It was about ten years ago when I first saw Mary Carr. She was a woman of forty, healthy, resolute, keen of eye, and sharp of tongue; with a firm belief in herself, and very little belief in any other person or thing. She always had lived in a wide-awake village in Iowa, and now had come to "the East" to make her fortune. She proposed to make it by authorship or journalism, but I soon found that she knew no more of either kind of work than she did of ship-building.
People who live outside of the Atlantic seaboard cities can have little idea of the number of women, poor and unprotected, who rush into them yearly from the West and South with the hope of making their fortune, or at least a living. Nobody can blame them for coming. On most Western ranches the woman is overworked, and the loneliness of her life is intolerable; while in the smaller Southern towns the monotony, the pettiness of events in the slow-going hours, and days, and years, stifle and kill an active brain, just as the creeping gray moss smothers a living plant.
These women break away, and fly to "God's country," as they call it, to find companionship and work. At first their ideas are large. They clamor for the best and biggest kinds of work, and for high pay—above everything for high pay.
Mary Carr stopped in Philadelphia—they all stop in Philadelphia—and, finding it dull and cold—they all find it dull and cold—she hurried on to New York.
It has so happened that in every decade some woman of unusual power has come up from the South or West, and has conquered a foremost place in New York. Invariably she has been followed by a troop of poor incompetents, who have ended in wretched failure.
Mary Carr had read in her youth Mrs. Evans Wilson's "Beulah." Now that she needed money, why, she reasoned, should not she write a popular religious novel? There was no word of wisdom or wit in her that cried for utterance. She wanted work and pay for it. That was her only qualification for authorship.
She went to New York with two hundred dollars in her pocket, which she regarded as a large provision for the time of waiting until the great triumph should come. "My means," she often would say with complacency, "are ample—ample."
She brought with her manuscript poems and a novel, and she ground out an essay almost every day. She haunted publishers and editors. In the offices of Scribner's, Harpers', and the Appletons', her face was known to every proof-reader and errand boy. But at the end of three months not a line had been accepted.
Then she tried the newspapers. She wrote short stories, verses, and jokes. None were published. Her money was fast melting away. She tried reporting, and sometimes her "stuff," as she learned to call it, would go in, after much blue-penciling. Then, how proud and triumphant she was! Not because she had spoken well a word worth hearing, but because there were two stickfuls of her "stuff" in, and she would be paid so much a stick. But at last even these poor little successes ceased. She sank lower and lower; grew limp and bloodless; began to take a little whisky at night instead of dinner—
It was like some live creature lost on a bog, slowly sucked down, inch by inch, to the black death below. One day she was gone.
Nobody saw her at the last, nor knew how or when the end came.
Now, let me tell you of another woman—Jane Sevier. The names, of course, are fictitious, but the stories are absolutely true.
Jane lived in Iturbide, one of the deadest of the dead villages on the Mexican Gulf. There once had been some good orange groves in Iturbide. But the great frost had put a sudden end to that industry, and nobody as yet had found the energy to plant another tree. The pigs rooted, unchecked, through the hummocks, and their owners sat all day long on the porch of the post-office smoking and playing dominoes. As long as there were fish in the gulf and game in the woods, nobody was afraid of starvation. Iturbide was content.
Jane Sevier was not content. She was the daughter of the post-master—a lean, clean-skinned, fair-haired woman of thirty. She made her first protest against the lazy, grimy life around her by a personal cleanliness so marked as to be offensive to her neighbors. She always wore a close-fitting gown of dark blue cotton stuff with white collar and cuffs, a perpetual reproach to the other women lounging all day in greasy Mother Hubbards of violent hues.
"Jane," her neighbors said, "had been to Orleans too often, and got high notions there." It spoiled a woman for every-day use to travel.
"I'm tired of the dirt, and drink, and the dead laziness at home," she told a friend who came once to the town.
"Do you mean to leave Iturbide?" he asked. "You can easily find work in New Orleans or Mobile."
"No, I can be clean and useful, and earn my living at home. I'll stay right here, and pull Iturbide up with me."
She kept her word. She began with the help of a couple of negroes by regrafting the orange trees of her father's grove. She went to Biloxi, and learned there how figs were preserved, and shrimps cooked, before they were canned for the New Orleans market. Then she came home, and canned figs and shrimps in her own kitchen. She had a keen intelligence and nimble fingers, but her chief strength lay in her ability to make others work. In a year she had the most trusty, handy negroes in the village busy in her grove and canning factory. As her trade increased she opened a shop, and added to her canned goods home-made jellies and pickles, and sent her advertisements throughout the Gulf States, bringing in a large and steady trade. Iturbide11slowly, very slowly, awoke, rose to the situation, and proceeded to clean and bestir itself to greet the strangers who now came to it. The pigs were fenced in, the old orange groves replanted, a brisk trade in fish and game started up, and there had been lately a good deal of talk about a new hotel. Jane does not interfere in this and other vague projects, but when she thinks that the new hotel is needed, the talk will stop, and it will be built.
Jane Sevier has not made a great fortune, but she has conquered a stable, sound prosperity. She has work enough and pleasure enough to keep her healthy and contented. Her neighbors respect her, and her friends, who look behind the canning and trading abilities of the woman, love her.
Now, why did one woman succeed, and the other make such a shipwreck of body and soul? Simply because one ventured out into unknown seas with neither knowledge, skill, nor chart, and the other took up work which was familiar to her, among people whom she knew and could influence.
I wish that the Independent could reach every discontented, needy woman outside of the great cities of the United States, that I could urge them to stay outside of them, as they value their soul's health and their body's health. They have no money, perhaps; but in the place where they are known they have capital, which they can not take with them, in the influence of family and friends, and in the respect and confidence of the community. Or, if they have not, if they never have been able to conquer influence, and respect, and love at home in all the years that are gone, how will they get them in the seething life of a strange town? Let us throw a little daylight of common sense onto this thing.
There are other possessions which a woman gives up when she rushes into the town—the sense of stability, of rest, of comfort, which belong to the old, familiar places. They know her. They are her dumb, faithful friends. The pigeons, cooing in the oaks which shade the homestead, have something to say to her which she will never hear again in the roar of Chicago or New York. The sense of stability, or repose, in honor, in friendly faces, the affection of dumb things, are part of the capital of life which we do not set down in our schedule of property. But how starved the days are without them!
The lives of most women who rush into strange cities to earn their living are not only starved, but are failures. The story of the one woman who succeeds goes back to her old home, the others end in silence. Here is one significant fact: The lower classes of employees in the great department stores and factories are recruited from farms and country villages, and the worst houses in New York and Philadelphia are recruited from the department stores and factories.
But a woman may debase and hopelessly foul her life, and remain as chaste as Diana. Take Mary Carr as an example, which will stand for thousands. If she had had genius or talent, or even that popular knack of hiding common thoughts in uncommon phrasing, she could have made her way with editors and publishers quite as rapidly by writing at home in the old farm-house as in New York. Being in New York and hungry, she took up the baser work in journalism, work of which the readers of the Independent probably never heard. Thousands of sharp, unscrupulous women earn their bread to-day by such work. They prowl into obscure and filthy quarters of life to find a sensational item to sell to the Sunday papers. It is they who fill "Personal" columns with anecdotes of the men and women who are known to the public through their books or official position. It is they who invent stories of Mrs. Roosevelt's dealings with her children, or the boyhood of this general, or the love affairs of that poet. The poor creatures probably never saw one of the men and women whom they malign. They could not comprehend their political actions, or the books which they have written, or their lives, but they can invent foul personal anecdotes about them, and they know that no "stuff" which they can offer to certain newspapers will be as secure of ready sale as these. It is not the man who sells poisonous toadstools who is to blame, it is the public that relishes and eats toadstools.
There are still lower depths of blackmailing, etc., to which these poor women sink. But I have said enough. Why should any good, pure, Southern girl leave her home to try her future in such muddy ways as these?
The chance of success is in staying at home. In almost every country town there is one clever woman, who, like Jane Sevier, has pushed her way up to comfort and influence. She is a florist, or a milliner, a librarian, or the editor of a paper; she makes jam, or she has nature classes in summer for city children. She does not go into the city to live, but she brings some fad or taste or demand of the city to her country home, and earns her living by gratifying it.
The noblest name ever given to the President was that of the Great Father. If we only had a Great Mother, who could lead the myriads of American women that are struggling for money and fame into the ways of simplicity and common sense!
Tom was not a bad boy; indeed, his teacher had classed him among the pretty good boys. He had his faults, but I am not going to tell them to you. One day he got "all twisted up," as he called it. Things went wrong, and he disobeyed his teacher. I can not tell tales out of school, so you shall not know just what he did; but it was something very wrong.
The next morning, instead of a pleasant smile and a cheery greeting, Miss Hall, his teacher, saw only a hurried glance and a troubled downward look.
After prayers Tom was sent to a room by himself, that he might think and decide what to do. He was not to join in his class work till he had decided. Tom thought; he knew that he had done wrong. He was sorry, for he loved his teacher, and he had seldom been punished; but Miss Hall felt that his offense could not be overlooked. At the recess she went in to see him, and said:—
"Well, my boy, what shall we do?"
"I don't know, teacher," he replied, "I did very wrong, and I'm sorry."
"I know you are sorry," said the teacher, "and I dislike to punish you, but I do not see how I can help it; do you?"
"No, ma'am. I know I ought to be punished."
"What shall it be, my boy?"
"Just what you say, teacher."
"Are you willing in some way to tell the boys what you have told me?"
"I am willing," Tom answered eagerly.
"Will you write it on the board, or say it?"
"I had rather write it, teacher." So together Tom and his teacher went back to the school-room, and on the blackboard, behind the teacher's table, Tom wrote, and you may be sure the room was very still when Tom was writing. You could hear the clock tick. Tom felt rather flustered by the unusual silence, and could not remember to spell as well as usual. He stopped at one word and, looking up to his teacher, said in a low voice, "How do you spell sorry, Miss Hall—with two 'r's, or one?" He will never forget how to spell that word, I know.
When he had finished writing, he slipped back into the room, and let the blackboard tell its own story, and they read:—
"I disobeyed my teacher yesterday; I am sorry, and I will try to do as she wishes in future.
"THOMAS CARR."
Then the teacher said, "I know you will all be generous enough to say nothing of this to the one who has so nobly confessed his wrong." Then she wrote Res—meaning Reserve—above the words, and there they stood all day. Tom saw them every time he looked up and often when he didn't, too, and he thought, "O dear, if I had not done wrong; if I could only take it back and rub out those hateful words."
The next morning Tom dreaded to go to school, thinking of the handwriting on the board, till the bell rang and the teacher said, "I have rubbed out the words that were written here yesterday. Will the scholars get their Bibles and read what is in their place?" for in place of Tom's confession the teacher had written "Isa. 43:25."
Every Bible was quickly turned, and the passage silently read, and many a quick, intelligent glance turned towards the desk. "Please, teacher, let us read it together," said one.
So all read in subdued tones these beautiful words: "I, even I am He that blotted out thy transgressions for Mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins."—Children's Messenger.
HOW TO MAKE CHILDREN LOVELY.
THERE is just one way, and that is to surround them by day and night with an atmosphere of love. Restraint and reproof may be mingled with the love, but love must be a constant element. "I found my little girl was growing unamiable and plain," said a mother to us the other day, "and reflecting on it sadly, I could only accuse myself as the cause thereof. So I changed my management, and improved every opportunity to praise and encourage her, to assure her of my unbounded affection for her, and my earnest desire that she should grow up to lovely and harmonious womanhood. As a rose opens to the sunshine, so the child-heart opened in the warmth of the constant affection and caresses I showered upon her; her peevishness passed away, her face grew beautiful, and now one look from me brings her to my side obedient to my will, and happiest when she is nearest me." Is there not in this a lesson for all parents? Not all the plowing or weeding or cultivation of every sort we can give our growing crops will do for them what the steady shining of the sun can effect. Love is the sunshine of the family; without it not character, nor morality, nor virtue can be brought to perfection.—Anon.
A CURE FOR CRIME.
A writer in the North American Review asserts that manual training is almost as good a preventive of crime as vaccination is of smallpox.
"What per cent. of prisoners under your care have received any manual training?" a Northern man asked the warden of a Southern penitentiary.
"Not one per cent.," replied the warden.
"Have you no mechanics in prison?"—"Only one mechanic—a house-painter."
"Have you any shoemakers?"—"Never had a shoemaker."
"Have you any tailors?"—"Never had a tailor."
"Any carpenters?"—"Never had a man in prison that could draw a straight line."—Michigan Christian Advocate.
Escape From the Boxers
HOW A CHRISTIAN CHINESE FAMILY KEPT THE FAITH.
The Thrilling Story of Escape from the Boxers by a Participant in the Events.
[The following experience is that of the family of Deacon Wau, of the First Congregational Church in Peking, told in the words of his wife. They lived in a large court with several other families, some of whom were Boxers. Here is Mrs. Wau's story.]
WE were not afraid, tho we felt anxious on account of our four children. If we should be killed and they left, who would care for them? June 13 I was alone in the house with the children. All day the neighbors had been talking of the terrible things that were to happen to the Christians. I heard of the burning of the Methodist Episcopal Mission and the London Mission—heard the shouting on the street of "kill! kill! kill!" About eight o'clock I could see the flames of the American Board chapel and hear the noise made by the multitude gathered about the place. My husband did not come, and I thought he had been killed. I took the children all upstairs and then sat down and waited. They were crying for their father. While trying to comfort them, a friend came quietly upstairs and told me not to make any noise, but to come out on the street, where my husband was waiting for me. My little two-year-old girl was asleep, and I thought I would first go and see what was wanted and then come back for her.
We went out in the street, and there in a dark corner was my husband. His first words were: "Where is our precious baby, can it be you have left her?" I said no, I wanted to see him first, and then if we were going to try to escape I would go back for her. The young man who had called me out said: "You must not one of you go back into that court; I will get the baby. You stay here in this corner, but don't speak; if the people in the court know you are trying to get away, they will call out." So he went in, got the baby, and left the lamp burning so they would think we were still there.
We made our way along in the dark to a near court where a Christian family were living. From this court Mr. Wau climbed to the top of a temple belonging to a rich man living in a court at the front.
I stood below, and he whispered down to me what he saw and heard. We heard the church-bell at American Board chapel fall and a general shouting of voices. Afterward a man went by, calling out, "If there are any followers of the foreign devils about they had better escape at once, as a house-to-house search is to be made by the Boxers before midnight. Every follower will be killed." From the temple roof my husband saw them go to our house three times.
At last he said, it is no use to think we can escape them, but we will try. Don't let the children make a bit of noise. I will carry them one by one to the roof here, then we can talk and plan. He took the children up and one by one carried them along the wall, then got onto the roof. I told my little girl not to cry, that papa would be very careful. She said, "Yes," and was perfectly still. I do not know how I managed to climb to the top of that eight-foot wall, to walk along the narrow top and then crawl up the roof of the temple. All the time it seemed as if I was helped from behind. A big tree overshadowed the roof and we hid under the branches, watching the burning of the chapel and homes of the friends we loved. All over the city were fires, and the screaming of the mob was terrible. It was a horrible night. At last we climbed into the tree and reached the ground—bruised and torn. We hid in a little empty room back of the temple.
The Chinese Christian Family Whose Experience Is Related in the Accompanying Article.
At last, about light, one of the servants saw us and told his master. We all six of us got down on our knees and entreated them to hide us for a few days; but they said no, there was to be a house-to-house search in the city, and if they sheltered Christians then they would suffer. I borrowed a needle and thread, and sewed up the rents in our garments; they gave the children some bread, and we went out. My husband walked ahead carrying the baby, and I followed after with the other three children. Soon we met a band of soldiers; some did not notice us; others said: "Here are some. Let's kill them." Others said, "Let them go; can you not see it is one family? Let them off this time." Even with the knives drawn I did not tremble.
They went on and we made our way first to the home of my sister-in-law. They were very kind to us, and said we will all die together. We had been there but a short time when their landlord came and said we must go. Our relatives entreated for us and with us, but no, "go" was the word. They hired a cart for us, and we left the city by the east side gate. We went to a cemetery and hid there till dark. We heard people on the road saying that all the foreigners had been killed, and when we reached the quiet spot of the dead it seemed as if our hearts would break. With one voice we lifted up our hearts and cried till it seemed as tho our eyes were gone.
After dark we made our way to some relatives living a mile from the cemetery. At first they welcomed us, but some one came and told them the Boxers were coming for us. Then they said we must go. My husband told them to hide us in their brush pile and if the Boxers came they would set fire to it. I told them we were not afraid of death; what we feared was that we could not all die together. At last they let us go into an empty room at the back of the yard. The children went to sleep at once. So did their father, but my heart was so sad I could not sleep. About midnight the man of the family came and said that we must get up and go on. They did not dare have us stay any longer. We went out into the cold and darkness. My oldest daughter lost her shoes, and went in her stocking feet. We all had blisters on our feet, as we were not used to walking. We went through a village, and, tho we did not talk and walked very quietly, the dogs commenced to bark. Some one called out "Who goes there?" We said, "Travelers." "I know who you are, you are followers of devils and are out scattering medicine," said the man who had hailed us. He then called to his neighbors, and we
turned off into the fields and hurried along. We went to a village where we had some distant relatives, but found no open door. We walked for some distance until we came to a large family cemetery. The keeper was a kind man and lived there all alone. He told us to come in, and said he would do his best, but the owner of the place was a Boxer, and it was not safe for Christians to stay. He got us some supper. It was very poor and dry. Our lips were all cracked from fever and thirst, and I asked him to give us some porridge.
We had a quiet night, but in the morning the keeper said it would not do for us to stay. Then my husband became discouraged. He said, "The best and only thing for us to do is to go and give ourselves to the Boxers. We will only ask them to please kill the children first, and then you and I will die together. The suffering will not last over two hours, and then all sorrow will be over." I agreed to this. He then called the three oldest children, Wau Ping, Paul, and Peter, and said to them:—
"My children, your father would suffer for you if he could, but he can not. The Boxers will ask you if you are Christians; if you say no, they will let you off; if you say yes, then they will kill you; but that only means suffering for a little." The children one after another said, "I will say I am a Christian, I love Jesus, I am not afraid to die."
It did not seem as tho we could walk any more. At last the keeper said he would see if he could get the cart of a friend. He went out, and we all had prayer together. After a time the cart came, and we started for Peking. We did not meet any Boxers, but saw them in the distance. We went to one of the church member's homes, only to find it13in ruins, then to a place we owned but had rented. Our tenants not only would not take us in, but refused to pay us money they owed us. We drove from street to street: At last I saw my husband was nearly desperate, and I whispered to him, "God has let us come all this road and we have not met Boxers; we must not seek death; perhaps He means us to live."
The carter then got to talking with some people and learned that the Methodist Episcopal Mission had not been attacked, so with great joy we made our way across the city and were received with open arms. The children jumped up and down in the cart and said, "It is almost as nice as getting to heaven." It did seem so to us after the anxious hours. During the siege our dear little girl died. — The Congregationalist.
BRINGING SHEAVES.
Eyes are oftentimes so tearful,
Looking for life's meaning true,
Hearts are often faint and fearful
For the good ye strive to do.
Thus an angel, in my dreaming,
Whispered for the soul that grieves,
"Hands that fail, to human seeming,
Oft bring in the richest sheaves."
Not alone the weak one sinneth
Who has faltered on the way;
Not alone the strong man winneth
In the radiant blaze of day;
God's clear vision, searching slowly
Flowers and fruitage 'mid the leaves,
Sees how oft His children lowly
Bend beneath the richest sheaves.
Waiting while the sunrise only
Lights the brows of reapers dead,
Toiling through the sunset lonely,
We may still be comforted;
Like the flower diffusing sweetness
When we crush its tender leaves,
So from pain we find completeness
In the beauty of our sheaves.
Ye whose earthly mission seemeth
But to suffer—not to do,
Love from strain and dross redeemeth
Every life with purpose true;
And the smile of heaven lingers
Longest round the soul that grieves,
While the frail and patient fingers
Oft bring home the richest sheaves.
—Anon.
OUR WORK AND WORKERS.
By Editor
A NEW house of worship has been completed at Oshweken, Ont.
A CAMP-MEETING is now in progress at St. Peter, Mich., to continue till the 28th inst.
AT the recent camp-meeting at Boonville, Mo., twenty-five candidates were baptized.
THE date of this paper is the time set for the opening of the fall term of the Southern Training School at Graysville, Tenn.
NINE heads of families keeping the Sabbath in Galt, Ont., is a report in the Messenger concerning recent labors there, and a good interest continues.
THE name of the Ontario Messenger has been changed to The Messenger, and the publication office has been removed from Toronto to Brantford.
THE office of the Texas Tract Society has been moved from Dallas to Keene. Correspondents and patrons will save time and perhaps delay of business by noting the change.
ON the 2d ult., after a sermon by Brother J. M. Rees in the Second S. D. A. Church, Kansas City, Mo., ten persons were baptized. On the previous Sabbath four persons were admitted to membership in the First church.
AUGUST 16, at the Coshocton, Ohio, camp-meeting, twenty-five persons were baptized. M. C. Kirkendall, N. W. Lawrence, J. O. Miller, C. C. Webster, Francis M. Fairchild, and W. H. Granger were ordained to the Gospel ministry on the same day.
LABOR by Brother Wm. Simpson and Eugene Leland, at Sodom, Ont., is giving encouraging results. Twelve are keeping the commandments of God, and before the tent season closes it is expected that a church organization will be effected. A building has been donated for meeting purposes, and the outlook is favorable.
THE St. Helena, Cal., Star, of recent date, has this item: "The Sanitarium people have built a new schoolhouse near the Health Food Company's factory. This school, we understand, is to be conducted by the Seventh-day Adventists. The members of the sect are becoming so numerous in the vicinity of Sanitarium that a denominational school has been decided upon."
WRITING from Demerara, South Africa, July 28, 1902, Brother J. A. Morrow says: "One week ago yesterday we had a baptism. Ten followed their Lord in this solemn rite. Twelve were admitted to membership in the church. These are all fruit of our meetings since the 1st of June. Owing to these additions and a good prospect of others, we are sadly in need of a church, and need help to build one."
OKLAHOMA CONFERENCE reports a successful camp-meeting and conference session. Many came in wagons from twenty-five to two hundred miles. There were about eight hundred campers. Services were conducted in both German and English. Brother G. H. Haffner was elected president; T. J. Eagle, treasurer and secretary of the tract society. Eighteen persons were given licenses to preach the Gospel.
STANDING THE TEST.
By s.
THE terrible experiences through which the native Chinese Christians were compelled to pass will probably never be known in full by the Christian world. That those experiences, however, were such as would try men's souls has been abundantly shown; but it is good to know that in those trying times their faith sustained them, and that almost none abandoned their profession. A missionary who has returned to his old station at Lin Chin writes as follows of the conditions there:—
At present I am trying to gather up some of the fragments to revive the faith of the Christians, which has been so severely tried in the last two years, open the chapels, and repair the house. The mob made a clean sweep of the other compounds, and carried off the doors and windows of the old place. By the expenditure of a few hundred dollars, the latter can be put in order so two families can live here—at least temporarily.
The opening of the chapel has had a good effect. The audiences are better than two years ago, and as might be expected, there are a few inquirers.
I can not learn that any one here recanted. Time and persistent inquiry are required to make sure on this point, but at the very worst, those who recanted could not have been more than two or three.
If any were losing faith in the success of Christian missions in China, this fortitude of the native Christians under the fire of bitter persecution should be sufficient answer to their questioning, and remove every such doubt.
s.
PORTO RICAN PUBLIC SCHOOLS.
By M. G. Brumbaugh
[Professor M. G. Brumbaugh, in the Congregationalist.]
THE first Legislature which convened in Porto Rico after the island came under American protection enacted a new school law, based upon the conditions in Porto Rico, and in strict harmony with American ideals. Under its provisions at least ten and not more than twenty per cent. of all municipal funds are set aside as a school fund. Thus the schools on the financial side were lifted absolutely out of politics, and placed upon a sound financial basis. The average amount of municipal funds voted to the schools was about sixteen per cent., and in some cases the municipality petitioned for permission to vote as much as twenty-five per cent. of their funds for school purposes. The Legislature also voted the department of education, in 1900-1901, $400,000; in 1901-1902, $501,000, besides a fund of $15,000 to maintain young men and women in schools in the United States.
American teachers to the number of 126 are at work teaching English in the schools. Through them many native teachers have learned the best methods, and have acquired the English language. To-day almost every teacher in the island speaks and teaches English. There are fully 40,000 children using the English language, and singing our national hymns in the tongue of the great republic.
Porto Rico, two years ago, did not have a single schoolhouse. Spain in 400 years erected not one. The United States military government erected one poor frame structure which fire destroyed. The department of education announced that it would erect school buildings, if the municipalities would donate suitable ground. In every case this was done. The sites are in each case large—usually one acre—and convenient. To-day more than fifty first-class brick, stone, and concrete buildings are in use. In twenty-two of these new buildings school is supplemented by actual work in agriculture. Each pupil spends part of each day cultivating the soil on the school grounds. Over 1,200 youths are learning practical agriculture. The poor people of Porto Rico are making unusual sacrifices to educate their children. No compulsory law is necessary. Attendance is higher in percentage than in any State of the Union except Massachusetts, which State exceeds Porto Rico only by one per cent.
PUBLICATIONS WANTED.
LATE, clean copies of the Signs and Sentinel for missionary work. Address, post-paid, E. Walton, Huntsville, Ala.
Clean Copies for Missionary Work
LATE, clean copies of the SIGNS, Sentinel, and Little Friend, for missionary work. Address, post-paid, A. E. Dickerson, 508 Third Street, Temple, Tex.
THE FRESNO CAMP-MEETING.
By Alonzo T. Jones
OUR annual camp-meeting and conference is once more at hand. We have had two local camp-meetings in the conference this year—at Petaluma and at Eureka. Both have been excellent. Of course we expect nothing else than the annual camp-meeting for the whole conference shall be of the same order, and even better. Time is rapidly closing. Events that can ultimately only sink the world are occurring on every hand. The Third Angel's Message is rapidly being clothed with that great power by which it is to enlighten the earth with its glory. You can not afford not to be as fully as possible acquainted with these things. At the general meeting of the whole conference, when the leading general workers of the Message are present, is the best possible place to get acquainted with all these things. Brother A. G. Daniells, president of the General Conference, has just completed a tour of the European and Eastern fields, and we have the promise that he will be at our meeting, and probably other general workers from the East. Sister White also will be at the meeting.
The presence of these workers will present an opportunity at this meeting, of becoming acquainted with the whole work of the Message in its latest developments in all the world, that has not in this conference been equaled in years, if ever. And when shall we have such an opportunity again? Therefore, brethren and sisters, do not allow any possibly-preventable thing to keep you from this meeting.
The meeting begins September 30 and continues till October 12. Come at the beginning, and stay till the closing meeting. The meeting will be a continual school in the study of the principles and work of the Third Angel's Message. Come! What are we in the world for but to "know what Israel ought to do," and to do it? Therefore, of all things do not miss this camp-meeting and conference, at Fresno, September 30 to October 12.
