# The Lutheran Pioneer_St. Louis_1929_S60
# Machine transcription, uncorrected — CHI Digital Archive (demonstration)

THE LUTHERAN PIONEER.

59

have in the homeland. While we worked, we no-
ticed that two or three men, rather well dressed,
were taking notice of all that was going on.

One of them advanced and introduced himself
as the Inspector of Police, a position of some im-
portance. We were well off the main road, and,
wondering what was coming, I said, “We are
preaching and giving medicine to the sick.”

“T know,” he replied, “and I wish to ask you to
come to my village some fourteen miles away. The
people there are indeed very needy.” He bought
a gospel and then stood there, waiting for our
decision.

This being the rainy season, we replied that we
would come later on, when the weather would be
more settled. But he still remained and pleaded,
wanting us to give a date when we: would come.

“What day will-you come?”

Won over by his persistency, we replied, “To-
morrow.”

On the morrow we went, having great difficulty
in finding the place, as it was hidden away, well
off the main road. And even then we only got as
far as the Thana, or police station, the bazaar being
still a mile or so away. It was again sunset, so we
spoke words of cheer, sang, and gave out the life-
giving Word. Then we ministered to the sick ones
around.

What a needy and neglected place! While we
were there, the dead were being carried out. We
asked. what the sickness was. They replied, “Fever.

There is a fever which comes on here at this season

of the year, and many people die of it.”

Gospels and tracts were distributed. The head
man of the place thanked us for coming and begged
us to come again, and we were ready to start home-
ward. We visit many such places, but we promised
to come to this one again in a week.

A week later we went back, this-time taking our
stand in an open place in the middle of the bazaar.
The crowd was so great that it was difficult for us
even to move. First we sang, and then the message
of love was given to these dear ones, who appeared
to be much interested. Several bought gospels.
We do earnestly thank God for the privilege of
being able to leave His Word in the dark, dark
places of India.

The opening of the medicine-box brought a
great response. Many distressing sights surrounded
us — filthy, dirty sores of long standing, with no
dressings on them, just open to all the flies and dirt.
They certainly felt some relief after the dressings
were done.

Blind, lame, and paralyzed were among the
crowd. Some begged us to go to their homes to
see sick ones who were too ill to come to us. I am
sure your heart would ache if I could take you
with me to visit these homes. Picture a young girl-
mother, less than sixteen years of age, crippled for
life because of wrong treatment given her at the
time when such great care is needed. There are
many such cases calling for help.

There are hospitals in the cities where suffering
ones can get help, but these villagers, living so far
away, find it very difficult to get to the cities. They
have no motor-cars, in fact, the vast majority of
them cannot even afford a trip on a bullock cart.
And owing to superstitions and caste fear it is
difficult to get them to go to hospitals.

It was dark when we got home, but we were
glad that we had been able to do the “Inasmuch”
for the Master. C. Brown.

What a Missionary Deaconess Say,
in India.

A missionary deaconess working in one of the
northern cities of India relates the following sad
experience : —

An invitation, some days ago, to come and visit
the prison for women resulted in my taking, advan-
tage of the offer and setting out one bright morning
to see these woman prisoners at work.

It was a morning of bright sunshine, and our
winter was slowly making up its mind to make
itself felt and gladden us.

Two massive black gates, guarded by an armed
sentry, gave me admittance to the prison. The lady
superintendent, or matron, offered to show me the
most interesting things. All the woman prisoners
were in a large courtyard, busy at work mending
their own clothing and that of the men’s prison,
preparing their midday meal of chappatties and
dhal, and a few were embroidering and making
table-cloths.

I shall dwell but lightly on the expressions and
occupations of the other women, for my attention
was suddenly arrested. Under a tree lying on the
ground was a baby. It was the most diminutive
thing I ever saw, and by the baby’s side sat a girl —
of nine or ten years of age, at least so it seemed
to me. The girl was not working like the others,
so I asked who she was.

“That,” said the matron, pointing to the girl,

‘is a murderess and the mother of the baby. Shoe 18

under trial still for wilful murder.”