the bottom of the cup. For\nSeela is a baby after all, and does not profess to be like grown-up\npeople who do not appreciate nice things to eat, being, of course,\nentirely superior to food; but, excitable little damsel as she is in all\nother matters, her table manners are most correct, and she shows her\nappreciation of kind attentions in characteristic fashion. A smile, so\nquick under the black lashes that only one on the look-out for it would\nsee it, a sudden confiding little nestle closer to the giver--these are\nher only signs of pleasure; and if no notice is taken of her, she sits\nin silent patience. Sometimes, if politeness be mistaken for\nindifference, a shadow creeps into her eyes, a sort of pained surprise\nat the obtuseness of the great; but she rarely makes any remark, and\nnever points or asks, as the irrepressible Chellalu does in spite of all\nour admonitions. If, however, Seela is being attended to and fed at\njudicious intervals, and she knows the intention is to feed her\ncomfortably, then her attitude is different. She feels a reminder will\nbe acceptable; and as soon as she has disposed of a piece of biscuit,\nshe quietly holds up an empty little hand, and glances fearlessly up to\nthe face that looks down with a smile upon her. This little silent,\nempty hand, held up so quietly, has often spoken to us of things\nunknown to our little girl; and as if to enforce the lesson, the other\nbabies, to our amusement, apparently noticing the gratifying result of\nSeela's upturned hand, began to hold up their little hands with the same\nsilent expectancy, till all round the table small hands were raised in\nperfect silence, by hopeful infants of observant habits and strong\nfaith.\n\n[Illustration: THE COTTAGE NURSERY.]\n\nMala, the rather stolid-looking little girl to the right of the\nphotograph, is Seela's elder sister. She is not so square-faced as the\nphotograph shows her, and she is much more interesting. This little one\nseems to us to have in some special sense the grace of God upon her; for\nher nursery life is so happy and blameless and unselfish, that we rarely\nhave to wish her different in anything. Her coming, with little Seela's,\nis one of the very gladdest of our Overweights of Joy.\n\nWe heard of the little sisters through a mission schoolmaster,\nwho--knowing that they had been left motherless, and that a Hindu of\ngood position had obtained something equivalent to powers of\nguardianship, and thus empowered had placed them with a Temple\nwoman--was most anxious to save them, and wrote to us; and, as he\nexpressed it, \"also earnestly and importunately prayed the benign\nBritish Government to intervene.\"\n\nThe Collector to whom the petition was sent was a friend of ours. He\nknew about the nursery work, and was ready to do all he could; but he\ndid not want a disturbance with the Caste and Temple people, and so\nadvised us to try to get the children privately. We sent our wisest\nwoman-worker, Ponnamal, to the town, and she saw the principal people\nconcerned; but they entirely refused to give up the children. The man\nwho had adopted them had got his authority from the local Indian\nsub-magistrate; and contended that as the Government had given them to\nhim, no one had any right to take them from him; \"and even if the\nGovernment itself ordered me to give them up, I never will. I will never\nlet them go.\" This in Tamil is even more explicit: \"The hold by which I\nhold them I will never let go.\" Ponnamal returned, weary in mind and in\nbody, after three days of travelling and effort; she had caught a\nglimpse of the baby, and the little face haunted her. The elder child\nwas reported very miserable, and she had seen nothing of her. The\nguardian, of course, had not dealt with her direct; but she heard he had\ntaken legal advice, and was sure of his position. There was nothing\nhopeful to report. Once again we tried, but in vain. By this time a new\nbond had been formed, for the guardian had become attached to little\nSeela, and spent his time, so we heard, in playing with her. He let it\nbe known that nothing would ever make him give her up. \"She is in my\nhand, and my hand will never let go.\"\n\nThen suddenly news came that he was dead. The baby had sickened with\ncholera. He had nursed her and contracted the disease. In two days he\nhad died. He had been compelled to let go.\n\nThen the feeling of all concerned changed completely. It hardly needed\nthe Collector's order, given with the utmost promptitude, to cause the\nTemple woman to give the children up. To the Indian mind, quick to see\nthe finger of God in such an event, the thing was self-evident. An\nunseen Power was at work here. Who were they that they should withstand\nit? A telegram told us the children were safe, and next day we had them\nhere.\n\nThe baby was happy at once; but the elder little one, then a child of\nabout three and a half, was very sorrowful. She was so pitifully\nfrightened, too, that at first we could do nothing with her; and there\nwas a look in her eyes that alarmed us, it was so distraught and\nunchildlike. \"My mother did her best for them,\" wrote the kind\nschoolmaster to whose house the children had been taken when the Temple\nwoman gave them up; \"but the elder one has fever. She is always\nmuttering to herself, and can neither stand nor sit.\" She could stand\nand sit now, only there was the \"muttering,\" and the terrible look of\nbewilderment worse than pain. For days it was a question with us as to\nwhether she would ever recover perfectly. That first night we had to\ngive her bromide, and she woke very miserable. Next day she stood by the\ndoor waiting for her mother, as it seemed; for under her breath she was\nconstantly whispering, \"Amma! Amma!\" (\"Mother! Mother!\") She never cried\naloud, only sobbed quietly every now and then. She would not let us\ntouch her, but shrank away terrified if we tried to pet her. All through\nthe third day she sat by the door. This was better than the weary\nstanding, but pitiful enough. On the morning of the fourth day she sat\ndown again for a long watch; but once when her little hand went up to\nbrush away a tear, we saw there was a toy in it, and that gave us hope.\nThat night she went to bed with a doll, an empty tin, and a ball in her\narms; and the next day she let us play with her in a quiet, reserved\nfashion. Next morning she woke happy.\n\nThe babies teach us much, and sometimes their unconscious lessons\nilluminate the deeper experiences of life. One such illumination is\nconnected in my mind with the little trellised verandah, shown in the\nphotograph, of the cottage used as a nursery when Mala and Seela came to\nus.\n\nIt was the hour between lights, and five babies under two years old were\nwaiting for their supper--Seela, Tara, and Evu (always a hungry baby),\nRuhinie, usually irrepressible, but now in very low spirits, and a tiny\nthing with a face like a pansy--all five thinking longingly of supper.\nThese five had to wait till the fresh milk came in, as their food was\nspecial; that evening the cows had wandered home with more than their\nusual leisureliness from their pasture out in the jungle, and so the\nmilk was late.\n\nThe babies, who do not understand the weary ways of cows, disapproved of\nhaving to wait, and were fractious. To add to their depression, the boy\nwhose duty it was to light the lamps and lanterns had been detained, and\nthe trellised verandah was dark. So the five fretful babies made remarks\nto each other, and threw their toys about in that exasperated fashion\nwhich tells you the limits of patience have been passed; and the most\ndistressed began to whimper.\n\nAt this point a lantern was brought and set behind me, so that its light\nfell upon the discarded toys, miscellaneous but beloved--a china head\nlong parted from its body, one whole new doll, a tin with little stones\nin it, a matchbox, and other sundries. If anything will comfort them,\ntheir toys will, I thought, as I directed their attention to the tin\nwith its pleasant rattling pebbles, and the other scattered treasures on\nthe mat. But the babies looked disgusted. Toys were a mockery at that\nmoment. Evu seized the china head and flung it as far as ever she could.\nTara sat stolid, with two fingers in her mouth. Seela turned away,\nevidently deeply hurt in her feelings, and the other two cried. Not one\nof them would find consolation in toys.\n\nThen the pansy-faced baby, Prasie, pointed out to the bushes, where\nsomething dangerous, she was quite sure, was moving; and she wailed a\nwail of such infectious misery that all the babies howled. And one\nrolled over near the lantern which was on the floor behind me, and for\nsafety's sake I moved it, and its light fell on my face. In a moment all\nfive babies were tumbling over me with little exclamations of delight,\nand they nestled on my lap, caressing and content.\n\nAre there not evenings when our toys have no power to please or soothe?\nThere is not any rest in them or any comfort. Then the One whom we love\nbetter than all His dearest gifts comes and moves the lantern for us, so\nthat our toys are in the shadow but His face is in the light. And He\nmakes His face to shine upon us and gives us peace.\n\n\"For Thou, O Lord my God, art above all things best; . . . Thou alone\nmost sufficient and most full; Thou alone most sweet and most\ncomfortable.\n\n\"Thou alone most fair and most loving; Thou alone most noble and most\nglorious above all things; in whom all things are at once and perfectly\ngood, and ever have been and shall be.\n\n\"And therefore whatever Thou bestowest upon me beside Thyself, or\nwhatever Thou revealest or promisest concerning Thyself, so long as I do\nnot see or fully enjoy Thee, is too little, and fails to satisfy me.\n\n\"Because, indeed, my heart cannot truly rest nor be entirely contented\nunless it rest in Thee, and rise above all Thy gifts and all things\ncreated.\n\n\"When shall I fully recollect myself in Thee, that through the love of\nThee I may not feel myself but Thee alone, above all feeling and measure\nin a manner not known to all?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nPickles and Puck\n\n\n[Illustration: \"PICKLES\" AND HER FRIENDS.\n\n\"Pickles\" sits with her thumb in her mouth, distrustful of\nphotographers.]\n\n\"AMMA! Amma!\" then in baby Tamil, \"Salala has come!\" And one of the most\nenticing of the little interruptions to a steady hour's work scrambles\nover the raised doorstep, tripping and tumbling in her eagerness to get\nin. Now she is staggering happily about the room on fat, uncertain feet.\nUpsets are nothing to Sarala. She shakes herself, rubs a bumped head,\nsmiles if you smile down at her, and picks herself up with a sturdy\nindependence that promises something for her future. She has travelled\nto-day, stopping only to visit her Prema Sittie, a long way across the\nfield all by herself. She has braved tumbles and captures, for her nurse\nmay any minute discover her flight; and even now, safe in port, she\nkeeps a wary eye on the door which opens on the nursery side of the\ncompound. If she thinks I am about to suggest her departure, she\nimmediately engages me in some interest of her own. She has ways and\nwiles unknown to any baby but herself; and if all seems likely to fail,\nshe sits down on the floor, and first puts out her lower lip as far as\nit will go, and then springs up, climbs over you, clings with all four\nlimbs at once, and buries her curly tangle deep into your neck. But if\nthe case is hopeless, she sits down on the floor again and digs her\nsmall fists into her eyes, in silent indignation and despair. Then\ncomes a howl impossible to smother, and at last such bitter bursts of\nwoe as nothing short of dire necessity can force you to provoke. This is\nSarala, one of the most affectionate, most wilful, most winsome of all\nthe babies. She is truthful. She has just this moment pulled a\ndrawing-pin out of its place, which happened to be within reach, and her\nsolemn \"Aiyo!\" (Alas!) \"Look, Amma!\" shows she feels she has sinned, but\nwants to confess. Life will have many a battle for this baby; but surely\nif she is truthful and loving, and we are loving and wise, the Lord who\nhas redeemed her will carry her through.\n\nHer first great battle royal was with the new Sittie,[B] who immediately\nupon arrival loved the babies. The battle was about Sarala's evening\nmeal, which she refused to take from the new Sittie because she had\noffended her small majesty a few minutes before by allowing another baby\nto share the lap of which Sarala wished to have complete possession; and\nthe baby had crawled off disgusted with the ways of such a Sittie.\n\nAs a rule we avoid collisions at bedtime. The day should end peacefully\nfor babies; but the contest once begun had to be carried through, for\nSarala is not a baby to whom it is wise to give in where a conflict of\nwills is concerned. Next morning it was evident she remembered all about\nit. When the new Sittie (now called Prema Sittie by the children)[C]\ncame to the nursery, Sarala hurried off and would have nothing to do\nwith her. From the distance of the garden she would catch sight of her\nadvancing form, and retreat round a corner. Sometimes if Prema Sittie\nsat down on the floor and fondled another baby, Sarala would crawl up\nfrom behind, put her arms round her neck, and even begin to sit down on\nher knee; but if her Sittie made the first advance, she was instantly\nrepelled. This continued for a fortnight; and as Sarala was only a year\nand eight months old at the time, a fortnight's memory rather astonished\nus. In the end she forgot, and now there are no more devoted friends\nthan Prema Sittie and Sarala.\n\nBut it was the other Sittie, Piria Sittie by name,[D] who first made\nSarala's acquaintance. She and I went to Neyoor together when the branch\nnursery was there; and as the new nursery was almost ready for the\nbabies, we lightened the immense undertaking of removal by carting off\nwhatever we could of furniture and infants. Sarala has eyes which can\nsmile bewitchingly, and a voice which can coo with delicious affection;\nbut those sweet eyes can look stormy, and cooing is a sound remote from\nSarala's powers in opposite directions; so we wondered, as we packed her\ninto the bandy, what would happen that night. If we had known Sarala\nbetter we should not have wondered. All this child wants to make her\ngood is someone to hold on to. She woke frequently during the night, for\nwe were not entirely comfortable, wedged sideways and close as herrings\nin a barrel. But all she did when she awoke was to push a soft little\narm round either one or other of us, and cuddle as close as she possibly\ncould; the least movement on our part, however, she deeply resented and\nfeared. A limpet on a rock is nothing to this baby. Her very toes can\ncling.\n\nSarala's private name is Pickles. Her twin in mischief is Puck, and she,\ntoo, is fond of paying visits to the bungalow. But she always comes as a\nsurprise; she never announces herself. You are busy with your back to\nthe door when that curious feeling, a sense of not being quite alone,\ncomes over you, and you turn and see an elfish thing, very still and\nsmall and shy, but with eyes so comical that Puck is the only possible\nname by which she could be called. Seen unexpectedly, playing among the\nflowers in a fragment of green garment washed to the softness of a\ntulip leaf, you feel she only needs a pair of small wings and a wand to\nbe entirely in character.\n\nPuck has none of Pickles' faults, and a good many of her virtues. She is\na most good-tempered little person, loving to be loved, but equally\ndelighted that others should share the petting. She gives up to\neverybody, and smiles her way through life; such a comical little mouth\nit is, to match the comical eyes. All she ever asks with insistence is\nsomewhere to play. Bereft of room to play, Puck might become\ndisagreeable, though a disagreeable Puck is something unimaginable.\nYesterday it was needful to keep her in the shade; and as a special\npoliceman-nurse could not be told off to keep watch over her, she was\ntied by a long string to the nursery door. At first she was sorely\ndistressed; but presently the comic side struck her, and she sat down\nand began to tie herself up more securely. If they do such things at all\nthey should do them better, she seemed to think. And this is Puck all\nthrough. She will find the laugh hidden in things, if she can. Sometimes\nin her eagerness to make everybody as happy as she is herself she gets\ninto serious trouble. She was hardly able to walk when she was\ndiscovered comforting a crying infant by taking a bottle of milk from an\nolder babe (who, according to her thinking, had had enough) and giving\nit to the younger one who seemed to need it more. What the older baby\nsaid is not recorded.\n\nPuck in trouble is a pitiful sight. She tries not to give in to feelings\nof depression. She screws her smiling lips tight, twists her face into a\npucker, and shuts her eyes till you only see two slits marked by the\ncurly eyelashes. But if her emotions are too much for her she gives\nherself up to them thoroughly. There is no whining or whimpering or\nsulking; she wails with a wail that rivals Pickles' howl. \"What an awful\nchild!\" remarked a visitor one morning, in a very shocked tone, as she\nwent the round of the nurseries and came upon Puck on the floor\nabandoned to grief. We wondered if our friend knew how much more awful\nmost babies are, and we wished the usually charming Puck had chosen some\nother moment to disgrace herself and us. But no, there she sat, her two\nsmall fists crushed over her mouth--for we insist that when the babes\nfeel obliged to cry, they shall smother the sound thereof as much as may\nbe--and the visitor retired, feeling, doubtless, thankful the awful\nchild was not hers. But Puck's griefs are of short duration. Ten minutes\nlater she was climbing the chain from which the swing hangs, trying to\nfit her little toes into the links, and laughing, with the tears still\nwet on her cheeks, because the chain shook so that she could not climb\nit properly, though she tried it valiantly, hand over head, like a\ndancing bear on a pole. Puck's Guardian Angel, like Chellalu's, must be\never in attendance.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[B] Miss Lucy Ross.\n\n[C] \"Prema\" means _Beloved_.\n\n[D] Miss Mabel Wade, who joined us November 15, 1907. \"Piria,\" like\n\"Prema,\" means _Beloved_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nThe Howler\n\n\nPICKLES and Puck at their worst and both together are nothing to the\nHowler in her separate capacity. We called her the Howler because she\nhowled.\n\nWe heard of her first through our good Pakium, who, during a pilgrimage\nround the district, paid a visit to the family of which she was the\nyoungest member. \"She lay in her cradle asleep\"--Pakium kindled over\nit--\"like an innocent little flower, and she once opened her eyes--such\neyes!--and smiled up in my face. Oh, like a flower is the babe!\" And\nmuch speech followed, till we pictured a tender, flower-like baby, all\nsweetness and smiles.\n\nHer story was such as to suggest fears, though on the surface things\nlooked safe. Her grandfather, a fine old man, head of the house, was\nsheltering the baby and her mother and three other children; for the\nson-in-law had \"gone to Colombo,\" which in this case meant he desired to\nbe free from the responsibilities of wife and family. He had left no\naddress, and had not written after his departure. So the old man had the\nfive on his hands. A Temple woman belonging to a famous South-country\nTemple, knowing the circumstances, had made a flattering offer for the\nbaby, then just three months old. The grandfather had refused; but the\ngrandmother was religious, and she felt the pinch of the extra five, and\nsecretly influenced her daughter, so that it was probable the Temple\nwoman would win if she waited long enough. And Temple women know how to\nwait.\n\n[Illustration: THE DOHNAVUR COUNTRY IN FLOOD.]\n\nA year passed quietly. We had friends on the watch, and they kept us\ninformed of what was going on. The idea of dedication was becoming\ngradually familiar to the grandfather, and he was ill and times were\nhard. But still we could do nothing, for to himself and his whole clan\nadoption by Christians was a far more unpleasant alternative than\nTemple-dedication. After all, the Temple people never break caste.\n\nOnce a message reached us: \"Send at once, for the Temple women are about\nto get the baby\"; and we sent, but in vain. A few weeks later a similar\nmessage reached us; and again the long journey was made, and again there\nwas the disappointing return empty-handed. It seemed useless to try any\nmore.\n\nAbout that time a comrade in North Africa, Miss Lilias Trotter, sent us\nher new little booklet, \"The Glory of the Impossible.\" As we read the\nfirst few paragraphs and roughly translated them for our Tamil\nfellow-workers, such a hope was created within us that we laid hold with\nfresh faith and a sort of quiet, confident joy. And yet, when we wrote\nto our friends who were watching, their answer was most discouraging.\nThe only bright word in the letter was the word \"Impossible.\"\n\n\"Far up in the Alpine hollows, year by year, God works one of His\nmarvels. The snow-patches lie there, frozen into ice at their edges from\nthe strife of sunny days and frosty nights; and through that ice-crust\ncome, unscathed, flowers in full bloom.\n\n\"Back in the days of the bygone summer the little soldanella plant\nspread its leaves wide and flat on the ground to drink in the\nsun-rays; and it kept them stored in the root through the winter. Then\nspring came and stirred its pulses even below the snow-shroud. And as it\nsprouted, warmth was given out in such strange measure that it thawed a\nlittle dome of the snow above its head. Higher and higher it grew, and\nalways above it rose the bell of air till the flower-bud formed safely\nwithin it; and at last the icy covering of the air-bell gave way and let\nthe blossom through into the sunshine, the crystalline texture of its\nmauve petals sparkling like the snow itself, as if it bore the traces of\nthe fight through which it had come.\n\n\"And the fragile things ring an echo in our hearts that none of the\njewel-like flowers nestled in the warm turf on the slopes below could\nwaken. We love to see the impossible done, and so does God.\"\n\nThese were the sentences which we read together. To the South Indian\nimagination Alpine snow is something quite inconceivable; but the\npicture on the cover and snow-scene photographs helped, and the Indian\nmind is ever quick to apprehend the spiritual, so the booklet did its\nwork.\n\nWe have two seasons here, the wet and the dry. The dry is subdivided\ninto hot, hotter, and hottest; but the wet stands alone. It is a time\nwhen the country round Dohnavur is swamp or lake according to the level\nof the ground; and we do not expect visitors--the heavy bullock-carts\nsink in the mud and make the way too difficult. If a letter had come\njust then asking us to send for the baby, we should certainly have tried\nto go; but no letter came, and it was then, when everything said,\n\"Impossible,\" that suddenly all resistance gave way and the grandfather\nsaid: \"Let her go to the Christians.\"\n\n[Illustration: PAKIUM AND NAVEENA.]\n\nWe were sitting round the dinner-table one wet evening, thinking of\nnothing more exciting than the flying and creeping creatures which\ninsisted upon drowning themselves in our soup, when the jingle of\nbullock-bells made us look at each other incredulously; and then,\nwithout waiting to wonder who it was, we all ran out and met Rukma\nrunning in from the wet darkness. \"It's it! it's it!\" she cried, and\ndanced into the dining-room, decorum thrown to the pools in the\ncompound. \"Look at it!\" and we saw a bundle in her arms. And it howled.\n\nFrom that day on for nearly a week it continued consistently to howl. We\ncalled the little thing Naveena, for the name means \"new\"; and it was\nour nearest approach to Soldanella, which we should have called her if\nwe did not keep to Indian names for our babies. New and fresh as that\nlittle flower of joy, so was our new little gift to us, a new token for\ngood. But flowers and howlers--the words draw their little skirts aside\nand refuse to touch each other. From certain points of view, in this\ncase as so often, the sublime and the ridiculous were much too close\ntogether. The very crows made remarks about the baby when she wakened\nthe morning with her howls. Mercifully for the family's nerves she fell\nasleep at noon; but as soon as she woke she began again, and went on\ntill both she and we were exhausted. There were no tears, the big dark\neyes were only entirely defiant; and the baby stood straight up with her\nhands behind her back and her mouth open--that was all. But we knew it\nmeant pure misery, though expressed so very aggressively; and we coaxed\nand petted when she would allow us, and won her confidence at last, and\nthen she stopped.\n\nIt took months to tame the little thing. She had been allowed to do\nexactly as she liked; for she was her grandfather's pet, and no one\nmight cross her will. We had to go very gently; but eventually she\nunderstood and became a dear little girl, reserved but very\naffectionate, and scampish to such a degree that Chellalu, discerning a\ncongenial spirit, decided to adopt her as \"her friend.\"\n\nThis fact was announced to us at the babies' Bible-class, when the word\n\"friend,\" which was new to the babies, was being explained. It has four\nsyllables in Tamil, and the babies love four-syllabled words. They were\nrolling this juicy morsel under their tongues with sounds of\nappreciation, when Chellalu pointed across to Naveena, and with an air\nof possession remarked, \"_She_ is my friend.\" The other babies nodded\ntheir heads, \"Yes, Naveena is Chellalu's friend!\" Naveena looked\nflattered and very pleased.\n\nThese friends in a kindergarten class are rather terrible. They are\nalways separated--as the Tamil would say, if one sits north the other\nsits south--but even so there are means of communication. This morning,\npassing the door of the kindergarten room, I looked in and saw something\nnot included in the time-table. We have a little yellow bellflower here\nwhich grows in great profusion; and some vandal taught the babies to\nblow it up like a little balloon, and then snap it on the forehead. The\ncrack it makes is delightful. We do not like this game, and try to teach\nthe babies to respect the pretty flowers; but there are so many sins in\nthe world, that we do not make another by actually forbidding it; we\ntrust to time and sense and good feeling to help us. So it comes to pass\nthat the worst scamps indulge in this game without feeling too guilty;\nand now I saw Chellalu with a handful of the flowers, cracking them at\nintervals, to the distraction of the teacher and the delight of all the\nclass. One other was cracking flowers too. It was Naveena, and there was\na method in her cracks. When Rukma turned to Chellalu, Naveena cracked\nher flower. When she turned to Naveena, then Chellalu cracked hers. How\nthey had eluded the search which precedes admission to the kindergarten\nnobody knew; but there they were, each with a goodly handful of bells.\nAt a word from Rukma, however, they handed them over to her with an\nindulgent smile, and even offered to search the other babies in case\nthey had secreted any; and as I left the room the lesson continued as\nbefore, but the friends' intention was evident: they had hoped to be\nturned out together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nThe Neyoor Nursery\n\n \"The roads are rugged, the precipices steep; there\n may be feelings of dizziness on the heights, gusts\n of wind, peals of thunder, nights of awful gloom.\n Fear them not!\n\n \"There are also the joys of sunlight, flowers such\n as are not in the plain, the purest of air,\n restful nooks, and the stars smile thence like the\n eyes of God.\"--PERE DIDON (_translated by Rev.\n Arthur G. Nash_).\n\n\n[Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO NEYOOR.]\n\nAND now for a chapter of history. We had not been long at the new work\nbefore we discovered difficulties unimagined before, and impossible to\ndescribe in detail. Some of these concerned the health of the younger\nchildren; and eventually it seemed best to move the infants' nursery to\nwithin reach of medical help, and keep the bigger babies and elder\nchildren, whose protection was another grave anxiety, with us at\nDohnavur.\n\nShortly before that time we had been brought into touch with the medical\nmissionaries at Neyoor, in South Travancore. The senior missionary, Dr.\nFells, was about to retire; but his successor, Dr. Bentall, cordially\nagreed to let us rent a little house in the village and fill it with\nbabies, though he knew such a houseful might materially add to the\nfulness of his already overflowing day. He, and afterwards Dr. Davidson\n(now the only survivor at Neyoor of that kind trio of doctors), seemed\nto think nothing a trouble if only it helped a friend. So the little\nhouse was taken and the babies installed.\n\n[Illustration: ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF NAGERCOIL, WHERE WE STOPPED TO REST.]\n\nThe first day, September 25, 1905, is a day to be remembered. I had gone\non before to prepare the house, and for a day and a half waited in\nuncertainty as to what had happened to the little party which was to\nhave followed close behind. I had left one baby ill. She was the first\nchild sent to us from the Canarese country; and I thought of the friends\nwho had sent her, newly interested and stirred to seek these little\nones, and of what it would mean of discouragement to them if she were\ntaken, and my heart held on for her.\n\nAt last the carts appeared in sight. It was the windy season, and six\ncarts had been overturned on the road, so they had travelled slowly.\nThen a wheel came off one of their carts and an accident was narrowly\naverted. This had caused the delay. The baby about whom I had feared had\nrecovered in time to be sent on. She was soon quite well, and has\ncontinued well from that day to this.\n\nHow familiar the road between Dohnavur and Neyoor became to us, as the\nmonths passed and frequent journeys were made with little new babies!\nSometimes those journeys were very wearisome. There was great heat, or a\ndust-laden wind filled the bandy to suffocation and blew out the\nspirit-lamp when we stopped to prepare the babies' food. How glad we\nused to be when, in the early evening, the white gleam of the stretch of\nwater outside Nagercoil appeared in sight! We used to stop and bathe the\nbabies, and feed them under some convenient trees, and then go on to our\nfriends with whom we were to spend the night, trusting that the soothing\neffect of the bathe and food would not pass off until after our arrival.\nThose friends, our comrades of the L.M.S., like the Medicals at\nNeyoor, seemed made of kindness. How often their welcome has rested us\nafter the long day!\n\nNext morning we tried to start early, so as to arrive at Neyoor before\nthe sun shone in fever-threatening strength straight in through the open\nend of the cart. This plan, however, proved too difficult, so we found\nit better to travel slowly straight on from Dohnavur to Neyoor. In this\nway we missed the blazing sun; but we also missed the refreshment of our\nfriends at Nagercoil, and arrived more or less tired out, after a\njourney which, because of slow progress and frequent stops, was equal in\ntime to one from London to Marseilles. But the welcome at the nursery\nmade up for everything.\n\nHow vividly the photograph recalls it! The house opened upon the main\nstreet of the village, and there was nearly always a watcher on the\nlook-out for us. Sometimes it was Isaac, our good man-of-all-work, who\nnever failed Ponnamal through the two years he was with us. Then we\nwould hear a call, and Ponnamal (we used to call her the Princess, but\ndignity gives place to something more human at such moments) would come\nflying down the path with a face which made words superfluous. Then\nthere was the scramble out of the bandy, and the handing down of babies\nand exclamations about them; and all the nurses seemed to be kissing us\nat once and making their amazed babies kiss us, and everything was for\none happy moment bewilderingly delightful.\n\nThen there was the run round the cradles in which smaller babies were\nsleeping, and an eager comparing of notes as to the improvement of each.\nAnd if there were no improvement, how well one remembers the smothered\nsense of disappointment--smothered in public at least, lest the nurses\nshould be discouraged. Then came a cup of tea on the mat in the little\nfront room, where four white hammock-cradles hung, one in each corner;\nwhile Ponnamal sat beside me with three babies on her knee and two or\nthree more somewhere near her. The babies used to study me in their wise\nand serious fashion, and then make careful advances. And so we would\nmake friends.\n\nPonnamal had always much to tell about the exhaustless kindness of the\ndoctors and their wives and the lady superintendent of the hospital. And\nthe chief Tamil medical Evangelist had been true to his name, which\nmeans Blessedness. Once, in much distress of mind, we sent a little babe\nto the nursery, hardly daring to hope for her. When she arrived, the\ndoctors were both away on tour, and the medical Evangelist was in\ncharge. He attended to her at once, and by God's grace upon his work was\nable to relieve the little child, who has prospered ever since.\n\nBut I must leave unrecorded many acts of helpfulness. In those early\ndays of doubt and difficulty, almost forgotten by us now, we beckoned to\nour \"partners which were in the other ship,\" and their Master and ours\nwill not forget how they held out willing hands and helped us.\n\nIt was not always plain sailing, even at Neyoor. \"You are fighting Satan\nat a point upon which he is very sensitive; he will not leave you long\nin peace,\" wrote an experienced friend. On Palm Sunday, 1907, our first\nlittle band of young girls, fruit of this special work, confessed Christ\nin baptism, and we stood by the shining reach of water, and tasted of a\njoy so pure and thrilling that nothing of earth may be likened to it. A\nfortnight later we were ordered to the hills, and then the trouble came.\n\nThe immediate cause was overcrowding. Why did we overcrowd?\n\nFriends at home to whom the facts about Temple service were new, were\nstirred to earnest prayer. Out here fellow-missionaries helped us to\nsave the children. God heard the prayer and blessed the work, and\nchildren began to come. Soon our one little room became too full. We had\nbabies in the bungalow and on our verandah, babies everywhere. Then\nmoney came to build two more rooms, but they were soon too full. At\nNeyoor the pressure was worse, for we could only rent two small houses;\nand though we put up mat shelters, and the children lived as much as\npossible in the open air, it was difficult to manage. But how could we\nrefuse the little children? The Temple women were ready to take them if\nwe had refused. Their houses are never too full. There was no other\nnursery to which they could be sent. Little children who had passed the\ntroublesome infant stage could sometimes find a home elsewhere; but only\nthe Temple houses were open at all times to babies. Could we have\nwritten to the friend who had saved a little child: \"Hand her back to\nthe Temple. It is the will of our Father that this little one should\nperish\"? Should we have done it? We dare not do it. We prayed that help\nwould be sent to build new nurseries, and we went on and did our best;\nbut it was difficult.\n\nWe had just reached the hills in early April, and were forbidden to\nreturn, when news reached us of a fatal epidemic of dysentery which had\nbroken out in the Neyoor nursery. Unseasonable rains had fallen and\ndriven the babies indoors; this increased the overcrowding. The doctors\nwere away. Letters telling us about the disaster had been lost--how, we\nnever knew--so that the second which reached us, taking it for granted\nwe had the first, gave no details, only the names of the smitten\nbabes--nineteen of them, and five dead. Then trouble followed trouble.\n\"While he was yet speaking, there came also another.\" Some evil men who\nhad sought to injure us before, caused us infinite anxiety. And for a\ntime that cannot be counted in days or in weeks it was like living\nthrough a nightmare, when everything happens in painful confusion and\nthe sense of oppression is complete.\n\n[Illustration: THE NEYOOR NURSERY.]\n\nOut of the maelstrom came a letter from Ponnamal. \"We are being\ncomforted,\" she wrote. \"You will be longing to come to us, but oh, do\nnot come! If you were here all your strength would be given to fighting\nthis battle with death, and you would have no strength left for prayer.\nGod wanted to have one of us free to pray; and so He has taken you up to\nthe mountain, as He took Moses when the people were fighting down in the\nplain.\" This was the true inward meaning of it all, and I knew it. But\nPonnamal is far from strong, and I feared for her; and to stay away with\nthe babies ill--it was the very hardest thing I had ever been asked to\ndo.\n\nWhen the trouble passed there were ten in heaven. One, a little child of\ntwo, had been saved so wonderfully from Temple dedication that we had\nlooked forward to a future of special blessing for her; and another was\na very lovely babe, dear to the missionary who, after much toil and many\ndisappointments, had been comforted by saving her. Each of the ten had\ncost someone much. But this is an earthly point of view. They had cost\nHim most who had taken them, and he is only an owner in name who has no\nright to do as he will with his own.\n\nThe other side, the purely human side, pressed heavily just then. The\ndoctors had most kindly at once ordered a mission room, vacated at that\nseason, to be lent to the nursery, and another little house was taken\nfor the month. How Ponnamal kept all four houses going in an orderly\nfashion, how she kept her nurses together through that time of almost\npanic, and how she herself, frail and delicate as she is, kept up till\nall was over, we cannot understand from any point of view but the\nDivine. She only broke down once. It was when her dearest child, our\nmerry, beautiful little Heart's Joy, who, having more strength than\nmost, had battled longer and almost recovered, suddenly sank. The\nvisible cause was that a special nutrient, which, being costly, we\nstocked in small quantities, ran short, and the fresh supply reached the\nnursery just too late. \"If only it had come yesterday!\" moaned Ponnamal,\nand we with her when we heard of the series of contretemps which had\ndelayed its arrival. The torture of second causes is as the blackness of\ndarkness, but the Lord gave deliverance from it; for just as she had to\npart with all that was left her of our little Heart's Joy, a letter came\nfrom Dr. Davidson which was God's own blessed comfort to a heart almost\nbroken. She never refers to that letter without the quick tears\nstarting. \"I could let my little treasure go after I read that letter.\nIt strengthened me.\"\n\nWhile all this was going on in Neyoor, Chellalu, then just two years\nold, was very ill in Dohnavur. Mr. and Mrs. Walker were still there, and\nthey nursed her night and day; but at last a letter came, evidently\nmeant to prepare me for fresh sorrow. \"Every little lamb belongs to the\nGood Shepherd, not to us,\" the letter said, and told of a temperature\n106 deg. and rising. The child, all spirit and frolic, had little reserve\nstrength, and there was not much cause for hope. But we were spared this\nparting. Chellalu is with us still.\n\nThe sky was clearing again and we were beginning to breathe freely, when\nthe worst that had ever touched us in all our years of work came\nsuddenly upon us. How small things that affect the body appear when the\npoint of attack wheels round to the soul! The death of all the babies\nseemed as nothing compared with the falling away of one soul. But God is\nthe God of the waves and the billows, and they are still His when they\ncome over us; and again and again we have proved that the overwhelming\nthing does not overwhelm. Once more by His interposition deliverance\ncame. We were cast down, but not destroyed.\n\nA time of calm succeeded this storm. Money came to build nurseries at\nDohnavur, and buy more of the special nutrients we so much required. The\nNeyoor remnant picked up, and the nurses took heart again. I went out to\nthem as soon as I could after our return from the hills, and found those\nwho were left well and strong. \"They shall see His face\" had been the\ntext in _Daily Light_, the evening the news reached me of the little\nprocession heavenwards. I looked at the ten names written in the margin\nof my book; and, recalling the story of each, could be glad they have\nseen the face of the One who loves them best. Lower down on the page\ncome the words, \"We shall be satisfied.\" We thought of our babies\nsatisfied so soon; and then we knelt together and said, \"Even so,\nFather: for so it seemeth good in Thy sight.\"\n\nPretty pictures all in colours and bright sunshine tempt one to linger\nover that visit. I can see the white hammocks slung from the trees in\nthe nursery compound, and happy baby-faces looking out of them. And\nanother shows me one who had been like a sister to Ponnamal, lightening\nher load whenever she could; sitting with two dear babies in her arms,\nand another clinging round her neck. \"She comes and helps us often in\nthe mornings when we are very busy,\" said Ponnamal about the doctor's\nwife, as I noticed the babies' affection for her and her sweet, kind\nways with them. \"Sometimes when I am feeling down and home-sick, she\ncomes in like this and plays with the babies, and cheers us all up.\" The\nIndian woman is very home-loving. Only devotion to the children could\nhave kept the nurses and Ponnamal so long in exile for their sake; and\nthere were times when even Ponnamal's brave heart sank. Then these\nlove-touches helped.\n\nWhen the time came for the nursery party to leave Neyoor and return to\nDohnavur, after two and a half years in that hospitable mission, we were\nsorry to part. Days like the days we had passed through test the stuff\nof which souls are made, and they prove what we call friendship. After\nthe fire has spent itself, the fine gold shines out purified, and there\nis something solemn in its light. We had grown close to our friends in\nNeyoor; but the cloud had moved, so far as we could read the sign, and\nit seemed right to return. The missionaries were away when the day came,\nbut the Christians surrounded Ponnamal with tokens of goodwill. \"The\nnursery has been like a little light in our midst,\" they said; and this\nword cheered her more than all other words. And so farewelled, they\narrived home, all glad and warm with the glow that comes when hearts\nmeet each other and each finds the other kind.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nIn the Compound and Near it\n\n\n[Illustration: THE OLD NURSERY. THE \"ROOM OF JOY.\"]\n\n\"NOW I know why God put you in Dohnavur when He wanted this work done.\nHe hid you from the eyes of the world for the little children's sake. He\nknew this work could never have been done by the road-side, so He hid\nyou.\"\n\nThe speaker was a Christian friend from Palamcottah, an Indian lawyer\nwho, for the first time, had come out to see us. He had found our\napproaches appalling, and had wondered at first why we lived in such an\nout-of-the-way place, three or four miles from the nearest road, and\ntwenty-four from civilisation. When he saw the children he understood.\nLater, he helped us in an attempt to save two little ones in danger, and\ninsisted not only upon paying his own and our worker's expenses, but in\nsending us a gift for the nurseries. With the gift came a letter full of\nloving, Indian sympathy; and again he added as before: \"The Lord hid you\nin that quiet place for the little children's sake.\" Sometimes when the\ninconveniences of jungle life press upon us, we remember our friend's\nwords: \"This work could never have been done by the road-side, so He hid\nyou.\"\n\nWe have children with us who would not have been safe for a day had we\nlived near a large town or near a railway. The stretch of open country\nbetween us and Palamcottah (the Church Missionary Society centre of the\nTinnevelly district), to cover which, by bullock-cart, takes as long as\nto travel from London to Brussels, is not considered very safe for\nsolitary Indian travellers, as the robber clan frequent it, and this is\nan added protection for the children. Several times, to our knowledge,\nunwelcome visitors have been deterred from making a raid upon us, by the\nrumour of the robbers on the road. We are also most mercifully quite out\nof the beat of the ordinary exploiter of missions; few except the really\nkeen care for such a journey; so that we get on with our work\nuninterrupted by anything but the occasional arrival of welcome friends\nand comrades. These, when they visit us for the first time, are usually\nmuch astonished to find something almost civilised out in the wilds, and\nthey walk round with an air of surprise, and quite inspiring\nappreciation, being kindly pleased with little, because they had looked\nfor less.\n\n[Illustration: THE COURTYARD.]\n\nThe compound in which the nurseries are built is a field, bounded on\nthree sides by fields, and on the fourth by the bungalow compound. The\nWestern Ghauts with their foothills make it a beautiful place.\n\nThe buildings are not beautiful. With us, as elsewhere, doubtless, even\nthe break of a gable in the straight, barn-like roof makes a difference\nin the estimate, and we have never had a margin for luxuries. But the\nwalls are coloured a soft terra-cotta, the roofs are a dull red; while\nthe porches (hidden by the palm trunks in the photograph) are a mass of\ngreenery and bloom; and the garden at the moment of writing is rejoicing\nin over a hundred lilies, brilliant yellow and flame colour, each head\nwith its many flowers rising separate and radiant in the sunshine. Then\nwe have oleanders, crimson and pink and white, and little young hibiscus\ntrees, crimson and rose and cream. The arches in the new nursery\ngarden are covered with the lilac of morning-glory; and the Prayer-room\nin the middle of the garden is a mass of violet passion-flower, the\npretty pink antigone, and starry jessamine. The very hedges at this\nseason are out in yellow flower, and a trellis round the nursery kitchen\nis a delight of colour; so though our buildings are simple, we think the\nlines have fallen unto us in pleasant places.\n\nThe first picture shows the old nursery, used now for the kindergarten.\nIt opens off the courtyard shown in the second photo. This courtyard\nserves as an open-air room, a bright little place which is filled with\nmerrier children than the sober photograph shows. Tamils old and young\nmove when they laugh or even smile; in fact they wriggle. Being still,\nwith them, meant being seriously subdued; and so, where time-exposures\nwere required, we had to choose between solemn photos, or no photos at\nall.\n\nOpening off the courtyard on the opposite side to the kindergarten is a\nroom used as a store-room and Bible-class room combined. It was so very\nuncomfortable that last Christmas, as a surprise for the children, we\ndivided the room into two halves with a curtain between. Their half is\nmade pretty with pictures and texts, painted in blue on pale brown wood.\nThe children call this part of the room the Tabernacle. The part beyond\nthe curtain is the court of the Gentiles.\n\nThe Coming-Day Feasts are a feature of Dohnavur life. Now that there are\nso many feasts to celebrate, we find it more convenient to combine; and\nthe photograph overleaf shows as much as it can of one such happy feast.\nThe children who are being feted are distinguished from the others by\nhaving flowers in their hair. No Indian feast is complete without\nflowers. Jessamine is the favourite, but the prettiest wreaths are made\nof pink oleander; and sometimes a girl will surprise us with a new and\nlovely combination, as of brown flowering grasses and yellow Tecoma\nbells.\n\n[Illustration: A COMING-DAY FEAST.]\n\nOpposite the kindergarten room is the first of the two new\nnurseries--the lively Parrot-house. This nursery, really the Taraha\n(Star, called after its English giver, whose name means \"star\") is the\nabode of the middle-aged babies, aged between two years and four. Most\nof these attend the kindergarten, and are very proud of the fact.\n\nThe Premalia nursery (Abode of Love), given by two friends in memory of\na mother translated, lies beyond the Taraha. Here the tiny infants live,\nand we call it the Menagerie. This nursery, like the other, looks out on\nthe glorious mountains. If beautiful things can make babies good, ours\nshould be very good.\n\nOn the eastern side of the field we have lately built two small\nsick-rooms, used oftener as overflow nurseries. These little rooms have\nnames meaning \"peace\" and \"tranquillity\"; and those of us who have lived\nin them with our babies, sick or well, find the names appropriate. In\nthe foreground there is a garden, in the background the mountain; and to\ngive purpose to it all, the foreground is full of life. A new nursery\nnow being built is a welcome gift from Australia; and a new field with a\nnoble tree, in whose shade a hundred children could play, is the gift of\na friend who stayed with us for one bright week last year.\n\nAll this is a later development, unthought of when our artist friend was\nwith us. We have often wished for him since the nurseries filled. When\nhe was with us our choice of subject was very limited: now, wherever we\nlook we see pictures, which to be properly caught ask for colour\nphotography.\n\nThe story of these buildings is the story of the Ravens, so old and yet\nso new. When first the work began, we had only one mud-floored room for\nnursery, kitchen, bedroom, and everything else that was needed. We\nhardly knew ourselves whereunto things would grow, and feared to run\nbefore the Lord by even a prayer for buildings. And yet we could not go\non as we were. The birds were soon too many for the nest, and we needed\nmore nests. No one knew of our need; for visitors at that time were few\nat Dohnavur, and we told no one. But money began to come. We ventured on\na single room without a verandah or even foundations--built of sun-dried\nbricks as inexpensively as possible. But it was a palace to us. While we\nwere building it, more little children came. We felt we should need more\nroom, but had not more money; so we told the builders to wait for a day\nwhile we gave ourselves to prayer about the matter. Was the work going\nto grow much more? We were fearful of making mistakes. Were we right to\nincur fresh responsibility?--for buildings need to be kept in condition,\nand the cheaper they are the more care they need. No one at home was\nresponsible for us. No one had authorised this new work. It would not be\nfair to saddle those on whom the burden might eventually fall with\nresponsibilities for which they were not responsible. And yet surely the\nwork of saving these little children had been given to us to do? Someone\nwas responsible. Surely, unless we were utterly wrong and had mistaken\nthe Shepherd's Voice, surely He was responsible! He could not mean us to\nsearch for the lambs for whom only the wolves had been searching, and\nthen leave them out in the open, found but unfolded, or packed so close\nin the little fold that they could not grow as little lambs should?\n\nWe rolled the burden off that day as to the ultimate responsibility, and\nwe asked definitely for all that was needed to build another room.\n\nThree days later a registered letter came from a bank in Madras. It\ncontained an anonymous gift of one hundred rupees, and was marked, \"For\na new nursery.\" The date showed that it had been posted in Madras on the\nday of our waiting upon God for guidance as to His wishes. A few days\nlater, the same amount, with the same direction as to its use, was sent\nto us from the same bank. The giver, as we knew long afterwards, was a\nfellow-missionary in Tinnevelly, whose order to send these sums to us\nwas given before even we ourselves had fully understood the meaning of\nthe leading. The second room was built on to the first, and the children\ncalled it the Room of Joy.\n\n[Illustration: THE RED LAKE.\n\nWater Palms, with Mountains in the background.]\n\nThere are no secrets in India. The Hindu masons were amazed at what they\nat once recognised as the hand of the Lord upon the work, and they\nspread the story everywhere. Later, when they built the nursery where\npoor little Mala stood and mourned, they understood why they had to stop\nbefore the verandah was built. Only enough was in hand to build the bare\nroom; but to their eyes, as to ours, a verandah was much needed, and\nthey were content to wait till what was required for one came. In this\nland of blazing sunshine and drenching monsoon a house without a\nverandah is hardly habitable, and a small square room without one has a\nManx-cat appearance.\n\nThe story of the rooms has been repeated in the story of the work ever\nsince. \"Do not thank us. It is only a belated tenth,\" wrote a\nfellow-missionary not long ago, as she sent a gift for the nurseries.\nBelated tenths have reached us sometimes when they have been like\nvisible ravens flying straight from the blue above. All the long\njourneys in search of the children, all the expenses connected with\ntheir salvation, all that has been required to provide nurses and food\n(including the special nourishment without which the more delicate could\nnot live at all), all that is now being needed for their education--all\nhas come and is coming as the ravens came to Elijah. The work has\nbeen a revelation of how many hearts are sensitive and obedient to\nthe touch of the Spirit; for sometimes help has reached us in such a way\nand in such form that we could not but stand and worship, awestruck by\nthe token of the nearness of our God. There is many a spot marked in\ngarden or in field or in the busy nursery or our own quiet room, where,\nwith the open letter in our hand--the letter of relief from a pressure\nunknown even to the nearest fellow-worker--we have knelt in spirit with\nJacob and said: \"Surely the Lord is in this place!\" and almost added, so\ndense are we in unilluminated moments, \"and I knew it not.\"\n\nFramed between red roofs and foliage, there are far blue glimpses of\nmountains shown in this lakeside photograph. We do not see the water\nfrom the compound. It lies on the other side of the boundary fields and\nhedges; but we see the mountains with perfect distinctness of outline,\nscarped with bare crags, which in the early morning are sometimes pink,\nand in the evening, purple. But the time to see the mountains in their\nglory is when the south-west monsoon is flinging its masses of cloud\nacross to us. Then the mountains, waking from the lazy sleep of the\nlong, hot months, catch the clouds on their pointed fangs, toss them\nback and harry them, wrap themselves up in robes of them, and go to\nsleep again.\n\nThe road that skirts the Red Lake leads through two ancient Hindu towns,\nfrom both of which we have children saved, in each case as by a miracle.\nIn the first of these old towns there is a Temple surrounded by a mighty\nwall.\n\nThere are two large gates and one small side door in the wall; and,\npassing in through the small side door, one sees another wall almost as\nstrong as the first, and realises something of the power that built it.\nThe Temple is in the centre of the large enclosure. It is a single tower\nopening off the inner court. In the outer court a pillared hall is used\nas stable for the Temple elephant, and two camels lounge in the roughly\nkept garden in front. This Temple, with its double walls, its massive,\nsplendidly-carved doors and expensive animal life, is somewhat of a\nsurprise to the visitor, who hardly expects to see so much in a little\nold country town on the borders of the wilds. But Hinduism has not lost\nhold of this old remote India yet. There are some who think that the\ncountry town is the place to see it in strength.\n\n[Illustration: AT THE DOOR OF THE TEMPLE.]\n\nIt was early in August, three years ago, that we heard of a baby girl in\nthat town, devoted from birth to the god. We set wheels in motion, and\nwaited. A month passed and nothing was done. We could not go ourselves\nand attempt to persuade the mother to change the vow she had made, as\nany movement on our part would only have riveted the links that fettered\nthe child to the god. We had to be quiet and wait. At last, one evening\nin September, a Hindu arrived in the town with whom our friends who were\non the watch had intimate connection. He, too, knew about the child; and\nhe knew a way unknown to our friends by which the mother might be\ninfluenced, and he consented to try. His arrival just at that juncture\nappeared to us, who were waiting in daily expectation of an answer of\ndeliverance, as the evident beginning of that answer; thus our faith was\nquickened and we waited in keen hope. Two days later, after dark, there\nwas a rush from the nursery to the bungalow. \"The baby has come!\"\nAnother moment, and we were in the nursery. A woman--one of our\nfriends--was standing with what looked like a parcel wrapped in a cloth\nhidden under her arm. Even then, though all was safe, she was trembling;\nand outside, two men, her relations, stood on guard. She opened the\nwhite cloth, and inside was the baby.\n\nThe men assured us that all was right. The mother had been convinced\nof the wrongness of dedicating the little babe, and would give us no\ntrouble. But a day or two later, she came and demanded it back. She\ncould not stand the derision of her friends, who told her she had sinned\nfar more in giving her child to those who would break its caste than she\never could have done had she given it to the Temple. We pacified her\nwith difficulty, and were thankful when the little thing was safe in the\nNeyoor nursery. For in those days, before we learned how best to protect\nour children, we were often glad to have some place even more out of\nreach than Dohnavur.\n\nThe second of these old towns is famous for its rock, and its Temple\nbuilt into the rock. Looking down from above one can see inside the\ncourtyard as into an open well. Connected with this Temple, some years\nago, there was a beautiful young Temple woman, who had been given as a\nchild--as all Temple women must be--to the service of the gods. She had\nno choice as regarded herself--probably the idea of choice never entered\nher mind--but for her babe she determined to choose; and yet she knew of\nno way of deliverance.\n\nBut there was a way of deliverance, and if it had only been for this one\nchild's sake, and for the sake of the relief it must have been to that\nfear-haunted mother, we are glad with a gladness too deep for words that\nthe nursery was here. For the mother heard of it. There were lions in\nthe path. She quietly avoided them, and through others who were willing\nto help she sent her child to us. She herself would not come. She waited\na mile or so from the bungalow till the matter was concluded, then\nreturned to her home alone.\n\nA week later she appeared suddenly at the bungalow. It was only to make\nsure the little one was safe and well, and in order to sign a paper\nsaying she was wholly given to us. This done she disappeared again,\nrefusing speech with anyone, and for months we heard nothing of her.\nThen cholera swept our countryside, and we heard she had taken it and\ndied. We leave her to God her Creator, who alone knows all the story of\nher life: we only know enough to make us very silent. And through the\nquiet we hear as it were a voice that chants a fragment from an old\nhymn: \"We believe that THOU shalt come to be our Judge.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nFrom the Temple of the Rock\n\n\nANOTHER little girl who came from that same Temple of the Rock has a\nstory very different from the other, and far more typical.\n\nIt was on a blazing day in June, when the very air, tired of being hot,\nleaned heavily upon us, and we felt unequal to contest, that a cough\noutside my open door announced a visitor. \"Come in!\" Another cough, and\nI looked out and saw a shuffling form disappear round the corner of the\nhouse. I called again, and the figure turned. It was a man who had\nhelped us before, but about whose _bona-fides_ we had doubts; so we\nasked without much hopefulness what he had to tell us. He said he had\nreason to believe a certain Temple woman known to him had a child she\nmeant to dedicate to the god of a Temple a day's journey distant. Then\nhe paused. \"Do you know where she is now?\" \"She is on her way to the\nTemple.\" \"It would be well if she came here instead.\" \"If that is the\nAnimal's desire it may be possible to bring her.\" \"Has she gone far?\nCould you overtake her?\" \"She is waiting outside your gate.\"\n\nAt such a moment it is wise to show no surprise and no anxiety. All the\nburning eagerness must be covered up with coolness. But in the hour that\nintervened before the woman \"at the gate\" could be persuaded to come\nfurther, we quieted ourselves in the Lord our God and held on for the\nlittle child.\n\nAt last the shuffling step and the sound of voices told us they had\ncome--two women, the man, and a child. The child was a baby of something\nunder two, a sad-looking little thing, with great, dark, pathetic eyes\nlooking out from under limp brown curls. She was very pale and fragile;\nand when the woman who carried her set her down upon the floor and\npropped her against the wall, she leaned against it listlessly, with her\nlittle chin in her tiny hand, in a sorrowful, grown-up fashion. I longed\nto take her and nestle her comfortably; but, of course, took no notice\nof her. Any sign of pity or sympathy would have been misunderstood by\nthe women. All through the interminable talk upon which her fate\ndepended, that child sat wearily patient, making no demands upon anyone;\nonly the little head drooped, and the mouth grew pitiful in its complete\ndespondency.\n\nThe ways of the East are devious. The fact that the child had been\nbrought to us did not indicate a decision to give her to us instead of\nto the Temple. The woman and the man who had persuaded them to come had\nmuch to say to one another, and there was much we had to explain. A\nchild given to Temple service is not in all cases entirely cut off from\nher people. If the Temple woman's hold on her is sure, her relations are\nsometimes allowed to visit her; so far as friendly intercourse goes she\nis not lost to them. But with us things are different. For the child's\nown sake we have to refuse all intercourse whatever. Once given to us,\nshe is lost to them as if they had never had her. We adopt the little\none altogether or not at all.\n\nIt is a delicate thing to explain all this so clearly that there can be\nno misunderstanding about it, without so infuriating the relations that\nthey will have nothing more to do with us. Naturally their view-point is\nentirely different from ours, and they cannot appreciate our reasons.\nAt such a time we lean upon the Invisible, and count upon that\nsupernatural help which alone is sufficient for us; we count also upon\nthe prayers of those who know what it is to pray through all opposing\nforces, till the battle is won by faith which is the victory.\n\nIt was strange to watch the women as the talk went on. The _woman_\nwithin them had died, there was nothing of it left to which we could\nappeal; everything about them was perverted, unnatural. I looked at the\ninsensitive faces and then at the sensitive face of the child, and\nentered deeper than ever into the mercifulness of God's denunciations of\nsin.\n\nOnce towards the close of what had been a time of some tension, the\nleader of the two women suddenly sprang up, snatched at the tired baby,\nand flung out of the room with her. She had been gradually hardening;\nand I had felt rather than seen the shutting down of the prison-house\ngates upon that little soul, and had, as a last resource, appealed to\nthe sense, not wholly atrophied, the sense that recognises the\nsupernatural. God is, I told them briefly; God takes cognisance of what\nwe are and do: God will repay: some time, somewhere, God will punish\nsin. The arrow struck through to the mark. Startled, indignant,\noverwhelmed by the sweep of an awful conviction, with a passionate cry\nshe rushed away; and we lived through one breathless moment, but the\nnext saw the child dropped into our arms, safe at last.\n\nFacts about any matter of importance are usually other than at first\nstated; but we have reason to believe that in this instance our\nshuffling friend spoke the truth. The women were really on their way to\nthe Temple when he waylaid them. The wonder was that they allowed\nthemselves to be persuaded by him to come to us. But if nothing happened\nexcept what we might naturally expect would happen in this work, we\nmight as well give it up at once. If we did not expect our Jericho\nwalls to fall down flat, it would be foolish indeed to continue marching\nround them.\n\nIt was a relief when the women left the compound, after signing a paper\ncommitting the child to us. There is defilement in the mere thought of\nevil, but such close contact with it is a thing by itself. The sense of\ncontamination lasted for days; and yet would that we could go through it\nevery day if the result might be the same! For the child woke up to a\nnew life, and became what a child should be. At first it was very\npitiful. She would sit hour after hour as she had sat through that first\nhour, with her chin in hand, her eyes cast down, and the little mouth\npathetic. We found that, in accordance with a custom prevailing in the\ncoterie of Temple women belonging to the Temple of the Rock, she had\nbeen lent by her mother to another woman when she was an infant, the\nother lending her baby in exchange. This exchange had worked sadly; for\nthe little one had asked for something which had not been given her, and\nher two years had left her starved of love and experienced in\nloneliness. But when she came to us everything changed; for love and\nhappiness took her hands and led her back to baby ways, and taught her\nhow to laugh and play: and now there is nothing left to remind us of\nthose two first years but a certain droop of the little mouth when she\nfeels for the moment desolate, or wants some extra petting.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nYosepu\n\n\n\n[Illustration: THE WATER CARRIERS.]\n\nNO description of the compound would be complete without mention of\nYosepu, friend of the babies.\n\nThis photograph shows the Indian equivalent of pumps and water-pipes. We\nhave neither; so all the water required for a family of about a hundred\nhas to be drawn from the well and carried to the kitchens and nurseries.\nThe elder girls, who would otherwise help with the work, according to\nSouth Indian custom, are already fully employed with the babies. So at\npresent the men do it all. They also buy the grain and other\nfood-stuffs, look after the cows and vegetable garden--a necessity for\nthose who dwell far from markets--and in all other possible masculine\nways are of service to the family.\n\nChief of these men is Yosepu, whose seamed and wrinkled and most\nexpressive face I wish we had photographed, instead of this not very\ninteresting string of solemnities.\n\nYosepu is not like a man, he is more like a dear dog. He has the ways of\nour dog-friends, their patience and fidelity, their gratefulness for\npats.\n\nHe came to us in a wrecked condition, thin and weak and rather queer. He\nhad been beaten by his Hindu brother for becoming a Christian, and it\nhad been too much for him. The first time we saw him, a few minutes\nafter his arrival, he was standing leaning against a post with folded\nhands and upturned eyes and a general expression of resignation which\nwent to our hearts. We found afterwards he was not feeling resigned so\nmuch as hungry, and he was better after food.\n\nFor a week he slept, ate, and meditated. Sometimes he would hover round\nus, if such a verb is admissible for his seriousness of gait. He would\nwait till we noticed him, then sigh and extend his hand. He wanted us to\nfeel his pulse--both pulses. This ceremony always refreshed him, and he\nwould return to his corner of the verandah and meditate till his next\nmeal came.\n\nSometimes, however, more attention was required. He would linger after\nhis pulses were felt, and we knew he was not satisfied. One day a happy\nthought struck us. The Tamil loves scent. The very babies sniff our\nhands if we happen to be using scented soap, and tell each other\nrapturously what they think about that \"chope.\" Scent is the one thing\nthey cannot resist. A tin of sweets on our table may be untouched for\ndays, few babies being wicked enough to venture upon it in our absence;\nbut a bottle of scent is irresistible, and scented \"chope\" on our\nwashing-stands has a way of growing thin. The baby will emerge from our\nbathrooms rubbing suspiciously clean hands, and in her innocence will\ninvite us to smell them. Then we know why our \"chope\" disappears. So now\nthat Yosepu needed something to lift him over the trials of life, we\nremembered the gift of a good Scottish friend, and tried the effect of\neau-de-Cologne. It worked most wonderfully. Yosepu held out his two\nhands joined close lest a single drop should spill, and then he stood\nand sniffed. It would have made a perfect advertisement--the big brown\nman with his hands folded over his nose, and an expression of absolute\nbliss upon every visible feature. Now, when Yosepu is down-hearted, we\nalways try eau-de-Cologne.\n\nHis first move towards being of use was when some of our children had\nsmall-pox and were put up in a half-finished room which was being built.\n\"It has walls and it has a roof, therefore it is suitable,\" was Yosepu's\nopinion; and he offered to nurse the children. One evening we heard a\nterrible noise; it was like three cracked violins gone mad, all playing\ndifferent tunes at the same time. It was only Yosepu singing hymns to\nthe children. \"For spiritual instruction is a thing to be desired, and\nthere is nothing so edifying as music.\"\n\nAfter this he announced his intention of becoming a water-carrier.\n\"Water is a pure thing and a necessity. The young children demand much\nwater if their bodies are to be\"--here followed Scriptural quotations\nmeant in deepest reverence. \"I will be responsible for the baths of all\nthe babes.\" And from that time Yosepu has been responsible. Solemnly\nfrom dawn to dusk, with breathing spaces for meals and meditation, he\nstalks across from nurseries to well and from well to nurseries. He is a\nman of few smiles; but he is the cause of many, and we all feel grateful\nto Yosepu for his goodness to us. Often on melancholy days he comes and\ncomforts us.\n\nIt was so one anxious day before we went to the hills, when we were\ntrying to plan for the safety of our family. We can only take a limited\nnumber of converts with us, and no babies; the difficulty is then which\nto take, which to hide, and which to leave in the nurseries. We were in\nthe midst of this perplexity when Yosepu arrived. He stood in silence,\nand then sighed, as his cheerful custom is. We made the usual inquiries\nas to his health, physical and spiritual. Both soul and body (his\ninvariable order, never body and soul) were well, he said; his pulse did\nnot need to be felt to-day: no, there was something weightier upon his\nmind. There are times when it is like extracting a tooth to get a\nstraight answer from Yosepu, for he resents directness in speech; he\nthinks it barbarous. At last it came. \"Aiyo! Aiyo!\" (Alas! Alas!) \"My\nsun has set; but who am I, that I should complain or assault the decrees\nof Providence? But Amma! remember the word of truth: 'Then shall ye\nbring down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.'\" And he slowly\nunwound his wisp of a turban, held it in his folded hands, and shook\ndown his lanky, jet-black locks with a pathos that was almost sublime.\n\n[Illustration: THE BELOVED TINGALU.]\n\nIt took time to pierce to the meaning of it: the children were being\nscattered--the reason must be that we felt the bath-water carrying too\nmuch for his powers through the hot weeks. It was not so! He was strong\nto draw and to bear. The babies should never be deprived of their baths!\nBut to-day as he went to the well he had heard what broke his heart; and\nhe laid his hand upon the injured organ, and sighed with a sigh that\nassured us his lungs at least were sound. \"_Tingalu_ is to go away! The\napple of my eye! that golden child who smiles upon me, and says, 'Oh,\nelder brother, good morning!' You are not going to leave her with me!\nTherefore spake I the word of truth concerning my grey hairs.\" Then\nquoting the text again, he turned and walked away.\n\nOnce the beloved Tingalu was slightly indisposed. She has not often the\nprivilege of being ill, and so, when the opportunity offers, she does\nthe invalid thoroughly; it would be a pity, Tingalu thinks, to be\nanything but correct. But Yosepu was much concerned. He appeared in the\nearly morning with his usual cough and sigh. \"Amma! Tingalu is ill!\"\n\"She will soon be better, Yosepu; she is having medicine.\" \"What sort of\nmedicine, Amma?\" and Yosepu mentioned the kind he thought suitable.\n\"That is exactly what she has had; you will see her playing about\nto-morrow.\" \"But no smile is on her face to-day; I fear for the\nbabe.\" (Tingalu never smiles when ill. Invalids should not smile.)\nYosepu suggested another medicine to supplement the first, and departed.\n\nNext morning he came again, anxious and cast down in countenance. I had\nto keep him waiting; and when I came out, he was standing beside my\nverandah steps, head on one side, eyes shut, hands folded as if in\nprayer. \"Well, Yosepu, what is it?\" \"Amma! the light of your eyes\nrevives me!\" \"Well, tell me the trouble.\" \"All yesterday I saw you not;\nit was a starless night to me!\" This is merely the preface. \"But,\nYosepu, what is wrong?\" \"Tingalu, that golden child with a voice like a\nbird, she lies on her mat. I am concerned about the babe,\" (Tingalu,\nturned four, is as hardy as a gipsy), \"I fear for her delicate interior.\nThose ignorant children\" (the convert nurses would have been pleased if\nthey had heard him) \"know nothing at all. It may be they will feed her\nwith curry and rice this morning. That would be dangerous. Amma! Let her\nhave bread and milk, _and I will pay for it_!\"\n\nYosepu came a few days ago with a request for a doll. \"Who for?\" \"For\nmyself.\" \"But are you going to play with it?\" Yosepu acknowledged he\nwas, and he wished it to have genuine hair, a pink silk frock, and eyes\nthat would open and shut. We had not anything so elaborate to give him,\nand he had to be contented with a black china head and painted eyes; but\nhe was pleased, and took it away carefully rolled up in his turban, which\nserves conveniently for head-gear, towel, scarf, and duster. When and\nwhere he plays with the doll no one knows, but he assures us he does;\nand we have mentally reserved the first pink silk, with eyes that will\nopen and shut, that a benevolent public sends to us, for Yosepu. . . .\nThe words were hardly written when a shadow fell across the paper, and\nthe unconscious subject of this chapter remarked as I looked up: \"1\nCorinthians vii. 31.\" \"Do you want anything, Yosepu?\" \"Amma! 1\nCorinthians vii. 31.\" \"Well, Yosepu?\" \"As it is written in that chapter,\nand that verse: 'The fashion of this world passeth away.' Amma, if\nwithin the next two months a visitor comes to Dohnavur carrying a\npicture-catching box, I desire that you arrange for the catching of my\npicture. This, Amma, is my desire.\"\n\nThe Western mind is very dense; and for a moment I could not see the\nconnection between the text and the photograph. Yosepu is never\nimpatient. He squatted down beside me, dropped his turban round his\nneck, held his left foot with his left hand, and emphasised his\nexplanation with his right.\n\n\"Amma, the wise know that life is uncertain. I am a frail mortal. You,\nwho are as mother and as father to this unworthy worm, would feel an\nemptiness within you if I were to depart.\" \"But, Yosepu, I hope you are\nnot going to depart.\" This was exactly what Yosepu had anticipated. He\nsmiled, then he sighed. \"Amma! did I not say it before? 1 Corinthians\nvii. 31: 'The fashion of this world passeth away.' Therefore I said, Let\nme have my picture caught, so that when I depart you may hang it on your\nwall and still remember me.\"\n\nYosepu's latest freak has been to take a holiday. \"My internal\narrangements are disturbed; composure of mind will only be obtained by a\nmonth's respite from secularities.\" Yosepu had once announced his\nintention of offering himself to the National Missionary Society, and we\nthought he now referred to becoming an ascetic for a month and wandering\nround the country, begging-bowl in hand; for he solemnly declared as he\nstroked his bony frame: \"The Lord will provide.\" But his intention was a\nreal holiday. He would go and see the brother who had beaten him, and\nforgive him. We suggested the brother might beat him again. He smiled at\nour want of faith, and went for his holiday. A month was the time agreed\nupon, but within three days he was back. He could not stay away, he\nexplained, with a shame-faced air of affection. \"Within me pulled the\nstrings of love; pulled, yea, pulled till I returned.\" Faithful, quaint,\nand wholly original Yosepu! He calls himself our servant, but we think\nof him as our friend.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nThe Menagerie\n\n Fate which foresaw\n How frivolous a baby man would be--\n\n\n[Illustration: TWO VIEWS OF LIFE.]\n\nTHE event of the week, from a Tamil point of view, is the midday Sunday\nservice; so we take care of the nurseries during that hour, and send all\ngrown-up life to church. In the Premalia nursery the babies range from a\nfew days old to eighteen months, and sometimes two years. There is a\nbaby for every mood, as one beloved of the babies says; and the babies\nseem to know it. We have a lively time there on Sundays; for by noon the\nmorning sleep is over, and nineteen or twenty babies are waking up one\nafter the other or all together. And most of them want something, and\nwant it at once.\n\nThese babies are of various dispositions and colour--nut-brown, biscuit,\nand buff; and there are two who, taken together, suggest\nchocolate-cream. Chocolate is a dear child, very good-tempered and easy\nto manage. Cream is a scamp. We see in her another Chellalu, and watch\nwith mingled feelings her vigorous development.\n\nChocolate has another name. It is Beetle. This does not sound\nappreciative, but Beetle is beloved. The name was discovered by her\naffectionate Piria Sittie, who came upon her one morning lying on her\nback in the swinging cot, kicking her four limbs in the air in the\nagitated manner of that insect unexpectedly upset. But no beetle ever\nsmiled as ours does.\n\nCream, whose real name is Nundinie, oftener called Dimples, because she\ndimples so when she laughs, is a baby of character. She early discovered\nher way to the bungalow, and scorning assistance or superintendence\nfound her way over as soon as she could walk. Afternoon tea is never a\nsombre meal, for the middle-aged babies attend it in relays of four or\nfive; and Dimples and her special chum, Lulla, like to arrive in good\ntime for the full enjoyment of the function. Dimples sits down properly\nin a high chair close beside her Attai, who, according to her view of\nmatters, was created to help her to sugar. Lulla, so as to be even\nnearer that exhaustless delight, insists upon her Attai's knee; and\ntapping her face with her very small fingers, immediately points to the\nsugar bowl.\n\nThese preliminaries over, Dimples sets herself to pay for her seat. She\nsmiles upon her Attai first, then upon all the company. If the Iyer is\npresent, she notices him kindly: there is nothing in all nature so\npatronising as a baby. If in the mood, she will imitate her friends like\nher predecessor Scamp No. 1; or folding her fat arms will regard us all\nwith a quizzical expression more comical than play. Her latest invention\nis drill. She stands straight up in her chair, and goes through certain\nactions intended to represent as much as she knows of that interesting\nexercise. We are kept anxious lest she should overbalance; but she is a\nwary babe, and always suddenly sits down when she gets to the edge of a\ntumble. Sometimes, however, when these diversions are in progress, we\nhave wished that the family could see how very much more entertaining\nshe is in her own nursery. There, from the beginning of the day till\nthe sad moment when it ends, she seems to be engaged in entertaining\nsomebody. Sometimes it is one of the Accals, those good elder sisters to\nwhom the babies owe so much. Dimples thinks she looks tired. Tired\npeople must be cheered, so Dimples devotes herself to her. Sometimes it\nis another baby who is dull. Dull babies are anomalies. Dimples feels\nresponsible till the dull baby revives. Or it is just her own happy\nlittle self who is being entertained. If ever a baby enjoyed a game for\nits own sweet sake, it is Dimples.\n\nBut one thing she does not enjoy, and that is being put to bed at night.\nOur babies are anointed with oil, according to the custom of the East,\nbefore being put to sleep; but the moment Dimples sees the oil-bottle in\nher nurse's hand, she knows her fate is sealed and protests with all her\nmight. Once she contrived to seize the bottle, pull out the cork, and\nspill the oil before she was discovered. She seemed to argue that as she\nwas invariably oiled before being put to bed, the best way to avoid ever\nbeing put to bed would be to get rid of the oil. Another evening she\nsucceeded in diverting her nurse into a long search for the cork,\nthereby delaying the fatal last moment; it was finally found in her\nmouth. When, in spite of all efforts to wriggle out of reach, she is\ncaptured, anointed, and put in her hammock, Dimples knows she must not\nget out; but her wails are so lamentable that it is difficult to\nrestrain ourselves from throwing discipline to the winds, and if by any\nchance we do, her smiles are simply ravishing. But we hear about it\nafterwards.\n\nIf Dimples is asleep when we take charge of the nursery, we find things\nfairly quiet and almost flat. But she usually wakens early, and always\nin a good temper. It is instructive to see the way she scrambles out of\nher hammock before she is quite awake, and her sleepy stagger across\nthe room is often interrupted by a tumble. Dimples does not mind\ntumbles. If her curly head has been rather badly knocked, she looks\nreproachfully at the floor, rubs her head, and gets up again. By the\ntime she reaches us she is wide awake and most engaging.\n\nIn C. F. Holder's _Life of Agassiz_ we are told that the great scientist\n\"could not bear with superficial study: a man should give his whole life\nto the object he had undertaken to investigate. He felt that desultory,\nisolated, spasmodic working avails nothing, but curses with narrowness\nand mediocrity.\" This is exactly the view of one of our babies, already\nintroduced, the little wise Lulla, who always knows her own mind and\nsticks to her intentions, unbeguiled by any blandishments.\n\nThis baby is a tiny thing, with a round, small head, covered with soft,\nsmall curls; and this head is very full of thoughts. Her face, which she\nrarely shows to a stranger, is like a doll in its delicate daintiness;\nbut the mouth is very resolute, and the eyes very grave. Her hands and\nfeet are sea-shell things of a pretty pinky brown, and her ways are the\nways of a sea-anemone in a pool among the rocks.\n\nLulla, because of her anemone ways, is sometimes unkindly called\n\"Huffs.\" She does not understand that there are days when those who love\nher most have little time to give to her. Lulla naturally argues that\nwhere there is a will there is a way, and desultory, isolated, spasmodic\naffection is worth little; so next time her friend appears, she explains\nall this to her by means of a single gesture: she draws her tentacles\nin.\n\nBut it is when Lulla has undertaken to investigate a tin of sweets that\nshe most suggests Agassiz. The tin has a lid which fits tightly, and\nLulla's fingers are very small and not very strong. The tin, moreover,\nis on the window-sill just out of reach, though she stands on tip-toe\nand stretches a little eager hand as far as it will go. Then it is you\nsee persistence. Lulla finds another baby, leads her to the window and\npoints up to the tin. The other baby tries. They both try together; if\nthis fails, Lulla finds a taller one, and at last successful, sits down\nwith the tin held tightly in both hands, and turns it over and shakes\nit. This process seems to inspire fresh hope and energy; for she sets to\nwork round the lid, which is one of the fitting-in sort, and carefully\npresses and pulls. Naturally this does nothing, and she shakes the tin\nagain. The joyful sound of rattling sweets stimulates to fresh attempts\nupon the lid. She tugs and pulls, and thumps the refractory thing on the\nfloor. By this time the other babies, attracted by the hopeful rattle,\nhave gathered round and are watching operations; some offer to help, but\nall such offers are declined. This oyster is Lulla's. She has undertaken\nto force it. Agassiz and his fishes are on her side. She will not give\nit up. But she is not getting on; and she sits still for a moment,\nknitting her brow, and frowning a little puzzled frown at the refractory\ntin.\n\nSuddenly her forehead smooths, the anxious brown eyes smile, Lulla has\nthought a new good thought. The babies struggle up and offer to help\nLulla up, but she shakes her head. She seems to feel if she herself\nunaided, of her own free will, hands her problem over to her Ammal or\nher Sittie, only so she may achieve her purpose without loss of\nself-respect.\n\nLulla's beloved nurse is a motherly woman, older than most of our\nworkers. Her name is Annamai. When the nurses return from church, each\nmakes straight for her baby; and the babies always respond with a\ncordial and pretty affection. But Lulla welcoming Annamai is something\nmore than pretty. The big white-robed figure no sooner appears in the\ngarden than the tiny Lulla is all a-quiver with excitement. But it is a\nquiet excitement; and if you take any notice, the tentacles suddenly\ndraw in, and the little face is as wax. If no one seems to notice, then\nLulla lets herself go. She all but dances in her eagerness, while\nAnnamai is slowly sailing up the walk; and when she reaches the\nverandah, Lulla can wait no longer; one spring and she is in her arms,\nnestling, cuddling, burying her curls in her neck; then looking up\nconfidentially, little Lulla begins to talk; everything we have done and\nsaid is being whispered into Annamai's ear. It does not matter that\nLulla cannot yet speak any language known to men; she can make Annamai\nunderstand, and that is all she cares. Once we remember watching her, as\nshe took the remnant of a sweet we had given her, out of her mouth and\npoked it into Annamai's. Could love do more?\n\nDimples and Lulla are quite inseparable. Lulla is to Dimples what Tara\nis to Evu. She immensely admires her vigorous little junior, and tries\nto copy her whenever possible. One delicious game seems to have been\nsuggested by the arches in the garden. Dimples and Lulla stand on all\nfours close together. Then they lean over till their heads touch the\nground, and look through the arch. If you are on the babies' level (that\nis on the floor), you will enjoy this game.\n\nAnother Sunday morning entertainment is kissing. Dimples advances upon\nLulla. Lulla falls upon Dimples. Then Dimples hugs Lulla, nearly chokes\nher, almost certainly overturns her. The two roll over and over like\nkittens. Dimples seizes Lulla by her curls and vehemently kisses face,\nneck, and anything else she can get at; and then backs off, propelling\nherself on two feet and one hand, in which position she looks like a\npuppy on three paws. Lulla smooths her ruffled curls and person\ngenerally, regards Dimples with gravity, and, if in an affectionate\nhumour herself, leads the attack upon Dimples, and the programme is\nrepeated.\n\nBut the joy of the hour is to spin in the hammocks. These contrivances\nbeing hung from the roof swing freely, and the special excitement is to\nhold on with both hands, and run round so that the hammock twists into a\nknot and spins when released, with the baby inside it, in a giddy waltz\ntill the coil untwists itself. This looks dangerous, and when the game\nwas first invented we rather demurred. But we are wiser now, and we let\nthem spin. Lulla especially enjoys this madness. It is startling to see\nthe tiny thing whirl like a reckless young teetotum. But if you weakly\ninterfere, Lulla thinks you want to learn the art, and goes at it with\neven madder zest, till her very curls are dizzy.\n\nDimples and Lulla in disgrace are a piteous spectacle. Dimples opens her\nmouth till it is almost square, and the most plaintive wail proceeds\nfrom it for about a minute and a half. Then she stops, looks sadly on\nthe world, surprised and hurt at its unkindness to her, and then\nsuddenly she discovers something interesting to do; and hastily rubbing\nher knuckles into her eyes to clear them as quickly as maybe of tears,\nshe scrambles on to her feet, and forgets her injuries. Once she had\nbeen very naughty, and had to be smacked. It is never easy to smack\nDimples, and fortunately she seldom requires it; but hard things have to\nbe done, so that morning the fat little hands, to their surprise, knew\nthe feel of chastening pats. \"She daren't laugh, and she wouldn't cry\";\nthis description, her Piria Sittie's, is the best I can offer of that\nbaby's attitude. The thing could not possibly be a joke, but if meant\notherwise, it was an indignity far past tears.\n\nLulla is quite different. She drops on the floor, if admonished, as if\nher limbs had suddenly become paralysed, and takes absolutely no notice\nof the offending disciplinarian. She simply ignores her, and gazes\nmutely beyond her. The offence is not one for explanation, and if\ninvited to repent, her aloofness of demeanour is perfectly withering.\nBut take her up in your arms, and she buries her curls in your neck, and\ncoos her apologies (or is it forgiveness?) in your ear, and loves you\nall the better for the momentary breach.\n\nOur babies are often parables. Lulla stands for the Single Eye. How\noften we have watched her and learned the lesson from her! She sees\nsomeone to whom she wants to go at what must seem to her an immense\ndistance. And the distance is filled with obstacles, some of them quite\nenormous. But Lulla never stops to consider possibilities. Difficulties\nare simply things to be climbed over. She looks at the goal and makes\nstraight for it. Her only care is to reach it. Sometimes at afternoon\ntea, when she is sitting on someone's lap, facing an empty,\nuninteresting plate, she sees another plate three chairs distant, and\nupon that plate there is a biscuit or some other sweet attraction. Upon\nsuch occasions Lulla all but plunges into space between the chairs, in\nher singleness of purpose. Having reached the lap nearest that plate,\nshe turns and smiles at her late entertainer just to make sure she is\nnot offended. But even if she knew she would be, Lulla would not\nhesitate. Curly head foremost, eyes on the goal: that is Lulla.\n\nWe have a custom at Dohnavur which perplexes the sober-minded. We call\nmost of our possessions by names other than their own. These names are\nentirely private. We have to keep to this rule of privacy, otherwise we\nget shocks. \"O Lord, look upon our beloved Puppy, and make her tooth\ncome through; and bless Alice (in Wonderland), whose inside has gone\nwrong,\" was the petition offered in all seriousness, which finally moved\nus to prudence. We do not feel responsible for these names, for they\ncome of themselves, and we see them when they come. That is all we have\nto do with them. Besides the Beetle and the Sea-anemone we have a dear\nCockatoo, who screws her nose and her whole face up into a delightful\npucker when she either laughs or cries, and then suddenly unscrews it in\nthe middle of either emotion and looks entirely demure. This is the\nlittle Vimala, who, under God, owes her life to her Piria Sittie's\nsplendid nursing. This baby has always got a private little secret of\njoy hidden away somewhere inside. We surprise her sometimes, sitting\nalone on the floor talking to herself about it; and then she tells us\nbits of it--as much as she thinks we can understand. But most of it is\nstill hidden away, her own private little secret. And there is an Owlet,\na Coney, a Froglet, and a Cheshire Cat, a Teddy-bear, a Spider, a\nRatlet, and a Rosebud. We are aware that this list is rather mixed; but\nto be too critical would end in being nothing, so we are a Menagerie.\n\nThe Rosebud is like her name, small and sweet. When she wants to kiss\nher friends, which is whenever she sees them, her mouth is like the pink\npoint of a moss-rose bud just coming through the moss. George Macdonald,\nperfect interpreter of babies, must have had our Preethie's double in\nhis mind when he wrote:--\n\n Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?\n Three angels gave me at once a kiss.\n How did you come to us, you dear?\n God thought of you, and so I am here.\n\nThe Owlet is twin to that quaint little bird, so its name flew to her\nand stayed. This babe has round eyes with long curling lashes. When she\nis good, these round eyes beam, and every one forgets that anything so\nfascinating can ever be other than good. When she is naughty the case is\nexactly reversed. This baby's proper name is Lullitha, which means\nPlayfulness, and illustrates a side of her character undiscovered by the\nvisitor who only sees the Owlet sitting on her perch with serious,\nwatchful, unblinking eyes, regarding the intruder. But most babies are\ncomplex characters, and are not known in an hour.\n\nThe Teddy-bear is a fine child with perfect lungs, a benevolent smile,\nand an appetite. Her ruling passion at present is devotion to her food.\nShe feels unjustly treated because we do not see our way to feed her\nlavishly at her own five meal-times and also at the meal-times of all\nthe other babies in the nursery.\n\nOn Sunday morning, when we are in charge, we hear her views upon this\nsubject expressed in a manner wholly her own. She has just drained her\nown bottle, and is indignantly explaining that it is not nearly enough,\nwhen another bottle arrives for another baby, and this is too much for\nTeddy's equanimity. We all know how hard it is to keep up under the\nshock of adversity. Teddy does not attempt to keep up; she invariably\ntopples over. But the way she does this is instructive. She sits stiff\nand straight for one brief moment, her milky mouth wide open, her hands\noutstretched in despairing appeal; then she clasps her head with her\nhands in a tragic fashion, absurd in a very fat infant, sways backwards\nand forwards two or three times till the desperate rock ends suddenly,\nas the poor Teddy-bear overbalances and bursts with a mighty burst. But\nthe storm is too furious to last, and she soon subsides with a gusty sob\nand a short snort.\n\nPoor little injured Teddy-bear! If it were not for her splendid health\nwe might believe her oft-repeated tale of private starvation. \"They only\nfeed me when you are here to see! Other times they give me nothing at\nall!\" She tells us this frequently in her own particular language, but\nthe sturdy limbs belie it. This babe in matters of affection and\nmischief is as strenuous and original as she is about the one supreme\naffair pertaining to her elastic receptacle--to quote a Tamil friend's\npolite reference to the cavity within us--and many more edifying scenes\nmight have been shown from her eventful life. But undoubtedly the\npredominating note at the present hour is her insatiable hunger, and\nwhen her name is mentioned in the nursery there is a smile and a new\ntale about her amazing appetite.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nMore Animals\n\n\n[Illustration: MORE ANIMALS: DEPRESSED.\n\nNurses: Karuna to left (the Duckling of \"Things as They Are\"); and\nAnnamai, to right, Lulla's beloved.]\n\nIN full contrast to Teddy-bear is that floppy child, the Coney. In\nHart's _Animals of the Bible_, there is a picture of this baby, only the\nfore-paws should be raised in piteous appeal to be taken up. The Coney\nis really a pretty child with pathetic eyes and a grateful smile; but\nshe was long in learning to walk, and felt aggrieved when we\nremonstrated. Her feet, she considered, were created to be ornamental\nrather than useful, and no amount of coaxing backed up with massage\ncould persuade her otherwise. So she was left behind in the march; and\nwhen her contemporaries departed for the middle-aged babies' nursery,\nshe stayed behind with the infants. And the infants had no pity. They\nregarded her as a sort of hassock, large and soft and good to jump on.\nMore than once we have come into the nursery and found the big, meek\nchild of three kneeling resignedly under a window upon which an\nadventurous eighteen-months wished to climb; and often we have found her\nprostrate and patient under the dancing feet of Dimples.\n\nHowever, the Coney can walk now. This triumph was effected with the help\nof an Indianised go-cart, which did what all our persuasions had\nentirely failed to do. But the process was not pleasant. The poor Coney\nwould stand mournfully holding the handle of her instrument of torture,\nlonging with a yearning unspeakable to sit down and give it up for ever.\nSomeone would pass, and hope would rise in her heart. She would be\ncarried now, carried out of sight of that detested go-cart. But no, the\ncallous-hearted only urged her to proceed. She would howl then with a\nhowl that told of bitter disappointment. Sometimes she would sit down\nflat and regard the thing with a blighting glance, the hatred of a\ngentle nature roused to unwonted vehemence. Always her wails accompanied\nthe rumbling of its wheels.\n\n\"The Conies are but a feeble folk, yet they make their houses in the\nrocks.\" One day in deep depression of spirits the Coney arrived at the\nkindergarten. She sat down before the threshold, which is three inches\nhigh, and climbed carefully over it. She found herself in a new world,\nwhere babies were doing wonderful things and enjoying all they did. The\nConey decided to join a class, and was offered beads to thread. Life\nwith beautiful beads to thread became worth living, and it may be in the\ncourse of time that the tortoise will overtake the hare. In any case we\nfind much cheer in the conclusion of the verse, for if our Coney builds\nin the Rock her being rather feeble will not matter very much.\n\nThose who possess that friend of our youth, _Alice_, as illustrated by\nSir John Tenniel, may find the photograph twice reproduced of our fat\nCheshire Cat. This baby is remarkable for two things: she smiles and she\nvanishes. The time to see the vanishing conducted with more celerity\nthan Alice ever saw it, is when the babies' warning call is sounded\nacross the verandah and a visitor appears in the too near horizon. This\nbaby then vanishes round the nearest corner. There is nothing left of\nher, not even a smile. In fact, the chief contrast between her and the\ncat among the foliage is that with our Cat the smile goes first.\n\nSunday morning, to return to the beginning, is full of possible\nmisadventure. Sometimes the babies seem to agree among themselves that\nit would be well to be good. Then their admiring Sittie and Ammal have\nnothing to do but enjoy them. But sometimes it is otherwise. First one\nbaby pulls her sister's hair, and the other retaliates, till the two get\nentangled in each other's curls. Piria Sittie flies to the rescue,\ndisentangles the combatants and persuades them to make friends.\nMeanwhile three restless spirits in bodies to match have crept out\nthrough the open door (it is too hot if we shut the doors), and we find\nthem comfortably ensconced in forbidden places. The Beetle is a quiet\nchild. She retires to a corner and looks devout. Presently a sound as of\nscraping draws our attention to her. \"Beetle! Open your mouth!\" Beetle\nopens her mouth. It is packed with whitewash off the wall. Then a scared\ncry rings through the nursery, and all the babies, imagining awful\nthings imminent, tumble one on top of the other in a wild rush into\nrefuge. It is only a large grasshopper which has startled the Cheshire\nCat, whose great eyes are always on the look-out for possible causes of\npanic. The grasshopper is banished to the garden and the Cheshire Cat\nsmiles all over her face. Peace restored, Dimples and the Owlet remember\na dead lizard they found in a corner of the verandah, and set off to\nrecover it. These two walk exactly like mechanical toys; and as they\nstrut along hand in hand, or one after the other, they look like\nsomething wound up and going, in a Christmas shop window. Presently they\nreturn with the lizard. Its tail is loose, and they sit down to pull it\noff. This is not a nice game, and something else is suggested. Dimple's\nmouth grows suddenly square; she wants that lizard's tail.\n\nThen a dear little child called Muff (because she ought to be called\nHuff if the name had not been already appropriated), who has been\nsolemnly munching a watch, decides it is time to demand more individual\nattention. She objects to the presence of another baby on her Sittie's\nlap. Why should two babies share one lap? The thing is self-evidently\nwrong. One lap, one baby, should be the rule in all properly conducted\nnurseries. Muff broods over this in silence, then slides off the crowded\nlap and sits down disconsolate, alone. Tears come, big sad tears, as\nMuff meditates; and it takes time to explain matters and comfort,\nwithout giving in to the one-lap-one-baby theory.\n\n[Illustration: TUBBING.]\n\nWe have several helpful babies. Dimples has been discovered paying\nrequired attentions to things smaller than herself; and the Wax Doll\npats the Rosebud if she thinks it will reassure her, when (as rarely\nhappens) that pet of the family is left stranded on a mat. But Puck is\nthe most inventive. It was one happy Sunday morning that we came upon\nher feeding the Ratlet on her own account. The Ratlet was making\nungrateful remarks; and we hurried across to her and saw that Puck,\nunder the impression doubtless that any hole would do, was pouring the\nmilk in a steady stream down the poor infant's nose. Puck smiled up\npeacefully. She was sure we would be pleased with her. But the Ratlet\ncontinued eloquent for very many minutes.\n\nSometimes (but this is an old story now) our difficulties were increased\nby the Spider's habit of whimpering, which had a depressing effect upon\nthe family. This poor baby was a weak little bag of bones when first she\ncame to us. The bag was made of shrivelled skin of a dusty brown colour.\nHer hair was the colour of her skin, and hung about her head like\ntattered shreds of a spider's web. She sat in a bunch and never smiled.\nSomething about her suggested a spider. Her Tamil name is Chrysanthemum,\nwhich by the change of one letter becomes Spider. So we called her\nSpider.\n\nAt first we were not anxious about her; for such little children pick\nup quickly if they are healthy to begin with, as we believed she was.\nBut she did not respond to the good food and care, and only grew thinner\nand more miserable as the weeks passed, till she looked like the first\npicture in a series of advertisements of some marvellous patent food,\nand we wondered if she would ever grow like the fat and flourishing last\nbaby of the series. For two months this state of things continued; she\ngrew more wizened every day; and the uncanny spider-limbs and attitude\ngave her the air of not being a human baby at all, but a terrible little\nspecimen which ought not to be on view but should be hidden safely away\nin some private medical place--on a shelf in a bottle of spirits of\nwine.\n\nWe are asked sometimes if such tiny things can suffer other than\nphysically. We have reason to think they can. As all else failed, we\ntook a little girl from school for whom the Spider had an affection, and\nlet her love her all day long; and almost at once there was a change in\nthe sad little face of the Spider. She had been cared for by an old\ngrandfather after her mother's death, and it seemed as if she had\nfretted for him and needed someone all to herself to make up for what\nshe was missing.\n\nThis little girl, the Cod-fish by name, was devoted to the Spider. She\nnestled her and played with her--or attempted to, I should say, for at\nfirst the Spider almost resented any attempts to play. \"She doesn't know\nhow to smile!\" said the Cod-fish disconsolately after a week's petting\nand loving had resulted only in fewer whimpers, but not as yet in\nsmiles. A few days later she came to us, and announced with much\nemotion: \"She has smiled three times!\" Next day the record rose to\nseven; after that we left off counting.\n\nThe Spider is fat and bonnie now. Her skin is a clear and creamy brown,\nand her hair has lost its dustiness; but she still likes to sit crumpled\nup, and a small alcove in the kitchen is her favourite haven when tired\nof the world. Seen unexpectedly in there, bunched in a tight knot, her\ndark, keen little eyes peering out of the light-coloured little face,\nshe still suggests a spider. But it is a cheerful Spider, which makes\nall the difference.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nThe Parrot House\n\n\n[Illustration: RED LAKE AND HILL.\n\nAs seen (without the water) from the Taraha Nursery.]\n\nTHE time to see the Taraha nursery at its best is between late evening\nand early morning, and again about noon. It is perfectly peaceful then.\nThirty mats are spread upon the floor. Thirty babies are strewn upon the\nmats. All the thirty are asleep. A sleeping baby is good. Thirty babies\nall good at once is something we cannot promise at any other hour.\n\nShading your lantern, and walking carefully so as not to tread on more\nscattered limbs than may be, you wander round the nursery and meditate\nupon the beautiful ways of childhood. There is something so touching in\nsleeping innocence, and you are touched. Here two chubby babies are\nlying locked in each other's arms. You have to look twice before you see\nwhich limbs belong to which. There another is hugging a doll minus its\nhead. Next to her a baby sleeps pillowed on another, and the other does\nnot mind. In the middle of the floor, far from her mat, a sturdy\nthree-year-old sprawls content. You pick her up gently and lay her on\nher mat. With an expression of determined resolution the baby rolls off\nagain; and if you attempt another remove, an ominous pucker of the\nforehead warns you to desist. You wonder if the babies are quite as\ngood as they seem. One of the dear, fat, devoted little pair you\nnoticed at first, stirs, disentangles herself from her neighbour, and\ngives her a slight kick. There is a smothered, sleepy howl, and the kick\nis returned. \"Water!\" wails the first fat baby. \"Water!\" wails the\nsecond. You get water, give it, pat both fat babies till they go to\nsleep, and then cautiously retire. It would be a pity if all the babies\nwere to waken thirsty and kick each other. At the door you turn and look\nback. Graceful babies, clumsy babies, babies who lie extended like young\npokers, babies curled like kittens. All sorts of babies, good, bad, and\nmiddling, but all blessedly asleep.\n\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n Thy father guards his sheep,\n Thy mother shakes the dreamland-tree\n Down fall the little dreams for thee,\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n Our Saviour loves His sheep.\n He is the Lamb of God on high,\n Who for our sakes came down to die.\n Sleep, baby, sleep!\n\nThe pretty German lullaby rises unbidden, and is pushed away by the\nquick, sad thoughts that will not listen to it. For under all the\nlaughter and nursery frolic and happiness, we cannot but remember why\nthese little ones are here. Round about the compound in a great triangle\nthere are three Temple towers. They are out of sight though near us, but\nwe cannot forget they are there. They stand for that which deprives\nthese children of their birthright. Oh for the day when those Temple\ntowers will fall and the reign of righteousness begin! There was a time\nwhen it seemed impossible to desire that the fire should be allowed to\ntouch the stately and beautiful things of the world. Now there is\nsomething that satisfies as nothing else could in the vision of that\npurifying fire; and the promise that stands out like a light in the\ndarkness is that which tells that the Son of Man shall send forth His\nangels, and they shall gather out of His kingdom, all things that\noffend.\n\nIn the tiny babies' nursery many a crooning Indian lullaby is sung\nto the babies in their swinging white cradles; but in the Taraha\nnursery we sing sweet old hymns, in Tamil and English, and then all\nsensible people are supposed to go to sleep. But one evening after\nthe singing, two little tots settled down for a talk. Said one lying\ncomfortably on her back with her two hands clasped behind her head:\n\"Who takes care of us at night when we all go to sleep?\" Said the\nother in a mixture of Tamil and English: \"Jesus-tender-Shepherd takes\ncare of us--Jesus-loves-me-this-I-know.\" The first baby rolled over upon\nher small sister with a crow of derision. \"It is not! It is Accal! I\nwoke one night and saw her!\" The other baby insisted she was making a\nmistake. \"Accal sleeps, all people sleep; they lie down like us and go\nto sleep. Only Jesus stays awake, and never, never goes to sleep.\"\n\"Never, never?\" questioned the first, and was quiet for a minute\nconsidering the matter; then with a sceptical little laugh, \"Did you\never wake up and see Him?\"\n\nIf the babies were always in a state of calm repose, the Taraha's pet\nname, Parrot-house, would be inappropriate: but for nearly ten hours of\nthe day they are awake and talkative. Talk, however, is a mild word by\nwhich to describe their powers of conversation. Sometimes we wonder if\nthey never tire of chattering, and then we remember they have only\nlately learned to talk. They have not had time to tire.\n\n[Illustration: CHILDREN WADING]\n\nOnce we listened, hoping that the trailing clouds of glory so recently\ndeparted had left some trace of illumination in this their first\nexpression in earth's language of their feelings and emotions. But we\nfound them very mundane. Most of the conversation concerned their\n\"saman,\" a comprehensive Indian word used by people with limited\nvocabularies to express all manner of things to play with. Their \"saman\"\nwas various. Dolls, of course, and the remnants of dolls; tins and the\nlids thereof; bits of everything which could break; corks, stones,\nseeds, half cocoa-nut shells; rags of many ages and colours; scraped\ndown morsels of brick; withered flowers and leaves; sticks of all sorts\nand sizes; English Christmas cards, sometimes with much domestic\ninformation on the back; unauthorised sundries from the\nkindergarten--delivered up with a smile intended to assure you that they\nwere only being kept for Sittie; and puchies. Puchies are insects. We\nhave one baby who collects puchies. \"Look!\" she said, one morning before\nprayers, \"Deah little five puchies!\" and she opened her hand and five\nred and black beetles crawled slowly out, to the delight of the devout,\nwho scrambled up from their orderly rows with shrieks of appreciation.\n\nBut if the babies' conversation was unenlightening, their chosen\navocations are not uninteresting. They are always busy about something,\nand, from their point of view, something important. There are, of\ncourse, some among the thirty who are unimaginative and unenterprising.\nThese sit in the sand and play. Others have more to do. Life to them is\nfull of the unknown. The unknown is full of possibilities. The great\nthing is to experiment. Nothing is too insignificant to explore, and all\nfive senses are useful to the thoroughly competent baby.\n\nThey knew, of course, all the flowers, and the discovery of anything\nfresh was always followed by a scene which suggested a colony of\nsmall and active ants hauling some large object to their nest; for the\nnearest grown-up person was invariably hailed, and pulled, and pushed,\nand hurried along till the \"new flower\" was reached. Then, if the object\nwas incautious enough to stoop down to examine it, the ants, ant-wise,\nwould envelope it, climbing, swarming all over it, till there was\nnothing to be seen but ants.\n\n[Illustration: CHILDREN WADING.]\n\nThey knew the habits of caterpillars, and especially they had knowledge\nabout the wonderful silver chrysalis which pins itself to the pointed\nleaves of the oleander. They knew what was packed up inside, and some\nwith wide-open eyes had watched the miracle slowly evolving as the\nbutterfly unpacked itself, and sunned its crumpled velvet wings, till\nthe crumples smoothed, and the wings dried, and the butterfly fluttered\naway. They knew, too, the less approachable ways of the wild bees, and\nwhere they hive, and what happens if they are disturbed; and they knew\nthe private feelings of calves, and which likes to be treated as a\nbrother and which resents such liberties. Crows they knew intimately,\nand squirrels a little; for infants fallen from their nests have often\nbeen taken care of, much against their foolish wills, until old enough\nto look after themselves. Their namesakes, the parrots, they knew very\nwell; and the dainty little sunbirds that flash from flower to flower\nlike little living jewels in the sunlight; and the clever tailor-bird,\nwhich sews its own nest, knotting its thread like a grown-up human\nbeing; and the wise leaf-insect that can hardly be found till it moves;\nand the great, green, frisky grasshopper that seems to invite a chase.\n\nWe found they knew, alas, too much about the misuse of everything\ngrowing in the field! The tamarind fruit makes condiment, but eaten raw\nit gives fever; and the babies think we are wrong here, and they are\nfond of forgetting our rules. Many kinds of grasses are very good to\neat; and here again we are mistaken, for we know not the flavour of\ngrasses. Seeds may be useful to plant; but those who think their use\nends there, are short-sighted and ignorant people. Upon these and other\nmatters the babies feel we have much to learn.\n\n[Illustration: ESLI AND LITTLE KOHILA.\n\nTaken a year earlier.]\n\nOne weird joy has been theirs, and they never will forget it. For one\nwhole blissful afternoon they followed the snake-charmer about at a\nrespectful distance; and they cannot understand why we are not anxious\nthey should dance as he danced, and pipe as he piped, round the hopeful\nholes they discover in the red mud walls.\n\nOther things they had learned to do, not wholly innocent. They must have\nmade friends with the masons who built their new nursery, and persuaded\nthem to do their work in a sympathetic spirit; for they knew the weak\npoints hidden from our eyes, and how pleasant it is to scoop mortar out\nof cracks between the bricks of the floor. They had learned how most of\ntheir toys were made, and how a doll could be most easily dissected, and\nthe particular taste of its inside. They knew, too, the lusciousness of\ndivers sorts of sand--this last, however, being a mixture of crime and\ndisease, and treated as such, is not a popular sin. Finally, to our\nlasting disgrace, they had learned, after a series of thoughtful\nexperiments, how best to obey a command and yet elude its intention;\nthus on a wet day, when they were commanded not to go out, their Sittie\nfound them lying full length in a long row on the edge of the verandah,\ntheir heads protruding so as to catch the lovely drip from the roof. And\nall these things they had carefully learned in spite of a certain amount\nof supervision; and, being entirely unsuspicious, they will take you\ninto their confidence and let you share the forbidden fruit, if you are\nso inclined.\n\nBut, after all, perfection of goodness would make us more anxious than\neven these enormities; we should fear our babies were growing too\ngood--a fear not pressing at present. The Parrot-house only overwhelms\nwhen the birds begin to sing. Then indeed all who can, flee far away,\nfor the babies once started are difficult to stop. They are sure you\nlike it as much as they do, and are anxious to oblige you when you visit\ntheir world. So they sing with the greatest earnestness, and as they\ninvariably hang on to every available part of you, and punctuate their\nmelodies with kisses and embraces, escape is not always practicable.\n\nThe Taraha nursery was our first substantial building. It is built upon\nfoundations raised well off the ground, and has a wide verandah. When\nfirst it was opened and the children were invited to take possession,\nthey did so most completely. One quaint little person of barely three,\ncalled Kohila, whose small, repressed face in the photograph gives no\nhint of character, used to stalk up and down the verandah with an air of\nproprietorship which left no doubt in any mind as to her opinion on the\nsubject. Another (sharing the swinging cot with Kohila in the photo) sat\non the top step and smiled encouragingly to visitors. It was nice to be\nsmiled at, but there was something very condescending in the smile.\nAnother stood guard over the plants, which grew in pots much bigger than\nherself all the way down the verandah. If any presumed to touch them,\nshe would dart out upon them with an indignant chirrup. For days after\nthe great event--the opening of the Taraha--small parties waited on\nvisitors, formed in procession before and behind, and escorted them\nround, explaining all mysteries, and insisting upon due admiration.\nEverything had to be interviewed, from teaspoons to pots of fern. This\nconcluded, the guests were politely dismissed, and departed, let us\nhope, properly penetrated with a sense of the kindness of the babies.\n\nThere have always been some who object to visitors. One of these showed\nher objection, not by crying and running away, as undignified babies do,\nbut by sitting exactly where she was when she first caught sight of the\nintruder, and staring straight into space with a very stony stare. A\nsensitive visitor could hardly have had the temerity to pass her, but\nnormal visitors are not sensitive. Sometimes they attempted to make\nfriends. This was too much. One fat arm would be slowly raised till it\ncovered the baby's eyes, and in this position she would sit like a small\npetrifaction, till the horror had withdrawn.\n\n[Illustration: PREETHA AWARE OF A FOE.\n\nTara on the left: the Coney on the right.]\n\nThis baby, Preetha by name, has in most matters a way of her own. One of\nher little peculiarities is a strong preference for solo music as\ncompared with concert. She listens attentively to others' performances,\nthen disappears. If followed, she will be found alone in a corner, with\nher face to the wall and her back to the world; and if she thinks\nherself unobserved, you will be regaled with a solo. This experience is\ninteresting to the musical. It is never twice alike. Sometimes it is a\nsuccession of sounds, like a tune that has lost its way; sometimes, a\nrecognisable version of the chorus lately learned. At other times she\ndelivers her soul in a series of short groans and grunts, beating time\nwith her podgy hands. If she perceives through the back of her head that\nsomeone is looking or listening, she stops at once; and no persuasions\ncan ever produce that special rehearsal again. Of late this baby, being\nnow nearly three, has awakened to a sense of life's responsibilities,\nand she evidently wishes to prepare to meet them suitably. Yesterday\nevening she came to me with an exceedingly serious face, pointed in the\ndirection of the kindergarten room, and then tapping herself, remarked:\n\"Amma! I kindergarten.\" No more was said; but we know we shall soon see\nher solemnly waddling into the schoolroom, and we wonder what will\nhappen. Will she continue to insist upon a corner to herself?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nThe Bear Garden\n\n\n[Illustration: JULLANIE AMONG THE GRASSES.]\n\n\"THE fruit of the lotus--a capsule--ripens below the surface of the\nwater. When the seeds are ripe and leave the berry, a small bubble of\nair attached to them brings them to the surface, and the seeds are\ncarried wherever the wind and waves take them until the bubble bursts;\nwhen the seed, being heavier than water, sinks to the bottom, and then\nbegins to grow to form a new plant, which may be at some distance from\nthe parent one. In this simple way the lotus plant is enabled to\nspread.\" So says our botany book; and the thought of the lotus seed in\nits little air-boat floating away over the water to be sown, perhaps,\nfar from the parent plant, is full of suggestion, and leads us straight\nto the Bear-garden.\n\nA lotus-pool, a bear-garden--the connection is not obvious. _Alice_ in\nher wanderings never wandered into bewilderment more profound than such\na mixture of ideas. But this is the way we get to it: We have called\nthese little children Lotus-buds--for such they are in their youngness\nand innocence; and the underlying thought runs deeper, as those who have\nread the first chapter know--but the Lotus-buds must grow into flowers\nand must be sown as living seeds, perhaps far away from the happy place\nthey knew when they were buds. The little air-boat will come for them.\nThe breath of the Spirit that bloweth where it listeth will carry them\nwhere it will, and we want them to be ready to be sown wherever the\npools of the world are barren of lotus flowers. And this brings us\nstraight to the newest of our beginnings in Dohnavur--the Kindergarten.\n\nAn ideal kindergarten is a place where the teachers train the scholars,\nand we hope to have that in time; at present the case is opposite, and\nthat is why it has its name, the name that conflicts with the\nlotus-pool--the Bear-garden.\n\nIn this peaceful room Classes B, C, and D have taken their young\nteachers in hand--Rukma, Preena, and Sanda. Of these Rukma (Radiance)\nhas the clearest ideas about discipline; Preena (the Elf) knows best how\nto coax; and Sanda, excellent Mouse that she is, has the gift of\npatience. These three (who after all are only school-girls, continuing\ntheir own education with their Prema Sittie) are attempting to instruct\nthe babies on the lines of organised play; but the babies feel they have\nmuch to teach their teachers, and this is how they do it:--\n\nPrema Sittie goes into the room when the kindergarten is in progress,\nand from three classes at once babies come springing towards her with\nsqueals of joy, and they clasp her knees and look up with eyes full of\naffection and confidence in their welcome. \"Go back to your place!\" she\nsays, and tries to look severe; with a chuckle the children obey, and\nshe looks round and takes notes.\n\nChellalu is lying full-length on the bench, with a look of supreme\ncontent on her face, and her two feet against the wall. Pyarie has\nturned her back to the picture that is being shown, and is tying a\nhandkerchief round her head. Ruhinie, an India-rubber-ball sort of baby,\nhas suddenly bounced up from her seat, and is starting a chorus, of\nwhich she is fond, at the top of her not very gentle voice; and Komala,\na perfect sprite, is tickling the child who sits next to her. \"Sittie!\"\nexclaims the distracted teacher, \"they won't learn anything!\" Or if she\nhappens to be the Mouse, she is calmly engaged with the one good child\nin her class.\n\nThe next group is stringing beads on pieces of wire. \"Look, look!\" and\nan eager babe holds out her wire for admiration, and probably spills her\nbeads in her effort to secure attention. If she does, there is a general\nscramble, beads rolling loose on the floor being quite irresistible. One\nwicked baby sits by herself and strings her beads on her curls.\n\nA few minutes later it is mat-plaiting; and the agile little fingers are\ndiligently weaving pieces of blue and yellow material, bits over from\ntheir elder sisters' garments, beautifully unconscious that they are\nsupposed to be working the colours alternately. Sometimes in the gayest\nway they exclaim: \"Sittie! It's wrong! it's wrong!\" Occasionally there\nis a howl from a child who has been pinched by another, or whose\nneighbour has helped herself to her beads. Sittie crosses the room\nhurriedly. \"What's the matter?\" With tears rolling down her cheeks the\nvictim points to her oppressor. \"May you do that?\" is the invariable\nEnglish question. It is answered by a shake of the head, the tiniest\nbaby understanding that particular remark. The injured baby smiles. A\nreproof, or at worst a pat on the fat arm next to hers, satisfies her\nsense of justice, and she is content.\n\nWhen an English lesson begins, those afflicted with delicate nerves are\nhappier elsewhere. One class has a toy farmyard, another a set of\ntea-things, the third a doll which every member of the class is aching\nto embrace. The teachers and children alike are inclined to talk with\nemphasis; and if you stand between the three classes you hear queer\nanswers to queerer questions, and wonder if the babies at Babel were\nanything like so bewildering.\n\nBut this vision of the kindergarten is hardly a fortnight old; for\nClasses B, C, and D are of recent development, and are made up of some\nheedless characters, as Chellalu and Pyarie, who could not keep up with\nclass A, and a few more young things from the nursery who were wilder\nthan wild rabbits from the wood when we began. Also it should be stated\nthat from the babies' point of view white people are only playthings.\n\"They were very good before you came!\" is the unflattering remark\nfrequently addressed to us; and as we discreetly retire, the babies do\nseem to become suddenly beautifully docile. But even so they might be\nbetter, as an unconscious comedy over-seen this morning proves. I was in\nthe porch outside the door, when Rukma, pointing to a blackboard on\nwhich were written sundry words, told Chellalu to show her \"cat,\" and I\nlooked in interested to know if Chellalu really knew anything of\nreading. Chellalu brandished the pointer, then turned to Rukma with a\nconfidential smile, \"Cat? Where is it, Accal? Is it at the top or at the\nbottom?\" Rukma, who has a keen sense of the comic, seemed to find it\ndifficult to look as she felt she ought. Chellalu caught the twinkle in\nher eye, and throwing herself heartily into the spirit of the game,\nwhich was evidently intended to be a kindergarten version of Hunt the\nMouse through the Wood, she searched the blackboard for cat. Then to\nRukma: \"Accal! dear Accal! Tell _me_, and I'll tell _you_!\"\n\nThere is nothing that helps us so much to be good as to be believed in\nand thought better than we are; and the converse is true, so we do not\nwant to be always suspecting Chellalu of sin; but this last was entirely\ntoo artless, and this was apparently Rukma's view, for she sent Chellalu\nback to her seat and called up another baby, who, fairly radiating\nvirtue, immediately found the cat.\n\nThe next room--which Class A (the first to be formed) has to itself--is\na haven of peace after the Bear-garden. It is a pleasant room like the\nother, pretty with pictures and with flowers. And the little bright\nfaces make it a happy place, for this class, though serious-minded, is\nexceedingly cheerful. There is the demure little Tingalu, the good child\nof the kindergarten, its hope and stay in troublous hours, and the\nquaint little trio, Jeya, Jullanie, and Sella--this last is called\nCock-robin by the family, for she has eyes and manners which remind us\nof the bird, and she hardly ever walks, she hops. Mala and Bala are in\nthe class, and a lively scamp called Puvai.\n\nThe kindergarten is worked in English, helped out with Tamil when\noccasion requires. This plan, adopted for reasons pertaining to the\nfuture of the children, is resulting in something so comical that we\nshall be sorry when the first six months are over and the babies grow\ncorrect. At present they talk with delightful abandon impossible to\nreproduce, but very entertaining to those who know both languages. They\ntack Tamil terminations to English verbs, and English nouns make\nsubjects for Tamil predicates. They turn their sentences upside down and\ninside out, and any way in fact which occurs to them at the moment, only\ninsisting upon one thing: you must be made to understand. They apply\neverything they learn as immediately as possible, and woe to the unwary\nflounderer in the realm of natural science who offers an explanation of\nany phenomena of nature other than that taught in the kindergarten. The\nlearned baby regards you with a tender sort of pity. Poor thing, you are\nvery ignorant; but you will know better in time--if only you will come\nto the kindergarten, the source of the fountain of knowledge.\n\nThe ease and the quickness with which a new word is appropriated\nconstantly surprises us. As for example: one morning two babies wandered\nround the Prayer-room, and, discovering passion-flowers within reach,\neagerly begged for them in Tamil. One of the two pushed the other aside\nand wanted all the flowers. \"Greedy! greedy!\" I said reprovingly, in\nEnglish. \"Greedy _mine_!\" was the immediate rejoinder, and the little\nhand was held out with more certainty than ever now that the name of the\nflower was known. \"Greedy _my_ flower! _Mine!_\"\n\nBut some of the quaintest experiences are when the eloquent baby,\ndetermined to express herself in English, falls back upon scraps of\nkindergarten rhyme and delivers it in all seriousness. On the evening\nbefore my birthday I was banished from my room, and the children\ndecorated it exactly as they pleased. When I returned I was implored not\nto look at anything, as it was not intended to be seen till next\nmorning. Next morning the babies came in procession with their elders,\nand while I was occupied with them out on the verandah, Chellalu and her\nfriend Naveena, discovering something unusual in my room, escaped from\nthe ranks and went off to examine the mystery. I found them a moment\nlater gazing in astonished joy at the glories there revealed. \"Who did\nit all?\" gasped Chellalu, whose intention, let us hope, was perfectly\nreverent. \"God did it all!\"\n\nThe one kindergarten class taught entirely in Tamil is the Scripture\nlesson, illustrated whenever possible by pictures; and being always\ntaught about sacred things in Tamil, the babies have no doubt about the\nlanguage in use in Bible days. But sometimes a little mind is puzzled,\nas an instructive aside revealed a day or two ago. For their teacher had\ntold them in English, not as a Scripture lesson, but just as a story,\nabout Peter and John and the lame man. The picture was before them, and\nthey understood and followed keenly; but one little girl whispered to\nanother, who happened to be the well-informed Cock-robin: \"Did Peter and\nJohn talk English or Tamil?\" \"Tamil, of course!\" returned Cock-robin,\nwithout a moment's hesitation.\n\nThe Scripture lessons are usually given by Arulai, whose delight is\nBible teaching. \"So that as much as lieth in you you will apply yourself\nwholly to this one thing, and draw all your cares and studies this way,\"\nis a word that always comes to mind when one thinks of Arulai and her\nBible. She much enjoys taking the babies, believing that the impressions\ncreated upon the mind of a little child are practically indelible.\n\nSometimes these impressions are expressed in vigorous fashion. Once the\nsubject of the class was the Good Samaritan. The babies were greatly\nexercised over the scandalous behaviour of the priest and the Levite.\n\"Punish them! Let them have whippings!\" they demanded. Arulai explained\nfurther. But one baby got up from her seat and walked solemnly to the\npicture. \"Take care what you are doing!\" she remarked impressively in\nTamil, shaking her finger at the two retreating backs. \"Naughty!\nnaughty!\"--this was in English--\"take care!\"\n\nOne of the favourite pictures shows Abraham and Isaac on the way to the\nmount of sacrifice. This story was told one morning with much reverence\nand feeling, and the babies were impressed. There were tears in Bala's\neyes as she gazed at the picture, but she brushed them away hurriedly\nand hoped no one had noticed. Only Chellalu appeared perfectly\nunconcerned. She had business of her own on hand, and the story, it\nseemed, had not touched her. The babies are searched before they come to\nschool, and all toys, bits of string, old tins, and sundries are removed\nfrom their persons. But there are ways of evading inquisitors. Chellalu\nknows these ways. She now produced a long wisp of red tape from\nsomewhere--she did not tell us where--and proceeded to tie her feet\ntogether. This accomplished, she curled herself up on the bench like a\ncaterpillar on a leaf, and to all appearances went to sleep. Why was she\nnot awakened and compelled to behave properly? asks the reader, duly\nshocked. Perhaps because on that rather special morning the teacher\npreferred her asleep.\n\n[Illustration: ARULAI AND RUKMA, WITH NAVEENA.]\n\nThe story finished, the children were questioned, and they answered with\nunwonted gravity. \"What did Isaac say to his father as they walked alone\ntogether?\" An awed little voice had begun the required answer, when\nChellalu suddenly uncurled, sat up, and said in clear, decided Tamil:\n\"He said, 'Father! do not kill me!' _Yesh!_ that was what he said.\"\n\nWhen first the babies heard about Heaven, they all wanted to go at once,\nand with difficulty were restrained from praying to be taken there\nimmediately. There was one naughty child who, when she was given\nmedicine, invariably announced, \"I will not stay in this village: I am\ngoing to Heaven! I am going now!\" But they soon grew wiser. It was our\nexcitable, merry little Jullanie who summed up all desires with most\nsimplicity: \"Lord Jesus, please take me there or anywhere anytime; only\nwherever I am, please stay there too!\" Some of the babies are carnal:\n\"When I go to that village (Heaven), I shall go for a ride on the\ncherubim's wings. I will make them take me to all sorts of places, just\nwherever I want to go.\"\n\nThe latest pronouncement, however, was for the moment the most\nperplexing. \"Come-anda-look-ata-well!\" said Chellalu yesterday evening,\nthe sentence in a single long word. The well is being dug in the\nMenagerie garden and is surrounded by a trellis, beyond which the babies\nmay not pass, unless taken by one of ourselves. As we drew near to the\nwell, Chellalu pointed to it and said: \"Amma! That is the way to\nHeaven!\" This speech, which was in Tamil, considerably surprised me, as\nnaturally we think of Heaven above the bright blue sky. The yawning gulf\nof the unfinished well suggested something different.\n\nBut Chellalu was positive. \"It is the way to Heaven. _I_ may not go\nthere, but _you_ may! Yesh! _you_ may go to Heaven, Amma, but _I_ may\nnot!\" She had nothing more to say; and we wondered how she could\npossibly have arrived at so extraordinary a conclusion, till we\nremembered that it had been explained to the babies that any baby\nfalling in would probably be drowned and die, and so until it was\nfinished and made safe no baby must go near it. Chellalu had evidently\nargued that as to die meant going to Heaven, the well must be the way to\nHeaven; and as only grown-up people might go near it, they, and they\nalone apparently, were allowed to go to Heaven.\n\nThese babies are nothing if not practical. Arulai had been teaching the\nstory of the Unmerciful Servant; and to bring it down to nursery life,\nsupposed the case of a baby who snatched at other babies' toys, and was\nunfair and selfish. Such a baby, if not reformed, would grow up and be\nlike the Unmerciful Servant. The babies looked upon the back of the\noffender as shown in the picture. \"Bad man! Nasty man!\" they said to\neach other, pointing to him with aversion. And Arulai closed the class\nwith a short prayer that none of the babies might ever be like the\nUnmerciful Servant.\n\nThe prayer over, the babies rushed to the table where their toys were\nput during the Scripture lesson. Pyarie got there first, and, gathering\nall she could reach, she swept them into her lap and was darting off\nwith them, when a word from Arulai recalled her. For a moment there was\na struggle. Then she ran up to Tingalu, the child she had chiefly\ndefrauded, poured all her treasures into her lap, and then sprang into\nArulai's arms with the eager question: \"Acca! Acca! Am I not a\n_Merciful_ Servant?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nThe Accals\n\n \"This sacred work demands not lukewarm, selfish,\n slack souls, but hearts more finely tempered than\n steel, wills purer and harder than the\n diamond.\"--PERE DIDON.\n\n\n[Illustration: PONNAMAL, WITH PREETHA ON HER KNEE, AND TARA BESIDE HER.]\n\nTHE Accals, without whom this work in all its various branches could not\nbe undertaken, are a band of Indian sisters (the word Accal means older\nsister) who live for the service of the children. First among the Accals\nis Ponnamal (Golden). With the quick affection of the East the children\nfind another word for Gold and call her doubly Golden Sister.\n\nSometimes we are asked if we ever find an Indian fellow-worker whom we\ncan thoroughly trust. The ungenerous question would make us as indignant\nas it would if it were asked about our own relations, were it not that\nwe know it is asked in ignorance by those who have never had the\nopportunity of experiencing, or have missed the happiness of enjoying,\ntrue friendship with the people of this land. Those who have known that\nhappiness, know the limitless loyalty and the tender, wonderful love\nthat is lavished on the one who feels so unworthy of it all. If there is\ndistance and want of sympathy between those who are called to be workers\ntogether with the great Master, is not something wrong? Simple,\neffortless intimacy, that closeness of touch which is friendship indeed,\nis surely possible. But rather we would put it otherwise, and say that\nwithout it service together, of the only sort we would care to know, is\nperfectly impossible.\n\n[Illustration: SELLAMUTTU AND SUSEELA.]\n\nIn our work all along we have had this joy to the full. God in His\ngoodness gave us from the first those who responded at once to the\nconfidence we offered them. In India the ideal of a consecrated life is\na life with no reserves--which seeks for nothing, understands nothing,\ncares for nothing but to be poured forth upon the sacrifice and service.\nPierce through the various incrustations which have over-laid this pure\nideal, give no heed to the effect of Western influence and example, and\nyou come upon this feeling, however expressed or unexpressed, at the\nvery back of all--the instinct that recognises and responds to the call\nto sacrifice, and does not understand its absence in the lives of those\nwho profess to follow the Crucified. Who, to whom this ideal is indeed\n\"The Gleam,\" that draws and ever draws the soul to passionate\nallegiance, can fail to find in the Indian nature at its truest and\nfinest that kinship of spirit which knits hearts together? \"And it came\nto pass when he had made an end of speaking, that the soul of Jonathan\nwas knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own\nsoul\": this tells it all. The spring of heart to heart that we call\naffinity, the knitting no hand can ever afterward unravel--these\nexperiences have been granted to us all through our work together, and\nwe thank God for it.\n\nPonnamal's work lies chiefly among the convert-nurses and the babies.\nShe has charge of the nurseries and of the food arrangements, so\nintricate and difficult to the mere lay mind; she trains her workers to\nthoroughness and earnestness, and by force of example seems to create an\natmosphere of cheerful unselfishness that is very inspiring. How often\nwe have sent a young convert, tempted to self-centredness and\ndepression, to Ponnamal, and seen her return to her ordinary work braced\nand bright and sensible. We are all faulty and weak at times, and\nevery nursery, like every life, has its occasional lapses; but on the\nwhole it is not too much to say that the nurseries are happy places, and\nPonnamal's influence goes through them all like a fresh wind. And this\nin spite of very poor health. For Ponnamal, who was the leader of our\nitinerating band, broke down hopelessly, and thought her use in life had\npassed--till the babies came and brought her back to activity again. And\nthe joy of the Lord, we have often proved, is strength for body as well\nas soul.\n\nSellamuttu, who comes next to Ponnamal, is the \"Pearl\" of previous\nrecords, and she has been a pearl to us through all our years together.\nShe is special Accal to the household of children above the baby-age--a\nhealthy, high-spirited crow of most diverse dispositions; and she is\nloved by one and all with a love which is tempered with great respect,\nfor she is \"all pure justice,\" as a little girl remarked feelingly not\nlong ago, after being rather sharply reproved for exceeding naughtiness:\n\"within my heart wrath burned like a fire; but my mouth could not open\nto reply, for inside me a voice said, 'It is true, entirely true; Accal\nis perfectly just.'\"\n\nThis Accal, however, is most tender in her affections, and among the\nbabies she has some particular specials. One of these is the\nsolemn-faced morsel of the photograph, to save whom she travelled,\ncounting by time, as far as from London to Moscow and back; and the baby\narrived as happy and well as when the friends at \"Moscow\" sent her off\nwith prayers and blessings and kindness. But the photograph was a shock.\n\"Aiyo!\" she said, quite upset to see her delight so misrepresented,\n\"that is not Suseela! There is no smile, no pleasure in her face!\" We\ncomforted her by the assurance that any one who understood babies and\ntheir ways would consider the camera responsible for the expression.\nAnd at least the baby was obedient. Had she not told her to make a\nsalaam, and had not the little hand gone up in serious salute? A\nperfectly obedient baby is Sellamuttu's ideal, and she was satisfied.\n\n[Illustration: TO THE RIGHT, SUHINIE, AND HER BABY SUNUNDA]\n\nBoth these sisters came to us at some loss to themselves, for both could\nhave lived at home at ease if they had been so inclined. Ponnamal lost\nall her little fortune by joining us. She could, perhaps, have recovered\nit by going to law, but she did not feel it right to do so, and she\nsuffered herself to be defrauded. \"How could I teach others to be\nunworldly if I myself did what to them would appear worldly-minded?\"\nThat was all she ever said by way of explanation.\n\nNext to Ponnamal and Sellamuttu come the motherly-hearted Gnanamal and\nAnnamai. They came to us when we were in circumstances of peculiar\ndifficulty. The work was just beginning, and we had not enough\ntrustworthy helpers; so, wearied with disturbed nights, we were almost\nat the end of our strength. \"Send us help!\" we prayed, and went on each\ntrying to do the work of three. It was one hot, tiring afternoon, when\nwe longed to forget everything and rest for half an hour, but could not,\nbecause there was so much to do, that a bright, capable face appeared at\nthe door of our room, and Annamai, Lulla's beloved, came in and said:\n\"God sent me, and my relative\" (naming a mission catechist) \"brought me.\nAnd so I have come!\"\n\nAnd Gnanamal--we were in dire straits, for a dear little babe had\nsuffered at the hands of one who thought first of herself and second of\nher charge, and the most careful tending was needed if the baby was to\nsurvive--it was then Gnanamal came and took charge of the delicate\nchild, and became the comfort and help she has ever continued to be.\nWhen there is serious illness, and night-nursing is required, Gnanamal\nis always ready to volunteer; though to her, as to most of us in India,\nnight work is not what the flesh would choose. Then in the morning,\nwhen we go to relieve her, we find her bright as ever, as if she had\nslept comfortably all the time. We think this sort of help worth\ngratitude.\n\nThe convert-workers, dear as dear children, but, thank God, dependable\nas comrades, come next in age to the head Accals. Arulai Tara (known to\nsome as \"Star\") is what her name suggests, something steadfast,\nsomething shining, something burning with a pure devotion which kindles\nother fires. We cannot imagine our children without their beloved\nArulai. Then there is Sundoshie (Joy), to the left next Suhinie in the\nphoto, a young wife for whom poison was prepared three times, and whose\nescape from death at the hand of husband and mother-in-law was one of\nthose quiet miracles which God is ever working in this land of cruelty\nin dark places. And Suhinie (Gladness), whose story of deliverance has\nbeen told before;[E] and Esli, the gift of a fellow-missionary, a most\nfaithful girl; and others younger, but developing in character and\ntrustworthiness. All these young converts need much care, but the care\nof genuine converts is very fruitful work; and one interesting part of\nit is the fitting of each to her niche, or of fitting the niche to her.\nDiscernment of spirit is needed for this, for misfits means waste energy\nand great discomfort; and energy is too good a thing to waste, and\ncomfort too pleasant a thing to spoil. So those who are responsible for\nthis part of the work would be grateful for the remembrance of any who\nknow how much depends upon it.\n\nAmong the recognised \"fits\" in our family is \"the Accal who loves the\nunlovable babies.\" This is Suhinie. We tried her once with the Taraha\nchildren; but the terrible activity of these young people was altogether\ntoo much for the slowly moving machinery of poor Suhinie's brain, and\nshe was perfectly overwhelmed and very miserable. For Suhinie hates\nhurry and sudden shocks of any sort, and the babies of maturer years\ndiscovered this immediately; and Suhinie, waddling forlornly after the\nbabies, looked like a highly respectable duck in charge of a flock of\nimpertinent robins.\n\n[Illustration: THREE CONVERT WORKERS.]\n\nIt was quite a misfit, and Suhinie's worst came to the top, and we\nspeedily moved her back again to the Premalia nursery.\n\nFor there you see Suhinie in her true sphere. Give her a poor, puny\nbabe, who will never, if she can help it, let her Accal have an\nundisturbed hour; give her the most impossible, most troublesome baby in\nthe nursery, and then you will see Suhinie's best. We discovered this\nwhen Ponnamal was in charge of the Neyoor nursery. Ponnamal had one\nsmall infant so cross that nobody wanted her. She would cry half the\nnight, a snarly, snappy cry, that would not stop unless she was rocked,\nand began again as soon as the rocking was stopped. Ponnamal gave her to\nSuhinie.\n\n\"Night after night till two in the morning she would sing to that\nfractious child\"--this was Ponnamal's story to me when next I went to\nNeyoor. \"She never seemed to tire; hymn after hymn she would sing, on\nand on and on. I never saw her impatient with it; she just loved it from\nthe first.\" And a curious thing began to happen: the baby grew like her\nAccal. This likeness was not caught in the photograph, but is\nnevertheless so observable that visitors have often asked if the little\none were her own child.\n\nThis baby, Sununda by name, is greatly attached to Suhinie. As she is\nover two years old now, she has been promoted to the Taraha, and being\nan extremely wilful little person, she sometimes gets into trouble. One\nday I was called to remonstrate, and a little \"morning glory\" was\nrequired, and I put her in a corner to think about it. Another sinner\nhad to be dealt with, and when I returned Sununda was nowhere to be\nfound. I searched all over the Taraha and in the garden, and finally\nfound her in the Premalia cuddled close to Suhinie. \"She has told me all\nabout it,\" said Suhinie, who was nursing another edition of difficult\ninfancy; and she looked down on the curly head with eyes of brooding\naffection, like a tender turtle-dove upon her nestling. Then the roguish\nbrown eyes smiled up at me with an expression of perfect confidence that\nI would understand and sympathise with the desire to share the troubles\nof this strange, sad life with so beloved an Accal.\n\nThe question of discipline is sometimes rather difficult with so many\ndispositions, each requiring different dealing. We try, of course, to\nfit the penalty to the crime, so that the child's sense of justice will\nwork on our side; and in this we always find there is a wonderful\nunconscious co-operation on the part of the merest baby. But the older\nchildren used to be rather a problem. Some had come to us after their\nwills had become developed and their characters partly formed. Most of\nthem were with us of their own free will, and could have walked off any\nday, for they knew where they would be welcome. Discipline under these\ncircumstances is not entirely easy. But three years ago something of\nRevival Power swept through all our family. It was not the Great Revival\nfor which we wait, but it was something most blessed in effect and\nabiding in result; and ever since then the tone has been higher and the\nlife deeper, so that there is something to which we can appeal confident\nof a quick response. But children will be scampish; and once their\nearnestness of desire to be good was put to unexpected and somewhat\ndrastic proof.\n\nAt that time the mild Esli had charge of the sewing-class, and the class\nhad got into bad ways; carelessness and chattering prevailed, so Esli\ncame in despair to me, and I talked to the erring children. They were\nsorry, made no excuses, and promised to be different in future. I left\nthem repentant and thoroughly ashamed of themselves, and went to other\nduties.\n\n[Illustration: SEWING-CLASS IN THE COURTYARD.]\n\nShortly afterwards Arulai found them in a state of great depression.\nThey told her they had promised to be good at the sewing-class, but were\nafraid they would forget. Arulai's ideas are usually most original, and\nshe sympathised with the children, but told them there was no need for\nthem ever to forget. They asked eagerly what could be done to help them\nto remember. They had prayed, but even so had doubts. Was there anything\nto be done besides praying? Arulai said there was, and she expounded\ncertain verses from the Book of Proverbs. \"Sometimes the best way to\nmake a mark upon the mind is to make a mark upon the body,\" she\nsuggested, and asked the children if they would like this done. The\nchildren hesitated. They were aware that Arulai's \"marks\" were likely to\nbe emphatic, for Arulai never does things by halves. But their devotion\nto her and belief in her overcame all fears; and being genuinely anxious\nto reform, they one and all consented. So she sent a small girl off to\nlook for a cane; and presently one was produced, \"thin and nice and\nsuitable,\" as I was afterwards informed. The younger children were\ninvited to take the cane and look at it, and consider well how it would\nfeel. This they did obediently, but still stuck undauntedly to their\ndetermination, in fact, were keen to go through with it. Then Arulai\nexplained that when the King said, \"Chasten thy son while there is hope,\nand let not thy soul spare for his crying,\" he must have been thinking\nof a very little boy who had not the sense to know what was good for\nhim. They had sense. The mark on the body would be waste punishment if\nit were not received willingly and gratefully; so if any child cried or\npulled her hand away, she would stop. Then the children all stood up and\nheld out their hands--what a moment for a photograph! Arulai's \"mark\nupon the body\" was a genuine affair, but the class received it with\nfortitude and gratitude.\n\nWhen I heard this history, an hour or so after its occurrence, I rather\ndemurred. The children had appeared to be sincerely sorry when I spoke\nto them, and if so, why proceed to extremities? But Arulai answered with\nwisdom and much assurance: \"They have been talked to before and have\nbeen sorry, but they forgot and did it again. This time they will not\nforget.\" And neither did they. As long as that class continued, its\nbehaviour was exemplary; and \"the mark upon the mind,\" to judge by their\ndemeanour, remained as fresh as it must have been on that memorable day\nwhen the \"mark\" upon the body effected its creation. The story ought to\nend here; but most stories have a sequel, and this has two.\n\nThe first occurred a few weeks later. A little girl, one of the\nsewing-class, had slipped into the habit of careless disobedience,\nfollowed too often by sulks. If we happened to come across her just when\nthe thunder-clouds were gathering, we could usually divert her attention\nand avert the threatened trouble; but if we did not happen to meet her\njust at the right moment, she would plunge straight into the most\noutrageous naughtiness with a sort of purposeful directness that was\ndifficult to deal with. Knowing the child well, we often let her choose\nher own punishments; and she did this so conscientiously that at last,\nas she herself mournfully remarked, \"they were all used up,\" and there\nwas nothing left but the most ancient--and perhaps in some cases most\nefficacious, which, the circumstances being what they were, I was\nnaturally reluctant to try. But the child, trained to be perfectly\nhonest with herself, apparently thought the thing over, and calmly made\nup her mind to accept the inevitable; for when, anxious she should not\nmisunderstand, I began to explain matters to her, I was met by this\nsomewhat astonishing response: \"Yes, Amma, I know. I know you have tried\neverything else\" (she said this almost sympathetically, as if\nappreciating my dilemma), \"and so you have to do it. I do not like it at\nall, but Arulai Accal says it is no use unless I take it willingly, so\nAmma, please give me a good caning.\" (The idiom is the same in Tamil as\nin English, but there is a stronger word which she now proceeded to use\nwith great deliberation.) \"Yes, Amma, a _hot_ caning--with my full mind\nI am willing. And I will not cry. Or if I do cry\" (this was added in a\nserious, reflecting sort of way), \"let not your soul spare for my\ncrying!\"\n\nThe second is less abnormal. Esli, whose placid soul had been sadly\nstirred at the time of the infliction of the \"mark,\" was so impressed by\nits salutary effect that she conceived a new respect for the methods of\nKing Solomon. The application of \"morning glory\" is a privilege\nreserved, as a rule, for ourselves; but one day, being doubtless hard\npressed, Esli produced a stick--a very feeble one--and calling up the\nleader of all rebels, addressed herself to her. Chellalu, as might have\nbeen expected, was taken by surprise; and for one short moment Esli was\npermitted to follow the ways of the King. But only for a moment: for,\nsuddenly apprehending the gravity of the situation, and realising that\nsuch precedent should not pass unchallenged, Chellalu, with a quick\nwriggle, stood forth free, seized the stick with a joyous shout, snapped\nit in two, and flourished round the room: then stopping before her\nafflicted Accal, she solemnly handed her one of the pieces, and with a\nbound and a scamper like a triumphant puppy, was off to the very end of\nher world with the other half of that stick.\n\nWhen the Elf came to us on March 6, 1901, and we began to know some of\nthe secrets of the Temple, we tried to save several little children,\nbut we failed. The thought of those first children with whom we came\ninto touch, but for whom all our efforts were unavailing, is\nunforgettable. We see them still, little children--lost. But we partly\nunderstand why we had to wait so long; we had not the workers then to\nhelp us to take care of them. We had only some of the older Accals, who\ncould not have done it alone. These convert-girls, who now help us so\nmuch, were in Hindu homes; some of them had not even heard of Christ,\nwhose love alone makes this work possible. For India is not England in\nits view of such work. There is absolutely nothing attractive about it.\nIt is not \"honourable work,\" like preaching and teaching. No money would\nhave drawn these workers to us. Work which has no clear ending, but\ndrifts on into the night if babies are young or troublesome--such work\nmakes demands upon devotion and practical unselfishness which appeal to\nnone but those who are prepared to love with the tireless love of the\nmother. \"I do not want people who come to me under certain reservations.\nIn battle you need soldiers who fear nothing.\" So wrote the heroic Pere\nDidon; and, though it may sound presumptuous to do so, we say the same.\nWe want as comrades those who come to us without reservations. But such\nworkers have to be prepared, and such preparation takes time. \"Tarry ye\nthe Lord's leisure,\" is a word that unfolds as we go on.\n\nYet we find that the work, though so demanding, is full of\ncompensations. The convert in her loneliness is welcomed into a family\nwhere little children need her and will soon love her dearly. The\nuncomforted places in her heart become healed, for the touch of a little\nchild is very healing. If she is willing to forget herself and live for\nthat little child, something new springs up within her; she does not\nunderstand it, but those who watch her know that all is well. Sometimes\nlong afterwards she reads her own heart's story and opens it to us. \"I\nwas torn with longing for my home. I dreamed night after night about it,\nand I used to waken just wild to run back. And yet I knew if I had, it\nwould have been destruction to my soul. And then the baby came, and you\nput her into my arms, and she grew into my heart, and she took away all\nthat feeling, till I forgot I ever had it.\" This was the story of one, a\nyoung wife, for whom the natural joys of home can never be. But if there\nis selfishness or slackness or a weak desire to drift along in easiness,\ntaking all and giving nothing, things are otherwise. For such the\nnurseries hold nothing but noise and interruptions. We ask to be spared\nfrom such as these. Or if they come, may they be inspired by the\nconstraining love of Christ and \"The Glory of the Usual.\"\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[E] _Overweights of Joy_, ch. xxiii. Suhinie left the nursery for a few\nhours' rest at noon on February 2, 1910. She fell asleep, to awaken in\nheaven.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nThe Little Accals\n\n But Thou didst reckon, when at first\n Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,\n What it would come to at the worst\n To save.\n Perpetual knockings at Thy door,\n Tears sullying Thy transparent rooms.\n\n\n[Illustration: THREE LITTLE ACCALS.]\n\nTHESE lines come with insistence as I look at the little Accals, who\nfollow in order after the Accals, convert children, most of them, now\ngrowing up to helpfulness. If part of the story of one such young girl\nis told, it may help those to whom such tales are unfamiliar to\nunderstand and to care.\n\nDecember 16, 1903, was spent by three of us in a rest-house on the\noutskirts of a Hindu town. We were on our way to Dohnavur from Madras,\nwhere we had seen Mr. and Mrs. Walker off for England. The two days'\njourney had left us somewhat weary; and yet we were strong in hope that\nday, for we knew there was special thought for us on board ship and at\nhome, and something special was being asked as a birthday gift of joy.\nArulai (Star) and Preena (the Elf), the two who were with me, were full\nof expectation. The day had often been marked by that joy of joys, a\nlost sheep found; and as we looked out at the heathen town with its\nmany people so unconscious of our thoughts about them, we wondered where\nwe should find the one our thoughts had singled from among the crowd,\nand we went out to look for her.\n\n[Illustration: PREENA AND PREEYA\n\n(To left and right) getting ready for a Coming-Day Feast.]\n\nUp and down the long white streets we looked for her; on the little\nnarrow verandahs, in the courtyards of the houses, in their dark inner\nrooms when we were invited within, out again into the sunshine--but we\ncould not find her. That evening I remember, though we did not say so to\neach other, we felt a little disappointed. We had not met one who even\nremotely cared for the things we had come to bring.\n\nNo one had responded. There was not, so far as we knew it, even a little\nblade to point to, much less a sheaf to lay at His feet. After nightfall\na woman came to see us. But she was a Christian, and beyond trying to\ncheer her to more earnest service among the heathen, there was nothing\nto be done for her. She left us, she told us afterwards, warmed to hope;\nand she talked to a child next morning, a little relative of her own,\nwhose heart the Lord opened.\n\nFor three months we heard nothing; then unexpectedly a letter came. \"The\nchild is much in earnest, and she has made up her mind to join your\nStarry Cluster\" (a name given by the people to our band, which at that\ntime was itinerating in the district), \"so I purpose sending her at\nonce.\" The parents, for reasons of their own, agreed to the arrangement,\nand the little girl came to Dohnavur. It was wonderful to watch her\nlearning. She is not intellectually brilliant, but the soul awakened at\nonce, and there was that tenderness of response which refreshes the\nheart of the teacher. She seemed to come straight to our Lord Jesus and\nknow Him as her Saviour, child though she was; and soon the longing to\nwin others possessed her, and a younger child, who was her special\ncharge among the nursery children, was influenced so gently and so\nwillingly, that we do not know the time when, led by her little\nAccal, she too came to the Lover of children.\n\nBut one day, suddenly, trouble came. The parents appeared in the\nDohnavur compound and claimed their daughter; and we had no legal right\nto refuse her, for she was under age. We shall never forget the hour\nthey came. They had haunted the neighbourhood, as we afterwards heard,\nand prowled about outside the compound, watching for an opportunity to\ncarry the child off without our knowledge. But she was always with the\nother children, so that plan failed. When first she heard they had come,\nshe fled to the bungalow. \"My parents have come! My father is strong!\nOh, hide me! hide me!\" she besought us. \"I cannot resist him! I cannot!\"\nand she cried and clung to us. But when we went out to meet them, she\nwas perfectly quiet; and no one would have known from her manner as she\nstood before them, and answered their questions, without a tremble in\nher voice, how frightened she had been before.\n\n\"What is this talk about being a Christian?\" the father demanded\nstormily. \"What can an infant know about such matters? Are you wiser\nthan your fathers, that their religion is not good enough for you?\" And\nscathing mockery followed, harder to bear than abuse. \"Come! Say salaam\nto the Missie Ammal, and bring your jewels\" (she had taken them off),\n\"and let us go home together.\" The child stood absolutely still, looking\nup with brave eyes; and to our astonishment said, as though it were the\nonly thing to be said: \"But I am a Christian. I cannot go home.\"\n\nWe had not thought of her saying this. We had, indeed, encouraged her as\nwe had encouraged ourselves, to rest in our God, who is unto us a God of\ndeliverances; but we had not suggested any line of resistance, and were\nnot prepared for the calm refusal which so quietly took it for granted\nthat she had no power to refuse.\n\nThe father was evidently nonplussed. He knew his little daughter, a\ntimid child, whose translated name, Fawn, seems to express her exactly,\nand he gazed down upon her in silence for one surprised moment, then\nburst out in wrath and indignant revilings. \"Snake! nurtured in the\nbosom only to turn and sting! Vile, filthy, disgusting insect, born to\ndisgrace her caste!\" And they cursed her as she stood.\n\nThen their mood changed, and they tried pleadings, much more difficult\nto resist. The father reminded her of his pilgrimage to a famous Temple\nat her birth: \"He had named her before the gods.\" Her mother touched on\ntenderer memories, till we could feel the quiver of soul, and feared for\nthe little Fawn. Then they promised her liberty at home. She should read\nher Bible, pray to the true God, \"for all gods are one.\" I saw Fawn shut\nher eyes for a moment. What she saw in that moment she told me\nafterwards: a fire lighted on the floor, a Bible tossed into it, two\nschoolboy brothers (whose leanings towards Christianity had been\ndiscovered) pushed into an inner room, the sound of blows and cries.\n\"And after that my brothers did not want to be Christians any more.\"\nPoor little timid Fawn! We hardly wonder as we look at her that she\nshrank and shut her eyes. I have seen a child of twelve held down by a\npowerful arm and beaten across the bare shoulders with a cocoa-nut shell\nfastened to the end of a stick; I have seen her wrists twisted almost to\ndislocation--seen it, and been unable to help. I think of the child, now\nour happy Gladness, lover of the unlovable babies; and I for one cannot\nwonder at the little Fawn's fear. But aloud she only said: \"Forgive me,\nI cannot go home.\"\n\nThe father grew impatient. \"Get your jewels and let us be gone!\" Fawn\nran into the house, brought her jewels, and handed them to her father.\nHe counted them over--pretty little chains and bangles, and then he eyed\nher curiously. A child to give up her jewels like this--he found it\nunaccountable. And then he began to argue, but Fawn answered him with\nclearness and simplicity, and he could not perplex her. She knew Whom\nshe believed.\n\nAt last they rose to go, cursing the day she was born with a curse that\nsounded horrible. But their younger daughter, whom they had brought with\nthem, threw herself upon the ground, tearing her hair, beating her\nbreast, shrieking and rolling and flinging the dust about like a mad\nthing. \"I will not go without my sister! I will not go! I will not go!\"\nAnd she clung to Fawn, and wept and bewailed till we hardly dared to\nhope the child would be able to withstand her. For a moment the parents\nstood and waited. We, too, stood in tension of spirit. \"They have told\nher to do it,\" whispered Fawn, and stood firm. Then the father stooped,\nsnatched up the younger child, and departed, followed by the mother.\n\nAll this time two of our number had been waiting upon God in a quiet\nplace out of sight. One of the two went after the parents, hoping for a\nchance to explain matters to the mother. As she drew near she heard the\nwife say in an undertone to her husband: \"Leave them for to-day. Wait\ntill to-night. You have carried off the younger in your arms against her\nwill. What hinders you doing the same to the elder?\" And that night we\nprayed that the Wall of Fire might be round us, and slept in peace.\n\nAs a dream when one awaketh, so was the memory of that afternoon when we\nawoke next morning. And as a dream so the parents passed out of sight,\nfor they left before the dawn. But weeks afterwards we heard what had\nhappened that night. They had lodged in the Hindu village outside our\ngate. There has never been a Christian there, and the people have never\nresponded in any way. It is a little shut-in place of darkness on the\nborders of the light. But when the parents proposed a raid upon the\nbungalow that night they would not rise to it. \"No, we have no feud with\nthe bungalow. We will not do it.\" The nearest white face was a day's\njourney distant, and a woman alone, white or brown, does not count for\nmuch in Hindu eyes. But the Wall of Fire was around us, and so we were\nsafe.\n\nIf the story could stop here, how easy life would be! One fight, one\nfling to the lions, and then the palm and crown. But it is not so. The\nperils of reaction are greater for the convert than the first great\nstrain of facing the alternative, \"Diana or Christ.\" Home-sickness\ncomes, wave upon wave, and all but sweeps the soul away; feelings and\nlongings asleep in the child awake in the girl, and draw her and woo\nher, and blind her too often to all that yielding means. She forgets the\nunder-side of the life she has forsaken; she remembers only the\nalluring; and all that is natural pleads within her, and will not let\nher rest. \"Across the will of Nature leads on the path of God,\" is\nsternly true for the convert in a Hindu or Moslem land.\n\nAnd so we write this unfinished story in faith that some one reading it\nwill remember the young girl-converts as well as the little children.\nFawn has been kept steadfast, but she still needs prayer. These last\nfive years have held anxious hours for those who love her, and to us, as\nto all who have to do with converts. \"Perpetual knockings at Thy door,\ntears sullying Thy transparent rooms,\" are words that go deep and touch\nthe heart of things.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nThe Glory of the Usual\n\n\n[Illustration: AFTER HER BOTTLE.]\n\n\"AND all things were done in such excellent methods, and I cannot tell\nhow, but things in the doing of them seemed to cast a smile\"--is a\nbeautiful sentence from Bunyan's _Holy War_, which has been with us ever\nsince we began the Nursery work. Lately we found its complement in a\nmodern book of sermons, _The Unlighted Lustre_, by G. H. Morrison. \"No\nmatter how stirring your life be, it will be a failure if you have never\nbeen wakened to the glory of the usual. There is no happiness like the\nold and common happiness, sunshine and love and duty and the laughter of\nchildren. . . . There are no duties that so enrich as dull duties.\"\n\nThe ancient voice and the new voice sing to the same sweet tune; and we\nin our little measure are learning to sing it too.\n\nAs we have said, India is a land where the secular does not appeal. When\nwe were an Itinerating Band, we had many offers from Christian girls and\nwomen to join us, as many in one month as we now have in five years.\nSometimes it has seemed to us that we were set to learn and to teach a\nnew and difficult lesson, the sacredness of the commonplace. Day by day\nwe learn to rub out a little more of the clear chalked line that someone\nhas ruled on life's black-board; the Secular and the Spiritual may not\nbe divided now. The enlightening of a dark soul or the lighting of a\nkitchen fire, it matters not which it is, if only we are obedient to the\nheavenly vision, and work with a pure intention to the glory of our God.\n\n[Illustration: NORTH LAKE AND HILLS.]\n\nThe nursery kitchen is a pleasant little place. We hardly ever enter it\nwithout remembering and appreciating John Bunyan's pretty thought, for\nthere things in the doing of them seem to cast a smile. Ponnamal, who,\nas we said, superintends the more delicate food-making work, has trained\ntwo of her helpers to carefulness; and these two--one a motherly older\nwoman with a most comfortable face, the other the convert, Joy--look up\nwith such a welcome that you feel it good to be there. Scrubbing away at\nendless pots and pans and milk vessels is a younger convent-girl, who,\nwhen she first came to us, disapproved of such exertion. She liked to\nsit on the floor with her Bible on her lap and a far-away look of\ncontent on her face until the dinner-bell rang. Now she scrubs with a\nsense of responsibility.\n\nAll the younger converts have regular teaching, for they have much to\nlearn, and all, older and younger, have daily classes and meetings;\nabove all, it is planned that each has her quiet time undisturbed. But\nit is early understood that to be happy each must contribute her share\nto the happiness of the family; and one of the first lessons the young\nconvert has to learn is to honour the \"Grey Angel,\" Drudgery, and not to\ncall her bad names.\n\nThe kitchen has an outlook dear to the Tamil heart. A trellis covered\nwith pink antigone surrounds it, but a window is cut in the trellis so\nthat the kitchen may command the bungalow. \"While I stirred the milk I\nsaw everything you did on your verandah,\" remarked one of the workers\nlately, in tones of appreciation. The opposite outlook is the mountain\nshown in the photograph; only instead of water we have the\nkitchen-garden with its tropical-looking plantains and creeping marrows.\n\"And the warm melon lay like a little sun on the tawny sand,\" is a line\nfor an Eastern garden when the great marrows ripen suddenly.\n\nThe kitchen thus favoured without, is adorned within, according to the\ntaste of its owners, with those very interesting pictures published by\nthe makers of infant foods. \"How do you choose them?\" we asked one day.\n\"The truest and the prettiest,\" was the satisfactory answer. Our\nDohnavur text, which hangs in every nursery, looks down upon the\nworkers, and, as they put it, \"keeps them sweet in heart\": \"Love never\nfaileth.\"\n\nWhen first we began to cultivate babies we were very ignorant, and we\nasked advice of all who seemed competent to give it. The advice was most\nperplexing. Each mother was sure the food that had suited her baby was\nthe best of all foods, and regarded all others as doubtful, if not bad.\nOne whom we greatly respected told us Indian babies would be sure to get\non anyhow, as it was their own land. And one seriously suggested\nrice-water as a suitable nourishment. Naturally we began with the\ntime-honoured milk and barley-water, and some throve upon it. But we\nfound each baby had to be studied separately. There was no universal\n(artificial) food. We could write a tractlet on foods, and if we did we\nwould call it \"Don't,\" for the first sentence in it would be, \"Don't\nchange the food if you can help it.\" This tractlet would certainly close\nwith a word of thanks to those kind people, the milk-food manufacturers,\nwho have helped us to build up healthy children; for feelings of\npersonal gratitude come when help of this kind is given.\n\nThe nursery kitchen is a room full of reminders of help. \"I have\ncommanded the ravens,\" is a word of strength to us. Once we were very\nlow. A little child had died under trying circumstances. One of the\nmilk-sellers, instead of using the vessel sent him, poured his milk\ninto an unclean copper vessel, and it was poisoned. He remembered that\nit would not be taken unless brought in the proper vessel, so at the\nlast moment he corrected his mistake, but the correction was fatal, for\nthere was no warning. The milk was sterilized as usual and given to the\nchild. She was a healthy baby, and her nurse remembers how she smiled\nand welcomed her bottle, taking it in her little hands in her happy\neagerness. A few hours later she was dead.\n\nAt such times the heart seems foolishly weak, and things which would not\ntrouble it otherwise have power to make it sore. We were four days'\njourney from the nursery at the time, and had the added anxiety about\nthe other babies, to whom we feared the poisoned milk might have been\ngiven, and we dreaded what the next post might bring. Just at that\nmoment it was suggested, with kindest intentions, that perhaps we were\non the wrong track, the work seemed so difficult and wasteful.\n\nIt was mail-day. The mail as usual brought a pile of letters, and the\ntop envelope contained a bill for foods ordered from England some weeks\nbefore. It came to more than I had expected, in spite of the kindness of\nseveral firms in giving a liberal discount; and for a moment the\nrice-water talk (to give it a name which covers all that type of talk)\ncame back to me with hurt in it: \"To what purpose is this waste?\" But\nwith it came another word: \"Take this child away (away from the terrible\nTemple) and nurse it for Me.\" And with the pile of letters before me,\nand the bill for food in my hand, I asked that enough might be found in\nthose letters to pay it. It did not occur to me at the moment that the\nprayer was rather illogical. I only knew it would be comforting, and\nlike a little word of peace, if such an assurance might even then come\nthat we were not off the lines.\n\nLetter after letter was empty. Not empty of kindness, but quite empty\nof cheques. The last envelope looked thin and not at all hopeful.\nCheques are usually inside reliable-looking covers. I opened it. There\nwas nothing but a piece of unknown writing. But the writing was to ask\nif we happened to have a need which a sum named in the letter would\nmeet. This sum exactly covered the bill for the foods. When the cheque\neventually reached me it was for more than the letter had mentioned, and\ncovered all carriage and duty expenses, which were unknown to me at the\ntime the first letter came, and to which of course I had not referred in\nmy reply. Thus almost visibly and audibly has the Lord, from whose hands\nwe received this charge to keep, confirmed His word to us, strengthening\nus when we were weak, and comforting us when we were sad with that\ninnermost sense of His tenderness which braces while it soothes.\n\nSurely we who know Him thus should love the Lord because He hath heard\nour voice and our supplication. Every advertisement on the walls of the\nlittle nursery kitchen is like an illuminated text with a story hidden\naway in it:--\n\n When Thou dost favour any action,\n It runs, it flies;\n All things concur to give it a perfection.\n\nThe nursery kitchen, we were amused to discover, has a sphere of\ninfluence all its own. Our discovery was on this wise:--\n\nOne wet evening we were caught in a downpour as we were crossing from\nthe Taraha nursery to the bungalow, and we took shelter in the\nkindergarten room, which reverts to the Lola-and-Leela tribe when the\nkindergarten babies depart. The tribe do not often possess their Sittie\nand their Ammal both together and all to themselves, now that the\njuniors are so numerous, and they welcomed us with acclamations. \"Finish\nspreading your mats,\" we said to them, as they seemed inclined to let\nour advent interrupt the order of the evening; and we watched them\nunroll their mats, which hung round the wall in neat rolls swung by\ncords from the roof, and spread them in rows along the wall. Beside each\nmat was what looked like a mummy, and beside each mummy was a matchbox\nand a small bundle of rags.\n\nPresently the mummies were unswathed, and proved to be dolls in more or\nless good condition. Each was carefully laid upon a morsel of sheet, and\ncovered with another sheet folded over in the neatest fashion. \"If we\nteach them to be particular when they are young, they will be tidy when\nthey are old,\" we were informed. It was pleasant to hear our own remarks\nso accurately repeated.\n\nThe matchboxes were next unpacked; each contained a bit of match, a\nsmall pointed shell, a pebble (preferably black), and a couple of minute\ncockles. \"I suppose you don't know what all these are?\" said Lola,\naffably. \"That,\" pointing to the match, \"is a spoon; and this,\" taking\nthe pointed shell up carefully, \"is a bottle. This is the 'rubber,' of\ncourse,\" and the black pebble was indicated; \"and these\" (setting the\ncockle-shells on a piece of white paper on the floor) \"are bowls of\nwater, one for the bottle and the other for the rubber.\" We suggested\none bowl of water would hold both bottle and rubber; but Lola's entirely\nmischievous eyes looked quite shocked and reproving. \"Two bowls are\nbetter,\" was the serious reply; \"it is very important to be clean.\"\n\"What does your child have?\" we inquired respectfully. \"Barley-water and\nmilk, two-and-a-half ounces every two hours--that's five tablespoonfuls,\nyou know.\" \"And Leela's?\" \"Oh, Leela's child is delicate. She has to\nhave Benger. Two ounces every two hours; and it has to be a long time\ndigested.\" \"Do all your children have their food every two hours?\" Lola\nlooked surprised, and Leela giggled: how very ignorant we seemed to be!\n\"No, only the tiny ones; our babies are very young. After they get older\nthey have more at a time and not so often. That child there,\" pointing\nto another mat, \"has Condensed, as we haven't enough cow's milk for them\nall. It suits her very well. She has six ounces at a time; once before\nshe goes to sleep, and then none till she wakens in the morning. She's a\nvery healthy child.\" \"How do you know the time?\" we asked, prepared for\nanything now. \"Oh, we have watches. This is mine,\" and a toy from a\nChristmas cracker was produced; \"Leela's watch is different\" (it was\nindeed different--a mere figment of the imagination), \"but she can look\nat mine when she wants to.\" \"Why does your child sleep with Leela's?\"\n(All the other infants had separate sleeping arrangements.) Lola looked\nshy, and Leela looked shyer. These little matters of affection were not\nintended for public discussion.\n\nBy this time the rain had cleared, so we prepared to depart, and the\nfurther entertainments provided for us by the cheerful tribe that\nevening do not belong to this story. We escaped finally, damp with much\nlaughter in a humid atmosphere. \"Come every evening!\" shouted the tribe,\nas at last we disappeared, and we felt much inclined to accept the\ninvitation.\n\nThe kitchen is a busy place in the morning, and again in the evening,\nwhen the fresh milk is carried to it in shining aluminium vessels to be\nsterilized or otherwise dealt with. But even in the busiest hours there\nis almost sure to be a baby set in an upturned stool, in which she sits\nholding on to the front legs in proud consciousness of being able to sit\nup. Or an older one will be clinging to the garments of the busy\nworkers, or perched beside them on a stool. Once we found Tara and Evu\nseated on the window-sill. Ponnamal was making foods at the table under\nthe window, and the little bare feet were tucked in between bowls and\njugs of milk. \"But, indeed, they are quite clean,\" explained Ponnamal,\nwithout waiting for remark from us, for she knew what we were thinking\nof her table decorations. \"We dusted the sand off their little feet\nbefore we lifted them up.\" The babies said nothing, but looked\ndoubtfully up at us, as if not very sure of our intentions. But\nPonnamal's eyes were so appealing, and the little buff things in blue\nwith a trellis of pink flowers for background made such a pretty\npicture, that we had not the heart to spoil it. Then the little faces\nsmiled gratefully upon us, and everybody smiled. The kitchen is a happy\nplace of innocent surprises.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nThe Secret Traffic\n\n \"Sir, to leave things out of a book because they\n will not be believed, is meanness.\"--DR. JOHNSON.\n\n\nWHEN first, upon March 7, 1901, we heard from the lips of a little child\nthe story of her life in a Temple house, we were startled and\ndistressed, and penetrated with the conviction that such a story ought\nto be impossible in a land ruled by a Christian Power. The subject was\nnew to us; we knew nothing of the magnitude of what may be called \"The\nSecret Traffic of India\"--a traffic in little children, mere infants\noftentimes, for wrong purposes; and we did not appreciate, as we do now,\nthe delicacy and difficulty of the position from a Government point of\nview, or the quiet might of the forces upon the other side. And though\nwith added knowledge comes an added sense of responsibility, and a fear\nof all careless appeal to those whose burden is already so heavy, yet\nwith every fresh discovery the conviction deepens that something should\nbe done--and done, if possible, soon--to save at least this generation\nof children, or some of them, from destruction.\n\n\"It is useless to move without a body of evidence at your back,\" said a\nfriend in the Civil Service to us at the close of a long conversation.\n\"If you can get the children, of course they themselves will furnish the\nbest evidence; but, anyhow, collect facts.\" And this was the beginning\nof a Note-book, into which we entered whatever we could learn about the\nTemple children, and in which we kept letters relating to them.\n\nBy Temple children throughout this book we mean children dedicated to\ngods, or in danger of being so dedicated. Dedication to gods implies a\nform of marriage which makes ordinary marriage impossible. The child is\nregarded as belonging to the gods. In Southern India, where religious\nfeeling runs strong, and the great Temples are the centres of Hindu\ninfluence, this that I have called \"The Traffic\" is worked upon\nreligious lines; and so in trying to save the children we have to\ncontend with the perverted religious sense. Something of the same kind\nexists in other parts of India, and the traffic under another name is\ncommon in provinces where Temple service as we have it in the South is\nunknown. Again, in areas where, owing to the action of the native\nGovernment, Temple service, as such, is not recognised, so that children\nin danger of wrong cannot, strictly speaking, be called Temple children,\nthere is yet need of legislation which shall touch all houses where\nlittle children are being brought up for the same purpose; so that the\nsubject is immense and involved, and the thought of it suggests a net\nthrown over millions of square miles of territory, so finely woven as to\nbe almost invisible, but so strong in its mesh that in no place yet has\nit ever given way. And the net is alive: it can feel and it can hold.\n\nBut all through this book we have kept to the South--to the area where\nthe evil is distinctly and recognisably religious. Others elsewhere have\ntold their own story; ours, though in touch with theirs (in that its\nwhole motive is to save the little children), is yet different in\nmanner, in that it is avowedly Christian. India is a land where\ngeneralisations are deceptive. So we have kept to the South.\n\nWe ourselves became only very gradually aware of what was happening\nabout us. As fact after fact came to light, we were forced to certain\nconclusions which we could not doubt were correct. But at first we were\nalmost alone in these conclusions, because it was impossible to take\nothers with us in our tedious underground hunt after facts. So the\nquestion was often asked: \"But do the children really exist?\"\n\nI have said we were almost alone, not quite. Members of the Indian Civil\nService, who are much among the people, knew something of the custom of\nchild-dedication, but found themselves unable to touch it. Hindu\nReformers, of course, knew; and two or three veteran missionaries had\ncome into contact with it and had grieved over their helplessness to do\nanything. One of these had written a pamphlet on the subject twenty\nyears before our Nursery work began. He sent it to me with a sorrowful\nword written across it, \"Result? Nil.\" But we do not often meet our\ncivilian friends, for they are busy, and so are we; and the few\nmissionaries whose inspiring sympathy helped us through those earlier\nyears were in places far from us, and so were all the Reformers. So\nperhaps it was not wonderful that, beset by doubting letters from home\nand a certain amount of not unnatural incredulity in India, we sometimes\nalmost wondered if we ourselves were dreaming. \"Well, if they do exist,\nI hope you will be able to find them!\"--varied by, \"Well, if you do find\nthem, they will be a proof of their own existence!\"--were two of the\nmost encouraging remarks of those early days.\n\nFrom the beginning of this work, as stated before, we have tried to\ncollect facts about the traffic and the customs connected with it. Notes\nwere kept of conversations with Hindus and others, and these notes were\ncompared with what evidence we were able to gather from trustworthy\nsources. These brief notes of various kinds we offer in their\nsimplicity. We have made no attempt to tabulate or put into shape the\ninformation thus acquired, believing that the notes of conversations\ntaken down at the time, and the quotations from letters copied as they\nstand, will do their work more directly than anything more elaborate\nwould. Where there is a difference of detail it is because the customs\ndiffer slightly in different places. No names are given, for obvious\nreasons; but the letters were written by men of standing, living in\nwidely scattered districts in the South. The evidence contained in them\nwas carefully sifted, and in many cases corroborated by personal\ninvestigation, before being considered evidence: so that we believe\nthese chapters may be accepted as fact. Dated quotations from the\n_Madras Mail_ are sufficient to prove that we are not writing ancient\nhistory:--\n\n_January 2, 1909._--\"The following resolution was put from the chair and\ncarried unanimously: 'The Conference (consisting of Hindu Social\nReformers) cordially supports the movement started to better the\ncondition of unprotected children in general, and appreciates\nparticularly the agitation started to protect girls and young women from\nbeing dedicated to Temples.'\"\n\n_May 8, 1909._--\"Once more we have an illustration from Mysore of the\nfact that the Government of a Native State are able to tread boldly on\nground which the British Government in India are unable to approach. At\nvarious times, in these columns and elsewhere, has the cry raised\nagainst the employment of servants of the gods in Hindu Temples been\nuttered; but, as far as the Government are concerned, it has fallen, if\nnot on deaf ears, on ears stopped to appeals of this kind, which demand\naction that can be interpreted as a breach of that religious neutrality\nwhich is one of the cardinal principles of British rule in India. The\nagitation against it is not the agitation of the European whose\nsusceptibility is offended at a state of things that he finds hard to\nreconcile with the reverence and purity of Divine worship; but it is the\noutcry of the reverent Hindu against one of the corrupt and degrading\npractices that, in the course of centuries, have crept into his\nreligion. In this particular instance the Mysore Government cannot be\naccused of acting hastily. As long ago as February, 1892, they issued a\ncircular order describing the legitimate services to be performed in\nTemples by Temple women. In 1899, the Muzrai Superintendent, Rai Bahadur\nA. Sreenivasa Charlu, directed that the Temple women borne on the\nNanjangud Temple establishment should not be allowed to perform _tafe_\n(or dancing) service in the Temple; but that the allowances payable to\nthem should be continued for their lifetime, and that at their death the\nvacancies should not be filled up. Against this order the Temple women\nconcerned memorialised H.H. the Maharajah as long ago as 1905, and the\norder disposing of it has only just been issued. In the course of the\nlatter the Government say:--\n\n\"'From the Shastraic authorities quoted by the two Agamiks employed in\nthe Muzrai Secretariat, it is observed that the services to be performed\nby Temple women form part and parcel of the worship of the god in Hindu\nTemples, and that singing and dancing in the presence of the deity are\nalso prescribed. It is, however, observed that in the case of Temple\nwomen personal purity and rectitude of conduct and a vow of celibacy\nwere considered essential. But the high ideals entertained in ancient\ndays have now degenerated. . . . The Government now observe that whatever\nmay have been the original object of the institution of Temple women in\nTemples, the state in which these Temple servants are now found fully\njustifies the action taken by them in excluding the Temple women from\nevery kind of service in sacred institutions like Temples. Further, the\nabsence of the services of these women in certain important Temples in\nthe State has become established for nearly fifteen years past, and the\npublic have become accustomed to the idea of doing without such\nservices.'\n\n\"The exclusion of Temple women from Temple services obtains in Mysore in\nthe case of a few large Temples whose _Tasdik Pattis_ have been revised.\nBut the time has come, the Government think, for its general\napplication, and they therefore direct that the policy enunciated in the\nabstract given above should be extended to all Muzrai Temples in the\nState. It is to be hoped that the good example thus set will bear fruit\nelsewhere, where the Temple women evil is more notorious than it was in\nTemples of Mysore.\"\n\nA copy of the Government document to which this cutting relates lies\nbefore me. It is bravely and clearly worded, and its intention is\nevident. The high-minded Hindu--and there are such, let it not be\nforgotten--revolts from the degradation and pollution of this travesty\nof religion, and will abolish it where he can. _But let it be remembered\nthat, good as this law is, it does not and it cannot touch the great\nSecret Traffic itself. That will go on behind the law, and behind the\nnext that is made, and the next, unless measures are devised to ensure\nits being thoroughly enforced._\n\nCuttings from newspapers, quotations, evidence--it is not interesting\nreading, and yet we look to our friends to go through to the end with\nus. Let us pause for a moment here and remember the purpose of it all;\nand may the thought of some little, loved child make an atmosphere for\nthese chapters!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nBlue Book Evidence\n\n \"The precipitous sides of difficult questions.\"--E. B. B.\n\n\nOUR first evidence consists of abridged extracts from the Census Report\nfor 1901. After explaining the different names by which Temple women are\nknown in different parts of the Madras Presidency, the Report continues:\n\"The servants of the gods, who subsist by dancing and music and the\npractice of 'the oldest profession in the world,' are partly recruited\nby admissions and even purchases from other classes. . . . The rise of\nthe Caste and its euphemistic name seem to date from the ninth and\ntenth centuries, during which much activity prevailed in South India\nin the matter of building Temples and elaborating the services held in\nthem. . . . The duties then, as now, were to fan the idol with Tibetan\nox-tails, to carry the sacred light, and to sing and dance before the\ngod when he is carried in procession. Inscriptions show that in A.D.\n1004 the great Temple of the Chola king at Tanjore had attached to it\nfour hundred women of the Temple, who lived in free quarters in the four\nstreets round it, and were allowed tax-free land out of its endowments.\nOther Temples had similar arrangements. . . . At the present day they\nform a regular Caste, having its own laws of inheritance, its own\ncustoms and rules of etiquette, and its own councils to see that all\nthese are followed, and they hold a position which is perhaps without a\nparallel in any other country. . . .\n\n\"The daughters of the Caste who are brought up to follow the Caste\nprofession are carefully taught dancing and singing, the art of dressing\nwell, . . . and their success in keeping up their clientele is largely\ndue to the contrast which they thus present to the ordinary Hindu\nhousewife, whose ideas are bounded by the day's dinners and babies.\"\n\nClosely allied to this Caste is that formed by the Temple musicians, who\nwith the Temple woman are \"now practically the sole repository of Indian\nmusic, the system of which is probably one of the oldest in the world.\"\nIn certain districts the Report states that a custom obtains among\ncertain castes, under which a family which has no sons must dedicate one\nof its daughters to Temple service. The daughter selected is taken to a\nTemple and married there to a god, the marriage symbol being put on her\nas in a real marriage. Henceforth she belongs to the god.\n\nWriting in 1904, a member of the Indian Civil Service says: \"I heard of\na case of dedication (three girls) at A. at the beginning of this year,\nbut I could not get any evidence. The cases very rarely indeed come up\nofficially, as nearly every Hindu is interested in keeping them dark.\"\nWe, too, have had the same difficulty, and the evidence we now submit is\ndoubly valuable because of its source. It is very rarely that we have\nfound it possible to get behind the scenes sufficiently to obtain\nreliable information from those most concerned in this traffic.\n\nThe head priest of one of our Temples admitted to a friend who was\nwatching for opportunities to get information for us that the \"marriage\nto the god is effected privately by the Temple priest at the Temple\nwoman's house, with the usual marriage-symbol ceremony. To avoid the\nPenal Code (which forbids the marriage of children to gods) a nominal\nbridegroom is sometimes brought for the wedding day to become the\nnominal husband. This Caste is recruited by secret adoption.\"\n\nA Temple woman's son, now living the ordinary life apart from his clan,\nexplains the very early marriage thus: \"If not married, they will not be\nconsidered worthy of honour. Before the children reach the age of ten\nthey must be married. . . . They become the property of the Temple\npriests and worshippers who go to the Temple to chant the sacred songs.\"\n\nA Temple woman herself told a friend of ours: \"The child is dressed like\na bride, and taken with another girl of the same community, dressed like\na boy in the garb of a bridegroom. They both go to the Temple and\nworship the idol. This ceremony is common, and performed openly in the\nstreets.\" In a later letter from the same friend further details are\ngiven: \"The child, who should be about eight or nine years old, goes as\nif to worship the idol in the Temple. There the marriage symbol is\nhidden in a garland, and the garland is put over the idol, after which\nit is taken to the child's home and put round her neck.\" After this she\nis considered married to the god.\n\nA young Temple woman in a town near Dohnavur told us she had been given\nto the Temple when she was five years old. Her home was in the north\ncountry, but she did not remember it. She had, of course, understood\nnothing of the meaning of the ceremony of marriage. She only remembered\nthe pretty flowers and general rejoicing and pleasure. Afterwards, when\nshe began to understand, she was not happy, but she gradually got\naccustomed to it. Her adopted relations were all the friends she had.\nShe was fond of them and they of her. Her \"husband\" was one of the\nTemple priests.\n\nA Hindu woman known to us left home with her little daughter and\nwandered about as an ascetic. She went to a famous Temple, where it is\nthe custom for such as desire to become ascetics to enter the life by\nconforming to certain ceremonies ordained by the priests. She shaved her\nhead, took off her jewels, wore a Saivite necklet of berries, and was\nknown as a devotee. She had little knowledge of the life before she\nentered it, and only gradually became aware of the character borne by\nmost of her fellow-devotees. When she knew, she fled from them and\nreturned to her own village and the secular life, finding it better than\nthe religious.\n\nIn telling us about it she said: \"I expected whiteness, I found\nblackness.\" She told us that she constantly came into contact with\nTemple women, none of whom had chosen the life as she and her\nfellow-ascetics had chosen theirs. \"Always the one who is to dance\nbefore the gods is given to the life when she is very young. Otherwise\nshe could not be properly trained. Many babies are brought by their\nparents and given to Temple women for the sake of merit. It is very\nmeritorious to give a child to the gods. Often the parents are poor but\nof good Caste. Always suitable compensation and a 'joy gift' is given by\nthe Temple women to the parents. It is an understood custom, and ensures\nthat the child is a gift, not a loan. The amount depends upon the age\nand beauty of the child. If the child is old enough to miss her mother,\nshe is very carefully watched until she has forgotten her. Sometimes she\nis shut up in the back part of the house, and punished if she runs out\ninto the street. The punishment is severe enough to frighten the child.\nSometimes it is branding with a hot iron upon a place which does not\nshow, as under the arm; sometimes nipping with the nail till the skin\nbreaks; sometimes a whipping. After the child is reconciled to her new\nlife, occasionally her people are allowed to come if they wish; and in\nspecial circumstances she pays a visit to her old home. But this is\nrare. If she has been adopted as an infant, she knows nothing of her\nown relations, but thinks of her adopted mother as her own mother. As\nsoon as she can understand she is taught all evil and trained to think\nit is good.\"\n\nAs to her education, the movements of the dance are taught very early,\nand the flexible little limbs are rendered more flexible by a system of\nmassage. In all ways the natural grace of the child is cultivated and\ndeveloped, but always along lines which lead far away from the freedom\nand innocence of childhood. As it is important she should learn a great\ndeal of poetry, she is taught to read (and with this object in view she\nis sometimes sent to the mission school, if there is one near her home).\nThe poetry is almost entirely of a debased character; and so most\ninsidiously, by story and allusion, the child's mind is familiarised\nwith sin; and before she knows how to refuse the evil and choose the\ngood, the instinct which would have been her guide is tampered with and\nperverted, till the poor little mind, thus bewildered and deceived, is\nincapable of choice.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\"Very Common in those Parts\"\n\n \"The dark enigma of permitted wrong.\"--F. R. H.\n\n\nTHE mixture of secrecy and openness described by the Temple woman is\nconfirmed by Hindus well acquainted with Temple affairs. \"All the Temple\nwomen are married to the gods. In former times the marriages were\nconducted upon a grand scale, but now they are clandestinely performed\nin the Temple, with the connivance of the priest, and with freedom to\ndeny it if questioned. Some ceremonies are performed in the Temple, the\nrest at home. Sometimes the marriage symbol is blessed by the priest,\nand taken home to the child to be worn by her. In all these cases the\npriest himself has to tie it round her neck. The previous arrangements\nfor the marriage are made by the priests with the guardians of the child\nwho is to be initiated into the order of Temple women.\n\n\"The ceremony of tying on the marriage symbol is never in our district\nperformed in public. None but intimate friends know about it. There is a\nsecret understanding between the priests and the Temple women concerned.\nWhen the time arrives for the marriage symbol to be tied on, after the\nusual ceremonies the priest hands over the symbol hidden in a garland of\nflowers.\n\n\"Of course, there is music on the occasion. When outsiders ask what all\nthe noise is about, the people who know do not say the real thing. They\nsay it is a birthday or other festival day. The symbol is tied on when\nthe child is between five and eleven, after which it is considered\nunholy to perform the marriage ceremony. The symbol is at first hidden\nfrom the gaze of the public. Later it is shown publicly, but not while\nthe girl is still young.\"\n\nThis tallies exactly with our own experience. More than once an eager\nchild in her simplicity has shown me the marriage symbol, a small gold\nornament tied round her neck, or hanging on a fine gold chain; but the\nTemple woman in whose charge she was has always reproved her sharply,\nand made her cover it up under her other jewels, or under the folds of\nher dress.\n\nThe reason for this secrecy, which, however, is not universal, is, as is\ninferred in the evidence of the head priest, because it is known to the\nTemple authorities that what they are doing is illegal; though, as a\nmatter of fact, as will be seen later, prosecutions are rare, and\nconvictions rarer still.\n\nThe Caste is recruited, as the Blue Book states, by \"admissions and even\npurchases from other classes.\" On this point a Brahman says: \"When the\nTemple woman has no child, she adopts a girl or girls, and the children\nbecome servants of the gods. Sometimes children are found who, on\naccount of a vow made by their parents, become devotees of the gods.\"\nAnother Brahman, an orthodox Hindu, writes: \"In some districts people\nvow that they will dedicate one of their children to the Temple if they\nare blessed with a family. Temple women often adopt orphans, to whom\nthey bequeath their possessions. In most cases the orphans are bought.\"\n\nThe position of the Temple woman has been a perplexity to many. The\nCensus Report touches the question: \"It is one of the many\ninconsistencies of the Hindu religion, that though their profession is\nrepeatedly vehemently condemned in the Shastras (sacred books), it has\nalways received the countenance of the Church.\" Their duties are all\nreligious. A well-informed Hindu correspondent thus enumerates them:\n\"First they are to be one of the twenty-one persons who are in charge of\nthe key of the outer door of the Temple; second, to open the outer door\ndaily; third, to burn camphor, and go round the idol when worship is\nbeing performed; fourth, to honour public meetings with their presence;\nfifth, to mount the car and stand near the god during car-festivals.\"\nThe orthodox Hindu quoted before remarks on the \"high honour,\" as the\nTemple child is taught to consider it, the marriage to the god confers\nupon her.\n\nWe have purposely confined ourselves almost entirely to official and\nHindu evidence so far, but cannot forbear to add to this last word the\nconfirmatory experience of our own Temple children worker: \"When I try\nto persuade the Hindus to let us have their little ones instead of\ngiving them to the Temples they say: 'But to give them to Temples is\nhonour and glory and merit to us for ever; to give them to you is\ndishonour and shame and demerit. So why should we give them to you?'\"\n\nWe have said that convictions are rare. This is because of the great\ndifficulty in obtaining such evidence as is required by the law as it\nstands at present. One case may be quoted as typical. A few years ago,\nin one of our country towns, a father gave his child in marriage to the\nidol \"with some pomp,\" as the report before us says. He was prosecuted,\nbut the prosecution failed, for the priest and the parents united in\ndenying the fact of the marriage; and the evidence for the defence was\nso skilfully cooked that it was found impossible to prove an offence\nagainst the Penal Code.\n\nOnce, deeply stirred over the case of a little girl of six who was about\nto be married to a god as her elder sisters had been a few months\npreviously, we wrote to a magistrate of wide experience and proved\nsympathy with the work. His letter speaks for itself:--\n\n\"I have been waiting some little time before answering your letter,\nbecause I wanted time to think over your problem. As far as I can make\nout, there is no way in the world of preventing a woman marrying her own\ndaughter to the gods at any age; but you can prosecute her if she does.\nIf you could get her into prison for marrying the elder girls, the\nyounger might be safe; but I don't think you can do anything directly\nfor her. She is not being 'unlawfully detained'; and even if she were,\nall you could do would be to get her returned to her parents and\nguardians, which would be worse than useless.\n\n\"The question is whether you can hope to get a conviction in the other\ncase.\n\n\"I don't see how you can. You can say in court that you saw the little\ngirls with their marriage symbol on, and that they said they had been\nmarried to the god. The little girls will deny it all, and say they\nnever set eyes on you before. Moreover, I don't think the ordinary Court\nwould be satisfied without some other evidence of the fact of\ndedication; and considering how everyone would work against you, I think\nyou would find it extraordinarily hard. The local police would be worse\nthan useless.\"\n\nTo every man his work: it appears to us that expert knowledge is\nrequired, and ample means and leisure, if the expenditure involved is to\nresult in anything worth while; and a careful study of all available\ninformation regarding prosecutions, convictions, and, I may add,\nsentences, has convinced us, at least, of the futility of such attempts\nfrom a missionary point of view: for even if convictions were certain,\n_as long as the law hands the child back to its guardians after their\nunfitness to guard it from the worst that can befall it has been\nproved_, so long do we feel unable to rejoice exceedingly over even the\nsix months' rigorous imprisonment, which in more than one case has been\nthe legal interpretation of the phrase \"up to a term of ten years,\"\nwhich is the penalty attached to this offence in the Indian Penal Code.\n\nIn this connection it may be well to quote a paragraph from the _Indian\nSocial Reformer_:--\n\n\"The Public Prosecutor at Madras applied for admission of a revision\npetition against the order of the Sessions Judge, made in the following\ncircumstances:--\n\n\"One, S., a priest, was convicted by the first-class subdivisional\nmagistrate of having performed the ceremony of dedicating a young girl\nin the Temple of N., and thereby committing an offence punishable under\nSection 372 of the Penal Code. He accordingly sentenced him to six\nmonths' rigorous imprisonment. On appeal, the Sessions Judge reduced the\nsentence to two months, on the ground that the rite complained against\nwas a very common one in those parts. The Public Prosecutor based his\npetition on the ground that it had been held in a previous case 'that\nsuch a dedication was an offence, and that it was highly desirable that\nthe interests of minors should be properly protected.' This protection,\nit was submitted, could only be vouchsafed by making offending people\nunderstand that they would render themselves liable to heavy punishment.\nThe present sentence would not have a deterrent effect, and he\naccordingly applied for an enhancement of the same. His lordship\nadmitted the petition, and directed notice to the accused.\"\n\nIt is something to know the six months' sentence was confirmed. But is\nnot the fact that a Sessions Judge should commute such a sentence, on\nthe ground that the offence was \"very common,\" enough to suggest a doubt\nas to the deterrent effect of even this punishment?\n\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\nDuring the last few months the Secretary of State for India has\naddressed official inquiries to the Government of India regarding the\ndedication of children to Hindu gods, and the measures necessary for the\nprotection of such children.\n\nIf the anticipated change in the law is to result in more than a Bill on\npaper--a blind, behind which things will go on as before only more out\nof sight--it is, we believe, needful to ensure:\n\n 1st. Protection for all children found to be in\n moral danger, whether or not they are or may be\n dedicated to gods.\n\n 2nd. That, irrespective of nationality or\n religion, whoever has worked for and won the\n deliverance of the child should be allowed to act\n as guardian to it.\n\n 3rd. That such a Bill shall be most thoroughly\n enforced.\n\n_February, 1912._\n\n To face p. 268.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nOn the Side of the Oppressors there was Power\n\n\nI HAVE been looking over my note-book, in which there are some hundreds\nof letters, clippings from newspapers, and records of conversations\nbearing upon the Temple children. It is difficult to know which to\nchoose to complete the picture already outlined in the preceding\nchapters. A mere case record would be wearisome; and indeed the very\nword \"case\" sounds curiously inappropriate when one thinks of the\nnurseries and their little inhabitants; or looks up to see mischievous\neyes watching a chance to stop the uninteresting writing; or feels,\nsuddenly, soft arms round one's neck, as a baby, strayed from her own\ndomain, climbs unexpectedly up from behind and makes dashes at the\ntypewriter keyboard. Such little living interruptions are too frequent\nto allow of these chapters being anything but human.\n\nThe newspaper clippings are usually concerned with public movements,\nresolutions, petitions, and the like. There is one startling little\nparagraph from a London paper, dated July 7, 1906; the ignorance of the\nsubject so flippantly dealt with is its only apology. No one could have\nwritten so had he understood. The occasion was the memorial addressed to\nthe Governor in Council by workers for the children in the Bombay\nPresidency:--\n\n\"Society must be very select in Poona. There has been a custom there for\nyoung ladies to be married to selected gods. You would have thought that\nto be the bride of a god was a good enough marriage for anyone. But it\nis not good enough for Poona.\" It is time that such writing became\nimpossible for any Englishman.\n\nIn India the feeling of the best men, whether Hindu or Christian, is\nstrongly against the dedication of little children to Temples, and some\nof the newspapers of the land speak out and say so in unmistakable\nlanguage. The _Indian Times_ speaks of the little ones being \"steeped\ndeep from their childhood\" in all that is most wrong. A Hindu, writing\nin the _Epiphany_, puts the matter clearly when he says: \"Finally, one\ncan hardly conceive of anything more debasing than to dedicate innocent\nlittle girls to gods in the name of religion, and then leave them with\nthe Temple priests\"; and another writer in the same paper asks a\nquestion which those who say that Hinduism is good enough for India\nmight do well to ponder: \"If this is not a Hindu practice, how can it\ntake place in a Temple and no priest stop it, though all know? . . . In\nLondon religion makes wickedness go away; but in Bombay religion brings\nwickedness, and Government has to try to make it go away.\" This immense\ncontrast of fact and of ideal contains our answer to all who would put\nsin in India on a level with sin in England.\n\nChristian writers naturally, whether in the _Christian Patriot_ of the\nSouth or the _Bombay Guardian_ of the West, have no doubt about the\nexistence of the evil or the need for its removal. They, too, connect it\ndistinctly with religion, and recognise its tremendous influence.\n\nBut we turn from the printed page, and go straight to the houses where\nthe little children live. The witnesses now are missionaries or trusted\nIndian workers.\n\n\"There were thirteen little children in the houses connected with the\nTemple last time I visited them. I saw the little baby--such a dear,\nfat, laughing little thing. It was impossible to get it, and I see no\nhope of getting any of the other children.\"\n\n\"When I was visiting in S. a woman came to talk to me with her three\nlittle children. Two of them were girls, very pretty, 'fair' little\nchildren. 'What work does your husband do?' I asked; and she answered,\n'I am married to the god.' Then I knew who she was, and that her\nchildren were in danger. I have tried since to get them, but in vain.\nEveryone says that Temple women never give up their little girls. These\ntwo were dedicated at their birth. This is only one instance. We have\nmany Temple women reading with us, and many of the little children\nattend our schools.\"\n\n\"There are not scores but hundreds of these children in the villages of\nthis district. Here certain families, living ordinary lives in their own\nvillages, dedicate one of their children as a matter of course to the\ngods. They always choose the prettiest. It is a recognised custom, and\nno one thinks anything of it. The child so dedicated lives with her\nparents afterwards as if nothing had happened, only she may not be\nmarried in the real way. She belongs to the god and his priests and\nworshippers.\"\n\n\"The house was very orderly and nice. I sat on the verandah and talked\nto the women, who were all well educated and so attractive with their\npretty dress and jewels. They seemed bright, but, of course, would not\nshow me their real feelings, and I could only hold surface conversation\nwith them.\"\n\nWe are often asked if the Temple houses are inside the walls which\nsurround all the great Temples in this part of the country. They are\nusually in the streets outside. Most of the Brahman Temples are\nsurrounded by a square of streets, and the houses are in the square or\nnear it. There is nothing to distinguish them from other houses in the\nstreet. It is only when you go inside that you feel the difference. An\nhour on the shady verandah of one of these houses is very revealing. You\nsee the children run up to welcome a tall, fine-looking man, who pats\ntheir heads in the kindest way, and as he passes you recognise him. Next\ntime you see him in the glory of his office, you wish you could forget\nwhere you saw him last.\n\nSometimes we are asked who the children are. How do the Temple women get\nthem in the first instance?\n\nWe have already answered this question by quotations from the Census\nReport, and by statements of Hindus well acquainted with the subject. It\nshould be added that often the Temple woman having daughters of her own\ndedicates them, and as a rule it is only when she has none that she\nadopts other little ones. A few extracts from letters and notes from\nconversations are subjoined, as they show how the system of adoption\nworks:--\n\n\"We are in trouble over a little girl, the daughter of wealthy parents,\nwho have dedicated her to the gods and refuse to change their mind. The\nchild was ill some time ago, and they vowed then that if she recovered\nthey would dedicate her.\"\n\n\"The poor woman's husband was very ill, and the mother vowed her little\ngirl as an offering if he recovered. He did recover, and so the child\nhas been given.\"\n\n\"It is the custom of the Caste to dedicate the eldest girl of a certain\nchosen family, and nothing will turn them from it. One child must be\ngiven in each generation.\"\n\n\"She is of good caste, but very poor. Her husband died two months before\nthe baby was born, and as it was a girl she was much troubled as to its\nfuture, for she knew she would never have enough money to marry it\nsuitably. A Temple woman heard of the baby, and at once offered to adopt\nit. She persuaded the mother by saying: 'You see, if it is married to\nthe gods, it will never be a widow like you. It will always be well\ncared for and have honour, and be a sign of good fortune to our\npeople--unlike you!' (It is considered a sign of good omen to see a\nTemple woman the first thing in the morning; but the sight of a widow at\nany time is a thing to be avoided.) The poor mother could not resist\nthis, and she has been persuaded.\"\n\n\"The mother is a poor, delicate widow, with several boys as well as this\nbaby girl. She cannot support them all properly, and her relatives do\nnot seem inclined to help her. The Temple women have heard of her, and\nthey sent a woman to negotiate. The mother knew that we would take the\nlittle one rather than that she should be forced to give it up to Temple\nwomen; but she said when we talked with her: 'It cannot be wrong to give\nit to the holy gods! This is our religion; and it may be wrong to you,\nbut it is not wrong to us.' So she refused to give us the baby, and\nseems inclined to go away with it. It is like that constantly. The thing\ncannot be wrong because it is religious!\"\n\n\"I heard of two little orphan girls whose guardian, an uncle, had\nmarried again, and did not want to have the marriage expenses of his two\nlittle nieces to see to. So at the last great festival he brought the\nchildren and dedicated them to the Saivite Temple, and the Temple women\nheard about it before I did, and at once secured them. I went as soon as\nI could to see if we could not get them, but she would not listen to us.\nShe said they were her sister's children, and that she had adopted them\nout of love for her dead sister.\"\n\nA lawyer was consulted as to this case, but it was impossible to trace\nthe uncle or to prove that the children were not related to the Temple\nwoman. Above all, it was impossible to prove that she meant to do\nanything illegal. So nothing could be done.\n\nAs a rule the Temple woman receives little beyond bare sustenance from\nthe Temple itself. In some Temples when the little child is formally\ndedicated, she (or her guardian) receives two pounds, and her funeral\nexpenses are promised. But though there is little stated remuneration,\nthe Temple woman is not poor. Poverty may come. If she breaks the law of\nher caste, or offends against the etiquette of that caste, she is\nimmediately excommunicated, and then she may become very poor. Or if she\nhas spent her money freely, or not invested it wisely, her old age may\nbe cheerless enough. But we have not found any lack of money among the\nSisterhood. No offer of compensation for all expenses connected with a\nchild has ever drawn them to part with her. They offer large sums for\nlittle ones who will be useful to them. We have several times known as\nmuch as an offer of one hundred rupees made and accepted in cases where\nthe little child (in each case a mere infant) was one of special\npromise. A letter, which incidentally mentions the easy circumstances in\nwhich many are, may be of interest:--\n\n\"K. is a little girl in our mission school. Her mother is a favourite\nTemple woman high up in the profession. She dances while the other women\nsing, and sometimes she gets as much as three or four hundred rupees for\nher dancing. She is well educated, can recite the 'Ramayana' (Indian\nepic), and knows a little English. She spends some time in her own\nhouse, but is often away visiting other Temples. Just now she is away,\nand little K. is with her. . . . Humanly speaking, she will never let her\ngo.\"\n\nThe education of the mission school is appreciated because it makes the\nbright little child still brighter; and we, who know the home life of\nthese children, are glad when they are given one brief opportunity to\nlearn what may help them in the difficult days to come. We have known of\nsome little ones who, influenced by outside teaching, tried to escape\nthe life they began to feel was wrong, but in each case they were\noverborne, for on the side of the oppressors there was power. I was in a\nTemple house lately, and noticed the doors--the massive iron-bossed\ndoors are a feature of all well-built Hindu houses of the South. How\ncould a little child shut up in such a room, with its door shut, if need\nbe, to the outside inquisitive world--how could she resist the strength\nthat would force the garland round her neck? She might tear it off if\nshe dared, but the little golden symbol had been hidden under the\nflowers, and the priest had blessed it; the deed was done--she was\nmarried to the god. And only those who have seen the effect of a few\nweeks of such a life upon a child, who has struggled in vain against it,\ncan understand how cowed she may become, how completely every particle\nof courage and independence of spirit may be caused to disappear; and\nhow what we had known as a bright, sparkling child, full of the\nfearless, confiding ways of a child, may become distrustful and\nconstrained, quite incapable of taking a stand on her own account, or of\nresponding to any effort we might be able to make from outside. It is as\nif the child's spirit were broken, and those who know what she has gone\nthrough cannot wonder if it is.\n\nAnd then comes something we dread more: the life begins to attract. The\nsense of revolt passes as the will weakens; the persistent, steady\npressure tells. And when we see her next, perhaps only three months\nlater, the child has passed the boundary, and belongs to us no more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nAnd there was None to Save\n\n Thou canst conceive our highest and our lowest\n Pulses of nobleness and aches of shame.\n\n FREDERIC W. H. MYERS.\n\n\nIN speaking of these matters I have tried to keep far from that which is\nonly sentiment, and have resolutely banished all imagination. I would\nthat the writing could be as cold in tone as the criticism of those who\nconsider everything other than polished ice almost amusing--to judge by\nthe way they handle it, dismissing it with an airy grace and a hurting\nadjective. Would they be quite so cool, we wonder, if the little wronged\ngirl were their own? But we do not write for such as these. The thought\nof the cold eyes would freeze the thoughts before they formed. We write\nfor the earnest-hearted, who are not ashamed to confess they care. And\nyet we write with reserve even though we write for them, because nothing\nelse is possible. And this crushing back of the full tide makes its\nfulness almost oppressive. It is as though a flame leaped from the page\nand scorched the brain that searched for words quite commonplace and\nquiet.\n\nThe finished product of the Temple system of education is something so\ndistorted that it cannot be described. But it should never be forgotten\nthat the thing from which we recoil did not choose to be fashioned so.\nIt was as wax--a little, tender, innocent child--in the hands of a\nwicked power when the fashioning process began. Let us deal gently with\nthose who least deserve our blame, and reserve our condemnation for\nthose responsible for the creation of the Temple woman. Is it fair that\na helpless child, who has never once been given the choice of any other\nlife, should be held responsible afterwards for living the life to which\nalone she has been trained? Is it fair to call her by a name which\nbelongs by right to one who is different, in that her life is\nself-chosen? No word can cut too keenly at the root of this iniquity;\nbut let us deal gently with the mishandled flower. Let hard words be\nrestrained where the woman is concerned. Let it be remembered she is not\nresponsible for being what she is.\n\nIn a Canadian book of songs there is a powerful little poem about an\nartist who painted one who was beautiful but not good. He hid all trace\nof what was; he painted a babe at her breast.\n\n I painted her as she might have been\n If the Worst had been the Best.\n\nAnd a connoisseur came and looked at the picture. To him it spoke of\nholiest things; he thought it a Madonna:--\n\n So I painted a halo round her hair,\n And I sold her and took my fee;\n And she hangs in the church of St. Hilaire,\n Where you and all may see.\n\nSometimes as we have looked at the face of one whose training was not\ncomplete we have seen as the artist saw: we have seen her \"as she might\nhave been if the worst had been the best.\" There was no halo round her\nhair, only its travesty--something that told of crowned and glorified\nsin; and yet we could catch more than a glimpse of the perfect \"might\nhave been.\" So we say, let blame fall lightly on the one who least\ndeserves it. Perhaps if our ears were not so full of the sounds of the\nworld, we should hear a tenderer judgment pronounced than man's is\nlikely to be: \"Unto the damsel thou shalt do nothing. . . . For there\nwas none to save her.\"\n\nOur work at Dohnavur is entirely among the little children who are\ninnocent of wrong. We rarely touch these lives which have been stained\nand spoiled; but we could not forbear to write a word of clear\nexplanation about them, lest any should mistake the matter and confuse\nthings that differ.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWe leave the subject with relief. Few who have followed us so far know\nhow much it has cost to lead the way into these polluted places. Not\nthat we would make much of any personal cost; but that we would have it\nknown that nothing save a pressure which could not be resisted could\nforce us to touch pitch. And yet why should we shrink from it when the\npurpose which compels is the saving of the children? Brave words written\nby a brave woman come and help us to do it:--\n\n\"This I say emphatically, that the evil which we have grappled with to\nsave one of our own dear ones does not sully. It is the evil that we\nread about in novels and newspapers for our own amusement; it is the\nevil we weakly give way to in our lives; above all, it is the destroying\nevil that we have refused so much as to know about in our absorbing care\nfor our own alabaster skin; it is that evil which defiles a woman. But\nthe evil that we have grappled with in a life and death struggle to save\na soul for whom Christ died does not sully; it clothes from head to foot\nwith the white robe, it crowns with the golden crown.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nThere remains only one thing more to show. It was evening in an Indian\ntown at a time of festival. The great pillared courts of the Temple were\nfilled with worshippers and pilgrims from all over the Tamil country and\nfrom as far north as Benares. Men who eagerly grasped at anything\nprinted in Sanscrit and knew nothing of our vernacular were scattered in\nlittle groups among the crowd, and we had freedom to go to them and give\nthem what we could, and talk to the many others who would listen.\nOutside the moonlight was shining on the dark pile of the Temple tower,\nand upon the palms planted along the wall, which rises in its solid\nstrength 30 feet high and encloses the whole Temple precincts. There\nwere very few people out in the moonlight. It was too quiet there for\nthem, too pure in its silvery whiteness. Inside the hall, with its\ngreat-doored rooms and recesses, there were earth-lights in abundance,\nflaring torches, smoking lamps and lanterns. And there was noise--the\nnoise of words and of wailing Indian music. For up near the closed doors\nwhich open on the shrine within which the idol sat surrounded by a\nthousand lights, there was a band of musicians playing upon stringed\ninstruments; sometimes they broke out excitedly and banged their drums\nand made their conch-shells blare.\n\nSuddenly there was a tumultuous rush of every produceable sound;\ntom-tom, conch-shell, cymbal, flute, stringed instruments and bells\nburst into chorus together. The idol was going to be carried out from\nhis innermost shrine behind the lights; and as the great doors moved\nslowly, the excitement became intense, the thrill of it quivered through\nall the hall and sent a tremor through the crowd out to the street. But\nwe passed out and away, and turned into a quiet courtyard known to us\nand talked to the women there.\n\nThere were three, one the grandmother of the house, one her daughter,\nand another a friend. The grandmother and her daughter were Temple\nwomen, the eldest grandchild had been dedicated only a few months\nbefore. There were three more children, one Mungie, a lovable child of\nsix, one a pretty three-year-old with a mop of beautiful curls, the\nyoungest a baby just then asleep in its hammock; a little foot dangled\nout of the hammock, which was hung from a rafter in the verandah roof.\nWe had come to talk to the grandmother and mother about the dear little\nsix-year-old child, and hoped to find their heart.\n\nBut we seemed to talk to stone, hard as the stone of the Temple tower\nthat rose above the roofs, black against the purity of the moonlit sky.\nIt was a bitter half-hour. Some hours are like stabs to remember, or\nlike the pitiless pressing down of an iron on living flesh. At last we\ncould bear it no longer, and rose to go. As we left we heard the\ngrandmother turn to her daughter's friend and say: \"Though she heap gold\non the floor as high as Mungie's neck, I would never let her go to those\ndegraded Christians!\"\n\nOnce again it was festival in the white light of the full moon, and once\nagain we went to the same old Hindu town; for moonlight nights are times\nof opportunity, and the cool of evening brings strength for more than\ncan be attempted in the heat of the day. And this time an adopted mother\nspoke words that ate like acid into steel as we listened.\n\nHer adopted child is a slip of a girl, slim and light, with the ways of\na shy thing of the woods. She made me think of a harebell growing all by\nitself in a rocky place, with stubbly grass about and a wide sky\noverhead. She was small and very sweet, and she slid on to my knee and\nwhispered her lessons in my ear in the softest of little voices. She had\ngone to school for nearly a year, and liked to tell me all she knew. \"Do\nyou go to school now?\" I asked her. She hung her head and did not\nanswer. \"Don't you go?\" I repeated. She just breathed \"No,\" and the\nlittle head dropped lower. \"Why not?\" I whispered as softly. The child\nhesitated. Some dim apprehension that the reason would not seem good to\nme troubled her, perhaps, for she would not answer. \"Tell the Ammal,\nsilly child!\" said her foster-mother, who was standing near. \"Tell her\nyou are learning to dance and sing and get ready for the gods!\" \"I am\nlearning to dance and sing and get ready for the gods,\" repeated the\nchild obediently, lifting large, clear eyes to my face for a moment as\nif to read what was written there. A group of men stood near us. I\nturned to them. \"Is it right to give this little child to a life like\nthat?\" I asked them then. They smiled a tolerant, kindly smile.\n\"Certainly no one would call it right, but it is our custom,\" and they\npassed on. There was no sense of the pity of it:--\n\n Poor little life that toddles half an hour,\n Crowned with a flower or two, and then an end!\n\nWe had come to the town an hour or two earlier, and had seen, walking\nthrough the throng round the Temple, two bright young girls in white. No\ngirls of their age, except Temple girls, would have been out at that\nhour of the evening, and we followed them home. They stopped when they\nreached the house where little Mungie lived, and then, turning, saw us\nand salaamed. One of the two was Mungie's elder sister. Little Mungie\nran out to meet her sister, and, seeing us, eagerly asked for a book. So\nwe stood in the open moonlight, and the little one tried to spell out\nthe words of a text to show us she had not forgotten all she had\nlearned, even though she, too, had been taken from school, and had to\nlearn pages of poetry and the Temple dances and songs.\n\nThe girls were jewelled and crowned with flowers, and they looked like\nflowers themselves; flowers in moonlight have a mystery about them not\nperceived in common day, but the mystery here was something wholly\nsorrowful. Everything about the children--they were hardly more than\nchildren--showed care and refinement of taste. There was no violent\nclash of colour; the only vivid colour note was the rich red of a silk\nunderskirt that showed where the clinging folds of the white\ngold-embroidered _sari_ were draped a little at the side. The effect was\nvery dainty, and the girls' manners were modest and gentle. No one who\ndid not know what the pretty dress meant that night would have dreamed\nit was but the mesh of a net made of white and gold.\n\nBut with all their pleasant manners it was evident the two girls looked\nupon us with a distinct aloofness. They glanced at us much as a\nbrilliant bird of the air might be supposed to regard poultry, fowls of\nthe cooped-up yard. Then they melted into the shadow of an archway\nbehind the moonlit space, and we went on to another street and came upon\nlittle Sellamal, the harebell child; and, sitting down on the verandah\nwhich opens off the street, we heard her lessons as we have told, and\ngot into conversation with her adopted mother.\n\nWe found her interested in listening to what we had to say about\ndedicating children to the service of the gods. She was extremely\nintelligent, and spoke Tamil such as one reads in books set for\nexamination. It was easy to talk with her, for she saw the point of\neverything at once, and did not need to have truth broken up small and\ncrumbled down and illustrated in half a dozen different ways before it\ncould be understood. But the half-amused smile on the clever face told\nus how she regarded all we were saying. What was life and death\nearnestness to us was a game of words to her; a play the more to be\nenjoyed because, drawn by the sight of two Missie Ammals sitting\ntogether on the verandah, quite a little crowd had gathered, and were\nlistening appreciatively.\n\n\"That is your way of looking at it; now listen to my way. Each land in\nall the world has its own customs and religion. Each has that which is\nbest for it. Change, and you invite confusion and much unpleasantness.\nAlso by changing you express your ignorance and pride. Why should the\nchild presume to greater wisdom than its father? And now listen to me!\nI will show you the matter from our side!\" (\"Yes, venerable mother,\ncontinue!\" interposed the crowd encouragingly.) \"You seem to feel it a\nsad thing that little Sellamal should be trained as we are training her.\nYou seem to feel it wrong, and almost, perhaps, disgrace. But if you\ncould see my eldest daughter the centre of a thousand Brahmans and\nhigh-caste Hindus! If you could see every eye in that ring fixed upon\nher, upon her alone! If you could see the absorption--hardly do they\ndare to breathe lest they should miss a point of her beauty! Ah, you\nwould know, could you see it all, upon whose side the glory lies and\nupon whose the shame! Compare that moment of exaltation with the\ngrovelling life of your Christians! Low-minded, flesh-devouring,\nChristians, discerning not the difference between clean and unclean!\nBah! And you would have my little Sellamal leave all this for that!\"\n\n\"But afterwards? What comes afterwards?\"\n\n\"What know I? What care I? That is a matter for the gods.\"\n\nThe child Sellamal listened to this, glancing from face to face with\nwistful, wondering eyes; and as I looked down upon her she looked up at\nme, and I looked deep into those eyes--such innocent eyes. Then\nsomething seemed to move the child, and she held up her face for a kiss.\n\nThis is only one Temple town. There are many such in the South. These\nthings are not easy to look at for long. We turn away with burning eyes,\nand only for the children's sake could we ever look again. For their\nsake look again.\n\nIt was early evening in a home of rest on the hills. A medical\nmissionary, a woman of wide experience, was talking to a younger woman\nabout the Temple children. She had lived for some time, unknowingly,\nnext door to a Temple house in an Indian city. Night after night she\nsaid she was wakened by the cries of children--frightened cries,\nindignant cries, sometimes sharp cries as of pain. She inquired in the\nmorning, but was always told the children had been punished for some\nnaughtiness. \"They were only being beaten.\" She was not satisfied, and\ntried to find out more through the police. But she feared the police\nwere bribed to tell nothing, for she found out nothing through them.\nLater, by means of her medical work, she came full upon the truth. . . .\n\"Why leave spaces with dotted lines? Why not write the whole fact?\"\nwrote one who did not know what she asked. Once more we repeat it, to\nwrite the whole fact is impossible.\n\nIt is true this is not universal; in our part of the country it is not\ngeneral, for the Temple child is considered of too much value to be\nlightly injured. But it is true beyond a doubt that inhumanity which may\nnot be described is possible at any time in any Temple house.\n\nOut in the garden little groups of missionaries walked together and\ntalked. From a room near came the sound of a hymn. It was peaceful and\nbeautiful everywhere, and the gold of sunset filled the air, and made\nthe garden a glory land of radiant wonderful colour. But for one woman\nat least the world turned black. Only the thought of the children nerved\nher to go on.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nThe Power behind the Work\n\n \"To Him difficulties are as nothing, and\n improbabilities of less than no account.\"--_Story\n of the China Inland Mission._\n\n\nTHE Power behind the work is the interposition of God in answer to\nprayer.\n\nRecently--so recently that it would be unwise to go into detail--we were\nin trouble about a little girl of ten or eleven, who, though not a\nTemple child, was exposed to imminent danger, and sorely needed\ndeliverance. I happened to be alone at Dohnavur at the time, and did not\nknow what to answer to the child's urgent message: \"If I can escape to\nyou\" (this meant if she braved capture and its consequences, and fled\nacross the fields alone at night), \"can you protect me from my people?\"\nTo say \"Yes\" might have had fatal results. To say \"No\" seemed too\nimpossible. The circumstances were such that great care was needed to\navoid being entangled in legal complications; and as the Collector\n(Chief Magistrate) for our part of the district happened just then to be\nin our neighbourhood, I wrote asking for an appointment. Early next\nmorning we met by the roadside. I had been up most of the night, and was\ntired and anxious; and I shall never forget the comfort that came\nthrough the quiet sympathy with which one who was quite a stranger to\nus all listened to the story, not as if it were a mere missionary\ntrifle, but something worthy his attention. But nothing could be done.\nIt was not a case where we had any ground for appeal to the law; and any\nattempt upon our part to help the child could only have resulted in more\ntrouble afterwards, for we should certainly have had to give her up if\nshe came to us.\n\nAs the inevitableness of this conclusion became more and more evident to\nme, it seemed as if a great strong wall were rising foot by foot between\nme and that little girl--a wall like the walls that enclose the Temples\nhere, very high, very massive. But even Temple walls have doors, and I\ncould not see any door in this wall. Nothing could bring that child to\nus but a Power enthroned above the wall, which could stoop and lift her\nover it. I do not remember what led to the question about what we\nexpected would happen; but I remember that with that wall full in view I\ncould only answer, \"The interposition of God.\" Nothing else, nothing\nless, could do anything for that child.\n\nHer case was complicated, if I may express it so, by the fact that\nthough she knew very little--she had only had a few weeks' teaching and\ncould not read--she had believed all we told her most simply and\nliterally, and witnessed to her own people, whose reply to her had been:\n\"You will see who is stronger, your God or ours! Do you think your Lord\nJesus can deliver you from our hand, or prevent us from doing as we\nchoose with you? We shall see!\" And the case of an older girl who had\nbeen, as those who knew her best believed, drugged and then bent to her\npeople's will, was quoted: \"Did your Lord Jesus deliver her? Where is\nshe to-day? And you think He will deliver you!\" \"But He will not let you\nhurt me,\" the child had answered fearlessly, though her strength was\nweakened even then by thirty hours without food; and, remembering one of\nthe Bible stories she had heard during those weeks, she added, \"I am\nDaniel, and you are the lions\"--and she told them how the angel was sent\nto shut the lions' mouths. But she knew so little after all, and the\nbravest can be overborne, and she was only a little girl; so our hearts\nached for her as we sent her the message: \"You must not try to come to\nus. We cannot protect you. But Jesus is with you. He will not fail you.\nHe says, 'Fear thou not, for I am with thee.'\" That night they shut her\nup with a demon-possessed woman, that the terror of it might shake her\nfaith in Christ. Next day they hinted that worse would happen soon. Our\nfear was lest her faith should fail before deliverance came.\n\nThree and a half months of such tension as we have rarely known passed\nover us. Often during that time, when one thing after another happened\ncontrariwise, as it appeared, and each event as it occurred seemed to\nadd another foot to the wall that still grew higher, help to faith came\nto us through unexpected sources like voices blown on the winds.\n\nOnce it was something Lieut. Shackleton is reported to have said to\nReuter's correspondent concerning his expedition to the South Pole:\n\"Over and over again there were times when no mortal leadership could\nhave availed us. It was during those times that we learned that some\nPower beyond our own guided our footsteps.\" And the illustrations which\nfollowed of Divine interposition were such that one at least who read,\ntook courage; for the God of the great Ice-fields is the God of the\nTropics.\n\nOnce it was a passage opened by chance in a friend's book--Pastor\nAgnorum. The subject of the paragraph is the schoolboy's attitude\ntowards games: \"Glimpses of his mind are sometimes given us, as on that\nday at Risingham when you refused to play in your boys' house-match,\nunless the other house excluded from their team a half-back who was\nunder attainder through a recent row. They declined, and you stood out\nof it. The hush in the field when your orphaned team, in defiance of the\nodds, scored and again scored! Their supporters, in chaste awe at the\nmarvel, could hardly shout: it was more like a sob: a judgment had so\nmanifestly defended the right. The cricket professional, a man naturally\ndevout, looked at me with eyes that confessed an interposition, and all\ncame away quiet as a crowd from a cemetery. It was not a game of\nfootball we had looked at, it was a Mystery Play: we had been edified,\nand we hid it in our hearts.\"\n\nAnd once, on the darkest day of all, it was the brave old family motto,\non a letter which came by post: \"Dieu defend le droit.\" It was something\nto be reminded that, in spite of appearances to the contrary, the\nkingdom is the Lord's, and He is Governor among the people.\n\n\"Eyes that confessed an interposition.\" The phrase was illuminated for\nus when God in very truth interposed in such fashion that every one saw\nit was His Hand, for no other hand could have done it. Then we, too,\nlooked at each other with eyes that confessed an interposition. We had\nseen that which we should never forget; and until the time comes when it\nmay be more fully told to the glory of our God, we have hid it in our\nhearts.\n\nThe reason we have outlined the story is to lead to a word we want to\nwrite very earnestly; it is this: Friends who care for the children, and\nbelieve this work on their behalf is something God intends should be\ndone, \"pray as if on that alone hung the issue of the day.\" More than we\nknow depends upon our holding on in prayer.\n\nAll through those months there was prayer for that child in India and in\nEngland. The matter was so urgent that we made it widely known, and some\nat least of those who heard gave themselves up to prayer; not to the\nmere easy prayer which costs little and does less, but to that waiting\nupon God which does not rest till it knows it has obtained access,\nknows that it has the petition that it desires of Him. This sort of\nprayer costs.\n\nBut to us down in the thick of the battle, it was strength to think of\nthat prayer. We were very weary with hope deferred; for it was as if all\nthe human hope in us were torn out of us, and tossed and buffeted every\nway till there was nothing left of it but an aching place where it had\nbeen. God works by means, as we all admit; and so every fresh\ndevelopment in a Court case in which the child was involved, every turn\nof affairs, where her relatives were concerned (and these turns were\nfrequent), every little movement which seemed to promise something, was\neagerly watched in the expectation that in it lay the interposition for\nwhich we waited. But it seemed as if our hopes were raised only to be\ndashed lower than ever, till we were cast upon the bare word of our God.\nIt was given to us then as perhaps never before to penetrate to the\ninnermost spring of consolation contained in those very old words: \"I\nshould utterly have fainted, but that I believe verily to see the\ngoodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Oh, tarry thou the\nLord's leisure: be strong, and He shall comfort thine heart; and put\nthou thy trust in the Lord.\"\n\nThis Divine Interposition has been very inspiring. We feel afresh the\nforce of the question: \"Is anything too hard for the Lord?\" And we ask\nthose whose hearts are with us to pray for more such manifestations of\nthe Power that has not passed with the ages. Lord, teach us to pray!\n\nFor it has never been with us, \"Come, see, and conquer,\" as if victory\nwere an easy thing and a common. We have known what it is to toil for\nthe salvation of some little life, and we have known the bitterness of\ndefeat. We have had to stand on the shore of a dark and boundless sea,\nand watch that little white life swept off as by a great black wave. We\nhave watched it drift further and further out on those desolate waters,\ntill suddenly something from underneath caught it and sucked it down.\nAnd our very soul has gone out in the cry, \"Would God I had died for\nthee!\" and we too have gone \"to the chamber over the gate\" where we\ncould be alone with our grief and our God--O little child, loved and\nlost, would God I had died for thee!\n\nShould we forget these things? Should we bury them away lest they hurt\nsome sensitive soul? Rather, could we forget them if we would, and dare\nwe hide away the knowledge lest somewhere someone should be hurt? For it\nis not as if that black wave's work were a thing of the past: it has\ngone on for centuries unchecked: it is going on to-day.\n\nSeveral months have passed since the chapters which precede this were\nwritten. We are now, with some of our converts who needed rest and\nchange, in a place under the mountains a day's journey from Dohnavur. It\nis one of the holy places of the South; for the northern tributary of\nthe chief river of this district falls over the cliffs at this point in\na double leap of one hundred and eighty feet, and the waters are so\ndisposed over a great rounded shoulder of rock that many people can\nbathe below in a long single file. To this fall thousands of pilgrims\ncome from all parts of India, believing that such bathing is meritorious\nand cleanses away all sin. And as they are far from their own homes, and\nin measure out on holiday, we find them more than usually accessible and\nfriendly. This morning I was on my way home after talk with the women,\nand was turning for a moment to look back upon the beautiful sorrowful\nscene--the flashing waterfall, the passing crowd of pilgrims, the\nradiance of sunshine on water, wood, and rock, when a Brahman, fresh\nfrom bathing, followed my look, and glancing at the New Testament and\nbag of Gospels in my hand, smiled indulgently and asked if we seriously\nthought these books and their teaching would ever materially influence\nIndia. \"Look at that crowd,\" and he pointed to the people, his own caste\npeople chiefly. \"Have we been influenced?\"\n\nThen he told me the story of the Falls, how ages ago a god, pitying the\nsins and the sufferings of the people, bathed on the ledge where the\nwaters leap, and thereafter those waters were efficacious to the\ncleansing of sin from the one who believingly bathes. To the one who\nbelieves not, nothing happens beyond the cleansing of his body and its\ninvigoration. \"Even to you,\" he added, in his friendliness, \"virtue of a\nsort is allowed; for do you not experience a certain exhilaration and a\nbuoyancy of spirit and a pleasure beyond anything obtainable elsewhere\n[which is perfectly true]? This is due to the benevolence of our god,\nwhose merits extend even to you.\"\n\nHe was an educated man; he had studied in a mission school, and\nafterwards in a Government college. He had read English books, and parts\nof our Bible were familiar to him. He assured me he found no more\ndifficulty in accepting this legend than we did in accepting the story\nof our Saviour's incarnation. And then, standing in the Temple porch\nwith its carved stone pillars, almost within touch of the great door\nthat opens behind into the shrine, he led the way into the Higher\nHinduism--that mysterious land which lies all around us in India, but is\nso seldom shown to us. And I listened till in turn he was persuaded to\nlisten, and we read together from the Gospel which transcends in its\nsimplicity the profoundest reach of Hindu thought: \"In the beginning was\nthe Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.\" We did not\npause till we came to the end of the paragraph. I could see how it\nappealed, for deep calleth unto deep; but he rose again up and up, and\nthat unknown part of one's being which is more akin to the East than to\nthe West, followed him and understood--when the door behind us creaked,\nand a sudden blast of turbulent music sprang out upon us, deafening us\nfor a moment, and he said, \"It is the morning worship. The priests and\nthe Servants of the gods are worshipping within.\" It was like a fall\nfrom far-away heights to the very floor of things.\n\nThen he told me how in the town three miles distant, the Benares of the\nSouth, the service of the gods was conducted with more elaborate\nceremonial. \"I could arrange for you to see it if you wished.\" I\nexplained why I could not wish to see it, and asked him about the\nServants of the gods, and about the little children. \"Certainly there\nare little children. The Servants of the gods adopt them to continue the\nsuccession. How else could it be continued?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nIf this were All\n\n\nAN hour earlier three of us had stood together by the pool at the foot\nof the Falls, and watched the people bathe. At the edge of the rock an\nold grandmother had dealt valiantly with an indignant baby of two, whom,\ndespite its struggles, she bathed after prolonged preparation of divers\nanointings, by holding it grimly, kicking and slippery though it was,\nunder what must have seemed to it a terrible hurrying horror. When at\nlast that baby emerged, it was too crushed in spirit to cry.\n\nBeyond this little domestic scene was a group of half-reluctant women,\nlonging and yet fearing to venture under the plunging waters; and beyond\nthem again were the bathers, crowding but never jostling each other, on\nthe narrow ledge upon and over which the Falls descend. Some were\nstanding upright, with bowed heads, under the strong chastisement of the\nnearer heavier fall; some bent under it, as if overwhelmed with the\nthundering thud of its waters. Some were further on, where the white\nfuries lash like living whips, and scourge and sting and scurry; and\nthere the pilgrims were hardly visible, for the waters swept over them\nlike a veil, and they looked in their weirdness and muteness like martyr\nghosts. Further still some were carefully climbing the steps cut into\nthe cliff, or standing as high as they could go upon an unguarded\nprojection of rock, with eyes shut and folded hands, entirely oblivious\napparently to the fact that showers of spray enveloped them, and the\ndeep pool lay below.\n\nI had never seen anything quite like this: it was such a strange\ncommingling of the beautiful and sorrowful. The women--\"fair\"-skinned\nBrahman women they chanced to be--were in their usual graceful raiment\nof silk or cotton, all shades of soft reds, crimson, purple, blue,\nlightened with yellow and orange, which in the water looked like dull\nfire. Their golden and silver jewels gleamed in the sunlight, and their\nlong black hair hung round faces like the faces one sees in pictures.\nThe men wore their ordinary white, and the ascetics the salmon-tinted\nsaffron of their profession.\n\nThen, as if to add an ethereal touch to it all, a rainbow spanned the\nFalls at that moment, and we saw the pilgrims through it or arched by it\nas they stood, some at either end of the bow where the colours painted\nthe rock and the spray, and some in the space between. The sun struck\nthe forest hanging on the steeps above, and it became a vivid thing in\nquick delight of greenness. It was something which, once seen, could\nhardly be forgotten. The triumphant stream of white set deep in the\nheart of a great horseshoe of rock and woods; the delicate, exquisite\npleasure of colour; and the people in their un-self-consciousness,\nbathing and worshipping just as they wished, with for background rock\nand spray, and for a halo rainbow. To one who looked with sympathy the\npicture was a parable. You could not but see visions: you could not but\ndream dreams.\n\nThen from the quiet heights crept a colony of monkeys, their chatter\ndrowned in the roar of the Falls. On they came, wise and quaint, like\nthe half-heard whispers of old-time jokes. And they bathed in the mimic\npools above, as it seemed in imitation of the pilgrims, holding comical\nlittle heads under the light trickles.\n\nAnd below the scene changed as a company of widows came and entered the\nFalls. They were all Brahmans and all old, and they shivered in their\npoor scanty garments of coarse white. Most of them were frail with long\nfasting and penance, and they prayed as they stood in the water or\ncrouched under its weight. Such a one had sat on the stone under the\nspecial fall which, as the friend who had taken me observed with more\nforcefulness than sentiment, \"comes down like a sack of potatoes.\" I had\ntried to stand it for a minute, but it pelted and pounded me so that\nless than a minute was enough, and I moved to make room for a Brahman\nwidow who was bathing with me. And then she sat down on the stone, and\nthe waters beat very heavily on the old grey head; but she sat on in her\npatience, her hands covering her face, and she prayed without one\nmoment's intermission. How little she knew of the other prayer that rose\nbeside hers through the rushing water--it was the first time I at least\nhad ever prayed in a waterfall--\"Oh, send forth Thy light and Thy truth;\nlet them lead her!\" She struggled up at last and caught my hand; then,\nsteadying herself with an effort, she felt for the iron rod that\nprotects the ledge, and blinded by the driving spray and benumbed by the\nbeat of the water, she stumbled slowly out. But the wistful face had a\nlook of content upon it, and her only concern was to finish the\nceremonial out in the sunshine--she had brought her little offerings of\na few flowers with her--and so, much as I longed to follow her and tell\nher of the cleansing of which this was only a type, it could not have\nbeen then. Oh, the rest it is at such a time to remember that the Lord\nis good to all, and His tender mercies are over all His works.\n\nBelow the pool, in the broad bed of the stream and on its banks, all was\nanimation and happy simple life. Here the women were drying their\ngarments, without taking them off, in a clever fashion of their own.\nThere some were washing them in the stream. Children played about as\nthey willed. But in and among the throng, anywhere, everywhere, we saw\nworshippers, standing or sitting facing the east, alone or in company,\nchanting names for the deity, or adoring and meditating in silence.\nDoubtless some were formal enough, but some were certainly sincere; and\nwe felt if this were all there is to know in Hinduism, the time must\nsoon come when a people so prepared would recognise in the Saviour and\nLover of their souls, Him for whom they had been seeking so long, \"if\nhaply they might feel after Him and find Him.\"\n\nBut this is not all there is to know. Back out of sight behind the\nsimple joyousness of life, to which the wholesome waters and the\nsparkling air and the beauty everywhere so graciously ministered, behind\nthat wonderful wealth of thought as revealed in the Higher Hinduism\nwhich is born surely of nothing less than a longing after God--behind\nall this what do we find? Glory of mountain and waterfall, charm and\ndelight of rainbow in spray; but what lies behind the coloured veil?\nWhat symbols are carved into the cliff? Whose name and power do they\nrepresent?\n\nThis book touches one of the hidden things; would that we could forget\nit! Sometimes, through these days as we sat on the rocks by the\nwaterside, in the unobtrusive fashion of the Indian religious teacher,\nwho makes no noise but waits for those who care to come, we have almost\nforgotten in the happiness of human touch with the people, the lovable\nwomen and children more especially, that anything dark and wicked and\nsad lay so very near. And then, suddenly as we have told, we have been\nreminded of it. We may not forgot it if we would. It is true that the\nthing we mean is disowned by the spiritual few, but to the multitude it\nis part of their religion. \"Of course, Temple women must adopt young\nchildren; and they must be carefully trained, or they will not be meet\nfor the service of the gods.\" So said the Brahman who only a moment\nbefore had led me into the mystic land, deep within which he loves to\ndwell: what does the training mean?\n\nA fortnight ago the friend to whom the child is dear took me to see the\nlittle girl described in a letter from an Indian sister as \"a little\ndove in a cage.\" I did not find that she minded her cage. The bars have\nbeen gilded, the golden glitter has dazzled the child. She thinks her\ncage a pretty place, and she does not beat against its bars as she did\nin the earlier days of her captivity. As we talked with her we\nunderstood the change. When first she was taken from school the woman to\nwhose training her mother has committed her gave her polluting poetry to\nread and learn, and she shrank from it, and would slip her Bible over\nthe open page and read it instead. But gradually the poetry seemed less\nimpossible; the atmosphere in which those vile stories grew and\nflourished was all about her; as she breathed it day by day she became\naccustomed to it; the sense of being stifled passed. The process of\nmental acclimatisation is not yet completed, the lovely little face is\nstill pure and strangely innocent in its expression; but there is a\nchange, and it breaks the heart of the friend who loves her to see it.\n\"I must learn my poetry. They will be angry if I do not learn it. What\ncan I do?\" And again, \"Oh, the stories do not mean anything,\" said with\na downward glance, as if the child-conscience still protested. But this\nwas a fortnight ago. It is worse with that little girl to-day; there is\nless inward revolt; and to-morrow how will it be with her?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\n\"To Continue the Succession\"\n\n\nFOR to-morrow holds no hope for these children so far as our power to\nsave them to-day is concerned. It will be remembered that we felt we\ncould do more for them by working quietly on our own lines than by\nappealing to the law; but lately, fearing lest we were possibly doing\nthe law an injustice by taking it for granted that it was powerless to\nhelp us, we carefully gathered all the evidence we could about three\ntypical children: one a child in moral danger, though not in actual\nTemple danger; another the adopted child of a Temple woman; the third a\nTemple woman's own child: and we submitted this evidence to a keen\nIndian Christian barrister, and asked for his advice.\n\nL., the first child he deals with, the little \"dove in the cage,\" is in\ncharge of a woman of bad character, by the consent and arrangement of\nher mother. The mother speaks English as well as an Englishwoman, and\nher eldest son is studying for his degree in a Government college.\nAlthough Temple service is not intended, the proposed life is such that\na similar course of training as that to which the Temple child is\nsubjected, is now being carried on. This is the barrister's reply to my\nletter:--\n\n\"I have carefully perused the statements of the probable witnesses. L.'s\nmother is not a Temple woman, and the foster-mother also is not a Temple\nwoman. The law of adoption relating to Temple women does not apply to\nthem. The foster-mother, therefore, can have no legal claim to the\nchild. But the mother has absolute control over the bringing-up of the\nchild, and it would not be possible in the present state of the law to\ndo anything for the child now.\"\n\nS. This is the little one who whispered her texts to me in the\nmoonlight, and whose foster-mother told her to tell me she was being\ntrained for the Service of the gods. She is evidently destined to be a\nTemple woman. \"The first question for consideration is how the old woman\nis related to her. If she is the adopted mother, or if she could\nsuccessfully plead adoption of the child, the Civil Courts will be\npowerless to help. If we can get some reliable evidence that the child\nhas not been adopted\" (this is impossible) \"we may be able to induce the\nBritish Courts to interfere on her behalf and say she shall not be\ndevoted to Temple service until she attains her majority; but it would\nnot be possible to induce the Courts to hand the child over to the\nMission.\"\n\nK., the little girl whose own mother is a Temple woman. She has been\ntaught dancing, which to our mind was conclusive proof of her mother's\nintentions. To make sure we asked the question, to which the following\nis the reply: \"No children of [good] Hindu parents are taught dancing.\nEven the lowest caste woman thinks it beneath her dignity to dance,\nexcepting professional devil-dancers, who are generally old women,\nmostly widows, of an hysterical temperament. When young children of\nwomen of doubtful character are taught dancing, it means they are going\nto be married to the idol. When children of Temple women are taught\ndancing the presumption is all the greater. But the difficulty in the\ncase of K. is to get one who has higher claims to guardianship than the\nmother. In the case of a Temple woman's child there is no one.\n\n\"It is this which makes it impossible for the well-wishers of the\nchildren to interfere. . . . The law punishes only the offence committed\nand not the intent to commit, or even the preparation, unless it amounts\nto an attempt under the Penal Code.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nBluebeards are not an institution in England; but if they were, and if\none of the order were known to possess a cupboardful of pendent heads,\nwould Englishmen sit quiet while he whetted his butcher's knife quite\ncalmly on his doorstep? Would they say as he sat there in untroubled\nassurance of safety, feeling the edge of the blade with his thumb, and\nmuttering almost audibly the name of his intended victim, \"We have no\nright to interfere, he is only sharpening his knife; an intent to\ncommit, or even the preparation for crime, is not punishable by law,\nunless it amounts to an attempt, and he has not 'attempted' yet.\"\nSurely, if such intent were not punishable it very soon would be. It\nwould be found possible--who can doubt it?--to frame a new law, or amend\nthe old one, so as to deal with Bluebeards. And a Committee of Vigilance\nwould be appointed to ensure its effectual working.\n\nOf course, the simile is absurdly inadequate, and breaks down at several\nimportant points, and the circumstances are vastly more difficult in\nIndia than they ever could be in England, just because India is India;\nbut will it not at least be admitted that the law meant in kindness to\nthe innocent is fatal to our purpose?--which is to save the children\nwhile they are still innocent.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWe do not want to ask for anything unreasonable, but it seems to us that\nthe law concerning adoption requires revision. In Mayne's _Hindu Law and\nUsage_ it is stated that among Temple women it is customary in Madras\nand Pondicherry and in Western India to adopt girls to follow their\nadopted mother's profession: and the girls so adopted succeed to their\nproperty; no particular ceremonies are necessary, recognition alone\nbeing sufficient. In Calcutta and Bombay such adoptions have been held\nillegal, but in the Madras Presidency they are held to be legal. In a\ncase where the validity of such adoption was questioned, the Madras High\nCourt affirmed it, and it has now, \"by a series of decisions, adopted\nthe rule . . . which limits the illegality of adoption to cases where\nthey involve the commission of an offence under the Criminal Code.\"\nThis, as we have said, makes it entirely impossible to save the child\nthrough the law before her training is complete; and after it is\ncomplete it is too late to save her. Train a child from infancy to look\nupon a certain line of life as the one and only line for her, make the\nprospect attractive, and surround her with every possible unholy\ninfluence; in short, bend the twig and keep it bent for the greater part\nof sixteen years, or even only six--is there much room for doubt as to\nhow it will grow? An heir to the property may be required; but with the\nfacts of life before us, can we be content to allow the adoption of a\nchild by a Temple woman to be so legalised that even if it can be proved\nto a moral certainty that her intention is to \"continue the succession,\"\nnothing can be done?\n\nThen as to the guardianship: again we do not want to ask too much, but\nsurely if it can be shown that no one else has moved to save the child\n(which argues that no one else has cared much about her salvation) we\nshould not be disqualified for guardianship on the sole ground that we\nare not related? In such a case the relatives are the last people with\nwhom she would be safe. An order may go forth from that nebulous and\ndistant Impersonality, the British Government, to the effect that a\ncertain child is not to be dedicated to gods during her minority. But\nfar away in their villages the people smile at a simplicity which can\nimagine that commands can eventually affect purposes. They may delay the\nfulfilment of such purpose; but India can afford to wait.\n\n_We would have the law so amended, that whoever has been in earnest\nenough about the matter to try to save the child from destruction,\nshould be given the right to protect her, if in spite of the odds\nagainst him he has honestly fought through a case and won._\n\n\"Is it not a sad thing,\" writes the Indian barrister--we quote his words\nbecause they seem to us worthy of notice at home--\"that a Christian\nGovernment is unable to legislate to save the children of Temple women?\nI am sorry my opinion has made you sad. Giving my opinion as a lawyer, I\ncould not take an optimistic view of the matter. _The law as it stands\nat present is against reform in matters of this kind._ Even should a\ngood judge take a strong view of the matter, the High Court will stick\nto the very letter of the law.\"\n\nSo that, as things are, it comes to this: We must stand aside and watch\nthe cup of poison being prepared--so openly prepared that everyone knows\nfor which child it is being mixed. We must stand and wait and do\nnothing. We must see the little girl led up to the cup and persuaded to\ntaste it. We must watch her gradually growing to like it, for it is\nflavoured and sweet. We must not beckon to her before she has drunk of\nit and say, \"Come to us and we will tell you what is in that cup, and\nkeep you safely from those who would make you drink it\"; for \"any\nattempt to induce the child to come to you, or any assistance given to\nhelp her to escape to you, would render you liable to prosecution for\nkidnapping--a criminal offence under the Penal Code.\" Any one of us\nwould gladly go to prison if it would save the child; but the trouble\nis, it would not: for the law could only return her to her lawful\nguardians from whose hold we unlawfully detached her. We, not they,\nwould be in the wrong; they did nothing unlawful in only preparing the\ncup. Does someone say that we put the case unfairly--that the law does\nnot forbid us to warn the child, it only forbids us to snatch her away\nwhen the cup is merely being offered her? But remember, in our part of\nIndia at least, these cups are not given in public. The preparation is\npublic enough, the bare tasting is public too; but the cup in its\nfulness is given in private, and once given, the poison works with\nstealthy but startling rapidity. Warn the child before she has drunk of\nit, and she does not understand you. Warn her after she has drunk, and\nthe poison holds her from heeding.\n\nBesides, to be very practical, what is the use of warning if we may only\nwarn? Suppose our one isolated word weighs with the child against the\nword of mother or adopted mother, and all who stand for home to her;\nsuppose she says (she would very rarely have the courage for any such\nproposal, but suppose she does say it): \"May I come to you? and will you\nshow me the way, for it is such a long way and I do not know how to find\nit? I should be so frightened, alone in the night\" (the only time escape\nwould be possible), \"for I know they would run after me, and they can\nrun faster than I!\" What may we say to her? What may I say to the\nHarebell supposing she asks me this question? She is only six, and there\nare six long miles over broken country between her home and ours. We\ncould not find it ourselves in the dark. But supposing she dared it all,\nand an angel were sent to guide her, have we any right to protect her?\nNone whatever. If there are parents, or a parent, they or she have the\nright of parentage; if an adopted mother, the right of adoption.[F]\n\nWe know that the law is framed to protect the good, and the rights of\nparentage cannot be too carefully guarded; but to one who has not a\nlegal mind, but only sees a little girl in danger of her life, and has\nto stand with hands tied by a law intended to deal with totally\ndifferent matters, it seems strange that things should be so. This is\nnot the moment (if ever there is such a moment) to choose, for\ndeliberate lawlessness; but there are times when the temptation is\nstrong to break the law in the hope that, once broken, it may be\namended. Only those who have had to go through it know what it is to\nstand and see that cup of poison being prepared for an unsuspicious\nchild.\n\nThe last sentence in the barrister's letter begins with \"I despair.\" The\nsentence is too pungent in its outspoken candour to copy into a book\nwhich may come back to India: \"I despair\": then unto Thee we turn, O\nLord our God; for now, Lord, what is our hope? truly our hope is even in\nThee: oh, help us against the enemy; for vain is the help of man. Hath\nGod forgotten to be gracious? Will the Lord absent Himself for ever? O\nGod, wherefore art Thou absent from us for so long? Look upon the\nCovenant, for all the earth is full of darkness and cruel habitations.\nSurely Thou hast seen it, for Thou beholdest ungodliness and wrong. The\nwicked boasteth of his heart's desire. He sitteth in the lurking-places\nof the villages: in the secret places doth he murder the innocent. He\nsaith in his heart, \"God hath forgotten: He hideth His face; He will\nnever see it.\" Arise, O Lord God, lift up Thine hand! Up, Lord,\ndisappoint him, and cast him down; deliver the children! Show Thy\nmarvellous lovingkindness, Thou that art the Saviour of them which put\ntheir trust in Thee, from such as resist Thy right hand. Thy voice is\nmighty in operation: the voice of the Lord is a glorious voice. We wait\nfor Thy lovingkindness, O God: be merciful unto the children: O God, be\nmerciful unto the children, for our soul trusteth in Thee, and we call\nunto the Most High God, even unto the God that shall perform the cause\nwhich we have in hand. For Thou hast looked down from Thy sanctuary; out\nof heaven did the Lord behold the earth, that He might hear the\nmournings of such as are in captivity, and deliver the children\nappointed to death. Arise, O God, maintain Thine own cause! Our hope is\nin Thee, Who helpeth them to right that suffer wrong. The Lord looseth\nthe prisoners. God is unto us a God of deliverances. Power belongeth\nunto Thee. Our soul hangeth upon Thee: Thou shalt show us wonderful\nthings in Thy righteousness, O God of our salvation, Thou that art the\nhope of all the ends of the earth. And all men that see it shall say,\nThis hath God done; for they shall perceive that it is His work. He\nshall deliver the children's souls from falsehood and wrong; for God is\nour King of old; the help that is done upon earth He doeth it Himself.\nSure I am, the Lord will avenge the poor, and maintain the cause of the\nhelpless. Why art thou so heavy, O my soul, and why art thou disquieted\nwithin me? Oh, put thy trust in God; for I will yet praise Him which is\nthe help of my countenance and my God!\n\nAre there any prayers like the old psalms in their intense sincerity? In\nthe times when our heart is wounded within us we turn to these ancient\nhuman cries, and we find what we want in them.\n\nLet us pray for the children of this generation being trained now \"to\ncontinue the succession,\" whom nothing less than a Divine interposition\ncan save. The hunters on these mountains dig pits to ensnare the poor\nwild beasts, and they cover them warily with leaves and grass: this\nsentence about the succession is just such a pit, with words for leaves\nand grass. Let us pray for miracles to happen where individual children\nare concerned, that the little feet in their ignorance may be hindered\nfrom running across those pits, for the fall is into miry clay, and the\nsides of the pit are slippery and very steep.\n\nMore and more as we go on, and learn our utter inability to move a\nsingle pebble by ourselves, and the mighty power of God to upturn\nmountains with a touch, we realise how infinitely important it is to\nknow how to pray. There is the restful prayer of committal to which the\nimmediate answer is peace. We could not live without this sort of\nprayer; we should be crushed and overborne, and give up broken-hearted\nif it were not for that peace. But the Apostle speaks of another prayer\nthat is wrestle, conflict, \"agony.\" And if these little children are to\nbe delivered and protected after their deliverance, and trained that if\nthe Lord tarry and life's fierce battle has to be fought--and for them\nit may be very fierce--all that will be attempted against them shall\nfall harmless at their feet like arrows turned to feather-down; then\nsome of us must be strong to meet the powers that will combat every inch\nof the field with us, and some of us must learn deeper things than we\nknow yet about the solemn secret of prevailing prayer.\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[F] To-day (February 16, 1912) as I go through proofs of the second\nedition, I hear by post of a young girl in a distant city who lately\nescaped to a missionary, and asked for what he could not give\nher--protection. She had to return to her own home. In her despair, she\ndrowned herself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nWhat if she misses her Chance?\n\n \"Who would be planted chooseth not the soil\n Or here or there, . . .\n Lord even so\n I ask one prayer,\n The which if it be granted\n It skills not where\n Thou plantest me, only I would be planted.\"\n\n T. E. BROWN.\n\n\nTWO pictures of two evenings rise as I write. One is of an English\nfireside in a country house. The lamps have been lighted, and the\ncurtains drawn. The air is full of the undefined scent of\nchrysanthemums, and the stronger sweetness of hyacinths comes from a\nstand in the window. Curled up in a roomy arm-chair by the fire sits a\ngirl with a kitten asleep on her lap. She is reading a missionary book.\n\nThe other this: a white carved cupola in the centre of a piece of water\nenclosed by white walls. People are sitting on the walls and pressing\nclose about them in their thousands. A gorgeous barge is floating slowly\nround the shrine. There is very little moon, but the whole place is\nalight; sometimes the water is ablaze with ruby and amber; this fades,\nand a weird blue-green shimmers across the barge, and electric lamps at\nthe corners of the square lend brilliancy to the scene. The barge is\ncovered with crimson trappings, and hundreds of wreaths of white\noleander hang curtain-wise round what is within--the god and goddess\ndecked with jewels and smothered in flowers. Round and round the barge\nis poled, and in the coloured light all that is gaudy and tawdry is\ntoned, and becomes only oriental and impressive; and the white shrine in\nthe centre reflected in the calm coloured water appears in its\nalternating dimness, and shining more like a fairy creation than common\nhandiwork.\n\nWe who were at the festival, three of us laden with packets of marked\nGospels, met sometimes as we wandered about unobserved, losing ourselves\nin the crowd, that we might the more quietly continue that for which we\nwere there; and in one such chance meeting we spoke of the English girl\nby the fireside, and longed to show her what we saw; and to show it with\nsuch earnestness that she would be drawn to inquire where her Master had\nmost need of her. But no earnestness of writing can do much after all.\nIt is true the eye affects the heart, and we would show what we have\nseen in the hope that even the second-hand sight might do something; but\nwords are clumsy, and cannot discover to another that poignant thing the\neye has power to transmit to the heart. And it is well that it is so,\nfor something stronger and more consuming than human emotion can ever be\nmust operate upon the heart if the life is to be moved to purpose. \"A\nmoving story\" is worth little if it only moves the feelings. How far out\nof its selfish track does it move the life into ways of sacrifice? That\nis the question that matters. What if it cost? Did not Calvary cost?\nAway with the cold, calculating love that talks to itself about cost!\nGod give us a pure passion of love that knows nothing of hesitation and\ngrudging, and measuring, nothing of compromise! What if it seem\nimpossible to face all that surrender may mean? Is there not provision\nfor the impossible? \"In the Old Testament we find that in almost every\ncase of people being clothed with the Spirit it was for things which\nwere impossible to them. To be filled with the Spirit means readiness\nfor Him to take us out of our present sphere and put us anywhere away\nfrom our own choice into His choice for us.\" These words hold a message\nalike for us as we meet and pass in that Indian crowd, and for the girl\nby the fireside at home who wants to know her Lord's will that she may\ndo it, and whose heart's prayer is: \"May Thy grace, O Lord, make that\npossible to me which is impossible by nature.\"\n\nLet us have done with limitations, let us be simply sincere. How ashamed\nwe shall be by and by of our insincerities:--\n\n Thy vows are on me, oh to serve Thee truly,\n Pants, pants my soul to perfectly obey!\n Burn, burn, O Fire, O Wind, now winnow throughly!\n Constrain, inspire to follow all the way!\n Oh that in me\n Thou, my Lord, may see\n Of the travail of Thy soul,\n And be satisfied.\n\nWe had only a few hours to spend in the town of the Floating Festival;\nand being anxious to discover how things were among the Temple\ncommunity, I spent the first hour in their quarter, a block of\nsubstantial buildings each in its own compound, near the Temple. I saw\nthe house from which two of our dearest children came, delivered by a\nmiracle; it looked like a fortress with its wall all round, and upstairs\nbalcony barred by a trellis. The street door was locked as the women\nwere at the Festival. In another of less dignified appearance I saw a\npretty woman of about twenty, dressed in pale blue and gold, evidently\njust ready to go out. One of those abandoned beings whose function it is\nto secure little children \"to continue the succession\" was in the house,\nand so nothing could be attempted but the most casual conversation. All\nthe other houses in the block were locked as the women were out; but I\nsaw a new house outside, built in best Indian style, and finely\nfinished. It had been built for, and given as a free gift, to a noted\nTemple woman.\n\nThese houses would open, in the missionary sense of the word, but not in\nan afternoon. It would take time and careful endeavour to win an\nentrance. Such a worker would need to be one whom no disappointment\ncould discourage, a woman to whom the word had been spoken, \"Go, love,\n. . . according to the love of the Lord.\" When will such a worker come?\n\nAs I left the Temple quarter, I met my two companions who had been at\nwork elsewhere, and we walked together to the place of festival.\nTripping gaily along in front was a little maid with flowers in her\nhair. It was easy to know who she was, there was something in the very\nstep that marked the light-footed Temple child. Poor little\nall-unconscious illustration of India's need of God!\n\nLater on we saw the same illustration again, lighted up like a great\ntransparency, the focus for a thousand eyes. For on the dais of the\nbarge, in the place of honour nearest the idols, stood three women and a\nchild. The women were swathed in fold upon fold of rich violet silk,\nsprinkled all over with tinsel and gold; they were crowned with white\nflowers, wreathed round a golden ornament like a full moon set in their\ndark hair; and the effect of the whole, seen in the luminous flush of\ncolour thrown upon them from the shore, was as if the night sky\nsparkling with stars had come down and robed them where they stood. Then\nwhen it paled, and sheet-lightning played, as it seemed, across water\nand barge and shrine, the effect was wholly mysterious. The three\nswaying forms--for they swayed keeping time to the music that never\nceased--resembled one's idea of goddesses rather than familiar\nwomenkind. To the Indian mind it was beautiful, bewilderingly beautiful;\nand the simple country-folk around drew deep breaths of admiration as\nthey passed.\n\nThe little girl looked more human. She too was in violet silk and\nspangles and gold, and her little head was wreathed with flowers. It may\nhave been her first Floating Festival, for she gazed about her with eyes\nfull of guileless wonder, and the woman beside whom she stood laid a\nlight, protecting hand upon her shoulder.\n\nThat little child! How the sight of her held us in pity as the barge\nsailed slowly round. She was so near to us at times that we could almost\nhave touched her when the barge came near the wall; and yet she was\nutterly remote, miles of space might have lain between; it was as if we\nand she belonged to different planets. And yet our little ones who might\nhave been as she, were so close--we could almost feel their loving\nlittle arms round our necks at that moment--this child, how far away she\nwas! Had one of us set foot on the place where she stood, the friendly\nthousands about us would have changed in a second into indignant furies,\nand so long as the memory of such impiety remained no white face would\nhave been welcome at the Floating Festival.\n\nWe stood by the wall awhile and watched; the sorrow of it all sank into\nus. There in the holiest place of all, according to their thinking,\nclose to the emblems of deity, they had set this grievous perversion of\nthe holy and the pure. Right on the topmost pinnacle of everything known\nas religious there they had enthroned it, and robed it in starlight and\ncrowned it as queens are crowned. \"Oh, worship the Lord in the beauty of\nholiness!\" \"One thing have I desired of the Lord . . . to behold the fair\nbeauty of the Lord\"--such words open chasms of contrast. God pity them;\nlike those of old, they know not what they do.\n\nWe came away, our books all sold and our strength of voice spent out,\nfor everywhere people had listened; and as we came home, strong\nthanksgiving filled our hearts, thanks and praise unspeakable for the\nlittle lives safe in our nursery, for the two especially who but for\nGod's interposition might have been on that barge--and oh, from the\nground of our heart we were grateful that He had not let us miss His\nwill concerning these little children. We thought of those special two\nwith their dear little innocent ways. We could not think of them on the\nbarge. We could not bear to think of it--again and again we thanked God,\nwith humble adoring thanksgiving, that He kept us from missing our\nchance.\n\nBut the mere thinking of that intolerable thought brought us back upon\nanother thought. What of that girl by the fireside? What if she misses\nher chance? We know, for letters confess it, that many a life has missed\nits chance. What of the woman, strong and keen, with pent-up energies\nwaiting for she knows not what? What of the girl by the fireside\ncrushing down the sense of an Under-call that will not let her rest? The\nwork to which that Call would lead her will not be anything great: it\nwill only mean little humble everyday doings wherever she is sent. But\nif the Call is a true Call from heaven, it will change to a song as she\nobeys; and through all the afterward of life, through all the loneliness\nthat may come, through all the disillusions when her \"dreams of fair\nromance which no day brings\" slip away from her--and the usual and\ncommonplace are all about her--then and for ever that song of the Lord\nwill sing itself through the quiet places of her soul, and she will be\nsure--with the sureness that is just pure peace--that she is where her\nMaster meant her to be.\n\nNot that we would write as if obedience must always mean service in the\nforeign field. We know it is not so: we know it may be quite the\nopposite; but shall we not be forgiven if we sometimes wonder how it is\nthat with so much earnest Church life at home, with so many evangelistic\ncampaigns, and conventions, there is so poor an output so far as these\nlands abroad are concerned? Can it be that so many are meant to stay at\nhome? We would never urge any individual friend to come, far less would\nwe plead for numbers, however great the need; we would only say this:\nWill the girl by the fireside, if such a one reads this book, lay the\nbook aside, and spend an hour alone with her Lord? Will she, if she is\nin doubt about His will, wait upon Him to show it to her? Will she ask\nHim to fit her to obey? \"And this I wish to do, this I desire;\nwhatsoever is wanting in me, do Thou, I beseech Thee, vouchsafe to\nsupply.\"\n\nForgive if we seem to intrude upon holy ground, but sometimes we see in\nimagination some great gathering of God's people, and we hear them\nsinging hymns; and sometimes the beautiful words change into others not\nbeautiful, but only insistent:--\n\n The Lord our God arouse us! We are sleeping,\n Dreaming we wake, while through the heavy night\n Hardly perceived, the foe moves on unchallenged,\n Glad of the dream that doth delay the fight.\n O Christ our Captain, lead us out to battle!\n Shame on the sloth of soldiers of the light!\n\n * * * * *\n\n Good Shepherd, Jesus, pitiful and tender,\n To whom the least of straying lambs is known,\n Grant us Thy love that wearieth not, nor faileth;\n Grant us to seek Thy wayward sheep that roam\n Far on the fell, until we find and fold them\n Safe in the love of Thee, their own true home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\n\"Thy Sweet Original Joy\"\n\n Beacons of hope, ye appear!\n Languor is not in your heart,\n Weakness is not in your word,\n Weariness not on your brow.\n\n\nWITHIN the last few months a friend, a lover of books, sent me _The\nTrial and Death of Socrates_, translated into English by F. J. Church.\nOpening it for the first time, I came upon this passage:--\n\n_Socrates:_ \"Does a man who is in training, and who is in earnest about\nit, attend to the praise and blame of all men, or of the one man who is\ndoctor or trainer?\"\n\n_Crito:_ \"He attends only to the opinion of the one man.\"\n\n_Socrates:_ \"Then he ought to fear the blame and welcome the praise of\nthe one man, not the many?\"\n\n_Crito:_ \"Clearly.\"\n\nAnd Socrates sums the argument thus: \"To be brief; is it not the same in\neverything?\"\n\nSurely the wise man spoke the truth: it is the same in everything. The\none thing that matters is the opinion of the One. If He is satisfied,\nall is well. If He is dissatisfied, the commendation of the many is as\nfroth. \"Blessed are the single-hearted, for they shall have much peace.\"\n\nBut Nature is full of pictures of bright companionship in service; the\nvery stars shine in constellations. This book of the skies has been\nopening up to us of late. Who, to whom the experience is new, will\nforget the first evenings spent with even a small telescope, but\npowerful enough to distinguish double stars and unveil nebulae? You look\nand see a single point of light, and you look again and twin suns float\nlike globes of fire on a midnight sea; and sometimes one flashes golden\nyellow and the other blue, each the complement of the other, like two\nperfectly responsive friends. You look and see a little lonely cloud, a\nbreath of transparent mist; you look and see spaces sprinkled with\ndiamond dust, or something even more awesome, reaches of radiance that\nseem to lie on the borderland of Eternity.\n\nAnd the shining glory lingers and lights up the common day, for the\nstory of the sky is the story of life.\n\n Far was the Call, and farther as I followed\n Grew there a silence round my Lord and me--\n\nis for ever the inner story, as for ever the stars must move alone,\nhowever close they are set in constellations or strewn in clusters; but\nin another sense is it not true that there is the joy of companionship\nand the pure inspiration of comradeship? God fits twin souls together\nlike twin suns; and sometimes, with delicate thought for even the\nsensitive pleasure of colour, it is as if He arranged them so that the\ngold and the blue coalesce.\n\nAnd we think of the places which were once blank, mere misty nothings to\nus. They sparkle now with friends. Some of them are familiar friends\nknown through the wear and tear of life; some we shall never see till we\nmeet above the stars. And there the nebula speaks its word of mystery\nbeyond mystery, but all illuminated by the light from the other side.\n\nIn the work of which these chapters have told there has been the\nwonderful comfort of sympathy and help from fellow-missionaries of our\nown and sister missions; and, as all who have read, understand, nothing\ncould have been done without the loyal co-operation of our Indian\nfellow-workers whose tenderness and patience can never be described. We\nthink of the friends in the mission houses along the route of our long\njourneyings; we remember how no hour was too inconvenient to receive us\nand our tired baby travellers; we think of those who in weariness and\npainfulness have sought for the little children; and we think of those\nwho have made the work possible by being God's good Ravens to us. We\nthink of them all, and we wish their names could be written on the cover\nof this book instead of the name least worthy to be there. And now\nlatest and nearest comfort and blessing, there are the two new\n\"Sitties,\" whose first day with us made them one of us. What shall I\nrender unto the Lord for all His benefits towards me?\n\nThe future is full of problems. Even now in these Nursery days questions\nare asked that are more easily asked than answered. We should be afraid\nif we looked too far ahead, so we do not look. We spend our strength on\nthe day's work, the nearest \"next thing\" to our hands. But we would be\nblind and heedless if we made no provision for the future. We want to\ngather and lay up in store against that difficult time (should it ever\ncome) a band of friends for the children, who will stand by them in\nprayer.\n\nThere has been another compelling influence. We recognise something in\nthe Temple-children question which touches a wider issue than the\npersonal or missionary. Those who have read _Queen Victoria's Letters_\nmust have become conscious of a certain enlargement. Questions become\ngreat or dwindle into nothingness according as they affect the honour\nand the good of the Empire. We find ourselves instinctively \"thinking\nImperially,\" regarding things from the Throne side--from above instead\nof from below.\n\nWe fear exaggerated language. We would not exaggerate the importance of\nthese little children or their cause. We have said that we realise, as\nwe did not when first this work began, how very delicate and difficult a\nmatter it would be for Government to take any really effective action,\nand less than effective action is useless. We recognise the value of our\npledge of neutrality in religious matters, and we know what might happen\nif Government moved in a line which to India might appear to be contrary\nto the spirit of that pledge. It would be far better if India herself\nled the way and declared, as England declared when she passed the\nIndustrial Schools Amendment Act of 1880, that she will not have her\nlittle children demoralised in either Temple houses recognised as such,\nor in any similar houses, such as those which abound in areas where the\nTemple child nominally is non-existent. But must we wait till India\nleads the way? Scattered all over the land there are men who are against\nthis iniquity, and would surely be in favour of such legislation as\nwould make for its destruction. But few would assert that the people as\na whole are even nearly ready. A great wave of the Power of God, a great\nnational turning towards Him, would, we know, sweep the iniquity out of\nthe land as the waters of the Alpheus swept the stable-valley clean, in\nthe old classic story. Oh for such a sudden flow of the River of God,\nwhich is full of water! But must we wait until it comes? Did we wait\nuntil India herself asked for the abolition of suttee? Surely what is\nneeded is such legislation as has been found necessary at home, which\nempowers the magistrate to remove a child from a dangerous house, and\ndeprives parents of all parental rights who are found responsible for\nits being forced into wrong. Surely such action would be Imperially\nright; and can a thing right in itself and carried out with a wise\nearnestness, ever eventually do harm? Must it not do good in the end,\nhowever agitating the immediate result may appear? Surely the one calm\nanswer, \"_It is Right_,\" will eventually silence all protest and still\nall turbulence!\n\nSuch a law, it is well to understand at the outset, will always be\ninfinitely more difficult to enforce in India than in England, because\nof the immensely greater difficulty here in getting true evidence; and\nbecause--unless that River of God flow through the land--there will be\nfor many a year the force of public opinion as a whole against us, or if\nnot actively against, then inert and valueless. Caste feeling will come\nin and shield and circumvent and get behind the law. The Indian\nsensitiveness concerning Custom will be all awake and tingling with a\nhidden but intense vitality; and this, which is inevitable because\nnatural, will have to be taken into account in every attempt made to\nenforce the law. The whole situation bristles with difficulties; but are\ndifficulties an argument for doing nothing?\n\n\"Whoever buys hires or otherwise obtains possession of, whoever sells\nlets to hire or otherwise disposes of any minor under sixteen with the\nintent that such minor shall be employed or used for . . . any unlawful\npurpose or knowing it likely that such minor will be employed or used\nfor any such purpose shall be liable to imprisonment up to a term of ten\nyears and is also liable to a fine.\"\n\n_But_ where it appeared that certain minor girls were being taught\nsinging and dancing and were being made to accompany their grandmother\nand Temple woman to the Temple with a view to qualify them as Temple\nwomen, it was held that this did not amount to a disposal of the minors\nwithin the meaning of the section.\n\nOught this interpretation of the Indian Penal Code to be possible? The\nproof the law requires at present, proof of the sale of the child or its\ndefinite dedication to the idol, is rarely obtainable. The fact that it\nis being taught singing and dancing (although it is well known, as the\nbarrister's letter proves, that among orthodox Hindus such arts are\nnever taught to little children except when the intention is bad) is not\nconsidered sufficient evidence upon which to base a conviction. To us it\nseems that the presence of the child in such a house, or in any house of\nknown bad character, is sufficient proof that it is in danger of the\nworst wrong that can be inflicted upon a defenceless child--the\ndemoralisation of its soul, the spoiling of its whole future life,\nbefore it has ever had a chance to know and choose the good.\n\n[Illustration: From the Rock, Dohnavur.]\n\nAnd so we write it finally as our solemn conviction that there is need\nfor a law like our own English law, and we add--and those who know India\nknow how true this sentence is--_such legislation, however carefully\nframed, will be a delusion, a blind, a dead letter, unless men of no\nordinary insight and courage and character are appointed to see that it\nis carried out_.\n\nGod grant that these chapters, written in weakness, may yet do something\ntowards moving the Church to such prayer that the answer will be, as\nonce before, that an angel will be sent to open the doors of the\nprison-house!\n\nThe frontispiece shows the rock to which we go sometimes when we feel\nthe need of a climb and a blow. It is associated in our minds with a\nstory:--\"Between the passages by which Jonathan sought to go over unto\nthe Philistines' garrison there was a sharp rock on the one side and a\nsharp rock on the other side. . . . And Jonathan said to the young man\nthat bare his armour: 'Come and let us go over unto the garrison of\nthese uncircumcised: it may be that the Lord will work for us: for there\nis no restraint to the Lord to save by many or by few.' And his\narmour-bearer said unto him: 'Do all that is in thine heart: turn thee,\nbehold I am with thee according to thy heart.'\"\n\nWe have a rock to climb, and there is nothing the least romantic\nabout it. We shall have to climb it \"upon our hands and upon our feet.\"\nIt is all grim earnest. \"We make our way wrapped in glamour to the\nSupreme Good, the summit,\" writes Guido Rey, the mountaineer, in the joy\nof his heart. But later it is: \"One precipice fell away at my feet, and\nanother rose above me. . . . It was no place for singing.\" Friends, we\nshall come to such places on the Matterhorn of life. As we follow the\nGleam wherever it leads, may we count upon the upholding of those for\nwhom we have written--the lovers of little children?\n\nAnd now, in conclusion, all I would say has already been so perfectly\nsaid, that I cannot do better than copy from the writings of two who\nfought a good fight and have been crowned--Miss Ellice Hopkins, brave,\nsensitive, soldier-soul on the hardest of life's battlefields; and\nGeorge Herbert, courtier, poet, and saint. \"Often in that nameless\ndiscouragement,\" wrote Miss Hopkins, as she lay slowly dying, \"before\nunfinished tasks, unfulfilled aims and broken efforts, I have thought of\nhow the creative Word has fashioned the opal, made it of the same stuff\nas desert sands, mere silica--not a crystallised stone like the diamond,\nbut rather a stone with a broken heart, traversed by hundreds of small\nfissures which let in the air, the breath, as the Spirit is called in\nthe Greek of our Testament; and through those two transparent mediums of\nsuch different density it is enabled to refract the light, and reflect\nevery lovely hue of heaven, while at its heart burns a mysterious spot\nof fire. When we feel, therefore, as I have often done, nothing but\ncracks and desert dust, we can say: So God maketh His precious opal!\"\n\nWe would never willingly disguise one fraction of the truth in our\ndesire to win sympathy and true co-operation. There will be hours of\nnameless discouragement for all who climb the rock. For some there will\nbe the \"broken heart.\"\n\nAnd yet there is a joy that is worth it all a thousand times--well worth\nit all. Who that has known it will doubt it? This reach of water\nrecalls it. The palms, as we look at them, seem to lift their heads in\nsolemn consciousness of it. For the water-side--where we stand with\nthose for whom we have travailed in soul, when for the first time they\npublicly confess their faith in Christ--is a sacred place to us.\n\n[Illustration: THE PLACE OF BAPTISM.]\n\nHas our story wandered sometimes into sorrowful ways? To be true it has\nto be sorrowful sometimes. We look back to the day of its beginning, the\nday that our first little Temple child came and opened a new door to us.\n\n Since that time many a bitter storm\n My soul hath felt, e'en able to destroy,\n Had the malicious and ill-meaning harm\n His swing and sway;\n But still Thy sweet original joy\n Sprung from Thine eye did work within my soul,\n And surging griefs when they grew bold control,\n And got the day.\n\nIt is true. Many a bitter storm has come; there have been the shock and\nthe darkness of new knowledge of evil, and grief beside which all other\npain pales, the grief of helplessness in the face of unspeakable wrong.\nBut still, above and within, and around, like an atmosphere, like a\nfountain, there has been something bright, even that \"sweet original\njoy\" which nothing can darken or quench.\n\n If Thy first glance so powerful be\n A mirth but opened and sealed up again,\n What wonders shall we feel when we shall see\n Thy full-orbed love!\n When Thou shalt look us out of pain,\n And one aspect of Thine spend in delight,\n More than a thousand worlds' disburse in light\n In heaven above!\n\nAnd not alone, oh, not alone, shall we see Him as He is! There will be\nthe little children too.\n\n_Those who care to know how the Temple Children's work began will find\nthe story in_ \"THINGS AS THEY ARE.\" _Preface by Eugene Stock; 320 pp.\nand Thirty-two Illustrations from Photographs taken specially for this\nwork. Cloth, 2s. 6d. net (post free 2s. 10d.) Also,_ \"OVERWEIGHTS OF\nJOY.\" _Preface by Rev. T. Walker, C.M.S. With Thirty-four Illustrations\nchiefly from Photographs taken specially for this work. Cloth, 2s. 6d.\nnet (post free 2s. 10d.), Morgan & Scott Ld., 12, Paternoster Buildings,\nLondon._\n\n\n\nONLY A LIMITED NUMBER OF COPIES REMAIN\n\nOF THE\n\n\nORIGINAL EDITION OF\n\nLOTUS BUDS\n\n\nCONTAINING\n\nFIFTY PHOTOGRAVURE ILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n * * * * *\n\nCloth Boards, 14s. 6d. _net_ (_post free_, 15s.).\n\n * * * * *\n\n\"THE MOST STRIKING MISSIONARY BOOK EVER PUBLISHED.\"\n\n_Her Majesty Queen Alexandra graciously accepted a copy._\n\n \"The feature of the book is fifty photogravure\n illustrations from photographs specially taken of\n the children. Many of these--indeed, all of\n them--are very charming. Some of them are mere\n babies, others of larger growth, but in each case\n the photographer has succeeded in presenting\n pictures which will elicit high admiration. The\n laughing faces, curly hair, and fine physical\n development of the little Indians, make\n photographs exceedingly attractive. Indeed, we\n have never seen a more 'taking' series of children\n of the Orient. . . . The book will interest not only\n supporters of missions but all lovers of\n children.\"--_The Westminster Gazette._\n\n \"The photogravure illustrations--fifty in\n number--are perfect as works of art. Some are\n pictures of scenery; most are characteristic\n representations of the children. All are\n full-page.\"--_British Weekly._\n\n \". . . the beautiful little faces depicted in the\n photogravures which adorn the volume. There are\n fifty of these photogravures in the book, the\n major portion being of children, and we regard it\n as extremely improbable that more splendid\n pictures are to be found in any other\n work.\"--_Baby._\n\n \"The most wonderful photographs.\"--_Contemporary\n Review._\n\n \"We have seldom seen more attractive illustrations\n than those of the Indian children which are here\n reproduced.\"--_East and West._\n\n \"They are the finest photographs of children we\n have ever seen, and beautifully produced.\"--_The\n Record._\n\n \"We must, in conclusion, compliment all concerned\n in the manner in which this appeal for the\n children has been issued--the author, the artist,\n and the publishers (Messrs. Morgan & Scott Ld.),\n having combined to produce in 'Lotus Buds' a fine\n piece of work.\"--_The Publishers' Circular._\n\n * * * * *\n\n MORGAN & SCOTT LD., 12, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.C.\n\n\n\n\nALSO BY AMY WILSON-CARMICHAEL\n\n * * * * *\n\nTHINGS AS THEY ARE: MISSION WORK IN SOUTHERN INDIA\n\nWith Preface by EUGENE STOCK. 320 pages, and Thirty-two beautiful\nIllustrations from Photographs taken specially for this work. Ninth\nEdition. Paper, 1s. 6d. _net_ (_post free_, 1s. 9d.); Cloth Boards,\n2s. 6d. _net_ (_post free_, 2s. 10d.).\n\nDR. A. RUDISILL, M.E. Press, Madras:--\"In 'Things as They Are' are\npictured by pen and camera some things as they are. It is all the more\nneedful now when so many are deceived, and are being deceived, as to the\ntrue nature of idolatry, that people at home who give and pray should be\ntold plainly that what Paul wrote about idolaters in Rome and Corinth is\nstill true of idolaters in India.\"\n\n\"The account of native life, of the customs of the people, of the few\npleasures they enjoy, and the many sorrows that oppress them, is as\naccurate as it is lucid and entertaining. It will be well to give this\nbook studious attention; it is so completely sincere and so free from\nprejudice; and there are many excellent illustrations after\nphotographs.\"--_Literary World._\n\n\nOVERWEIGHTS OF JOY: MISSION WORK IN SOUTHERN INDIA\n\nPreface by Rev. T. WALKER, C.M.S. 320 pages, and Thirty-four beautiful\nIllustrations from Photographs taken specially for this work. Paper 1s.\n6d. _net_ (_post free_, 1s. 9d.).; Cloth Boards, 2s. 6d. _net_\n(_post free_, 2s. 10d.). (Companion Volume to \"Things as They Are.\")\n\n\"There is a life and enthusiasm and devotion, combined with literary\nability and winsomeness of style, which make the book very captivating,\nas well as very touching. It is quite wonderfully illustrated with\nsunsets on the Ghauts and all kinds of wonders, and withal it is a song\nof spiritual triumph from a soul that feels intensely the cost of the\nCross. A book, indeed, for every Christian home.\"--_The Churchman._\n\n\"One of the most striking and inspiring missionary books of recent\nyears.\"--_The Christian World._\n\n\nTHE BEGINNING OF A STORY\n\nBeing the story of the beginning of the work among Temple children,\nrelated for the friends of the Temple children. Bound in Art Covers,\ntied with silk cord. Artistic design embossed in gold, 6d. _net_\n(_post free_, 8d.).\n\n\"This little book tells a touching story. It is hoped that many who are\ninterested in the work on behalf of Indian children exposed to terrible\nperil will circulate this booklet to further a cause which has aroused\nwidespread and prayerful interest.\"--_Irish Baptist Magazine._\n\n\"This is a delightful booklet in its attractive blue and gold covers,\nand with the picture of the smiling Indian maiden looking out upon\nus.\"--_Bible Standard._\n\n * * * * *\n\nMORGAN & SCOTT LD., 12, Paternoster Buildings, London, E.C.\n\n\n\n\n * * * * *\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's note:\n\nObvious punctuation errors were corrected.\n\nThe original contained each chapter number and title on a page preceding\nthe actual start of the chapter. These repeated Chapter Titles were\nremoved to avoid redundancy.\n\nVaried hyphenation, such as \"armchair\" and \"arm-chair\", was retained.\nThe Bear Garden is not hyphenated when used in titles but is hyphenated\nwithin the text.\n\nPage 22, \"subjeect\" changed to \"subject\" (is the subject of)\n\nPage 237, \"form\" changed to \"from\" (from Bunyan's)\n\nPage 237, \"C. H.\" changed to \"G. H.\" (by G. H. Morrison)\n\nPage 238, \"suprintends\" changed to \"superintends\" (superintends the\nmore)\n\nPage 256, \"opportunties\" changed to \"opportunities\" (watching for\nopportunities)\n\nPage 256, \"aviod\" changed to \"avoid\" (To avoid the Penal)\n\nPage 298, \"own their\" changed to \"their own\" (from their own homes)","title":"Lotus Buds","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":79904}