A DRINK OF WATER by Olive Thorne Miller

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Aug 18, 1881

A DRINK OF WATER.

By Olive Thorne Miller

"Papa, I want a drink of water, now," said Maud. "I can't wait half an hour."

For answer, papa closed his book, and said quietly:—

"Maudie, let us play 'supposing' a little while."

This was a favorite game, and Maud hesitated only a moment, while the scowling wrinkles went out of her forehead, when she said heartily, "O yes! let's."

"Well; supposing," began papa, as soon as Maud was comfortably seated on his knee, "supposing we lived in Egypt, where palm-trees grow and it seldom rains; and I wore a turban, and a robe hanging down to my feet, and smoked a pipe with a long tube; and supposing that mamma sat on a cushion on the floor, and never went out of the house till she was wrapped up in a thick vail so that you couldn't see anything of her but her eyes; and supposing you never went to school or learned to read, but ran around the house bare-footed, and had half a dozen black slaves to fan you and wait on you;—then what would you do if you wanted a drink of water?"

"Order a slave to get it, I suppose," said Maud.

"But supposing it wasn't time for the water-carrier to come—for you could only get it from a carrier, and after you had waited a long time, and he did come, he carried only a bag, made by taking the skin off of a goat, and sewing up the legs."

"Faugh!" said Maud, "water out of a bag would be horrid!"

"Well, then, you'd have to wait till another carrier came, who carried an earthen jar, with the water perfumed with orange flowers, and perhaps a sprig of orange sticking out of the mouth."

"But I should think that would be most as bad as the other," said Maud.

"It would not be very cold, certainly, and if you couldn't drink it you would have to do without," said papa. "There are very few countries where one can get fresh, sweet water by turning a screw."

"But supposing," said Maud, "that we didn't live in dry old Egypt, but in—in"—

"In the island of Bermuda, for instance," said papa, when she hesitated, "where you said the other day you wanted to go; where the magnolias nearly cover the houses; where there is not a stream nor a well on the island, and every drop of water they have to drink or use is caught on the roofs of the houses. You'd have to take your drink out of a cistern."

"Cistern water is dreadful," said Maud. "I don't see how they can drink it! It must be awful dirty, too."

"The roofs are covered with white plaster on purpose to be sweet and clean, but I dare say it is not so nice as we like it. But if we lived in Constantinople"—went on papa—"the beautiful city that travelers tell so much about, you'd have to buy your drink of water. And since you are so notional about it, I think none would suit you, except that brought from a particular spring sixty or seventy miles away, which is brought in a steamer, and sold in a shop like other foreign luxuries."

"How funny to buy a drink of water!" said Maud.

"Many people have to buy water," said papa. "In the Himalayas the carriers bring the precious stuff in joints of bamboo—great things nearly a foot through, and as tall as the man himself. He binds two of these water buckets together and carries them on his back; and in Venice—the wonderful city in the sea, where the streets are canals, and they step from the house door into a boat—in Venice, water is brought every day fresh in a vessel, and served out from a tank, and no one can get a drop except at certain hours of the day."

"How queer!" said Maud. "I thought there was plenty of water everywhere."

"O no," said papa, "I haven't told you the worst. Supposing you were traveling in dry, parched-up Africa; then indeed you might have trouble to get a drink of water. But even there Nature has hidden away plenty of water, by the cupful; the only thing is to know how to find it."

"What do you mean, papa?" asked Maud, for she began to think papa was joking.

"I mean what I say. Suppose you were traveling in that hot country, and the water was all gone, your guide would begin to look carefully about him, and when he saw a certain small stem, about big as a slate pencil, he would throw down everything and begin to dig. Perhaps you would laugh at him, but in a moment he would bring up a cup of delicious cool water, and you would drink and be thankful."

"Now, papa, I most know you're making fun of me."

"Indeed, I am not. The cup is the root of the plant; it is as big as a baby's head, and full of water, and being underground is always cool and nice. Perhaps instead of this plant, we would find a small common-looking vine. He would first strike the ground around it, till it gave a peculiar sound, and then he would dig a foot or two down, in a circle around the plant, and bring out several cups of water. Or, if you were among the Caffres of Africa you would get your water from a watermelon; not only you and all the people, but the animals too."

"I should like that best," said Maud.

"If all these ways failed," papa continued, "your guide would look about for a vegetable ivory tree, and if the nuts were green, every one would be full of water, and you would pick your cup of water from a tree. If, however, they were half ripe, the fluid would be thicker, and if fully ripe you would find it solid and white."

"But suppose he couldn't find any of these plants, what then?" asked Maud.

"Well," said papa, reflecting, "he would look out for a great baobab tree, which grows sometimes to be thirty feet through the trunk. They often become hollow, by age and decay, and in the rainy season they are filled up with water. The shade of the tree above keeps the water fresh and nice for a long time, so you might drink the cistern water in Africa, and probably you would pay for it, too."

"But how could we get it out?"

"At some of these trees it is drawn out in leather buckets, and in some a hole is bored through from the outside, so that it will spout out when wanted."

"Ugh! I shouldn't like that!" said Maud.

"You might think it delicious—if you were thirsty enough," said papa. "But let us leave Africa; suppose we were in Madagascar. There we should look about for another tree, the travelers' tree, which has a cup of water at the bottom of every leaf."

"That's very queer," said Maud.

"Queer, perhaps, but true," said papa. "The tree looks like a huge green fan stuck up in the ground. There are no branches, and the great leaves, ten or fifteen feet long, stand out around the trunk like the sticks of a palm-leaf fan. Where each leaf joins the body of the tree is a sort of cup which catches the water when it rains, and holds it a long time. We should only have to pierce a hole through one of the leaf-stalks, and the water would spout out. But if one could not find any travelers' tree, one might look for a vine called the water withe. It looks something like a grape-vine, and has a stem as big as my wrist, which hangs in festoons from one tree to another. There a delicious drink, one needs only to cut out a piece of the stem; if it is a yard long it will yield two full goblets of water."

"The prettiest water-cups in the world," went on papa, "grow in Borneo; the island I read you about, where the houses are set up on stilts, and the bridges and walks made of slippery bamboo stems."

"O yes! I remember," said Maud, "and where the baby Mias lived."

"Yes; the water-cups there are in the shape of elegant pitchers and vases, and they grow on the ends of the leaves of graceful vines. They are of all shapes and sizes, from some that hold only a pint, to others that require two quarts to fill them. Some festoon themselves over trees, and hang their beautiful cups from all sides; while others lie on the ground, and hold up their gay little pitchers in a circle around the stem."

"How odd they must look, papa!" broke in Maud; "are they green, like the leaves?"

"O no! they are of the gayest colors, like flowers. Some are pea-green and purple, some are green and red, and others are flesh-colored. One kind is bright crimson, and another is deep purple. The smallest is about three inches high."

"O how cunning!" exclaimed Maud.

"And the largest more than twenty inches," added papa, "and nearly every one has a pretty cover which closes, it is said, when the pitcher is full."

"Do they hold good water?" asked Maud, "I should think it would be warm."

"It is warm, and insects get into it, but travelers say that the taste is not unpleasant. But now supposing that we take a big ship and sail away from this island; we will turn our prow to the rising sun, and keep close to the equator all the time. Let me see—where do you suppose we'll come out?"

Maud jumped down and ran to the big atlas, which she opened at the map of the world. Looking at the map was always part of the "supposing" game.

"Here's Borneo," she cried, putting her plump forefinger on it, and nearly covering up the unfortunate island altogether. "I found it yesterday, you know. But we can't sail east, papa, we'll run against another island."

"Supposing we sail around that, and go dodging among all these islands?"

"What a lot of them!" said Maud. "I shouldn't think we could help hitting some of them in our big ship."

"They're not so near together on the ocean as they are on the map," said papa, smiling. "But go on. Where do we strike land that it isn't so easy to sail around?"

"South America!" shouted Maud eagerly, "almost exactly at Quito."

"Well; supposing we leave our ship and go back into the country, where it is so rocky that hardly a green thing is seen, and not a stream or a spring to be found; what would you do there for a drink of water?"

"I 'spose I'd go without," said Maud, "I don't believe any water-cups grow there."

"They do, though; in the shape of the only plant which can flourish in such a place—the cactus."

"Like those in the greenhouse?" asked Maud, with interest, "ugly prickly things!"

"The same family, but of different kinds," said papa. "Many of them are full of water. One especially—the Melo Cactus—is round in shape, and as big through as a dining plate. It is covered with sharp thorns, and an ugly thing to handle, but it is a treasure in that country; it is more than a cup, it is a big bowl of water. The natives prize it very highly, and even the animals are said to break it open carefully with their hoofs, and drink the contents. But perhaps by this time you're tired of water, and would prefer a glass of milk."

"O yes! I should!" answered Maud.

"Well, then, we would have to hunt up a cow-tree."

"A what?" cried Maud.

"A cow-tree, which gives milk," went on papa, while Maud's eyes grew bigger and bigger.

"You only need to stick a knife into the trunk, to get a stream of beautiful white milk, almost exactly like that which you drink every day, only with a pleasant odor."

"I should be afraid to drink it," said Maud.

"You need have no fear," said papa. "The natives drink it all the time, and it is entirely harmless. There are several water plants in that country. One is a vine something like the water withe, only it is like a running brook inside the stem, and you have to hurry your drink, or it would all run out on the ground. Another supply of water is to be found in the roots of a certain forest tree which grows there. In fact, Maudie, there's hardly a place in the world where that precious fluid is not to be found by those who know how to look for it, though you'll never be able to go and see for yourself, till you learn to wait half an hour for your drink of water."—

Olive Thorne Miller, in Examiner and Chronicle.