On that road where the doctor passes by, one day she saw a beautiful boy
of one year, "the only son of his mother." The eyelids were shut and
swollen. "His history?" the doctor asks. Ordinary country sore eyes that
someway refused to get well; a journey through dust and heat to a
distant shrine of healing; numberless circlings of the temple according
to orthodox Hindu rites; then a return home to order from the village
jeweller two solid silver eyeballs as offerings to the deity of the
shrine. Weeks are consumed by these doings, for in sickness as in
health the East moves slowly. Meantime the eyes are growing more
swollen, more painful. At last someone speaks of the weekly visit of
the doctor on the Gudiyattam Road.
The doctor picked up the baby, pushed back the swollen eyelids, and
washed away the masses of pus, only to find both eyeballs utterly
destroyed. One more to be added to the army of India's blind! One more
case of "too late"! One more atom in the mass of India's unnecessary,
preventable suffering,--that suffering which moved to compassion the
heart of the Christ. How many more weary generations must pass before
we, His followers, make such incidents impossible? How many before
Indian women with pitying eyes and tender hands shall have carried the
gift of healing, the better gift of the health that outstrips disease,
through the roads and villages of India?
[Illustration: Freshman Class at Vellore]
[Illustration: Latest Arrivals at Vellore]
The existence of the Medical School has been made possible by the gifts
of American women. Its continued existence and future growth depend upon
the same source. Gifts in this case mean not only money, but life. Where
are those American students who are to provide the future doctors and
nurses not only to "carry on" this school as it exists, but to build it
up into a great future? It is to the girls now in high school and
college that the challenge of the future comes. Among the conflicting
cries of the street and market place, comes the clear call of Him whom
we acknowledge as Master of life, re-iterating the simple words at the
Lake of Galilee, "What is that to thee? Follow thou me."
Rupert Brooke has sung of the summons of the World War that cleansed the
heart from many pettinesses. His words apply equally well to this
service of human need which has been called "war's moral equivalent."
"Now, God be thanked, Who has matched us with His
hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened
power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary."