CHILDREN OF SOUTH AMERICA




_Oliphant’s Other Lands Series_


  CHILDREN OF CHINA
      By C. CAMPBELL BROWN

  CHILDREN OF INDIA
      By JANET HARVEY KELMAN

  CHILDREN OF AFRICA
      By JAMES B. BAIRD

  CHILDREN OF ARABIA
      By JOHN CAMERON YOUNG

  CHILDREN OF JAMAICA
      By ISABEL C. MACLEAN

  CHILDREN OF JAPAN
      By JANET HARVEY KELMAN

  CHILDREN OF EGYPT
      By L. CROWTHER

  CHILDREN OF CEYLON
      By THOMAS MOSCROP

  CHILDREN OF PERSIA
      By MRS NAPIER MALCOLM

  CHILDREN OF BORNEO
      By EDWIN H. GOMES

  CHILDREN OF LABRADOR
      By MARY LANE DWIGHT

  CHILDREN OF SOUTH AMERICA
      By KATHARINE A. HODGE


[Illustration: A MAPUCHE INDIAN MOTHER AND HER BABY]




  CHILDREN OF
  SOUTH AMERICA

  BY

  KATHARINE A. HODGE

  [Illustration]

  WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR

  OLIPHANTS LD.
  100 PRINCES STREET, EDINBURGH
  21 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON, E.C.




[Illustration]


  Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh
  Bound by Anderson & Ferrier, St Marys, Edinburgh




INTRODUCTION

BY THE REV. ALAN EWBANK

_Secretary of the South American Missionary Society_


I have read through with great interest the manuscript of this little
book, and can say of those parts of South America which it has been
my privilege to visit that Mrs Hodge writes as one who has personal
knowledge of the various mission stations. I trust that her words will
not only reach the children, but also all who love children, that what
little is being done to make their lot brighter may be strengthened,
and much more undertaken, so that where now there are superstition and
darkness there may be knowledge and light.

For the natural world, God said: “Let there be light, and there _was_
light.”

For the spiritual world, Jesus said: “I am the Light”; and because
He meant to work through us, He also said: “YE are the light of the
world.... Let your light so shine before men that they may see your
good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”

  _November 1915_




FOREWORD


MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS,

This little book has been written expressly for you, to whom South
America is an entirely new field. On this account I feel it is
necessary to devote Chapter I. to the continent itself before
proceeding to acquaint you with its youthful inhabitants.

I tender my grateful thanks to the South American Missionary Society,
the Evangelical Union of South America, the Inland-South America
Missionary Union, and the Bolivian Indian Mission for the help their
publications have afforded me in trying to place before you something
of the sorrows and intense need of South American childhood.

                     Yours, for South America,

                                                (MRS) KATHARINE A. HODGE

  _November 1915_




CONTENTS


                                                   PAGE

  INTRODUCTION                                        5

  FOREWARD                                            7

  CHAP.

     I. A PEEP AT THE CONTINENT                      11

    II. BRAZILIAN BROWNIES                           17

   III. BLOSSOM BABIES                               30

    IV. PARAGUAYAN PICCANINNIES                      37

     V. ARGENTINE ALL-SORTS                          57

    VI. DIMINUTIVE DWELLERS IN THE LAND OF FIRE      74

   VII. CHILIAN CHILDREN                             86

  VIII. BOLIVIAN BAIRNS                              95

    IX. PEARLS OF PERU                              113




CHILDREN OF SOUTH AMERICA




CHAPTER I

A PEEP AT THE CONTINENT


South America is a tremendous continent in the Western Hemisphere, and
occupies one-eighth of the land surface of the world.

By looking at this chart you will get some little idea as to the size
of it, by comparing it with other countries. South America, you will
therefore see, is twice the size of Europe, three times the size of
China, four times the size of India, and sixty times the size of our
British Isles.

From Panama, at the extreme north, to the furthest southern point of
Tierra-del-Fuego (“the Land of Fire”), it is about 4700 miles in
length, and it is 3000 miles from east to west.

South America (leaving out the three northern Guianas) is divided up
into eleven countries, or rather republics, each republic being under
its own president.

The names of the republics are:--

  Brazil
  Argentina
  Peru
  Bolivia
  Ecuador
  Venezuela
  Chili
  Colombia
  Paraguay
  Uruguay and Panama

Everything in South America is on a large scale--rivers, forests,
mountains, and plains. There is the mighty River Amazon, with its many
tributaries, flowing through Northern Peru and Brazil; the Orinoco, in
Venezuela; the Araguaya, in Brazil; and the River Plate, which runs
through the Republic of Argentina.

[Illustration: AN AMAZONIAN CREEK]

I hope you will study a map as we go along. If you look on the western
side of the continent you will see a long range of mountains, called
the Andes, tipped with sleeping volcanic fires on some, and capped by
perpetual snow on others. Nestling away up among these rugged peaks is
the highest body of water in the world, called Lake Titicaca, on which
float the rush-boats of the Inca Indians, the silent and down-trodden
“Children of the Sun.”

How vast China seems; and India, too, how big! Africa we feel we know
very little about as yet, in spite of Livingstone and all the books
that have been written; but here is South America--so neglected, and so
large, that there is more unexplored territory there than in any other
part of the world.

Not only so, but the continent is teeming with treasure. Diamonds and
gold are hidden away in the earth in Brazil and Peru. Bolivia is a
vast storehouse of silver and tin and coal. Petroleum and fertilizing
nitrates for cleansing the soil are to be found in Chili. The forests
of Peru and Brazil spell rubber--“black gold” it is called by the
natives. Chinchona trees flourish in abundance in Peru; also cocaine,
which the Indians chew from morning till night, to deaden their
sufferings, and their hunger.

Although South America is so large, there are, roughly speaking, only
about fifty million people living in it, but the population increases
every year through immigrants of all nations pouring into the continent.

Five hundred years ago, South America was the Indian’s land. In the
heart of the continent dwelt the savages, but Peru was the home of
the highly-civilized Inca race. To the north lived an Indian people
called the Chibchas, who came next in culture; and south, in Chili and
Argentina, were the Araucanian Indians, who were not so cultured as the
Incas or Chibchas, but who, notwithstanding, were a powerful people.

About five hundred years ago the Pope, in his arrogance, “gave” South
America to the two Roman Catholic countries of Spain and Portugal. It
was a dark day for that land when the Portuguese adventurers and their
priests went to Brazil, and Pizarro and his Spanish followers to Peru,
the home of the cruel Inquisition.

From that day onward slavery, ill-treatment, and cruel deaths have
been the lot of the Indians. La Casas, a Roman Catholic official, more
humane than his brethren, was so concerned at the lot of the Indians in
Brazil that he suggested that Africans should be brought to help the
Indians in the gold mines, and they too suffered from the hands of the
merciless Portuguese. Hence, to-day, we see in Brazil the negroes (of
whom there are said to be some four millions), the Indians, and the
Portuguese-speaking people of many nations, comprising about twenty
millions.

In Central and Southern Argentina the population is chiefly European.
Buenos Aires, the capital, is largely Italian, though a very large
number of British folk are living there. In Peru nearly three-fourths
of the people are pure Indian, and Bolivia is mostly Indian as well.

For five long centuries this has indeed been the Land of Darkness and
of the “Christless Cross.” Two thousand years ago, nearly, Christ
said to the Apostle Peter: “Feed My lambs.” What have the so-called
followers of Peter done for the Lambs of South America? Let us see.




CHAPTER II

BRAZILIAN BROWNIES


Entering the mouth of the mighty River Amazon, we travel slowly by
steamer right away through Northern Brazil, past Manaos, with wonderful
forests on either side of us. How hot and stifling it is, for we are
journeying through the Tropics!

On we go, gliding past the crocodiles that lie basking in the sun,
and that lazily open one eye at us or a huge mouth, the sight making
us shudder, but with a sense of devout thankfulness that we are at a
respectable distance! No sound disturbs the quiet, except the ripple
of the water, and the screams of gaily-coloured parrots. Now and again
we hear a sound like human voices, and straining our ears to listen
we find to our amusement that it comes from monkeys chattering and
quarrelling among themselves.

At length we branch off into one of the many tributaries of the great
river, the Yavari for choice, which brings us to the borders of Peru.
Pitching our tent on the river-bank, we settle down for a quiet
evening. In front of us is the Yavari River, filled with many wonderful
varieties of fish.

Stretching away behind us is the forest, full of strange and wonderful
things. We are in the home of the wild Indians, of whom there are many,
many tribes. They live by fishing in the river, and hunting in the
forest. There are said to be one hundred different kinds of fish, the
largest of which is the King Herring, weighing often as much as three
hundred-weight. When one gets weary of fish diet, stewed monkey makes a
pleasant variety, and cooked alligator a nice change!

Darkness has now fallen, and the stars are out. No sound now but the
humming of the mosquitoes, which are the bane of the traveller’s life
in South America. Here in this great land even the insects are on a
large scale. Spiders, jiggers, carrapatoes, ticks, and other insects
threaten to disturb our reverie. So if we would escape such unwelcome
attentions from blood-thirsty mosquitoes, we must take shelter under a
net. But not yet; the night is cooler than the day, and the fire-flies
are out, like vivid electric sparks, darting about us as we lie and
watch and dream of Paradise.

By and by we fall asleep. Suddenly we sit up, rubbing our eyes. What
was that? Listening, for we are wide awake now, we hear a cry as of
someone in distress. The dawn has broken as suddenly as the darkness
fell last night. It always does so in the Tropics, and the crying and
wailing gradually die away.

Presently we hear a splash, something small and dark has been thrown
into the river, and drifts slowly in our direction. Straining our eyes
to see what it is, we find to our horror that it is a dear little brown
baby, but quite dead, and following in its wake is a huge crocodile.
Alas! Alas! Who is it that has been so inhuman to a little child? We
will find out.

Like scouts through the trees we stealthily creep along, hardly daring
to breathe, and never once speaking above a whisper. Hark! What is
that? It is the tramp of many feet, and away in the distance, across an
open track, we see a company of naked Indians in charge of men clad in
European clothing.

In our eagerness to follow we almost stumble over a brown form, lying
so still. It is an Indian woman, dead from a gun-shot wound, and lying
at the foot of the tree close by is a little brown baby. We turn away
from the sickening sight, for the wee brownie’s brains have been dashed
out by one of the wicked white men in charge of the Indian gang, now
quickly disappearing in the distance.

But we must hurry on, or we will lose them. By and by they reach
the rubber plantation, the place where the rubber-trees abound. The
Brazilian and Peruvian forests are full of rubber, and for six months
in the year (the other six months the land is under water) these trees
are “bled”--as it is called--by the Indians for their taskmasters. The
rubber trees grow in groups of 100 to 150, each tree yielding on an
average eleven pounds of the grey, sticky juice.

Here the Indians, under pain of terrible torture and death, were made
to extract the rubber. The method of doing so is by making a V-shaped
gash in the trunk, under which is hung a little clay cup to catch the
juice. To each tree is this done in turn, and when the cups are full
they are emptied into a large cauldron hanging on a tripod over a fire
of pine-cones.

After going through a certain process, the juice becomes a hard,
congealed mass. This raw rubber is carried on the backs of Indians,
through the forest and over the mountains, to the city of Iquitos, in
Northern Peru; and every year sufficient rubber is exported to provide
tyres for 300,000 motor-cars.

In order to produce this rubber, the Indians have been hunted through
the forests like wild beasts, and have been made to obtain the rubber
under the threats and taunts of ignorant and cruel white men from
neighbouring republics. The Indians have been allowed a certain time to
get a certain quantity of rubber, and if it has not been forthcoming
the Indians--men, women, and girls--have been flogged, put into stocks,
starved, tortured, and tormented to death.

Saddest and most cruel of all, the children have not escaped, as we
have already seen. The mother has been killed because maybe she was
too ill or weary to walk any farther, and her little ones, who would
only be in the way, have been either thrown into the river to the
alligators, or have had their heads smashed against the trees, or been
thrown away into the forest alive to be devoured by wild animals.

It was said to be a favourite pastime of some of these so-called
“civilized” (!) agents of the rubber companies to sit round smoking,
and for a little diversion to have one or more of these little brown
children hung up on a tree, and to shoot at them as a target--for sport!

Think of the agony of suffering of these children, flogged by wicked
men, and even burned alive, in order to force them to tell where their
parents were hidden. If those rubber-trees could only speak, what awful
secrets they would reveal! Every thousand tons of rubber that have come
to our own Christian land have cost seven Indian lives! Who knows, my
young reader, what tragedy lies behind even the india-rubber ball with
which you play so skilfully, and yet lose so carelessly!

For ten long, weary years all this went on, before we heard in England
the wail of the little brown children of the Brazilian and Peruvian
forests. Have the cries ceased? God only knows, for the sounds are too
far away for us to catch them.

Now I want to introduce you to some more Brazilian babies, but of a
very different kind. So we will leave this “Paradise of Satan,” and
travel in an easterly direction, which will take us through the heart
of the continent.

In the Amazon Valley there are many, many tribes of savage Indians, who
hide away as we approach, thinking in their great fear that we must be
rubber-gatherers. Occasionally we see a large space, where once stood
an Indian village, a place of ruins and desolation, and along the
tracks are human bones lying bleached and dry, telling a silent, yet
eloquent story of what had been once living forms.

We, too, must be careful as we journey along, for the Indians near this
rubber region we are leaving behind are in a dangerous mood, and there
is much to be feared from their deadly blow-pipes. One little prick
from the poisoned arrow, and we would be dead in a very few seconds. So
we will proceed cautiously.

As we get farther into the interior, we gradually find the vegetation
becoming more dense; we enter the region of “Matto Grosso” (meaning, in
English, “Big Woods”), covering a million square miles. You will see
it on the map, in the centre of the continent. This forest swarms with
monkeys, snakes, parrots, and many kinds of beautiful birds.

Most wonderful of all the plants are the exquisite orchids, which grow
luxuriantly on the moss-covered boughs in the gloomiest parts of the
dark forest. They are beautiful both in shape and colour--pink, white,
and yellow. Some spotted, and others striped with crimson.

It may seem strange that such loveliness should be hidden away from the
eyes of all but the God who made them, but it is the same everywhere
in this wonderful country. The choicest flowers bloom unseen except
by the chance traveller, and the strangest animals and birds hide in
the most out-of-the-way places. Some of the trees are fully two hundred
feet high, so that birds on the topmost branches are safe from the
hunter.

Right in the heart of the forest is a dead silence; no animal life is
to be seen, though probably there are swarms of monkeys, birds, and
other creatures hidden away in the tree-tops. Female monkeys usually
carry their babies on their backs or shoulders, though sometimes they
are carried on the breast with the legs and arms clasped round the
body. They are very fond of Brazil nuts, several of which grow in one
large, round shell, and in order to get at them the monkey beats the
shell against the bough until it breaks and scatters the nuts upon the
ground beneath.

South America has been spoken of as a Christian country, and yet, here
in Brazil, which is large enough to include the whole of the United
States, and France as well, we find many tribes of savage Indians, each
tribe speaking its own language, but to whom no messenger of the Gospel
of the Lord Jesus Christ has ever been sent.

Some of these tribes are large, some small, many move about from place
to place, and others cannot be reached, so fearful are they of showing
themselves. It is, on this account, exceedingly difficult to find out
how many Indians there are living in the continent. There might be six
millions, or the number might possibly be nearer ten, no one can tell.
Tens of thousands have passed away without ever having heard of the
Saviour.

They have their witch-doctors and their religious feasts, and they live
in constant dread of evil spirits. Those who have come in contact with
so-called civilized white people are none the better for it. In fact we
can say, without any hesitation whatever, that “the last state of these
people is worse than the first”; for civilization without Christ is a
far worse condition than paganism.

Just a few words more about these Brazilian Brownies before we make
our way to the coast. From its birth the Indian baby is seldom parted
from its mother, until it learns to walk. A few days after baby is born
mother takes it to the plantation, protecting the little head from the
heat of the sun by a banana leaf. When on a visit to distant relatives
they take all their goods and chattels with them; and when paddling
down the river the little ones help father to row, while mother sits at
the helm nursing baby.

While baby is very tiny mother carries her in a broad, bark band which
is hung over her right shoulder. When baby grows bigger, and is able
to sit up by herself, she rides on mother’s hip, supported by her
encircling arm.

[Illustration: BRAZILIAN BROWNIES FISHING]

The Indians do not spoil their children, although they are very fond
of them. They believe in hardening their little ones, so the girls and
boys are bathed by their careful mothers every day in cold water, in
some shady forest stream. Indian mothers are very fond of playing with
their children, and when a tiny mite wants all her mother’s care the
older ones are handed over for “grannie” to look after.

Mother loves to deck her little one with necklaces, only I do not think
we should say they were pretty, for they are made either of teeth or
seeds. If you want to make an Indian woman your friend, nothing will
win her friendship quicker than a present of a bead necklace to her
little child.

Then no Indian mother thinks her little one’s toilet is complete until
she is painted red, though I do not suppose we should think her at all
beautiful.

Girls soon begin to help their mothers in various ways, by looking
after the smaller ones, netting hammocks, making pottery, spinning
cotton, and learning to cultivate the fields and to cook. But “the
children’s souls, which God is calling Sunward, spin on blindly in the
dark.”




CHAPTER III

BLOSSOM BABIES


Leaving our little Indian friends, we now make our way through the
State of Sao Paulo, in South-Eastern Brazil, to the city of the same
name, which means “St Paul.” The climate here is more temperate and
healthy (except in the lowlands near the sea-coast), which is a
pleasant change from the tropical heat of Northern Brazil.

Sao Paulo is very up-to-date, and more like a modern European city
than any other in Brazil. Yet although many of the Portuguese-speaking
people who live here are educated, they are very ignorant of the true
religion of the Lord Jesus Christ. Their religion, like that of the
people in every other city in South America, consists chiefly in the
worship of a woman, the Virgin Mary, and there are very many Roman
Catholic feasts given in her honour during the year.

The mother of our Saviour is thus the object of worship of many
thousands of women and children in South America to-day, and yet the
exaltation of the Virgin Mary has not by any means uplifted these women
and children; on the contrary, their social, moral, and spiritual state
is worse than that of the women and children of any heathen country.
It is only where the Lord Jesus Christ is worshipped and upheld that
mothers, sisters, and little children are honoured, cared for, and put
into their proper place.

In South America the Lord Jesus is either represented as a little child
in His mother’s arms, as on the cross, or as lying dead in a coffin.
As the Saviour is thus misrepresented to them, it is perhaps not to be
wondered at that these women and children, who do not know the truth
about His love, turn away from the apparently dead Christ, to the
warm, kindly-looking, gaudily-decked figure of Mary, about whom the
Church of Rome says: “Come unto Mary, all ye who are burdened and weary
with your sins, and she will give you rest.”

It is to Mary and not to the Lord Jesus that the children of South
America are bidden to turn.

Think of your own happy childhood, of mother and your bright home; of
your church, your Sunday-school, and your day-school; of the bright,
happy hours you spend in play; of the laughing, chubby, clean, and
healthy children of our own cities. Think; and now come with me through
the city of Sao Paulo, where we see people of all nations and colours,
from the blackest negro to the whitest European.

[Illustration: PALMS, LILIES AND BABY BLOSSOMS]

We will pay a visit to some bright, budding blossoms of humanity who
have been gathered from streets and places of wickedness, and planted
in a beautiful Home standing in its own grounds, lying on the outskirts
of the town. Here thirty-six little human “blossoms” live and
flourish under the motherly and fatherly care of Mr and Mrs Cooper,
their daughter, and other workers.

The story of the first “blossom” is that while Mr and Mrs Cooper were
doing missionary work in another part of Brazil, a little baby girl
was given to them by her mother, who was quite out of her mind. The
poor wee mite was little more than skin and bones, but loving care and
plenty of good food soon transformed her into a bonnie maiden.

To describe all these thirty-six “blossoms” would fill a book. The
Blossom Home is one of the brightest spots in Brazil to-day, and it is
a real joy to leave the city and to hurry away at sunset over the low
fields, with the wide sky on all sides coloured always with different
hues, and the fresh, cool breath of evening, while a bevy of expectant
children await your appearance under the pines and palms of the walk
to the house. That these little ones were ever poor, or diseased, or
homeless, does not seem possible as we mingle with them at the evening
play-hour.

That Tecla was ever anything but a sweet-faced yellow-haired child,
that Baby was ever thin and wrinkled, that Bepy was ever serious,
or Rosa not always happy, seems so long ago as not to belong to the
present age of the Home. One “blossom” came all the way from Maranham,
a city more than 2000 miles away from Sao Paulo, which shows how much
such orphanages are needed in Brazil.

It would be nice to stay here and make their further acquaintance, to
see the little ones in the kindergarten, and the older ones at their
lessons. It would be interesting to spend a Sunday at this haven, and
to see the keen interest they display in missions and missionaries.

During the week, at morning worship they are trained to look out over
the whole world, and to pray for a particular place each day. At
Sunday-school they, of their own accord, have a collection amongst
themselves, and every week they try to do something extra, for which
they are paid, and out of this they freely give to the missionary
box. They send to the child-widows of India, to the school for blind
children at Jerusalem, and to other missions in which they are
interested.

We would like to watch them, too, at their work, for they are all
busy little bees, and what a hive of happy industry it is--dairying,
poultry-raising, laundry, kitchen, housework, and gardening! The reason
why we cannot stay for more than a flying visit is because there is no
room for us, and if not for us, then for no one else, for the Home is
already more than full.

“The girls’ dormitories hold fourteen beds, and there are twenty girls!
Baby Grace sleeps in a cot beside the bed of ‘Mother’ and ‘Daddy,’ but
the other five have to sleep in the dining-room, which means making up
beds at bedtime. The walls of the Home are not made of india-rubber, so
they cannot be stretched to receive any more ‘blossoms.’ What is then
to be done? Applications are constantly coming in, a recent one being
for a motherless baby girl of a month old. How the heart of Christ must
yearn over these little ones of whom He said when here on earth: ‘Of
such is the Kingdom of Heaven!’”




CHAPTER IV

PARAGUAYAN PICCANINNIES


Our next visit is to the Republic of Paraguay, so, leaving Sao Paulo,
we will travel in a westerly direction, though really, in order to
reach Paraguay in the proper way we should make our way to Santos, and
embark on a steamer for Buenos Aires, in Argentina, which is situated
at the mouth of the Silver River, called by the Spanish-speaking people
of Argentina “Rio de la Plata.”

From Buenos Aires all missionaries travel up this river to Paraguay,
but as we are not ordinary travellers, but extraordinary, we make
our way to the banks of the River Paraguay. Here we must pause for a
moment. Behind us is civilization; before us is heathenism and the
unknown. Across the river lies the “Gran Chaco” (Great Hunt), the
Indian’s land, about which one hears all kinds of queer stories. There
is something fascinating about “an unknown people in an unknown land,”
and so curiosity prompts us to cross and explore.

But it was something more than mere curiosity which took Mr W.
Barbrooke Grubb, of the South American Missionary Society, among the
Lengua Indians--a burning desire to tell these dusky people of a God
of Love. So one day this quiet, resolute Englishman, with a purposeful
air which reminded one strangely of David Livingstone, walked into the
Indian encampment, letting them know by his manner that he had come to
stay.

Still it is with the little people we wish to make friends. So climbing
into a bullock-cart--for we are now on the other side of the river--we
make our way slowly across swampy plains until we come to a palm
forest, where some Lengua Indians are encamped. Boys and girls with
browny-red skin, black eyes, and long black hair are playing about just
like English children--only they are not very merry or full of fun, but
are, oh, so dirty!

The boys have one garment, a little blanket of many patterns and
colours, which is twisted round the waist in the hot weather, but
worn round the shoulders when cold. They deck themselves with ostrich
feathers, bead necklaces, shells, and sheep’s teeth. The feathers are
worn in the hair; also round the ankles, to protect them from the
biting of the snakes which lurk in the long grass.

The girls also have one garment, a skirt made of deer skin. They, too,
wear beads and other ornaments like their brothers, though they are not
decked out like the boys.

Leaving our bullock-cart, we walk right into the camp. What queer
houses the people live in! Just a few branches of trees stuck in the
ground, with some palm leaves and a handful of grass on the top. There
are no windows or doors, and no furniture inside, but just a few deer
skins on the ground, which serve as beds. Everything is put on the
ground, for there are no shelves or cupboards, and all looks dirty and
untidy.

Presently the father comes in from the hunt, bringing an animal which
he has killed with his bow and arrow. Sometimes he brings a deer, an
ostrich, or a wild pig. To-night it is an ostrich. He drops his load
a little way off, and the women and children go and bring it in. It
is supper-time, and they are all hungry. First they take off the skin
carefully, for that will make a new skirt for the little girl, or a bed
for her brother.

Everyone now works hard. Boys and girls fetch water and wood, and fan
up the fire. Soon the meat in the pot is cooked, and the children pass
the word round that supper is ready. The pot is lifted off the fire,
everybody sits on the ground in a circle round it, and they get out
their horn spoons, though generally they use their fingers.

[Illustration: A PARAGUAYAN CHRISTIAN FAMILY]

Each child gets a large piece of meat in its hands. There is no
waiting, no blessing asked, but all eat until everything is finished,
while the crowd of hungry dogs around try to steal pieces out of the
pot.

Then the pipe is passed round; and the father tells how he saw the
ostrich, how he dressed himself up with leaves and twigs to look like
a tree and stalked the bird. Presently he got near enough to shoot it
with his arrow. He tells also how, in coming home, he saw a tiger in
the forest, and later on killed a snake. It is a long, long story, but
the children listen eagerly, and next day they act it all over in their
play.

Now it is bedtime. If we were Indians we would all choose a place as
near the fire as possible, not so much for the warmth, as to escape
the unwelcome attentions of our diminutive friends, the mosquitoes.
We would spread out our little skin beds, or if you had not one of
your own, you would cuddle up with the other children, always putting
the tiny tots and any sick ones in the middle. And while you are in
slumberland the dogs crouch near. Over you spreads the blue sky, with
the beautiful moon shining down upon you in company with the myriad
stars.

But you will not sleep for long: a weird cry rings out through the
silent night, the cry of some animal or bird, and, starting up in a
frightened way, the Indian shakes his rattle to frighten away the evil
spirit.

The fire has to be kept up all night while the children sleep, and
the dogs must be watched in case they try to reach the tasty piece
of ostrich hung up in the neighbouring tree for breakfast. You will
probably be disturbed, too, by the barking of wolves or the snarl of a
tiger, as they prowl round the encampment.

In the morning everybody is on the move, for these Lengua Indians do
not stay long in one place. Pots and pans are collected, together with
gourds and skins, and put into big nets which the women are expected to
carry. The men go on in front with their bows and arrows, so that they
may be ready for any dangers, such as tigers, or to shoot any game for
food.

Three children can ride astride a horse or mule, although it is
exceptional for an Indian to have either; or a mother and two little
ones can travel thus--one tied in front and one behind round her waist.
But very often you would have to walk on and on, through swamps and
over wide, hot plains, always on the look-out for something to eat.

Sometimes there is no water, and the children are only too glad to
stoop and scrape up the muddy dregs in the print of a horse’s hoof, or
else they look for the caraguata plant, which generally has a little
water at the bottom of its long, prickly leaves.

On the sandy plains there are tiny insects which burrow into the feet,
and make them swell until they are very, very sore. Sometimes so many
of these insects get in that you can scarcely walk at all.

All at once someone catches sight of a herd of wild pigs feeding; then
away go our little Indian friends, snatching up sticks, to chase and if
they can to capture a pig.

At night-fall another halt is made, this time by a stream, for there
are fish and alligators to make a splendid meal. So all the things
are unpacked, and the houses of twigs and leaves are soon erected. A
big fire is kindled, and after an “alligator” supper, quiet once more
reigns in the camp as another night falls, wooing the Chaco children to
sleep under the twinkling stars.

The Lengua Indians are very fond of their children, but they seldom
correct them when they are naughty. If mother should attempt to correct
them, father very unwisely interferes, so I am afraid a great many
Chaco children are spoilt.

When Mr W. Barbrooke Grubb came to the Gran Chaco the Indians showed
him plainly by their manner that they did not want him. This, however,
did not discourage him in the least, but only spurred him on to try
to win their favour. He made himself one with them; he learned their
customs and their language; he travelled when they travelled, took part
in their feasts, and lived exactly as they did--until finally he won
their confidence and love. How they needed the Gospel, for they were in
gross heathen darkness! They had no religious customs, though they had
their witch-doctors, and lived in constant dread of evil spirits.

Amongst the Indians here “baby-killing,” which grown-up people call
“infanticide,” is sadly very common. “Superstition,” writes Mr Grubb,
“causes many of these deaths. Girl babies, if they are born first, are
put to death; deformed children are also killed, and twins are never
allowed to live. Many die through want of care during the first years
of childhood.”

How heartless such customs seem! Yet there is something still more
sad, which has to do with their beliefs. For many years Mr Grubb tried
to show the Indians “the better way,” and to do away with the cruel
practice of killing their babies.

Their burial rites are very weird, and no funeral ever takes place
after sunset. If, therefore, a sick Indian is likely to die in the
night, before sunrise, they bury her or him before the sun goes down,
even though the spirit may not have left the body, break up their camp,
and move away before they settle down for the night.

The mother of a dear little Indian girl became very ill one day. The
husband, who really loved his wife, did all he could to make her well,
but in spite of this she gradually grew worse instead of better. When
he saw that she could not possibly live, and that all hope was gone he
left her alone.

There she lay, outside the hut, with a reed matting over her face, her
life fast ebbing away. It was about an hour before sunset. The Indians
were getting restless, when the missionary walked into their midst.
Seeing the form on the ground, he stooped down, taking the matting from
the Indian woman’s face.

She whispered: “Water.” Reluctantly it was brought by the Indian
husband, but a few minutes later she became quite unconscious. The eyes
of the Indians were anxiously looking, not towards the dying woman,
but toward the sinking sun, for she must be buried before sunset. They
would all have to pack up and hurry away to a new camping place, where
the woman’s spirit could not follow.

Impatiently they stepped forward, but were waved back by the
missionary. Her grave was ready, everything was prepared for the
funeral rites.

“The spirit has not left her yet,” he said; “do not touch her.”

“But we must hasten, or darkness will be upon us before we leave,”
replied the husband; “we cannot break our custom.”

The missionary held them off as long as he could, till finally they
bore her away. Stepping into their hut, he heard a faint noise, and
seeing a small, dark object on the floor, he stooped down and tenderly
lifted up the now motherless baby girl. What a dear, wee, brown living
thing she was!

Turning round he saw her father, who held out his arms saying that he
had come to take her away to be buried with her mother. The missionary
gazed at him with horror in his eyes.

“Oh, but you are not going to kill her, surely?” said he, hugging Baby
closer.

“Of course not,” said the father; “we are going to put her in the
ground alive. It is our custom!”

He did not think about the cruelty of such a proceeding. It was part
of their religion, and, therefore, must be carried out. So there was a
tussle between the father and the missionary for the Chaco baby’s life,
and I am glad to say the missionary won, but the Indians did not like
it at all.

The first thing to be considered was what to give baby to eat, and the
second problem how to get her to the mission-station a hundred miles
away. Finding that no Indian woman would help him in the matter of
nursing and feeding her, he saw that he would have to be both mother
and nurse to her himself.

What could he give “Brownie”? Well, God showed him what to do, so she
was kept alive on rice water and goat’s milk, which the missionary
gently squirted into her mouth from his mouth, and on egg and milk,
these being the chief items in Baby’s diet.

After miles and days of riding on horseback, with five Indians to show
the missionary the way, they at length reached the mission-station, and
Baby was handed over to a kind motherly missionary. I am sorry to say,
however, that Baby Hope (for that is the name the missionaries gave
her), was taken ill six months afterwards, and died, and she was laid
to rest on the banks of the River Paraguay.

How sad it is to think that there have been many of these little ones
who were not so fortunate in being rescued from a living grave like
Baby Hope! But these Indians are learning that Jesus loves the little
children in the Chaco. For nearly thirty years the missionaries of
the South American Missionary Society have been working here for the
preserving and uplifting of the children, and to-day they are being
rewarded by seeing many Christian Indian homes established.

There are day-schools, Sunday-schools, and schools of industry where
the older boys and girls are learning how to become useful men and
women. Carpentering, house-building, agriculture, cooking, laundry, and
housework are now taking the place of wandering, hunting, dancing, and
feasting, which, with them, have now become things of the past.

There are many other Indian tribes in Paraguay yet to be reached, so
we will leave the Gran Chaco, and once more crossing the river we come
back to civilization--but not to stay, our destination being Santa
Teresa, in South-Eastern Paraguay. We must travel on horseback now,
for there are no smooth roads; so, accompanied by Mr John Hay, of the
Inland-South America Missionary Union, we proceed on our journey. For
the benefit of those who did not go with him he wrote an account of his
experiences. In his diary he says:--

“When we entered the dense forests the Indian tracks soon became
impassable for men on horseback. We could no longer ride, and in some
places we were obliged to travel barefoot, in deep mud, leading our
horses as best we could, while we stumbled on over the roots of trees
and interlacing bamboo creepers.

“Led by a native guide, we found the Indians hidden away behind the
shelter of almost impassable swamps, across which we could not take our
horses--amid the most savage conditions, and in great poverty. Some of
them had a little maize, but for the most part they appeared to live
on wild fruits, roots, reptiles, caterpillars, or anything procurable
by hunting and fishing. For clothing, they wore only loin-cloths, and
bands of women’s hair twisted round the legs below the knees and round
the wrists.

“Their faces were painted in curious patterns, with some black pigment,
and in some cases mutilated by a hole in the lower lip, through which
a long appendage of resinous gum protruded, hanging down in front of
the chin. They were armed with long powerful bows, from which they
can shoot, with deadly effect, arrows pointed with long, hard, wooden
barbs. Some of these arrows measure over six feet in length.

“Some of the women were busily weaving their little loin-cloths, made
from fine cotton fibre, on rude square frames made with four branches
of a tree firmly fixed in the ground.”

It is to these Indians and their little children that Mr Hay and his
fellow-workers seek to minister. A mission-station has been built here
in the wilds, under tremendous difficulties and very trying conditions.
“The Indians are scattered in very small companies, sometimes merely
families, over immense areas; they are constantly moving their
dwellings”--their chief idea being to get away from the one they think
their greatest enemy--the white man!

It has, therefore, been uphill work to win the confidence of these
Indians; but God, who is always on the side of the missionaries, has
rewarded their patient, prayerful, and persevering efforts, so that now
quite a number of the Indians, recognizing the missionaries as their
friends, are seeking them out. At one time, when the maize and mandioca
crops failed, the people had to eat rats and wild animals of the
forest. The missionaries gave them work to do and paid them in food.
“At first they were very shy, especially the women, but as they got to
know them their shyness wore off, and even the little children began to
feel at home with them.”

It will take us too long to visit the other I.S.A.M.U. Stations. If we
had time we could go to Caaguazw, the base from which the missionaries
work among the Forest Indians; to Villarica, the third city in
Paraguay, where there is a school for the children of English-speaking
people, and where the Roman Catholic officials have warned their people
not to send their children to the Protestant schools, for Rome prefers
to keep her little ones ignorant.

Had we time to linger in Concepcion, the second city of the republic,
situated on the River Paraguay, with its 14,000 inhabitants, we should
be able to learn something of the missionary work carried on there
amongst the children. Here as elsewhere, the Roman Catholic priests are
very hostile, and do all they can to hinder the work of Christ amongst
these little ones.

Just before we leave Paraguay, we must have a peep at the children
who are not Indians, but the natives of the country. The Paraguayan
children go about naked from three to four years of age until they go
to school; the Paraguayans of the town are, of course, better dressed.
The boys are very fond of hunting birds, with bows and marbles of
hard clay. These bows have two strings each, with a little rag on the
strings on which the marble is placed. It shoots a good distance, and
can kill good-sized birds.

The Paraguayans, like other peoples, have bad habits--such as drinking,
card-playing, swearing, and smoking. Even little boys of three and
four years of age are sometimes seen smoking, while their parents just
look on and smile! Alas, that this religion of “baptized paganism”
should prevail everywhere, and that the boys and girls of Paraguay
should be bought and sold to Paraguayan masters to be their slaves!

  The young, young children, Oh my brothers,
    They are weeping bitterly!
  They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
    In the country of the free.

“It is not the will of your Father that one of these little ones should
perish.”




CHAPTER V

ARGENTINE ALL-SORTS


Argentina, the Land of the Silver River, is, after Brazil, the next
Republic in size in South America. It is the most progressive from a
worldly point of view, and from a spiritual standpoint also it is going
forward steadily.

This is not strange, seeing that the people who live in Central and
Southern Argentina are mainly European, and British people have
an enormous commercial and financial interest in that land; but
nevertheless we cannot get away from the fact that this Land of the
Silver River lacks in many places the streams of Living Water which God
is so patiently waiting to flood through human channels to hundreds of
girls and boys who do not know Him. We should really, therefore, take a
very great interest in Argentina for more than one reason.

From Paraguay we will make a journey into Northern Argentina.
Travelling through the sugar plantations, we finally reach San Pedro,
where the sugar-crushing mills are at work, for it is harvest time and
hundreds of Indians are employed cutting the cane.

Everything is in full swing, and dusky forms are flitting here, there,
and everywhere, some cutting the cane with long knives, while the
Indian women carry it away and lay it in heaps. Here, after the leaves
and top ends are cut off, the cane is thrown into trucks, which are
taken to the factory by a small engine drawing twelve or thirteen
trucks. We will go and see how the cane goes in at one end and nice
white sugar comes out at the other end. The sugar, after being sewn up
in bags, is taken away in big, heavy carts, with high broad wheels.

At another sugar plantation 3000 Indians are employed. They come from
Southern Bolivia and the Gran Chaco to work from three to five months
among the sugar cane, and then return to their own country. There are
several tribes, the most civilized being the Chiriguards from Bolivia,
who are cleaner and more intelligent than the rest. There are the
Tobas, another warlike tribe, who go about almost naked. They are dirty
and savage looking. Also the Matacos, who are sadder looking than the
rest.

The South American Missionary Society is endeavouring to reach these
people in San Pedro and San Antonio. Mr R. J. Hunt says, of his second
visit amongst the Indians in the Argentine Chaco:--

“A day or two after my arrival I went to the village seeking my
assistant, Sixto, and found the house deserted and the household goods
removed. Glancing in and out among the trees, I found all the huts
likewise vacated, but presently I espied two solitary little girls
of six or seven years of age playing near one of the huts; and on
approaching, instead of scampering away like frightened animals, they
remained quite still, and shyly but very clearly explained to me, with
many gestures, that the man whom I sought had built another house on
the other side of the road. Only those who have attempted to tame one,
know the wild, shy nature of a little Indian girl!

“The other day I went to visit the Mataco Camp at Mira Flores, and at
the sound of my voice a young fellow came forward with a broad smile on
his face and saluted me. A little girl instantly sidled up to me, and
immediately from several huts came the women to smile recognition of me.

“Then the men flocked round. I speak specially about the women, because
their rule is that when a stranger visits their camp the women keep in
the background, or peep out through their well-ventilated grass-huts;
but these people were from Tres Pozos, and they had seen me squatting
round their fires, and moving freely in and out among their friends. I
was no longer a stranger but one of themselves.”

We will now make our way southward through Argentina, travelling for
many miles from one city to another by mule back. They are inhabited
by children of all nations, but speaking the one common language of
Spanish. These cities have their churches, convents and cathedrals, and
everywhere you see priests and so-called “holy” women.

In Cordoba, the Brethren are doing a splendid missionary work. Mr and
Mrs Will Payne and their children, with Miss Emily Reynolds, and others
are seeking to win the children to Christ.

A priest was holding a service at one of the Roman Catholic churches.
Amongst other things he promised everyone present that evening seven
years’ release from purgatory for their attendance at the service! A
rich young lady promised candles to one of the Virgins, if her prayers
were answered.

In the Sunday-school work only the better-class children are being
reached, as for the most part the poor children live so far away.

In San Martin, a village near Cordoba, a little Sunday-morning school
has been started. There are always a few listeners at the door, who are
afraid to come in. When invited to enter they say: “No, I must not, you
are heretics!” One of the Sunday-school boys, who attended a day-school
under the supervision of Roman Catholics, was expelled because it was
discovered that he attended the little morning Sunday-school.

How helpless the missionaries are in matters like these! For the power
of Rome is very great in these fanatical places. But this little
difficulty was speedily removed, for a Spanish woman who had recently
come from Spain had been a day-school teacher before her marriage in a
missionary school in Spain! She felt constrained to open a day-school
here, and so the children who attended the Sunday-school went also to
the day-school.

Best of all the Word of God is read and taught every morning for half
an hour. How true the proverb is: “What you put into the life of a
nation, you must put into its schools.”

There was an orphan school kept by a few Christians who loved little
children, a few miles out of Cordoba. A little boy was very ill,
dying of consumption; and he was brought to a hospital in the city.
The little fellow knew the Gospel, and had his Testament with him.
His precious Book was taken away from him; and although he was so ill
he was given no peace till he was driven to confess to a priest and
renounce the Gospel.

Then they tried to stop the missionary’s visits, but, in defiance of
the Catholic nurse, and on the ground that the missionary had brought
up the orphan child, she got through to see him before he died.

Children take part in the religious festivals of the Roman Church,
especially the feasts of the Virgin, of which there are very many. One
of the chief festivals is that of the “Virgin Mercedes.” The image is
taken out of the great Church that bears her name, in order that,
according to an ancient custom, she may release four prisoners.

This Virgin is reckoned to be very miraculous. She is supposed,
years ago, to have given special victory in an Argentine battle. In
commemoration of this, every year she is solemnly taken down from her
niche, and paraded with great pomp to release any four prisoners she
chooses.

Let us turn aside and see this great sight. The route of the procession
is lined, almost packed, with people. Cordoba being a large and
so-called religious city, practically everybody is out to watch with
us. At last we see the procession; it is slowly returning to the
church. How long it is! For we find by our watches that it has taken
twenty minutes to pass.

[Illustration: A CONVENTILLO IN THE ARGENTINE CAPITAL]

Heads are bared as the robed priests and choir boys, with lights and
lanterns, come into view. Such crowds of women follow! Little children
dressed in white follow on, carrying silk banners. At length, to the
muffled sound of the drum, and well protected by armed soldiers, comes
the Virgin, carried aloft.

The excitement is now at its highest. Women are throwing flowers from
the balconies to the Virgin. All are anxious to catch sight of the four
prisoners at whose feet the Virgin had been made to drop a free pardon.
Then follow in the rear more soldiers as a further escort.

In spite of all these feasts, the priests feel they are losing their
hold upon the people, especially the women; and in order to revive
religious sentiment cinematograph pictures are being shown in one of
the churches to attract more worshippers. To lose the women is also to
lose the children, the men they have already lost.

On our way to the capital of Buenos Aires, we pass miles of waving
corn, with great expanses of grassland upon which graze hundreds of
sheep and cattle. Here and there, too, we see ranches where the owners
of the wheat-fields and cattle live.

Who are these people? Not foreigners, but our own British men and
women, miles away from any city and from civilization.

There is no church for them to go to, so Sunday is the same as any
other day; but occasionally they receive a visit from the chaplain of
the South American Missionary Society. More often than not, they are
without any spiritual help whatever, and yet how much we owe to them!

Supposing we had no church or Sunday-school, no one to tell us of the
beautiful things of God--how we should miss it all! And yet here are
these people living out on the plains of Argentina, with their little
children, tending the sheep, and reaping the corn, all of which is for
our material benefit.

The sheep and cattle are killed and put into the freezing-houses in
Buenos Aires; the wheat is harvested and made into flour, and all is
shipped from the docks every week, to England and other parts of the
world. Shall we not send them news of the Bread of Life which perisheth
not, so that the boys and girls of Argentina may know about the Lord
Jesus Christ?

Now we are in _the_ city of the whole continent, Buenos Aires. The
houses are flat-roofed and have no chimneys, for the very simple
reason that they have no fires. Most of the cooking is done either on
a charcoal brazier or on a gas or oil stove. Most of the streets are
very narrow, especially the older ones. The newer streets are made much
wider, and down the centre are avenues of trees.

House rent here, as in every other South American city, is very, very
high, so that the poor people live in “conventillos” such as you see
here. “This is a form of slum peculiar to South America consisting of a
square, or courtyard surrounded by buildings one or two stories high.
A ‘conventillo’ sometimes contains as many as a hundred families, each
one crowded into a single room, opening on to the common square. Here
the women wash, and cook, and sew, and gossip and drink ‘maté’ with
their friends (the native tea of the continent is grown in Paraguay).
Here also the children swarm and quarrel at their games.”

Buenos Aires is a most cosmopolitan city, full of life, gaiety, and
commercial activity; and yet so full of wickedness that many a mother’s
boy has been ruined for eternity.

There are numerous factories of various kinds in the city and
neighbourhood, in which hundreds of girls and boys are employed. In the
richer homes the girls are kept very secluded by their mothers, having
no purpose in life but just to dress up and make themselves look nice.

In the hot months everyone rises with the sun, and the first
substantial meal, called “almuorzo” (breakfast) is taken at 11.30. The
hottest part of the day is spent in “siesta” (sleep), under a mosquito
net, on a shady verandah, after which you have a cold bath and dress
ready for visitors, or go visiting yourself.

To speak of work amongst children in the Province of Buenos Aires would
fill a book. The Christian workers of the Evangelical Union of South
America are doing noble work in the Sunday-schools. We have not time
to visit Tres Arroyos, where each Sunday two hundred children listen
to the “Old, Old Story of Jesus and His Love,” or Las Flores, Coronel
Suarez, Campana, or San Fernando, where the children are gathered
together Sunday by Sunday.

The difference between these Argentine children and ourselves is just
this, that everything here in Britain is done to help the children, and
to surround them with a pure atmosphere and holy influences. Out there
it is not so; everything is against the children growing up to be even
morally good men and women.

They are so familiar with sin that their sense of sin is destroyed, and
they are therefore harder to reach than pure pagans. If ever a city
needed a “Blossom Home,” it is Buenos Aires, where we find children of
all nations.

One of the finest institutions for children and young people in the
whole of this continent is, however, to be seen here at the present
day. We cannot leave Argentina without paying a visit to the suburb
of Palermo, where are situated the schools superintended by the Rev.
William Case Morris, the “Dr Barnardo of South America.”

While in business, in the Boca district of the city, some years ago, Mr
Morris saw the poverty and ignorance of the children about him, and he
longed to see something done for them. Of his own accord, and with his
own private funds, he commenced a school for poor children. Upon this
he spent years of labour and much money, seeking to better the lot of
his juvenile friends.

With the South American Missionary Society at his back, he established
day-schools, Sunday-schools, and schools of industry, through which
hundreds of Spanish-speaking children have passed since their
foundation.

Who are the scholars? With the exception of a very small number we find
they are children of the poorest class. Many are children of invalid
parents, others of widowed mothers. In the case of several, the father
is serving a long term of imprisonment for crime. Some are almost alone
in the world; many are quite alone--“nobody’s children,” waifs, to whom
life is a dreary, desolate solitude.

Numbers of the children had been surrounded by an atmosphere of
ignorance and sin, and would a few years later have been a cause of
trouble to the police, had it not been for such an institution as
this. It is not only a training place for the mind, but a school for
character, where the children’s souls are lifted out of the mire and
trained in the atmosphere of heaven.

What sweetening influences must now be at work, where every youth
and maiden is who has passed through this school! Think of the five
thousand who are being trained to be witnesses for Christ to their
own people in this continent, where we see still so much darkness,
degradation, and superstition.

The whole secret of successful work amongst Spanish-speaking children
is splendidly summed up by Mrs Strachan, an E.U.S.A. missionary in
Tandil. She says:--

“Our work in the Sunday-school makes us feel more than ever the
pressing and immediate need of day-schools. It seems impossible in one
short hour to make an impression on the children.

“How can you teach a child that a lie is a lie, when lies are told at
home and in day-school? How can you make him understand that to steal
is a sin when everybody else tells him that the only sin about it is to
be found out?

“The child of South America is up against all that sort of thing; it is
the very air he breathes during the week.

“He comes to us for an hour on Sunday; how much do you think can be
done to press home these powerful influences? We are more than ever
convinced that if we are to do in this country a work that will take
deep root downward, and bear fruit upward, the children must be got
hold of, placed in the right atmosphere, and taught on the right lines.
For this we must get the day-schools and get them quickly.”




CHAPTER VI[A]

DIMINUTIVE DWELLERS IN THE LAND OF FIRE


“More than one hundred years ago God sent a baby boy to Mr and Mrs
Gardiner. They called him Allen Francis. He had four elder brothers,
and as the lads romped and played games and learned lessons together,
they would have been ever so much surprised if they could have taken
a peep into the future, and seen what wonderful adventures in strange
lands, among strange people, and what terrible dangers and difficulties
were in store for little Allen.

“He always said he ‘meant to be a sailor, and travel all over the
world,’ and one night when Mrs Gardiner went to tuck him up and give
him a good-night kiss, she found his bed empty, and her little boy
fast asleep on the hard floor--‘getting hardened and used to roughing
it,’ he told her. When thirteen years old he went to the Naval College
at Portsmouth for two years, and then his life as a sailor began.

“Who will come in thought with me and pay a visit to the Land of Fire?
Before we start, let us remember that first we take a long leap into
the past--we jump backwards over fifty years--for we want to join our
dear old friend and sailor Captain Allen Gardiner.

“We shall certainly all need our strongest boots and thickest wraps and
waterproofs, as we join our sailor hero. Sleet and hail are beating
around the boat on all sides, and every few minutes a wave dashes
across the bows. When we land on one of the Islands, and trudge along
by the Captain’s side, on one of his exploring expeditions, we find the
mud more than knee-deep in many places.

“We shall find the natives a very miserable lot of people. They have no
form of worship, no idols; they know nothing whatever of God. There
is not even a word in their language to express the name of God. They
are Indians, and divided into many different tribes, all at enmity with
each other; always quarrelling and at war. Food is often the cause of
the trouble, for it is very hard to get.

“There are Canoe Indians and Foot Indians. The Canoe Indians live
almost entirely upon fish and fungus, and the Foot Indians on birds and
animals killed by bows and arrows and spears made of whalebone. Nowhere
do we see the smallest sign of the land being tilled or cultivated;
indeed, corn would not ripen in the Land of Fire, for the climate is
very damp and windy. Even in summer the sun rarely shines, only wind
and rain then take the place of the winter storms of sleet and snow.

“There is plenty of good water on the Islands, so, as our supply on
board the _Clymene_ is running short, we will draw into one of the
harbours and refill the water-casks before we pursue our journey
to Banner Cove, where the Captain thinks of putting up the wooden
storehouse he has brought from England, and landing our goods.

“Before the _Clymene_ sails away, while our companions are busy fixing
up a tent, we spy several canoes of Indians coming towards us. In a
moment our friend has his telescope pointed in their direction, eager
to find out all about them. We soon see they are afraid; it is the
glass that frightens them. They think it some dangerous weapon! So it
is quickly laid aside and we make signs of friendship.

“Many of the men come on board after a time, and gladly take the
buttons we offer in exchange for fish and shell necklaces. They are
queer-looking, dark brown people, with large heads, small, sharp, black
eyes, and long, jet-black hair hanging straight down over each shoulder.

“A little girl, about three years old, ventures near the Captain, and
very great is the delight of all when she returns to her mother with
a bright-coloured cotton handkerchief round her shoulders. They are
much interested in us, and the keen, black eyes watch intently every
movement, while the water-casks are brought from the shore, and taken
from the small boat to the larger vessel.

“I wonder how many of us keep a diary! There is one diary I know all of
us, yes every boy and girl and grown-up reader of this book, would very
much like to see. How tenderly we should turn over those storm-stained
pages! How lovingly we should gaze at the clear pencil hand-writing of
this wonderful diary!

“Perhaps if we really did see and read it, some of us would be inspired
with feelings akin to those of a little girl of nine years old who went
home from a missionary meeting and wrote:--‘Mark xvi. 15 says: “Go ye
into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every creature.” This is
a commandment of my Saviour, to be obeyed by me as soon as I am old
enough.’

“More than fifty years ago, Captain Smyley, in command of the _John
Davidson_, sailed into Banner Cove. He was searching for a party of
seven missionaries to whom he had been sent with food and stores. He
found no Englishmen or native of the Land of Fire upon the seashore,
but painted on a rock he saw a notice: ‘Dig below.’ The crew landed,
and obeying the first two words, they dug up a bottle containing a
paper, on which was written: ‘We are gone to Spaniard’s Harbour.... We
have sickness on board: our supplies are nearly out, and if not soon
relieved we shall be starved out.’”

With many misgivings they hastened to Spaniard’s Harbour. It was
then October, so seven months had passed since the notice had been
painted on the rocks. The first vessel sent to the help of the brave
missionaries had been wrecked. How had they fared during those months
of waiting? Had the help come too late?

Yes, already that faithful band--our hero Captain Allen Gardiner, and
his six comrades--have all passed into the Happy Land where “they shall
hunger no more, neither thirst any more.” Sorrowful indeed was the
sight that awaited the searchers. A boat on the beach with a lifeless
body within; another lying not far off, washed to pieces by the waves;
another buried in a shallow grave upon the shore: all seven starved to
death.

What was the effect of this martyrdom? Was it thought worth while for
others to risk their lives for the Fuegian Indians? The Rev. G. P.
Despard and his wife, when they heard of the facts, said: “With God’s
help, this good work shall go on.” And in a beautiful new schooner
called the _Allen Gardiner_, another mission party started for that
distant land.

[Illustration: DUSKY DARLINGS]

“It was decided to make Keppel Island, which is one of the Falkland
group, their headquarters. With much labour a house was built, and a
little mission-station and farm formed there. The intention was to try
and get two or three of the Fuegian natives to come and live with
them at Keppel, hoping to be able to learn the language from these
natives, whilst they taught them all the good and useful things they
could.

“Many years before, a native, who was known by the name of Jimmy
Button, had been brought to England by Captain Fitzroy. When Jimmy
went back to his own country he was quite lost sight of by his English
friends. However, he was met with one day in his canoe by the party
from Keppel, and they found that he still remembered much of the
English he had learned. After being kindly treated by the missionaries,
and enjoying some of their coffee and bread and butter, he said he was
quite willing to go with his wife and three children to stay with them
for six months.

“Jimmy Button and his family soon became quite at home upon the mission
farm. One of Jimmy’s boys, a bright, sharp, little lad of about eight
years, whom his father called ‘Threeboys,’ very quickly picked up
many English words; but they were all so shy about speaking their own
language before foreigners that they talked to each other in whispers,
which of course made it very difficult for the missionaries to learn
anything about the Fuegian language. When the six months were up Mr
Despard took all the Button family back to Woollya on the _Allen
Gardiner_.”

Little by little grew the work amongst the Fuegian Indians, and
especially amongst the children, many of whom are orphans, now under
the missionaries’ care.

There was one dear little Fuegian girl whom the missionaries named
Jessica--bright, loveable, quick, and good both at lessons and work.
She, with others, was taught many things, chief of which was the Bible.

One day Jessica was nowhere to be seen. Morning passed away, afternoon
came, and then followed the evening, but still Jessica had not come
back. Weeks went by, and feeling sure she had been stolen, they ceased
to look out for her.

In the middle of lessons one morning, a pair of arms was flung suddenly
round the missionary’s neck, and someone was showering her with kisses.
It was Jessica.

“Where have you been? Why did you run away from school?” asked the lady
looking displeased at Jessica.

Her eyes brimmed over with tears as she answered: “I went to fetch you
a present.”

“A present!” echoed the teacher.

“Come,” said Jessica, taking her hand, and leading her to a wood close
by. “There is the present I have brought you,” said Jessica; and
looking she saw eleven little naked, half-starved children, all bunched
together, and looking terrified at the white person.

Having heard the Good News for herself, she loved the Lord Jesus so
much that she just longed for other children to hear of Him too. She
had journeyed for miles over rough woods with her bare feet, over
dangerous paths, and through streams of water, in order to bring others
to the Saviour. What a dear little brown missionary she was! For she is
now in the presence of the Lord.

Another little Indian orphan, named Elsie, was being cared for by
the Rev. J. and Mrs Williams. Her father had died about seven years
previously, and her mother also passed away soon afterwards. Mrs
Williams took special charge of this bright little girl, but one day
several of Elsie’s Indian friends went off on a hunting tour, and took
her with them.

Some time afterwards they returned, but without Elsie. What had become
of her? Was she lost or dead? Alas, no. Perhaps it would have been far
better if she were. “What have you done with Elsie?” And the reply was
that the Indians had sold her to a Spaniard!

What was the price he paid for Elsie? Why, just a bag of flour, and a
bottle of gin! Months have passed, and still no Elsie. It is feared
that she cannot return if she would. Away from her tribe and from all
who love her; sold to a Spaniard who cares not for her; this poor
little jewel is living, redeemed with the precious blood of Christ, the
slave of a white man, but the child of the living God.

Pray for such, and determine, like the little girl who went to the
missionary meeting, that your Saviour’s command to “go into all the
world” shall be obeyed by you as soon as you are old enough.




CHAPTER VII

CHILIAN CHILDREN


If you look at a map of South America you will find a long, narrow
strip of country running north and south alongside of Argentina. Some
funny person has described this Republic of Chili as being 2000 miles
long and two inches wide! Long and narrow though it is, nevertheless
it is very rich in nitrates, so useful for cleansing and enriching the
soil. Gold, petroleum, and coal are also to be found there.

Chili is very much like her sister Republics, both morally and
spiritually, and especially as regards dirt and disease. Smallpox is
rampant both in Santiago and Valparaiso, and people suffering from this
dreadful disease are actually to be seen walking about the streets.

The “conventillos,” which are here only one storey high, are killing
grounds for children. Eight out of ten children die under two years of
age. Dr Speer says: “Alcoholism, dirt, and uncleanness of the houses,
and murderous ignorance of the care of children” are at the bottom of
this exceedingly high death-rate in Chili. So much for Chilians.

Now a word as to the Araucanian Indians in the interior of that
Republic. They are semi-civilized, and a very superior tribe of people.
Though nominally under the Government of Chili, they are actually
independent of it, and are governed by their own laws. The Araucanians
are quite different in appearance, manners, and habits from other
Indians. As far as cleanliness goes, they are far in advance of the
Chilians themselves.

“They are quite as proud, and as resentful of dishonour as the Red Man
of the North, and quite as brave in disposition; and, like the Red
Indians, they are open, free and generous, and form strong attachments
to those who gain their confidence, with equally strong hatred towards
those who do them wrong. They have coarse, black hair, and large
widespread noses.

“The women are among the best looking in the entire country. They do
not marry at so early an age as the other Indians, and they do not
seem to be ever ill-treated by their husbands. They are fond of their
children and respectful to old age.

“The religion of these people is much like that of the Red Indians.
They acknowledge a ‘Spirit’ who is the Author of, and Master over all.”

Take your pen and underline three places on the map, viz.: “Temuco,
Cholcol, Quepe.” There the Mapuche Indians live, and amongst them
labour the missionaries of the South American Missionary Society.

“Mapuche” means, “people of the land,” and a successful, spiritual work
is being carried on especially amongst the children. There are schools
for boys and girls at Quepe, also at Temuco, ten miles away; and at
Cholcol, a small Chilian town twenty-one miles from Temuco, there are
boarding-schools for boys and girls, day-schools, a dispensary, and a
church.

Rev. G. Daunt says: “In the old days they were all clever hunters.
They could glide through the forest without making a sound, and could
imitate exactly the cries of various birds and beasts. They showed
great skill in following up a ‘trail,’ and could observe the slightest
movement of leaf or twig in the pursuit of prey or of an enemy.

“Now, the Mapuche are losing their hunting habits, and are settling
down to a peaceable and industrious life, growing corn, and feeding
cattle. But in their games they still act as if scenting and following
up a trail.

“The Indian boys and girls have to work as well. In the summer, when
the crops are ripening, the children are seen in the fields guarding
the sheep, cattle, horses, and pigs, so that these may not enter and
destroy the harvest.

“The girls draw water from the wells and streams, and help their
mothers to make and mend the clothes they wear. The boys, with their
axes, form ploughs, and carts, and with their knives carve toys of wood
or cut belts and purses from the skins of animals into strange shapes.”

Miss Wetherell gives a very interesting pen-picture of school-life with
the Mapuche boys and girls at Quepe:--

“The body of one of our schoolboys was committed to the grave. Poor
laddie, he came into the hospital about two years ago with a diseased
leg, which the doctor had to remove. His people, finding that he would
be unable to help in the farm work, promptly deserted him, so he was
kept on at the hospital, and during school time he was out here. He
got on very well with his lessons, but he never got really strong,
and eventually he had to return to the hospital, where he died. The
following morning we all went across to the little Mapuche Cemetery,
and buried him there. It must have seemed very strange to these Mapuche
boys and girls, this quiet Christian burial--the simple service, the
flowers strewn on the grave, and the hymn sung as the soil was being
shovelled in.

“We have one Chilian boarder, a very nice gentle lad, whom we all
like very much, and we hope he will one day be a true Christian. He
saved the life of an Englishman in Argentina under quite romantic
circumstances; and his master, who is in England, wished to leave
him where he could be educated and treated kindly--so he is here.
At present his thoughts are chiefly occupied with football and his
lessons, football of course first.

“One small mite announced to-day that she was going to ‘stay with the
Señora all the holidays.’

“‘But,’ said I, ‘you would not like to stay here and not go home at
all?’

“‘Oh, yes, I should,’ promptly answered little Fatty; ‘school is _much_
nicer than being at home.’

“I imagine the little ones do sometimes find this the case, as they
do quite a lot of work in their homes. I remember one day teaching in
my Scripture class something about a mother’s love, and I asked the
children: ‘Now on cold, frosty mornings, when you are all cosily tucked
up in bed, who gets up to light the fire and get the breakfast?’

“Of course I expected them to say in a chorus: ‘My mother’; but instead
of that the answer came: ‘Why, my little brother, of course.’

“Last night, while most of the big ones were out at evening service,
the little ones and I had great times hymn-singing. Two or three quite
wee mites will sing alone, and it is wonderful how well they sing and
how many hymns they know by heart. The brother of one small person was
telling the native teacher that last holidays he built a new house for
himself, and invited all his relations to the house-warming, and when
the meal was over he said: ‘Now someone should sing a song. Who will
sing for me?’

“‘Fancy’ added he, ‘my surprise when my little sister, who did not know
a word of Spanish a few months ago, stood up before us and sang most
sweetly and correctly a hymn that she had learned at school!’

“Sometimes our little Mapuche friends fall sick, and then the small
patients are taken to Temuco, placed in the mission-hospital, and
nursed and tended by Dr Baynes and his splendid family.

“At evening time, when the light begins to fail, the missionary turns
his horse homewards, and as he rides rapidly over the plain, here and
there the words of the vesper hymn sung by some Indian boy or girl are
wafted to him on the evening air:--

  “‘Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear,
  It is not night if Thou be near;
  O may no earth-born cloud arise
  To hide Thee from Thy servant’s eyes.’”

There are “other lambs” in Chili who have yet to be sought out and
brought in. Some day you may be helping Christ to seek and find them.
In the meantime give the Mapuche children a place in your prayers, and
tell others about them.




CHAPTER VIII

BOLIVIAN BAIRNS


Bolivia, the Hermit Republic of South America, is hidden away behind
the mighty Andes. It is the fourth country in the continent in point of
size, and a vast treasure house of silver and tin.

More than half the inhabitants are pure-blooded Indians, degenerate
descendants of the valiant Inca race.

The most interesting and useful animal to the Indian is the llama. He
will travel for miles without food or drink, over precipitous mountains
and rocky paths, carry his 100-lb. load, and not an ounce more; for if
you should happen to impose upon him he simply lies down on the path
and refuses to budge an inch. They are splendid “passive resisters,”
these llamas, and will have no nonsense from anyone, though, of
course, their Indian owners know better than to overburden their llamas
with superfluous luggage.

The llama, known as “the Bolivian Railway,” can travel fifteen miles a
day. When he dies his flesh is eaten, but the Indian loves his animal
too well to kill him for food.

“In many places the Indians are ill-treated, deceived, and robbed by
the white Spanish-speaking people. They are looked upon as mere brutes,
fit for nothing but work, instead of human beings with immortal souls.
They sometimes live together in villages, sometimes in isolated, quiet
nooks, or it may be in clusters of huts where there are two or three
families.”

Each Indian has a few patches of ground for himself, and in exchange
for this cultivates a few acres of crops for his owner. He also has a
certain number of animals to care for, but this is mostly the work of
his wife and family. Little children of from four to five years of age
are supposed to be capable of driving a flock, and when a few years
older they are away on the hills all day alone with their flocks.

One scarcely sees an Indian, either man or woman, altogether idle. If
they have no other occupation, they spin away at wool for the clothing
of their families.

Though this is an open and very healthy climate there is much sickness
among the people, chiefly because they do not know how to take care
of themselves. It is very amusing to see what remedies they use for
inward and outward complaints. Dirt, feathers, and anything horrible
is the common ointment for sores or wounds. At a little ordinary warm
water they laugh. Through the ignorance of their mothers, children,
when sick, have a hard time. Some care very much, and would do anything
to save their children; but others, rather than have the trouble of
watching them, prefer that they should die, as a good many do.

“It is the condition of the little children that calls forth most
sympathy and pity, and makes us long for the day when the True Light
shall shine into the hearts of the people. The majority, unloved and
uncared for, surrounded by dirt and disease, know nothing of the joys
of childhood, nor of the blessing of home life.

“Mothers are continually seen carrying their babies, full of disease,
about the streets, and, what is worse, sitting in the market-places
selling meat and bread with their sick babies in their laps. Passing
along one day, a child was seen without a shred of clothing, yet with
its little body literally covered with smallpox.”

Mr Will Payne, a pioneer missionary of Bolivia, says it is quite a
common thing to buy and sell children in this country. He tells of
three little girls who were purchased for £2 each, “and are held by
their owner until they reach the age of twenty-one, during which time
they are compelled to work in the house, receiving their food and
clothing in exchange.

“If they fall into the hands of a kind master or mistress they have
an easy, happy time, and in a few cases are taught to read and write.
Should they, however, find a cruel owner, there is nothing to prevent
their suffering very much like the slaves of other days.

“These children are sold by their parents when young, and sometimes
never know their father or mother. How often has blood been seen
flowing from the head of one of these girls, the result of a cruel blow
with a strap, because she did not move quickly enough.”

A very sad story is told by one of the missionaries of the Bolivian
Indian Mission, of a little Indian boy. “His left forearm, and half
of left leg, are one mass of partially-healed ulcers. He tells us
how, over a year ago, he was caught and deliberately thrown into the
fire. His father had sold him to a neighbour, and one day, whilst
shepherding, he allowed some goats to fall over a cliff: then his
owner, in a fit of rage committed this inhuman act.

“After a year of intense suffering, he was brought by his apathetic
father for treatment. But perhaps we ought not to blame the father too
much, as he is totally blind. However, the man who burned the boy was
compelled to pay the father a sum of 28s., and to release the boy.
After this the boy’s father sold him again, but the boy escaped, and is
now under treatment.”

Such incidents happen daily, showing how inhuman and ignorant the
majority of the Indians are. The Roman Catholic religion has not
converted their hearts, the only change that has taken place has been
that of the religion and the idols. The hearts and lives that were dark
before, without the knowledge of Christ, have been plunged into deeper
gloom through the blighting influence of the Roman priesthood.

Some of the Romish masses celebrated by the people are called the
“Little Masses for the Child Jesus.” These take place from Christmas
to the time of Carnival. Everybody who has an image of Christ as a
child is supposed to provide a feast during this time. A band of music
is procured, and the little image is decked out with pearls and gay
flowers, and carried to the Roman Catholic church, in front of a crowd
of neighbours. A mass is said, and then the figure is taken home amid
great rejoicing. Drinking, feasting, and dancing follow, and are kept
up until a late hour.

On January 31st and February 1st the people prepare for Candlemas,
which takes place on the 2nd. They are taught by the priest that on
this day the children who have died without baptism can get a little
light. It is the feast of the mothers, and the priests tell the people
how necessary it is to come to church with their candles.

“Do not be like so many pieces of stick; come and bring your candles,
and think of your poor dead children awaiting your candles to get some
light!”

“So the next day the poor mothers come with their candles of all sorts
and sizes. Long candles, short candles, thin candles, thick candles.
What a mine of wealth for the priests the sale of this holy (!) grease
must be!

“May God light the candle of each life in order that some day someone
who reads this may be able to show the Bolivian Bairns the way to
Heaven. Only the light that Christ gives is of any service to Him, and
to those who ‘sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.’”

The Bolivian Indians do not have many children, as the poor mites,
through neglect and ill-treatment, die in hundreds every year, most of
them under two years of age.

Another reason why Indians have such small families is that when the
children grow up to be twelve or thirteen years of age they marry and
have homes of their own.

Mr and Mrs Will Payne did some splendid pioneer work amongst these
people before the liberty of preaching the Gospel was proclaimed in
the Republic. They suffered much persecution at the hands of the Roman
Catholics, but now missionary work can go forward without hindrance,
and to-day the South American Missionary Society is at work in Southern
Bolivia, while the Bolivian Indian Mission is ministering to the
Quechua-speaking remnant of the bygone Inca race.

In writing of the children, one of the missionaries in San Pedro says
of the school work:--

“The school is open to all, and boys and girls of the white and
half-caste classes attend. (The Indians do not live in the town.) The
school opens every morning with the singing of a hymn, a Scripture
lesson and prayer, in all of which great interest is taken. Mother
earth constitutes the floor. The walls are of mud, and the ceiling
is of a rough thatching of rushes. For years the room served as a
cook-house, and knew neither chimney nor window, nor any other means of
exit for the smoke.

“Nowadays two large holes in the wall, one shuttered, the other not,
admit light which reveals a blackness that water cannot cleanse. Two or
three geography maps gravely endeavour to hide the sooty walls, and,
aided by three mud seats that traverse the room, humbly announce that
this is Ch’iquipampa School-house.”

Outside, mounted upon a pole which stands in the centre of the
“estancia” courtyard, is the school bell. For nearly a century it hung
in the belfry of a Roman Catholic chapel away out among the Bolivian
mountains. But it, too, has felt the impulse of modernism, and now
follows a reformed calling.

The sun is the only time-keeper known in the “campo.” The only definite
hours are those of his rising and setting; therefore the bell sounds
the assemble at sunrise, and soon two or three groups of children,
enveloped in gay-coloured and picturesque ponchos, are seen leisurely
sauntering to obey the summons--perhaps. In they come at the open door,
doffing their “sombreros” (hats) respectfully enough, with a “Buenos
dias, Señor!” (“Good day, Sir”).

Now we have before us seven or eight black heads, whose owners range
in age from five to fifteen years. There are really as many grades as
there are individuals.

Modestly, seated farthest back is Haquin, a bright Indian lad. He came
to school early, and has already been a full half-hour hard at his
reading-book, for he must soon leave in order to take his father’s
cattle afield to pasture. Three months ago, he did not know a single
letter. Now he reads and writes fairly large words.

Now slates, books, and pencils are served out, and for three long hours
our young Bolivians are under restraint. Lazy little Antonio raises
his slate high in air with both hands and yawns audibly. A tap on the
big, black head, and a quiet word, recall him to his task. During a
full half-hour he has written only one word, but Government forbids the
rod.

The time has arrived for reading-lessons, and a whisper of appreciation
is heard, for reading from the “Spanish Reader” involves a lesson in
Spanish; and Indian and “Cholo” (half-caste) alike learn eagerly and
quickly the tongue of the ruling class. Confronted by Bolivia’s map,
a barely suppressed giggle ripples through the school. They think the
names of towns, rivers, and mountains are so foreign and funny!

Arithmetic is useful, however, and all work diligently at this. Little
Manuel is the pride and joy of the school in this department. Three
months previously he could not write a single figure. Now, he adds and
subtracts and multiplies with great exactness.

Now, at the words, “Slates down,” these articles reach the hard floor
with a rattle. Little Nieva draws her naked feet up on to the seat,
and arranges her “manta” with the air of a Turkish princess. Word goes
round, “The Jesus Book”; and a respectful silence prevails. Thank God,
for these wonderful stories of the Saviour. The children’s verdict
is: “Beautiful.” Thanks to Him for at least this small portion of the
Gospel of St John translated into Quechua.

Now comes time for dismissal--with a respectful “Hasta mañana, Señor!”
(“Until to-morrow, Sir!”), or the Quechua “Ce’aya cama,” they file out,
soon to break forth into whistle and shout, just like the little folks
in the homeland.

Our head is somewhat muddled with this two-language task of teaching
Quechua-speaking children from Spanish text-books. Some attend for
a week or two, and then come no more. The parents desire that they
should be educated, but confess to being powerless to persuade the
young folks to attend.

Mr Grocott, of the Bolivian Indian Mission, having given such an
interesting account of the day-school work, Mrs Grocott now tells about
the Sunday-school. She says:--

“Could you visit our little school-room some Sunday morning, between
seven and eight o’clock, you would find a little gathering of from
twelve to twenty-five men, women, and children, representing the
whites, the half-castes, and the pure Indians. These are gathered to
learn about Jesus. They do not come because it is God’s Day, for Sunday
to them is as other days. No, they come because they like to come.

“They have dirty faces, uncombed hair, and clothing which has not
been washed for many weeks. Not an attractive audience, is it? But
a missionary may not be critical. She has come to teach them to do
better, and one must always begin at the beginning.

“The day-school children come to these meetings, as do some of the
parents. The Indians are rather shy at entering, and often prefer
listening at the window. Those who do come in look round for an
out-of-the-way corner, and, despising a seat, squat on the floor. One
day a young Indian came in and immediately knelt down bareheaded before
the blackboard, in an attitude of prayer.

“At the time of his entering, the attention of those present was
centred upon the words written on the blackboard and he evidently
thought of worship. Being accustomed to kneel in the Roman Catholic
church before shrines and images, he was quite prepared to kneel to
anything that appeared to him to be the object of worship for the day.

“Very few Indians can sing, but some of the half-castes do fairly well.
Several hymns have already been translated into Quechua.”

Christ’s command to “heal the sick,” as well as to “teach” and “preach
the Gospel,” is being faithfully carried out as far as possible by the
missionaries to these benighted people. The healing of the body opens
the door to the healing of the soul.

A Spanish doctor will not touch an Indian; and for this great work of
healing, the power of God is needed.

There are very many villages in this hermit republic without a
missionary of any kind whatever. Come with me, and see for yourselves.
Here on a mud bed in a corner sits a poor woman amidst her rags.
A wound which she has had a long, long time has reduced her to a
skeleton. Beside her is a sickly-looking baby. Between her sobs she
tells us she has neither a home nor a husband.

The tiny room, which serves as a living-room, bedroom, and cobbler’s
shop, is full from floor to ceiling. The floor is covered with
cooking-pots, ten altogether, “stones for grinding corn into meal,
great earthenware pots for making chicha (the native drink), old boots,
piles of potatoes and maize, bones, rags, and dirt--plenty of dirt.
From under the bed run guinea-pigs, whilst keeping the woman company in
bed are a dog and a pigeon!

“Amidst old tins and bottles on the shelves we see San Antonio and the
Virgin. On the wall hangs a picture of what looks something like a
woman, the Virgin. A rope full of clothes stretches across the room,
and a few other odds and ends leave but little space, which is filled
up with smell.”

This is what the missionary has to contend with, and as we emerge
into the sunshine, and breathe God’s air once more, we long to see a
large, airy building where the sick ones can be tended and nursed back
to health. Shall we not begin to pray: “Lord send out some of Thy
messengers, and some day, if it is Thy will, I will go and help them.”

  Coming, coming, yes they are,
  Coming, coming from afar;
  From beyond the Andine mountains,
    From Bolivia’s mighty plains,
  As they hear the Gospel story,
    And are loosed from Satan’s chains.




CHAPTER IX

PEARLS OF PERU


Last, but not least, we come to the most historical and romantic
Republic of the whole continent, Peru. This country was discovered by
an adventurer named Pizarro. He was a zealous Roman Catholic, but his
spirit of greediness over-balanced his religion, and the story of his
conquest of the Inca Indians of Peru, as related by Prescott, is one of
the darkest in history.

Before the invasion of Pizarro and his fellow-countrymen, over four
hundred years ago, there lived a very highly-civilized race of Indians
who called themselves the “Children of the Sun.” They were a most
enlightened and industrious people, having their own king, as well as
their own laws and religion.

Since the days of Pizarro and his followers everything has changed. The
king was slain with hundreds of his loyal subjects, and the Spaniards
took possession of the land. There you will see the Indians to-day,
living in spiritual darkness and superstition, scarcely able to call
their souls their own, a crushed and conquered remnant of a once
splendid race; and to-day “the children’s souls which God is calling
sunward, spin on blindly in the dark.”

On the lonely mountain side we will find them, tiny mites of three and
four years of age, tending the sheep, and often very scantily protected
from the severe and biting winds. But the mountain children have an
easy time of it compared to the children of the city, for slavery and
starvation are the common lot of these little ones.

We will visit Cuzco, the romantic and religious city of the Inca race;
but we must not forget to sprinkle our handkerchiefs with perfume, for
we have now got back to the hot climate, and the streets we are walking
through are long and narrow and have an open drain running down the
centre, a common thing in these cities. But if we would be missionaries
some day, we must not mind the smells now, especially as we want to
become acquainted with some of the “Pearls of Peru.”

For a minute or two we pause and watch the children, who seem to swarm
everywhere. Some are playing at the nasty drain; no wonder these little
ones droop and die, for there is no friendly policeman to warn them
that this is a death trap!

Where do they all come from? Does no one look after them? For they are
everywhere, in the road, on doorsteps, in the shops, round the booths
in the market-place, under the shadow of the Roman Catholic Cathedral;
scores of them, playing, sleeping, picking up scraps and eating them,
uncared for, and untaught.

See! Who is this coming down the cobbly street, with a big, fat baby on
his back? Only an Indian boy, and not very much bigger than his baby
mistress. What a sad face he has; it does not attract us, for there
is a shade of bitterness about the mouth. His is a hard life--driven
to and fro by the whim of the baby’s mother; no thanks and no pay;
only beatings if he does not please her. An Indian slave! You look
surprised! But this is quite a common thing in Peru and other parts of
this continent.

  “Only an Indian slave!
    A prey to his mistress’s whim,
  Beaten, battered, and starved,
    What does she care for him?

  ‘A soul, did you say, he possessed?’
    She laughs: ‘Why, he’s worse than a dog!
  I purchased him, body and soul,
    To scold, and to starve, and to flog.’

  Only an Indian slave!
    He may be in their esteem,
  But his soul, with the price of blood,
    Christ Jesus came down to redeem.”

  May the children of God go forth to proclaim
    The loosening power of His wonderful Name.

[Illustration: INDIAN SLAVE AND HIS BABY MISTRESS]

In her fascinating book on “Peru,” Miss Geraldine Guinness says: “In
Arequipa there are three thousand of these little Indian slaves,
four-fifths of whom are cruelly treated, while the good treatment of
the remaining one-fifth, with rare exceptions, consists in the fact of
their not being brutally beaten, and not suffering much hunger.

“I have heard the screams of child-servants not more than seven years
old, who were daily beaten by a bad-tempered mistress. I have seen
children ill and dying, for whom no one cared. I know a little girl of
seven, who, a few months ago, saw her mother’s dead body taken away to
the cemetery. Since that day she has minded the shop all alone, and
kept house for her father, who only comes home at nights, and who is
often away for weeks at a time.”

Some years ago, when the maize crop failed, and there was a terrible
famine in the land, starvation stared the Indian mothers in the face.
What were they to do under such circumstances? They could not feed
their little ones, so the children were brought to the cities in
thousands, and sold for a few shillings or given away, to save the
mothers and other little ones in the mountain huts from starvation and
death. To-day it is not an uncommon thing to be accosted in the street
by an Indian woman, and to be asked to purchase her little girl or boy
for a few coins.

The only British Missionary Society working in this vast republic of
Peru is the Evangelical Union of South America. Try and realize it; a
country half the size of China, and only a handful of missionaries to
proclaim the Gospel to these people. Take your pen and underline “Lima,
Cuzco, Huanuco, Arequipa, and Urco” (twenty-four miles out of Cuzco),
and you have the only centres of British missionary enterprise at the
present time. Let us visit these mission-stations and see for ourselves
what is being done for the children.

Of all the cities in Peru, Lima is the most cosmopolitan. Visiting one
part of the town on the outskirts one might almost fancy we were in
China; at another spot everything is entirely negro, and some other
part appears to be under Turkish supervision. Here we jostle against
Peruvian priests, who do not attract us, American, English, and Italian
merchants, and people from almost every land under the sun. What a
medley!

“The houses in Lima have no chimneys, they are one storey high, and
what windows there are facing into the street are barred, making the
houses look like prisons. The poorer parts of Lima consist largely of
‘conventillos’ similar to these in Argentina. They are often large,
sunny, open courtyards, and sometimes narrow alleys, always entered
by doors in the walls of the main streets, and surrounded by cell-like
rooms.

“Every aspect of life may be seen in the central yard. There the
dinner is cooked, the baby bathed, the clothes washed, and the Virgin
worshipped. At every step one comes upon a child, and all appear
equally contented and uncared for.

“Lima is in the centre of a region, not only free from rain, but where
earthquakes frequently occur, so that mud, cane, and plaster are used
for house-building purposes instead of stone.

“Although it never rains in Lima, yet during the dry season, Peru’s
winter--June to September--the capital is enveloped in mist, which is
exceedingly disagreeable. For days and weeks the sun is invisible, and
a drizzle, not unlike a Scotch mist, makes the side-walks slippery,
and so permeates the air that the sheets on one’s bed are chill and
sticky.”

Lima is the city where the Society’s printing-press is at work. Month
by month, the little silent messenger of the Gospel, _El Heraldo_,
is sent forth by post throughout Peru; and as postage is quite free,
you will see that every postman is thus a “colporteur.” Many other
things besides are printed, but _El Heraldo_ is the foremost message
proclaiming “pardon, peace, and power to hundreds whom the voice of the
preacher cannot reach.”

Once more we find ourselves in Cuzco. Here several ladies of the
E.U.S.A. are to be seen at work. Miss Elder, Miss Pinn, Miss Found, and
Miss Trumper, are doing splendid service.

Miss Elder reports that “many of the mothers, having gained confidence
in us, come again for advice and medicine for themselves and their
children.” Speaking of a case she visited, she says: “I had prepared a
nice basin of warm water, and was just ready to put ‘baby’ in for his
first bath, when two women rushed up, one on either side. Baby’s bath
was, to their way of thinking, not yet complete. One poured in alcohol,
and the other a large cupful of greasy soup.

“On asking the reason of this, I was told it was to make baby strong!
So, with a smile and the remark that I had not heard of the custom,
I proceeded with my work. This took place in the house of one of the
upper-class people.

“But I want to give you a peep into some of the poorer ‘homes.’ We were
conducted to a little shop where our patient lay on sheep-skins. Baby’s
wardrobe consisted only of a strawberry-coloured knitted vest and a
bonnet of royal blue! On another occasion, to reach my patient I passed
through two courtyards, and stepped down into a dark room.

“There was no window. The light entered only through the doorway,
and the round hole in the wall through which the smoke was expected
to escape. The floor was alive with guinea-pigs running to and fro.
A few fowls were roosting in one corner, on sticks placed there for
the purpose, while a mother hen sheltered her brood of healthy chicks
in another. This patient had a bedstead, but it was composed of rough
irregular boards placed together like a raft.

“In addition to the work in Cuzco we have to hold ourselves ready for
outside calls. I was summoned one day to Urco Farm, because of an
accident to Domingo, a little Chuncho Indian boy from the forests. I
left Cuzco at ten at night, on horseback.

“Darkness and the roughness of the road hindered our progress, but
we arrived early in the morning. The boy had fallen from his horse,
cutting his face badly, while one eye was completely lost. We gave him
chloroform and put in five stitches, and the little chap soon got well
again.

“Urco Farm is about five hundred miles from the coast. For the first
one hundred miles it is desert, and the rest of the way beautiful
valleys. The climate is grand. The farm is so large that it would take
many days to see over it all. There is abundance of fruit, with large
quantities of vegetables such as we have here at home. There are horses
for riding, oxen for work, and mules, donkeys and llamas for carrying
goods. There are cattle for meat, and sheep also; for milk and butter
there are goats.”

There are no roads here, but just mountain trails. Everything is
carried on llamas and mules, while you would ride on a horse.

There are over two hundred Indians on the farm, and the Mission is
hoping to establish an Orphanage here, like the one at Sao Paulo in
Brazil, only much larger. Mr Ganton says:--

“Down this valley to the Amazon, and thence to the Atlantic, over three
thousand miles, we know of no missionary! Within our reach are possibly
ten tribes of Indians untouched even by Romanism. In our own valley
there are probably forty thousand people.

“We have some fine boys, and the Indians are very interesting. Mrs
Stockwell is glad to have her little school. The boys are quite apt at
learning texts. Almost any night we can hear them spelling out passages
from the New Testament by candle-light in their little rooms.

“Our farm work is very interesting, also our people. One soon learns to
have a real love for them. It is hard for the Indian to understand why
anyone should treat him kindly without a selfish motive.”

For the school work the Indian children are gathered together in the
evenings and taught. They attend willingly and gladly. “The scholars
are all ages and sizes, from the ragged little Indian of six upwards.
There are some very promising children in the school, and we hope
that some day they will become messengers of the Gospel to their own
people in the remote villages. Every day we see more the need of the
Orphanage, where the children will be under our direct influence. We
have four already living in the house, and what a difference we see
compared to those outside!

“Mrs Stockwell is just in her glory with the children, and is
completely devoted to her school. She is at work from early morning
until bedtime, and always making clothing for the children.

“Day-school work among native children in Lima is a very special
feature. This was begun in 1913, and a Scripture lesson was always
included in the day’s teaching. It is being proved here, as in
Argentina and elsewhere, that not only does the day-school deliver
the Sunday-school scholars from annoyance, persecution, and priestly
instruction, but it is also an excellent feeder for the Sunday-school,
at which the attendance marked a great improvement in numbers and
steadiness.

“Under the very able superintendence and help of Mrs Millham, there are
two native mistresses, who have been associated with the Church for
some long time.”

This school work amongst the native children of Lima has been laid
upon the workers of the Evangelical Union of South America as a sacred
burden. It is their privilege--not only in Peru but in the other
Republics in which they work--to lift the child out of its ignorance,
and to teach it to know Christ the Friend of little children, to know
the world and all that pertains to it, and to know its own heart.

We will not proceed any further in our wanderings, for in Ecuador,
Colombia, Venezuela, and Panama the same sad condition of things
prevails.

We have heard, not unmoved I trust, the wail of the Indian children
in the forests of Peru and Brazil, and have seen them in the Amazon
valley. We have watched them with painful interest and concern
in the streets of the various cities, children of all colours and
nationalities, and yet all of one blood with us, who call for our
sympathies, our prayers, our gifts, and above all, our love. They call
to us out of their deep need from the Land of Opportunity.




  SOME NOTABLE BOOKS
  ON FOREIGN MISSIONS
  FROM THE CATALOGUE OF
  OLIPHANT, ANDERSON & FERRIER

  100 PRINCES STREET, EDINBURGH
  21 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON


A HISTORY OF MISSIONS IN INDIA. By JULIUS RICHTER, D.D. Translated
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HOLY HIMALAYA. The Religion, Traditions, and Scenery of the Provinces
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DAYLIGHT IN THE HAREM. Papers on Present-day Reform Movements,
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FOOTNOTE:

[A] This chapter is mainly quoted from _How the S.A.M.S. Began_, by
Alice M. Bakewell, to whom I express my deep gratitude.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Pages 9 and 10 are missing in the original.

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.