veranda of the old mission house overlooking the sea. The little children
of Ameen who was in prison for his faith were living with their mother
in our house, and they needed to be taught; two of the rescued slave
boys from Muscat, who had come to help in the housework, had some spare
hours in the morning, and it was better for them to study than to sit
around doing nothing, for Satan finds an awful amount of mischief for
idle hands to do in Bahrein, and so the little school was started for the
children in the house. We gave it the name of the “Acorn School” in faith
that as “tall oaks from little acorns grow,” so some day education in
Arabia would be what it is now in America. We had lessons for two hours
each morning, marching, singing, etc., for the little ones, baby Bessie
lying on the couch nearby while the children were being taught; others
wished to join, but neither accommodations nor strength would allow us to
enlarge our borders at that time.
After some months an Arabic teacher was assigned to the station to teach
a new missionary the language, and about that time we moved into a larger
house. Then our numbers increased, and one of those early pupils was a
young Jewish girl; another was a Jewish boy, who remained about three
years, and was always a docile and clever pupil in English and Arabic;
he has a complete Bible in Arabic, which they read in his home. The girl
was a great help to us in every way—first in school, and later in the
hospital; she is quite a changed girl and a superior one, and we trust
the day will come when she will openly confess Christ and follow Him.
Some grown-up lads were among those first scholars, and they came to
learn English. One of the older boys was such an apt pupil that he was
taken on the staff of the English Political Agent as interpreter for the
Persians; another advanced so far that he is able to buy and sell for the
wholesale business, and for this reason is a great help to his father, a
merchant in Bahrein. These boys have learned much of the truth along with
their English, and neither of them now believe that the sun sets in a
pool of black mud!
The reflex influence of the school is felt even in their homes, changing
some of the habits and language. Some of those early scholars have
gone to the Eternal Home. Quite a number of the missionaries and native
helpers have helped from time to time in this school, for when one left,
another would take up the work. The last few years the girls have been
doing needlework and learning how to make their own clothes neatly.
There are a great number of Christians and Jews, but the greater number
in good weather are Moslems, and in the cool season the little room is
overcrowded, and one teacher is very busy trying to keep all employed.
The school is still in the initial stage, but it has proved its right to
exist, and when we look into the brightening faces of those who gather to
be taught, and listen to the Scripture portions repeated and the hymns
spiritedly sung, we can only say: “What hath God wrought!” To outsiders
the school may seem a small thing, but to us, who have watched its slow
growth, it is encouraging. The teaching has always in view the honour of
Christ in a land where His title, “Son of God,” is disputed.
If you could see our new school building you would know how much better
off the children are who come to the Christian school than those who
still attend the native schools. The rooms and the seats, and windows
through which glorious sunshine and light shine, the blackboards and
maps and pictures all help to educate through “eye gate.” The boys and
girls are graded and separated, for coeducation is not yet a good thing
in Arabia. When I taught in the school I used to surprise the girls
occasionally by bringing to school some little treat of fruit, dates
or candy; and I wish you could have heard their hearty “Thank you” and
listened to them as they left the yard and went over the desert to their
houses, singing at the top of their voices in Arabic Christian hymns
which they had learned in school. They thought it would please me and
impress us with their goodness. And it was good to hear these girls and
sometimes small boys singing “My Faith Looks up to Thee,” “Jesus Loves
Me, This I Know,” etc. And even if they did not understand the deep
meaning nor enter into it, it gave them pleasure to sing the bright
tunes. And while they sang, they were out of mischief at least. It was so
new for these Moslem girls to have any one to care anything about them.
XVI
THE STORY OF A ROLLER BANDAGE
The day was very hot, and I was very tired. The flies were buzzing thick
around me and it was impossible for me to keep awake over the book which
slipped from my fingers and fell on the floor. I stretched myself for
one of those delightful noonday naps which, in spite of the heat and the
flies, revive the life of the missionary and make him ready for the work
of the afternoon, and as I slept, I dreamed a dream.
I was walking up towards the mission hospital, when what should I see
coming down the steps but a roller bandage, walking along as happy as
could be, and after exchanging the usual Arab greeting of “Salaam,” he
told me this story:
“I suppose you have never heard of me before, and I am sure you never
will unless I introduce myself and unroll the story of my short but
interesting life.
“A little, round, fat body like me may have a long story to tell; for
when I lie at full length I measure four yards without stretching the
truth one bit.
“It is only six months ago, as far as I remember, that I was part of a
fine new piece of white muslin in the store window of a merchant, and
had no name or place or mission of my own in this big world. One day
the salesman reached out and took the piece of muslin down. It was sent
with a lot of other purchases to the home of a lady (I think her name was
Phœbe or Dorcas) greatly interested in foreign missions.
“The next thing I knew, the willing hands and deft fingers of a band of
little folks tore me from my seven sisters and rolled me up so snug and
tight that none would imagine I was only a strip of cloth. And then, when
a bright new pin was stuck on my breast, really I began to feel quite
important. The following day I was put into a pasteboard box with three
dozen other roller bandages, and I remember hearing a short prayer, just
as they tied down the cover, that God would bless us on our errand of
mercy to dark Arabia.
[Illustration]
“Time would fail me to tell of the days we spent in the basement of the
building of the Board of Foreign Missions, waiting to be put in our
corner of a big box, and of all the interesting things I learned from
those who spoke about the heathen and Mohammedans while they were packing
supplies for the various mission fields. You know I never knew there were
so many doctors and nurses, and so many hospitals and dispensaries—not to
speak of schools and other things under the care of our Board.
“Finally, the box that was to be my prison house for two long months was
tumbled into a dray and taken to the North River pier. There they lifted
us into the dark hold of a ship; the sailors fastened down the hatches;
the whistle blew, and we were off for the long voyage.
“Being a roller bandage from my earliest youth, I did not at all mind the
motion of the vessel; but some of the dolls and picture cards were all
upset.
“When we reached Bombay we were transferred with a great deal of
unnecessary noise to another ship bound for the Persian Gulf. I remember
that I was curious to know at which port of the Gulf I would disembark.
One of the biggest roller bandages said _he_ knew, for he had heard the
New York lady tell the children that these bandages were for the Mason
Memorial Hospital at Bahrein, Arabia. All were not agreed.
“A many-tailed bandage said he thought we were going to Busrah to help in
the dispensary there, but a T bandage, which has three ends to it and is
shaped like a big letter T, contradicted him, and there came near being
a quarrel. The little bandages, however, with one accord smoothed it over
by saying: ‘Wait and you will see.’
“The big roller bandage was right. When the British India steamer entered
Bahrein harbour with a large cargo of rice and tea and Manchester goods,
the missionary boxes got mixed up with the rest, and were put over the
ship’s side into native boats.
“Such a hubbub and shouting! I knew we were among Arabs and in the land
of Ishmael, although I could not understand one word of their strange
language.
“From the cargo boat we were carried on the back of a donkey through the
surf to the custom-house, and thence once again to the hospital. I cannot
say I enjoyed the donkey ride. The boy who drove the beast had an awkward
way of turning sharp corners in the narrow streets, and then the big
packing case would bump hard against a stone wall, and give us an awful
shaking.
“It was a relief to hear the voices of our new friends. Soon the box was
opened, and we saw daylight once more. The sheets and blankets were put
to immediate use in the general ward; the dolls put away for Christmas;
while we were taken to the operating-room, and put behind glass doors on
a shelf. Even though I was not an eye bandage, I could easily see that
we were occupying the best room in the entire hospital, and I distinctly
heard one of the ladies say: ‘These bandages _are_ fine.’
“You can imagine that we kept our eyes and ears open after such a
welcome. Well, it was rather monotonous, after all. Every day, nearly,
the doctor had some sort of eye patient on the table, and consequently
the eye bandages put on airs of great importance. We waited impatiently.
“One day a nurse came in suddenly and seized me by my throat and took me
without ceremony to the general ward, a big room with twelve beds in it.
“On the stretcher, in the middle of the floor, lay an Arab, looking very
untidy and weak, and in great pain. I heard his story. His name was Ahmed
bin Haroon, and he was a poor fisherman from the distant village of
Zillag. Zillag is one of those little struggling hamlets on the Island
of Bahrein to which the missionaries occasionally make zigzag journeys,
visiting the people to carry them Gospels or to invite the sick to the
hospital. The day before, very early in the morning, while he was mending
his nets and collecting his fish, a robber came, stabbed him twice in his
abdomen, and taking the fish, ran away.
“The poor man had two nasty cuts, deep and dangerous, and I heard them
say while cleaning the wounds that he would probably not live. Though he
looked so ignorant and dirty, I really felt sorry for the poor fellow,
and wondered if I could be of much help. After the doctor put on the
dressings, my turn came. In fact, I had more turns than I have ever had
since, all in the space of five minutes. Round and round that Arab they
wound me close. But to see the look of gratitude on his face when, in a
clean shirt and on a nice spring bed, with me for company, he opened his
eyes—well, it was worth the long journey, I can tell you. Over our bed
there was a chart with No. 109, and the man’s name on it. There were also
curious zigzag lines drawn every morning and evening across the chart.
The doctor put these lines there, for I saw him do it, after inserting a
fever thermometer in the patient’s mouth. I soon learned to know whether
the line would go up or down by counting the heart-beats of my companion.
Of course, being so close together, we learned to like each other, and I
one day explained to him how the people away off in America had sent me
as their little missionary for his comfort. On the opposite side of the
ward there is a picture of Christ healing a blind man, which we used to
look at.
“They prayed for No. 109 and read a little to him, but I am sure he
understood what _I_ told him much better. You see, until he got hurt
he was very suspicious of Christians and believed all sorts of foolish
things about them. Now he talked with the other patients and watched what
was done for him, and felt me near him; it was a new life for him. His
condition became more hopeful every day; I knew it by the way he began
to enjoy his soup. Not that I was with him all the time myself. No; the
other roller bandages had their turn, and I heard the rest of the story
from them. Ahmed bin Haroon was discharged nearly cured on the first day
of the Moslem fast month. He came back after for a visit, and is going
about his work—the same fisherman. Only there is no telling how much he
may think of what he saw and heard while he mends his nets at Zillag.
And the missionaries are sure of a warm welcome in that village ever
hereafter.
“The day I was taken off duty and said good-bye to my patient I met such
a lot of bandages down-stairs in the surgery; there seemed no end of
them! Of course, most of them were common, from the Bahrein bazaar, and
unbleached, but they had good stories to tell, nevertheless. I heard it
stated on good authority that over a thousand yards of bandages were used
up in one month. And when I saw the number of men, women and children
with ulcers and abscesses, sitting on the veranda that day, I did not
doubt the fact. Only I wish I could have told it to that salesman in New
York and to the kind lady. Then there would have been more of us; for I
am sure it is no trouble for the boys and girls to make rollers of us.
“My end was near. In spite of all that I had done for the hospital,
the sweeper carried me out in a bucket, and then, without ceremony or
apology, the whole pile of us were set on fire, and we went up in a
chariot like Elijah.”
He ended his story, and as I looked at him, I was just about to say:
“How did you ever get back here out of the bucket and the fire to come
and tell me your story?” but when I began to speak, the bandage speedily
disappeared, and so did the hospital, and I awoke from my dream. The
hospital records, however, show how the story of the bandage is true in
every particular.
“Oh, what can little hands do
To please the King of Heaven?
The little hands some work may try
To help the poor in misery:
Such grace to mine be given.”
[Illustration]
XVII
NAJMA’S LAST CHRISTMAS
Our little Arab friend, Najma, was born a long distance from the place
where last Christmas was spent. Bagdad is the city, you remember, where
Sinbad the sailor lived, and in this very city on the old river Tibris
Najma was born. Her father and mother were both good Moslems and she was
their first-born child, and yet not very welcome, because all Moslems
like to have boy babies and not girls. They gave her the name of Fatima
after the daughter of Mohammed, their prophet. When she was afterwards
baptized into the Christian faith with her mother the name Najma was
given her which means a “star.” Her father suffered much persecution for
changing his religion, and when he was sent into exile far away from his
home, she with her mother and brothers came down the river to Busrah
and down the Persian Gulf to Bahrein. It was a long zigzag journey for
them by flat-bottom river boat and ocean steamer, and then in the little
harbour boat, tacking with the wind to shore.
Until the family came to us they did not know what Christmas meant, and
of course had never celebrated it. When her third Christmas came, and it
was her last, it was still a fresh and joyful occasion to her, therefore,
as it was to all of us in that lonely island and amongst our little
group of converts. Not only was it the last Christmas to Najma but for
others in that company gathered to celebrate the birthday of our Saviour.
Two other little voices that sang so sweetly
“Where do all the daisies go?
I know, I know!
Underneath the snow they creep,
Drop their heads and go to sleep.
In the spring-time up they peep.
That is where they go,”
were silent before the next Christmas came around. And then the mother of
Najma who looked so strong and sat in the corner, interested so deeply in
all the recitations and songs, with two others of that little company had
gone Home before the end of the new year.
[Illustration: A Bedouin Girl playing peek-a-boo on a camel]
It was Najma’s last Christmas, however, that I was going to tell about.
We had been busy all morning decorating the little chapel in the hospital
and getting the simple gifts all in order for the afternoon celebration.
Najma had not been well for a few days, suffering with those attacks of
fever that are so common in the Persian Gulf. When Christmas came we
thought she would not be well enough to attend, but she begged so hard
and was so sure that she would be all right that we sent around a donkey
to her home; and when her mother had put on all her new garments, so
bright and pretty, she rode to the hospital. Although she was weak, when
she came with the other children she brightened up considerably and took
a keen interest in everything, even helping to sing the Christmas carols.
When the others had said their pieces, she insisted on saying hers and
repeated beautifully the whole fifty-first Psalm. Then she waited until
the refreshments were served—that most important part of a Christmas
celebration—and afterwards wishing everybody a Happy Christmas she was
placed on the back of the donkey and went home.
I wish you could have seen our Christmas tree on that occasion. It
consisted of a number of palm branches tied together and the gifts were
hung from the spikes of the branches,—presents old and new for all who
came. Most people would have been surprised at the absence of dolls, but
in Arabia these have to be given out sparingly and judiciously because
some of the Moslems are too much afraid of idol worship to appreciate
dolls in their homes. Therefore, we gave the children writing pads and
pencils, books and toys, beads and new dresses, small bags of rice for
the poorer scholars,—something for everybody. How joyfully each received
his or her gift!
Najma gathered up all the little things given to her and kept them close
by her side all the next day and took a great deal of pleasure in them;
but in the evening of that day we were suddenly called out to see her and
found her dying from heart failure following that week of fever. It was a
surprise and a shock to us all. In spite of her faults those who knew her
best could not help loving her. With tremendous difficulty she learned
to read the Gospel and was very proud of her attainment as it is only one
girl in a thousand among the Arabs who can read. To lose such a bright
little Arab girl seemed very sad at that time, but God makes no mistakes,
and we are so glad that this little girl had such a bright Christmas as
her last on earth. Think of the children who are in the hospital to-day,
many of them for the first time in contact with Christians, and that
some of them have never yet had their first Christmas in Arabia. There
are many, many little girls in this neglected country who would enjoy a
Christmas so much if only they knew as Najma did about the Babe born in
a manger for their sakes. It is nineteen hundred years ago that He came
to the world as its Saviour and yet there are so many countries where the
boys and girls have not yet heard of His coming.
If we would win the whole, round world for Jesus we must tell His story
all around the earth and give everybody a chance to read the story of His
life. Do you remember those beautiful verses of Father Tabb in regard to
the First Christmas?
“A little Boy of Heavenly birth
And far from Home to-day,
Comes down to find His ball, the earth,
Which sin has cast away.
Come, comrades, let us one and all
Join in to get Him back His ball.”
XVIII
THOSE WHO HAVE NEVER HEARD
If all Arabia is to hear the story of the Gospel, there are many zigzag
journeys yet to be made. The country is much larger than most people
imagine, and a great part of it is still unexplored. Fortunately the
unexplored sections of the great peninsula are nearly all uninhabited
as far as we know, but no one has been there to see or investigate. If
you were to travel from New York to Chicago and back on a camel, the
distance would be about as great as to cross Arabia once in its broadest
direction. Topsy Turvy Land is three times as large as the state of
Texas, the largest state in the Union. It is nearly as large as all
British India, excluding Burma, and if you spread Arabia out on the map
of Europe, without tucking in the corners, you could cover the whole of
France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, Servia,
Roumania, and Bulgaria.
The population of this great stretch of country with its table-lands
and deserts, its villages and encampments, is perhaps eight million;
and just as Arabia, with its four thousand miles of coast, has only
three lighthouses for ships that pass in the night, so the light of the
Gospel is shining in only a very few places along the coast, and hardly
at all in the interior. At Aden, and Muscat, and Bahrein, and Kuweit
and Busrah, as well as along the rivers as far as Bagdad, there are
lighthouses of the Gospel. Although only like little candles burning
in the night, they can be seen from a long distance. Patients come for
hundreds of miles to the hospitals, and when they go away, carry the
gospel message for hundreds of miles back to their villages. And yet what
are these few stations for so large a territory, and what can less than
forty missionaries do among so many people?
When the great Missionary Conference met at Edinburgh in 1910 and the
report was made on How to Carry the Gospel to all the non-Christian
World, it stated that “Of the eight million inhabitants of Arabia, it is
entirely safe to say that fully six million are without any missionary
agency.” One can travel from Bahrein across the mainland for 1,150 miles
without meeting a missionary or a mission station, all the way to Aden.
On the entire Red Sea Coast, as well as the south coast between Aden and
Muscat, there is no mission work. Of the six provinces of Arabia, only
three are occupied by mission stations. No one has ever preached the
Gospel at Mecca, where Mohammed was born, or at Medina, where he lies
buried, and although some ninety thousand pilgrims from every part of the
Moslem world pass through Jiddah every year on their way to Mecca, this
important city is still waiting for an ambassador of Jesus Christ.
Perhaps the most neglected class in this great neglected country are
the Bedouins, or nomads. Like Ishmael of old, “their hand is against
every man, and every man’s hand is against them.” Hated alike by the
town dwellers and the Turks, they are the roving gypsies of the Orient,
and yet they are so numerous and so closely bound together by tribal
ties that sometimes one can see their black tents spread out in vast
encampments like a city of tabernacles in the wilderness.
It is a strange life these children of Ishmael lead, a life full of its
joys and sorrows and desert hardships. Under the shadow of a black tent,
or the shade of an acacia bush, or perhaps behind a camel, the Arab baby
first sees the daylight. As soon as it is born, its mother gives it a
sand-bath, and the father gives it a name. For the rest, it is allowed
to grow up much as it pleases. Trained from birth in the hard school of
fatigue and hunger and danger, the Bedouin children grow up saucy and
impudent, but with cunning and a knowledge of all the ways of the desert
and the life of the caravans.
The Bedouin children have no books nor toys. They play with dead locusts
or dried-up camel’s bones; they make whistles out of desert grass, and
love to use the sling as David did, with pebbles from the brook when
he killed the giant. The girls help in the hard work of drawing water,
making butter and driving the camels to and from pasture. Although they
cannot read, and have no picture books, they all of them study without
ceasing the great picture book of nature, and their little dark eyes,
whether watching the sheep at pasture, or counting the stars in the
blue abyss from their perch on the lofty camel saddle in the midnight
journeyings, are never at rest.