p. 152 | WAYSIDE PREACHING by Adoniram Judson

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Mar 31, 1881

WAYSIDE PREACHING.

By Adoniram Judson

PART FIRST.

THE day was intensely hot, and the weary missionary sat alone in his zayat looking haggard and careworn. All day long he had repeated over and over again, as he could find listeners, such simple truths as mothers teach the little children on their knees. Among those who passed by, some scoffed, others were indifferent, but no one had cared to listen to the gracious message he had to give.

If he could only do something to fill up these tedious intervals. He might read, but no; this was a work to which he must not give a divided mind. While his face was hidden by a book, some poor native might lose his last chance of hearing the words of life. "God reigns, God Almighty reigns," he repeated, "and I have given myself to him, soul and body, for time and eternity. His will be done." Still the day seemed long; and with aching head and heavy heart he took up a little Burmese tract, as familiar to him as his own name, and began to read aloud. Attracted by his foreign accent, the passers-by turned their heads a moment to listen and then scornfully passed on. Finally a coarsely clad water-bearer lowered the vessel from her head and seated herself to listen. But the reading did not please her. Grinning in angry derision until her wrinkled visage became positively hideous, she arose, muttering to herself, "Jesus Christ! no nigban*! ha, ha, ha!"

With a sinking heart the missionary is about to lay aside his tract, when another shadow falls upon the path. A tall, dignified, aristocratic man leading a little boy, whose bright, button-like eyes are in perfect keeping with his dancing little feet, passes by.

"Papa! papa!" said the boy, with a merry little skip, "Look, look, papa! there is Jesus Christ's man." "Jesus Christ's man" raised his eyes from the book which he could read just as well without eyes, and bestowed one of his brightest smiles upon the little stranger, and received in return a pleased but faithful recognition. The father did not speak or turn his head, but a ray of sunshine went down into the missionary's heart from those happy little eyes. Somehow he felt that his hour's reading had not been in vain, and he continued it with increased earnestness and emphasis. A priest wrapped his yellow robes about him, and sat down upon the steps, as though for a moments' rest. Then another stranger, a philosopher, came boldly up and seated himself on the mat.

At night, in his closet, the missionary remembered both philosopher and priest; pleaded long and earnestly for the scoffing old water-bearer; and felt a warm tear stealing to his eye, as he presented the case of the tall stranger and the laughing, dancing ray of sunshine at his side.

Day after day went by, as hot, as dusty, and bringing as many feverish winds as ever; but the hours were less wearisome because of the little buds of promise which had been formed. Every day the stranger carried the same imperturbable face past the zayat, and the child made some silent advance towards friendship with the missionary. One day, as they came in sight, the missionary beckoned with his hand and the child with a single bound, came to his knee.

"Moung, Moung!" exclaimed the father in a tone of surprise blended with anger. But the child was back again in a moment, with a gay colored madras handkerchief wound around his head, and his eyes sparkling and dancing with joy. "You have a very fine boy there, sir," said the missionary, in a tone intended to be conciliatory. The stranger turned with a low bow and then hastened away.

"I do not think that zayat a very good place to go, Moung, Moung," said the father, gravely, when they were well out of hearing, "These white foreigners are—." He did not say what, but shook his head with a mysterious meaning. The boy's eyes grew larger and deeper, as he continued to look up into his father's face in wondering silence.

"Papa," at length said he.

"What, my son."

"You will not be angry?"

"Angry?" The soft smile on that stern, bearded face was a sufficient answer.

"Is it true that she,—my mother"—

"Hush, Moung Moung!"

"Is it true that my mother prayed to the Lord Jesus Christ?"

"Who dares to tell you so?"

"I must not say, papa; the one who told me said it was as much as life is worth to talk of such things to your son. Did she papa?"

"That is a very pretty turban the foreigner gave you."

"Did she?"

"And makes your bright eyes brighter than ever."

"Did my mother pray to the Lord Jesus Christ?"

"There, there! you have talked enough, my boy," said the father gloomily; and the two continued their walk in silence.

Upon inquiry the missionary learned that this man was a writer under the government, a very respectable man, but haughty and reserved.

"Does the teacher remember," continued the missionary's informant, "that three or four years ago a young woman came to you for medicine?"

The missionary smiled, "I should have a wonderful memory, Shuay-bay, if I carried all my applicants for medicine in it."

"But this one was not like other women. She had the face of an angel, and her voice—the teacher must remember her voice. It was like the silvery chimes of the pagoda bells at midnight. She was the favorite wife of the sah-ya, and this little boy, her only child, was very ill. She did not dare ask you to the house, or even send a servant for the medicine, for her husband was one of the most violent persecutors."

"Ay, I do recollect her, by her distress, and her warm gratitude. And so this is her child! What has become of the mother?"

"Has the teacher forgotten putting a gospel of Matthew in her hand, and saying that it contained medicine for her, for that she was afflicted with a worse disease than the fever of her little son; and then lifting up his hands and praying very solemnly?"

"I do not recall the circumstance, but what came of it?"

"They say," answered the Burman, lowering his voice, and casting an investigating glance around him—"they say the medicine cured her. She read the book nights, while watching by her baby; and then she would kneel down and pray as the teacher had done. At last her husband got the book."

"What did he do with it?"

"Only burned it. But she was a tender little creature, and could not bear his look; so, as the baby got out of danger, she took the fever and died. She got courage as she drew near the end, and begged her husband to send for you. He is not a hard hearted man; and he was more than life and soul to him, but he would not send. And so she died, talking to the last moment of the Lord Jesus, and calling on every body around her to love him and worship none but him."

"Is this true, Shway-bay?"

"I know nothing about it, teacher; it's not safe to know anything. The sah-ya has taken an oath to destroy every body having too good a memory. But"—and the man looked cautiously around him—"does the teacher think that little Burman children are likely to run into the arms of foreigners without being taught?"

"Aha! say you so, Shway-bay?"

"I say nothing, teacher."

The missionary seemed lost in thought and his assistant passed on his way.—Memoirs of Adoniram Judson.

(To be Continued.)