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 LIBRARY OF THE THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 PRINCETON. N. J. 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 The. author. 
 BV 3280 .P8 A54 1925 
 Anderson, Howard Elmer. 
 Gospel romance in the huts 
 of the Punjab 
 

 
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GOSPEL ROMANCE IN THE HUTS 
 OF THE PUNJAB 
 

 
 > 
 
 ‘Every one that drinketh of this water shall thirst again.’ 
 
 (The water-carrier called bihishti or “heavenly one” 
 quenches ever-recurring thirst in the parched Punjab.) 
 
| Gospel Romance in the Huts 
 of the Punjab 
 
 Glimpses of Missionary Activity in the Villages of 
 Northwest India 
 
 By / 
 HOWARD E. ANDERSON 
 
 Missionary, The Board of Foreign Missions of 
 the Presbyterian Church, U.S. A. 
 
 Introduction by 
 CHARLES R. ERDMAN, D.D., LL.D. 
 
 
 
 New York CHICAGO 
 
 Fleming H. Revell Company 
 
 LonDON AND EDINBURGH 
 
Copyright, 1925, by 
 FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
 New York: 158 Fifth Avenue 
 Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. 
 London: 21 Paternoster Square 
 Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street 
 
TO MY WIFE, 
 Missionary and Home-Maker 
 Among the Huts. 
 

 
Introduction 
 
 modern missions are impressively portrayed 
 by these miniature sketches of real life in 
 the mud built villages of India. 
 
 The author has been itinerating among the 
 primitive peasants of the Punjab. His eyes, 
 opened by the touch of Christian sympathy, have 
 seen, beneath the squalor, the suffering, the igno- 
 rance and the sin of these outcastes, immortal souls 
 for whom Christ died. 
 
 With a few deft touches of the pen, almost on a 
 single page, each picture is made complete. 
 
 In each there is a background of Oriental cus- 
 toms, of ancient superstitions, of poverty, of pathos 
 and of mystery. 
 
 In the foreground are moving figures, who, by 
 appearance, by word and by act, are pointing to 
 the deepest extremities of human need, and then to 
 the transformation wrought by the divine Message 
 of Good News. 
 
 Some place in each picture is introduced a line, a 
 phrase, a reflection from the Gospel story, so that 
 the miniature illustrates not only life in Bible lands 
 but some incident in the life of our Lord. 
 
 Other writers depict successful missionary work 
 
 7 
 
 pie romance, the power and the appeal of 
 
8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 being done in the superb institutions of sophisti- 
 cated urban centres, or among the various castes 
 of the country; in these sketches men from the 
 most depressed and helpless masses testify for 
 themselves to the saving power of Christ, whom we 
 are made to see standing in their midst, the only 
 Hope of India and of the world. 
 CHARLES R. ERDMAN. 
 
 Princeton, N. J. 
 
Preface 
 
 HESE incidents of life in the Punjab are 
 experiences of five and-a-half years spent 
 in that portion of northern India. They 
 
 are occurrences that the missionary meets with as 
 he goes from village to village. The writer and his 
 family have been living in tents on the edge of 
 those numerous clusters of mud huts that dot the 
 plains of northwest India, within sight of the rug- 
 ged Himalayas. There are about a thousand such 
 villages in the area around Ludhiana, where live 
 nearly a million farmers, huddled together in 
 space, but far isolated one from the other in social 
 separation. In less than a hundred of these vil- 
 lages are found groups ranging from a single family 
 to a dozen, who have accepted the Saviour. They 
 are shepherded by Indian pastors scattered in their 
 midst. Pastoral work consists of guarding lest the 
 people slip into subtle entanglements with idols, 
 coaxing the unlearned parents to send their chil- 
 dren to school, urging them to give part of their 
 grain to the Lord, gathering the people into con- 
 ventions, choosing and preparing elders, and in 
 many ways helping the infant Church to walk. 
 The pastels of this little book portray the im- 
 pact of the “ Good Tidings ” upon the inhabitants 
 
 9 
 
10 PREFACE 
 
 of this typical area. They recall family gatherings 
 in tiny courtyards, village groups about the arched 
 doorways, chance meetings on the roadway, and 
 planned services in the tent. They reflect souls in 
 bondage to age-old tradition, caught and held in 
 allegiance to systems that embrace rather than re- 
 lease; others with shrewd scheming and adroit 
 tactic seeking to cloud the issue and counteract the 
 witnessing; still others with dullness of perception 
 and apathy of spirit squatting and murmuring list- 
 less, but meaningless, assent to the message. 
 
 The tales were born and not made. They were 
 written on the spot, under varied circumstances. 
 Generally it was far from a railroad or postoffice; 
 usually where the English language is not heard. 
 They spring forth from happenings so real and 
 circumstances so vivid that verily they write them- 
 selves. Lights and shades play upon the pages; 
 success is counter-balanced by seeming failure. 
 But throughout there is revealed a clear strain of 
 uniform need, a distinct indication of a mighty 
 restlessness, and a definite working of Him whose 
 effects only we see, like the wind that bloweth 
 where it listeth. 
 
 By far the vast majority of India’s millions live 
 in the villages, and with the crudest and simplest 
 of implements they till the soil. They are but 
 slightly touched by the stirrings of politics and the 
 strivings of Mahatma Gandhi. True, according to 
 their highly developed gregarious instinct they 
 
PREFACE 11 
 
 gather in various annual festivals and fairs where 
 the speakers from cities spread their teaching of 
 non-co-operation. And there is no small stir for a 
 while, but when it comes time to go back to the 
 quiet routine of oxen and wooden plow, of straw 
 and chaff and threshing floors and enervating heat, 
 the glamour of it all soon wears off. For these are 
 unlettered folk, and with their limited needs or 
 wants such cares weigh lightly. This is the India 
 that does not come to us through the newspapers; 
 it is the India we never encounter on sight-seeing 
 tours, it is that inaccessible mystical nation still 
 wrapped in the folds of caste and contented 
 therein, still clinging tenaciously to the past and 
 loath to rise therefrom. 
 
 Precisely as in the days of our Lord, the chief 
 task of going about among the common folk and 
 bringing them “ Good Tidings ” remains unabated. 
 There are still the four kinds of soil when the 
 sower goes forth to sow. The fields are full of 
 open wells where weary, dusty travellers pause to 
 rest, and where women come to draw water in 
 earthen vessels. Heed not the one who would 
 decry missions as having lost their romance. 
 There has been no lessening of the thrill of the 
 pioneer. 
 
 H. E. A. 
 

 
Contents 
 
 I. Frest Fruits 
 
 Shepherds Heed the Good Shepherd. 
 A Lock of Hair. Heirs to the Im- 
 perishable Kingdom .............. 
 
 II. ENCRUSTED SOIL 
 
 Friday, the Thirteenth. Tramp, 
 Tramp, Tramp! ‘“ No One Can For- 
 give Sins Save God Alone.” Seeking 
 the Living Among the Dead. The 
 ESOC UIN fer GIT L Ay cee uel a heat uN ea aiay 
 
 III. Tue Cary oF THE OPEN 
 
 Off to the Villages. Westward! Pic- 
 tures of Magic. The Heart of the 
 Jungle. A Serenade. The Deserted 
 Village. A Handful of Dirt. Find- 
 ing the Way. The Abode of Jackals. 
 
 IV. WANDERING WITNESSES 
 
 Conquered by Christ. The “ Holy 
 Man.” The Christian “ Faqir.” “A 
 Little Child Shall Lead Them.” The 
 Place ‘That is: Desertoas ye 54. 
 
 V. CHAINED TO THE PAST 
 
 What the Postman Brings. Christ- 
 mas Without Christ. New Year with 
 
 13 
 
 15 
 
 24 
 
 36 
 
 53 
 
14 CONTENTS 
 
 Nothing New. A Knotty Problem. 
 A Fright! Dead Tradition. Inter- 
 cepted in an Alley. A Touch of 
 Court Manners ii fan cena en eee 
 
 VI. GROPING IN THE Day 
 The Entombed Book. Stumbling 
 Over “Temptation.” The Ass 
 Speaks. Chains. “ Eat Bread Under 
 My Roof.” ‘Slaves of Christ.” 
 The Veteran. A Distinguished Fugi- 
 tives Virgin: Sollee waren n 
 
 VII. StrRaNGE MopEs AND MANNERS 
 The Funeral. Water-Tight. <A 
 Cough in the Dark. ‘“ Lord, That I 
 May Receive My Sight.” An Ori- 
 ental “Mammy.” Driftwood. The 
 Dee ask we oe lier Rea Oats Deer tit aie 
 
 VIII. Scenes or Op LIFE 
 A Wedding After Midnight. Hood- 
 lums. The Place of the Manger. 
 Loading the Camels. Blind Leading 
 the Blind. Greatheart. Mystery... 
 
 TX. Sicns or NEw BirtH 
 The Christian “ Jelsa.” The Im- 
 portunate Widow. Sounds Before 
 Dawn. Enmeshed Spirits. The Man 
 Who Watched the Road. Erased. 
 Rhythm. Romance in Mud Huts... 
 
 61 
 
 76 
 
 89 
 
 102 
 
 117 
 
I 
 FIRST FRUITS 
 
 HERE was no road or path leading toward 
 the little Punjab village, and so I was 
 making my way on the ever-faithful bicycle 
 
 over the hard field, when a shepherd tending his 
 flock called to me long and loud. 
 
 “Tonight you lodge at my house,” he said. 
 “Dinner is ready and waiting for you. Come, 
 the village is over this way.” 
 
 Somewhat dazed that he should greet me in this 
 manner, I followed. 
 
 “ But first you must drink some milk,” he urged, 
 “ for you look tired.” 
 
 Shepherds Heed the Good Shepherd 
 
 And so he made me sit down under the big 
 tree where the flock of sheep and goats were 
 lazily resting from the afternoon sun, and he 
 gave me fresh milk from one of the goats. And 
 then he quietly led me to the village where, sure 
 enough, food was prepared and waiting for me, 
 and all seemed in readiness for my arrival. Ba- 
 sant Singh, my fellow-servant in the Lord Jesus, 
 had arrived ahead of me and had spread the 
 
 15 
 
16 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 news of my arrival. Dinner over, my _ host 
 quietly said: 
 
 “‘ Now we are all here gathered together to hear 
 what you have to tell us.” 
 
 A cloth was spread on the ground, the 
 shepherd-father and son sat on one side, the 
 son’s wife with her tiny baby on the other. 
 And we brought forth the big coloured pic- 
 ture of Christ the Good Shepherd who giveth 
 His life for His sheep. How wise the Lord 
 was to use an illustration that such lowly ones 
 as these could readily apprehend! ‘“ My sheep 
 hear my voice and I know them and they fol- 
 low me.” 
 
 “Why, of course,” said Bhagat. ‘“ So do mine.” 
 And he sprang to his feet and made a queer, cluck- 
 ing sound, and straightway his flock crowded 
 round him, and he reached down and patted them 
 gently. Then he challenged me to call them, and 
 not one stirred. Then Basant Singh tried, and 
 they remained motionless. Another they will not 
 follow. 
 
 So the lesson was clear as crystal to this 
 shepherd-lad and his father. What was to hinder 
 them from obeying the call of the Good Shepherd? 
 Water was brought, turbans laid aside, and there, 
 in the Sabbath stillness of departing day, four 
 wandering sheep were taken into the fold. One 
 could almost hear the sound of rejoicing in the 
 heavenly choir. 
 
FIRST FRUITS 17 
 
 A Lock of Hair 
 
 Among my prized possessions I have a lock of 
 hair. But it is not that of any flaxen-haired child; 
 it is from a grey old man who asked me to cut it. 
 
 Dyala was nearing sixty-five and, true to Guru 
 Nanak, the founder of the Sikh religion, he had 
 never allowed a razor to come near his head. But 
 his friend Garibu often passed that way, and as 
 they squatted together and gurgled at the water- 
 pipe, there was aroused a restlessness in the old 
 man’s being by tales of a certain Jesus of Nazareth 
 who both saved and satisfied. And when the 
 neighbour rose, yawning and stretching, he was 
 always urged to come back and tell more. 
 
 One day the travelling preacher came and pro- 
 pounded the question: “ What doth hinder thee 
 from being’ baptized?” Then there were more 
 deliberations and conferring with relatives until at 
 last the day of readiness arrived. The missionary 
 was called, the little upper room, reached by a lad- 
 der outside, was set in order, and there in the calm 
 of Indian evening three generations bent their 
 heads to the Christian shears and their necks to 
 the yoke that is easy. 
 
 What a time of rejoicing it was! As the long 
 locks fell to the ground, a great burden rolled 
 away. Father, son and grandson had cut off not 
 only their hair but all connection with their fruit- 
 less past. During prayer the revered family leader 
 with his son and son’s son bowed with hands 
 
18 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 clasped and head shorn, and when the intercessor, 
 unacquainted with all the names of those now for 
 the first time to be remembered before the Throne, 
 stumbled and searched, Dyala quietly supplied 
 him the names, loath to let a single one be left out. 
 He had abandoned the vow of the Nazarite for the 
 love of the Nazarene. 
 
 Heirs to the Imperishable Kingdom 
 
 When it happened I jotted the main points down 
 on the leaf of my pocket notebook. It was a Sab- 
 bath evening; I was writing by the light of my 
 bicycle lamp, seated in a canal resthouse near the 
 little Punjab village of Chakar. Istifan, Shamaun 
 and I had just come from Malla. Eighteen days 
 before a fellow-missionary and I were there, and 
 we had baptized Rukn Din, a convert from Mo- 
 hammedanism. Husn Din had been a Christian 
 before. 
 
 That day we found these two living in a grass 
 hut in a carrot patch next to a thorn hedge. They 
 showed us the little hole in the ground where they 
 did their cooking. They had been cast out of their 
 house by their own relatives. They were beaten 
 and pounded and kicked. Husn Din said that the 
 Holy Spirit was keeping them alive. Some days 
 food was scarce; other days it was hard to get 
 water. When asked if they wanted help in getting 
 back their rightful home, they shook their heads 
 and said they preferred to wait patiently until the 
 
FIRST FRUITS 19 
 
 Saviour whom they had found would grip the 
 hearts of their relatives that now were so hard and 
 bitter. Others had been persecuted before; gladly 
 would they endure for His sake. 
 
 “ Tonight, it seems that we two are alone here 
 on the edge of the village, and almost the whole 
 world is against us, but we are not alone, and we 
 are going to win them over by love.”’ The word he 
 used for “ win” meant literally “ draw, grasp or 
 catch.” 
 
 Mind you this is happening today, in the same 
 world in which we at home are living. How 
 thankful we were that we had “ food” and that 
 a-plenty for their hungry souls. We read together 
 such passages as these: ‘‘ Blessed are ye. 
 Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your 
 reward.” . . . Two sombre faces began to beam. 
 
 “A disciple is not above his teacher. .. . If 
 they have called the master of the house Beelze- 
 bub, how much more them of his household! ” 
 These two had been bitterly cursed. ‘“‘ What ye 
 hear in the ear, proclaim upon the house-tops.” 
 Up shot Rukn Din’s hand, as he told of how 
 he had gone into the bazaar lane telling people 
 to accept Jesus. ‘‘ And be not afraid of them that 
 kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul:” 
 The Father watches the sparrows; He counts the 
 hairs of our head. Christ will confess before the 
 Father those who confess Him before men. 
 
 Then we read the part about no peace between 
 
20 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 father and son; a man’s foes shall be those of his 
 own household. Literally true it was in Rukn 
 Din’s case. They had taken his wife from him 
 and forbidden her to go near him. For eighteen 
 days they have let him live in a sort of dog-kennel 
 in their backyard, with a thorn fence between. 
 “ He that loveth father or mother more than me is 
 not worthy of me.” 
 
 Of such is the Kingdom being made up in the 
 Punjab. During the prayer gawking onlookers 
 stood by; Rukn Din pleaded for mercy on those 
 who had despitefully used him. It was the hour 
 of sundown. 
 
 Recently I was granted an audience with the 
 Nawab of Maler Kotla in his yellow-turreted 
 palace. Maler Kotla is one of those states where 
 the government is entirely in the hands of a local 
 ruler, with a loose supervision by a British “ resi- 
 dent.” The Nawab is a sort of Mohammedan 
 king. I would not trade my interview with Rukn 
 Din, heir to the imperishable kingdom, for a score 
 of talks with the Mussulman chief. I came away 
 on my bicycle glad to be alive, more glad for the 
 privilege of being a missionary, and most glad of 
 all for the honour of knowing two of our Lord’s 
 chosen ones, such as these who formerly lived in a 
 mud house and now live in one of grass. 
 
 Months went by. We thought perhaps all was 
 going well, when one day in the midst of our short- 
 term training school for evangelistic workers in 
 
FIRST FRUITS 21 
 
 Khanna, in trudged Rukn Din, tired from many 
 miles of cross-country walking. The Mussulman 
 religious leader of the village—‘‘ Slave of Moham- 
 med” is his name—had grown incensed at the 
 sight of the calm endurance, under persecution, of 
 Rukn Din and Husn Din. Fearing lest this bring 
 good instead of harm to the Christian cause in the 
 Punjab, he decided to tighten the pressure. He 
 issued a decree that Rukn Din and Husn Din 
 should not be allowed to draw water from the com- 
 munity well. In India this means a slow but sure 
 and horrible death. Rukn Din rushed off, cross- 
 fields, to the missionary, while the older man 
 stayed in the grass hut. When thirst almost over- 
 came him he scooped up handfuls from the pools 
 in the fields. His little patch of growing grain 
 began to wither from lack of water. 
 
 The matter now had reached the stage where 
 firmness must be shown. These brutish-minded 
 men, thinking force effective, did not understand 
 the voice of love and patience. They took it only 
 as an evidence of weakness and as a signal to exert 
 more pressure. So with a friend I made the 
 seventy-mile trip to Chakar by motorcycle. We 
 rode along the canal bank, passing skittish jackals, 
 beautifully plumed peacocks and clumsy buffaloes. 
 Going by way of Jagraon, where the police head- 
 quarters are, we picked up a reluctant official to 
 take with us. We arrived after dark, amid light- 
 ning flashes of an approaching storm. 
 
22 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 The village chiefs were assembled. A smoky 
 lantern was produced, and the inquiry begun. It 
 was one o’clock when the last thumb impression 
 was made upon the stamped government paper and 
 the last promise to keep the law exacted. At day- 
 break we were about to start away, when the 
 people began to grumble. It soon became evident 
 that they were not going to follow their chiefs who 
 had affixed their thumb impressions the night 
 before. So they, too, had to be brought into line. 
 
 About three hundred gathered and growled and 
 stormed and fumed for nearly three hours. The 
 police official calmly kept saying that the right to 
 draw water belonged to these two Christians; no 
 matter how they might try to fight against the 
 Government, in the end they were bound to lose, 
 and the Government had the authority to take the 
 well away from the three hundred and give it to 
 these two, if it desired. At last they all gave in, 
 perforce, caught in the trap they had laid for 
 others. It was terrible to see those snarling, 
 brawny, whiskered brutes stand up and say that 
 God was calling them to such action, and that the 
 water was forever polluted. 
 
 Can such as these be won to our Lord? Rukn 
 Din and Husn Din are the answer; they them- 
 selves have come from those ranks. But the ice is 
 breaking still farther, and even from that mob 
 three or four quietly came and told us that in their 
 hearts they did not feel as their fellows felt, but 
 
FIRST FRUITS 23 
 
 they feared their bulldog-faced leader. We told 
 them to leave him. One miserable individual 
 crouched nearby and regretted that he had been a 
 coward. They told us he was once baptized but 
 afterward had fallen back. He looked a wreck. 
 
 When we had had prayer and thanksgiving with 
 the two inhabitants of the grass hut, Husn Din 
 took us indoors and showed us a tiny green bud 
 that had sprung out of the dead rafter of his house. 
 Quietly he said: ‘‘ Out of death springs forth life.” 
 The Lifegiver had given him this sign, and he had 
 recognized it; he would not let his heart be 
 troubled. 
 
II 
 
 ENCRUSTED SOIL 
 
 before we ever got there. 
 
 Dharm Das came running across country 
 and said that a crowd had gathered when the men 
 were putting up the tents and had cursed the Eng- 
 lish and Christianity, while shouting the praises 
 of the Prophet of Islam. 
 
 I HEARD that our tent had been over-turned 
 
 Friday, the Thirteenth 
 
 When we arrived in the Ford, about a hundred 
 sullen, bearded Punjabis stood around and gazed. 
 It was Friday, the thirteenth. Friday is the Mo- 
 hammedan sacred day. I had to chase away two 
 groups that tried to peep into the tent at the un- 
 veiled wife of the foreign blasphemer. My! how 
 Christ knew their reeking hearts when He said 
 that the sin lies in the look! All day long the 
 far-off, monotonous thumping on a drum sounded 
 in our ears. 
 
 When it was discovered that they could not stop 
 us from putting up the tents, the order was issued 
 that no one was allowed to listen to the unbeliev- 
 ers. So we decided to go to the house of Deva, 
 
 24 
 
ENCRUSTED SOIL 25 
 
 our one humble Christian, who lives in the hated 
 quarters of the low-caste. Wonder of wonders, 
 when we got there, the Mohammedans began to 
 gather. They actually set foot in the courtyard 
 of the despised. We sang of Christ’s love and 
 spoke of His power. He raised Lazarus from 
 the dead, and said “I am the resurrection, and 
 the life.” 
 
 By this time a very large crowd had assembled. 
 They looked at the coloured Sunday school picture 
 of the white-robed corpse emerging from the grave. 
 The order not to listen was completely broken. 
 
 However, we felt something in the air. An 
 atmosphere of tense expectancy. Someone in the 
 audience was lying in wait ready to pounce on the 
 first thing that displeased him. Sure enough, when 
 the precious truth of the Cross was spoken, one of 
 them snarled out: “It’s a lie,” and struggled to 
 his feet. Christ crucified, unto Mohammedans a 
 stumblingblock. 
 
 Then followed a long harangue on the virtues of 
 the Koran. Christ was called a worker of mir- 
 acles, born of a virgin, one of the prophets,—but 
 not the last. At the sound of Mohammed’s name, 
 a roar of applause rose from the audience. Sita 
 and Rama were eulogized for the benefit of the 
 Hindus. Guru Nanak received a good word on 
 account of the Sikhs present. They shouted in 
 stormy approval when he told them it was a false- 
 hood we had spoken. Christ did not die for their 
 
26 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 sins. They must cling to their empty husks. The 
 Hindus must follow their sacred Vedas; the Sikhs 
 their Grunth Sahib; Mohammedans the blessed 
 Koran. Under no condition were the swine-eating 
 Christians to be believed. 
 
 But that night all were thinking of but one 
 thing; the fact that the Gospel of Jesus was 
 preached. Forbidden to listen, they came and 
 listened; forbidden to accept, who knows what 
 their decision will be? 
 
 “Now I would have you know, brethren, that 
 the things which happened unto me have fallen out 
 
 rather unto the progress of the gospel. . . . Some 
 indeed preach Christ even of envy and strife; . . 
 thinking to raise up affliction for me. . . . What 
 
 then? only that in every way, whether in pre- 
 tence or in truth, Christ is proclaimed; and therein 
 I rejoice, yea, and will rejoice.” 
 
 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp! 
 
 If you have never heard the Moslem annual 
 ceremony of sorrow over the death of Moham- 
 med’s grandson, Hussain, you cannot fully realise 
 the hideousness of it all. Tramp, tramp, tramp 
 came the sound to my ears that memorable 
 evening in northern India, but it was not the 
 sound of soldiers marching, but of open palms 
 beating bare breasts, cheeks and heads. 
 
 In perfect unison they kept it up, to the accom- 
 paniment of a doleful dirge. Faster and faster | 
 
ENCRUSTED SOIL 27 
 
 swung the arms, and harder and harder fell the 
 blows. Over near the mosque the whirlpool was 
 at its height, one wild mass of humanity yelling 
 and pounding, but striking no one but themselves, 
 and withal with a weird, constant rhythm and 
 uniformity. 
 
 Then suddenly the authoritative arm was raised, 
 and the order was given to cry. Straightway all 
 began to cry to order. Dry eyes gushed forth; 
 solemn faces twisted into appropriate shapes for 
 weeping; the music began again, and systematic 
 tears flowed to the accompaniment of regulated 
 wailing. How farsical, but still how intensely piti- 
 ful. From one side behind heavy curtains came 
 the steady moanings of the women. They have 
 something to cry about, I thought, as I looked at 
 the impenetrable cloth wall which held them 
 prisoners. But curiously they were not bewailing 
 their own sad fate. 
 
 Finally came the signal to stop, and quite ab- 
 ruptly the sorrow ceased. The ceremony was 
 closed by the clear, cold intonings of a portion of 
 the Koran. 
 
 “ No One Can Forgive Sins Save God Alone” 
 
 ‘“‘ No one can forgive sins save God alone.” The 
 Mohammedan who spoke these words with snap- 
 jawed finality and firmness felt he had closed the 
 argument. 
 
 He was sitting squarely in front of his village 
 
28 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 mosque. In the late afternoon the faint outline of 
 the Himalaya Mountains could be seen off in the 
 direction of Simla. A group of the faithful had 
 paused to enjoy the discussion before entering the 
 sacred enclosure for their sun-down genuflexions. 
 We had been forbidden to sing or play our accor- 
 dion by one of the town elders, who paced up and 
 down impatiently waving us away. His son had 
 died that day and they were expecting the bier to 
 come along the very road on which we were stand- 
 ing, any moment. *Iwas no time for singing, he 
 said. So we stopped to talk the Good News 
 quietly; but, as usual, were interrupted. ‘“ No one 
 can forgive sins save God alone.” 
 
 It sounded so strikingly like the same thing 
 those “‘ doctors of the law sitting by” had said, 
 “who were come out of every village of Galilee,” 
 when they were crowded inside the house blocking 
 the doorway where the determined friends had 
 broken through the roof to present their palsy 
 patient to the Physician. I felt I had been lifted 
 literally back through the ages and was permitted 
 to listen to the same inner “ reasonings ” that the 
 Lord Himself had heard. How identical the argu- 
 ment! And how true the alternative. Our Lord 
 either forgives and is God, or He blasphemes and 
 is only a man. He does forgive, therefore He 
 is God. 
 
 The doctors inside that crowded doorway centu- 
 ries ago and those in front of this village mosque 
 
ENCRUSTED SOIL 29 
 
 today are both right. No one but God forgives 
 sins. To them was given the sign “that ye may 
 know.” To these is given the Word that they, too, 
 may know. And to these is given the command as 
 well, “Arise and walk.” For these, too, are 
 palsied, woefully so. But do they? Christ said, 
 “T am come in my Father’s name, and ye receive 
 me not: if another shall come in his own name, him 
 ye will receive.” And him they have received, 
 who came in his own name; millions of them have 
 received him and bear his name. 
 
 It was dark when we got back to Ludhiana from 
 the village. We were held up at the crossing until 
 the Calcutta Mail dashed by. My dinner was 
 waiting for me, and as I ate, a woman sitting out- 
 side pulled the swaying fan back and forth over 
 my head. I watched her and thought of her con- 
 dition;—sprung from the lowest of the low, living 
 with a man out of wedlock when she became a 
 Christian, sold to another man for a few pieces of 
 silver; ignorant, erring and nearly blind, yet grate- 
 ful for the feeble light she had, and striving to 
 live up to it. 
 
 And as I pondered over her and compared her 
 with the haughty one in the village a few hours 
 before, I could not help but think of Christ’s 
 comparison as He faced the self-satisfied elders 
 of the people. ‘Verily I say unto you, that the 
 publicans and the harlots go into the kingdom of 
 God before you.” And the harlots! That must 
 
30 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 mean such as old Punni pulling the fan and sit- 
 ting on my doorstep, with her checkered past and 
 her struggling present. Yes, it’s true, she will 
 enter the kingdom before that village elder of 
 the people. 
 
 Seeking the Living Among the Dead 
 
 When we got within four miles of Jagraon we 
 met a stream of Punjabi people coming out along 
 the road. The big annual festival was on and 
 these were some who had spent the day in town 
 and were now going home to nearby villages. We 
 must have passed a hundred riding on camels, and 
 more than a thousand on foot. 
 
 When we got within a half mile of the bazaar 
 the jam was too much for the car to go any farther. 
 I walked past long rows of candy booths, trinket 
 sellers, wrestlers, moving picture shows, etc., etc. 
 The atmosphere was one of a gay carnival. We 
 preached in front of our tiny tent, sold copies of 
 the Gospels, and sang to the accompaniment of a 
 small hand organ and two drums. 
 
 But when night came on, I saw the central at- 
 traction of all the gathering. It was the grave of 
 one of Mohammed’s followers who died only fifty 
 years ago. We pushed through the surging, 
 jostling, good-natured crowd into a courtyard in 
 the center of which was a white stone tomb. 
 
 In front were two women grovelling in the dust 
 and moving their heads and shoulders in a never- 
 
ENCRUSTED SOIL 31 
 
 ending circular motion. A man tried to stop one 
 by putting his hand on her head, but she snarled 
 and struck at him in a fierce frenzy. One long 
 shaggy-haired person was rotating his head on his 
 perfectly loose-jointed neck. I stood there for 
 over twenty-five minutes, and he never ceased an 
 instant. Ten seconds of such rapid action would 
 send me whirling into a dizzy fit. 
 
 Hundreds and hundreds of onlookers sat hypno- 
 tized, awaiting their turn to catch the spirit. I 
 was told that by midnight the affair would be at 
 full swing, with half the crowd carried off into the 
 contagion of this wild fanaticism. The goal was 
 to get the spirit of the departed one to enter their 
 own bodies. 
 
 Men, boys and women, having doffed their 
 shoes, were going in a steady stream into the tomb 
 to lay their offerings of silver, gold, spices and 
 sweets on the grave. A huge pile of riches lay 
 there, to be afterwards gathered up by a shrewd- 
 eyed lawyer who was sitting on the verandah of 
 the tomb. He was the care-taker of the place, and 
 therefore the owner of the whole show. Catching 
 sight of me, he laughed openly, thus to assure me 
 that he, too, felt it all an empty farce, and that 
 these creatures were poor deluded fools. 
 
 But God in heaven did not laugh, I feel sure. 
 The moon shone down in all her Oriental splen- 
 dour; but there were flickering oil lamps in front 
 of the worshipping place. 
 
32 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 ““Why seek ye the living among the dead? ” 
 They are to be pitied, not to be derided. One can 
 see Paul standing in such a group and calling out 
 in tenderest tones: ‘‘ Ye men of Jagraon region, in 
 all things I perceive that ye are very religious. 
 For as I passed along, and observed the objects of 
 your worship, I found also an altar with this in- 
 scription, To an Unknown God. What therefore 
 ye worship in ignorance, this I set forth unto you.” 
 And the Saviour surely looks down on such a per- 
 formance with longing compassion, crying out: 
 “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are 
 heavy laden.” 
 
 All night long they kept it up, these weary ones 
 seeking the living among the dead. Would that 
 someone could cry out to them, ‘‘ What therefore 
 ye worship in ignorance, this I set forth unto you.” 
 We came away heavy-hearted. 
 
 The “ Begum” Girl 
 
 When I first saw the “ Begum ” girl with the 
 queer name pronounced way down in your throat, 
 she was getting down from a Ford at our doorstep. 
 She brought her little daughter in, and both ate 
 peacock and ice-cream with seeming relish. She 
 wasn’t wearing her usual ghost-robe with its peep- 
 holes, but had cast it aside, and looked out upon 
 us with sweet, refined eyes. There was nothing of 
 the skittish doe-like fear so common in India, but 
 merely frank sincerity. She bore no marks of 
 
ENCRUSTED SOIL 33 
 
 brutal treatment, no sign that her rich judge- 
 creature of a husband had handled her more 
 cruelly than his other wives. There was a sound 
 of swishing when she walked, in her colourful 
 silks and satins. 
 
 
 
 But beneath her calm exterior what a tale of 
 adventure and excitement was wrapt up in that 
 little body. Her English mother had died, leaving 
 the red-bearded father alone with his Oriental 
 wives. Then she was filled with a strange restless- 
 ness. She couldn’t rid her mind of the memories 
 
34 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 of Mission school days when they had taught of 
 the Living Prophet who loves and frees. 
 
 So one day she left her judge-husband; he didn’t 
 need her, he had two others. And she fled to the 
 home of her classmate, who had married the 
 Christian minister. Then they brought her and 
 her child to the Summer-time school for the work- 
 ers in the Vineyard, and there, while those of her 
 brotherhood were fasting until the moon should 
 shine, she had the old longings revived, and was 
 filled with a deep satisfaction. 
 
 On the last Sabbath when all sat cross-legged on 
 the grass matting counting their blessings, she 
 calmly rose to her feet and said, “I am going to 
 be a Christian. Please pray for me.” Then she 
 sat down. 
 
 They interpreted her request to mean right then, 
 and all heads were bent to the floor, while fervent 
 intercession mingled with vibrant thanksgiving 
 went up like sweet incense to the great White 
 Throne. 
 
 That night a nervous cousin appeared in the 
 moonlight, for the fast was over. He stood outside 
 her second-story room and called commandingly. 
 She arose and gave him entrance, but his haughty 
 pleading that she leave the swine-eating blasphem- 
 ers was of no avail. Then he changed tactics and, 
 throwing dignity to the winds, laid his red fez at 
 her feet, a sign of the utmost abjection. ’Tis a new 
 thing in the history of Islam, a man at the feet of 
 
ENCRUSTED SOIL 35 
 
 a woman. In queenly demeanour she bade him 
 pick up his tasseled head-gear and be gone, for, 
 instead of the hated pig, she had meat to eat that 
 he knew not of. 
 
 She has now gone to one of our cloistered girls’ 
 schools. But oh, how careful the lady in charge 
 must be. For without are thwarted men with 
 brown skins and deep-set eyes who will surely steal 
 up to the brick wall some night and hiss at the 
 watchman and try to creep in and spirit her away. 
 For they remember long and hard. 
 
Til 
 THE CALL OF THE OPEN 
 
 HAT with jackals howling far away, with 
 rows of tall grass on either side of the 
 road higher than the speeding Ford;— 
 
 with ambling camels grunting out their guttural 
 disapproval of being hurriedly yanked to one side; 
 —with creaking ox-carts heaped high with straw 
 that has been tramped out on the threshing-floor; 
 —with startled foot-travellers, staff over one 
 shoulder and shoes carried on the uplifted end,— 
 all in all, a trip by automobile in India is fraught 
 with varied and wondrous experiences. 
 
 Off to the Villages 
 
 One night we swerved suddenly just in time to 
 miss hitting a dark heap lying squarely in the 
 road. We turned and flashed the electric lights 
 on the object and it moved, struggled to its feet 
 blinking and staggering. A drunken farmer had 
 been thrown from his camel and would likely have 
 lain there until daylight in a cold stupor had we 
 not literally dazzled him into consciousness. 
 
 Once a lazy calf, left behind by the other scurry- 
 ing members of the herd, was caught completely 
 
 36 
 
THE CALL OF THE OPEN 37 
 
 off guard, and the next thing he knew he was pick- 
 ing himself up from the ground in a dazed uncer- 
 tainty,—the machine having passed completely 
 over him, but leaving no trace of destruction other 
 than a bit of hair clinging to the bottom of the 
 crank-case. 
 
 Sand is, of course, our worst enemy, and you 
 would have laughed heartily to see us the day we 
 were pulled through the desert by a lanky camel 
 hitched to the front axle. 
 
 But we spin merrily on our way, turning to the 
 left instead of the right, except in cases when the 
 man coming takes the wrong side, which frequently 
 happens. Usually the best way is to toot vigour- 
 ously on one or both of our lusty horns, then wait 
 to see which way our partner-of-the-highway in- 
 tends to turn, and take what he leaves. 
 
 When it is a long train of ox-carts, one often has 
 to thread his way in and out between, for some 
 will blithely turn to one side and others the oppo- 
 site. Rules for the road are intended for him who 
 runs and reads. But for those who do neither, a 
 frantic desire somehow to escape this onrushing, 
 squawking, foreign machine seems to be the only 
 propelling motive. 
 
 Westward! 
 
 We struck the trail westward one day, and our 
 way led through three Punjab villages. In the 
 first, the only baptized person we met was an old 
 
38 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 man who wouldn’t raise his eyes to meet ours be- 
 cause they were bloodshot with opium. He glibly 
 recited the ten. commandments, and was blissfully 
 unmindful of the fact that he broke a good many 
 of them. 
 
 I thought of the suave Hindu back in Tihara 
 who rubbed his hands and wanted to treat us so 
 hospitably, but who sold opium. His son was in 
 America; he would give us a piece of land for the 
 noble religious purposes we represented. He zeal- 
 ously courted our favour. Servant of Satan that 
 he was, it was by his doing and those of his ilk 
 that shaking old wrecks, such as this, crouched in 
 the sand at our feet. We left the poor fellow 
 there in his sodden state, bony knees on a level 
 with his chin. 
 
 The next village yielded nothing but a semi-sane 
 hag who muttered from under the cloth covering 
 her face where she lay, that she knew why we 
 came and asked the name of her man. It was to 
 catch him and make him a Christian. But she 
 was too sharp for us, she cackled. She had no use 
 for the fabled farms that were meted out to the 
 low-castes who became members of that new queer 
 caste called Christian. We couldn’t fool her with 
 our false promises. Away with us. And so we 
 “* awayed.” 
 
 The third town wasn’t any better. The register 
 revealed a list of eight baptized some years back 
 by an ordained co-worker named “ Moon of Re- 
 
THE CALL OF THE OPEN 39 
 
 ligion,’ who had to be dismissed. Only one of 
 the number remained; the rest had died or moved 
 away. And he, too, was a decrepit old codger who 
 had begun his day with a dose of dope called 
 bhang, more deadly than opium. 
 
 His watery eyes wandered about everywhere but 
 straight forward, as he scratched his bony body 
 and tried to remember if he had ever been bap- 
 tized. He gave it up, and asked us to excuse him, 
 . for his memory was failing. It was indeed but the 
 moon of religion, if even that, that had ever shone 
 into the intense darkness of his dull understand- 
 ing; not the full round Sun of Righteousness. 
 With heavy hearts we rode away and passed a 
 sinister skeleton by the roadside. 
 
 Here and there on the outskirts one stumbles 
 across stray ones such as these, whose names still 
 litter up the roll. Truly they must constitute the 
 “uttermost ’” whom, of course, He is able to save. 
 If that be so, what of that hand-rubbing, foot- 
 scraping Hindu seller of drugs. One wonders if 
 there is another savable region down below the 
 realm of the “ uttermost.” 
 
 Pictures of Magic 
 
 It was pitch dark. The headlights of the Ford, 
 piercing the blackness, revealed a half dozen 
 loafers squatting near the arched gateway, as we 
 entered the village of Dhelon. Maghi tuned up 
 his drum and started down the lanes and by-ways 
 
40 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 literally “ drumming up ” a crowd. But they were 
 listlessly indifferent until we lit the glary magic 
 lantern, and flashed the first picture smack onto a 
 mud wall. No need for white sheet or screen. 
 
 Then they came forth, tumbling over them- 
 selves, blinking in the light and gazing wonder- 
 eyed at their own illuminated wall. They squatted 
 obediently in the dust, and even kept quiet when 
 we tried to explain the pictures. Very soon the 
 roadway was completely blocked, and the single 
 creaking ox-cart that came lumbering up had to 
 wait until the end of the performance. 
 
 Rapt in awe at the sheer brilliance of it, they 
 listened intently to the whole glorious narrative 
 from manger-cradle to Cross and empty tomb. 
 One man gasped in sheer surprise at the reference 
 to the water which if one drink he will never 
 thirst again. In similar strain, the Samaritan 
 woman at the well had been struck with the ex- 
 treme novelty of the notion. You could almost 
 have heard a pin drop, even in the dusty roadway, 
 as they gazed on the Master walking on the wave, 
 while the faltering Peter was sinking. How clearly 
 they understood the scene before Pilate; these who 
 are constantly crowding the courts where false 
 witnesses can be bought for a trifle. How we 
 yearned to make the scene on the cross burn into 
 their minds and hearts. 
 
 Vernacular words tumbled over each other and 
 got all tangled up, and we were sick at heart at 
 
THE CALL OF THE OPEN 41 
 
 the handicap of speech. The scene at the tomb 
 seemed fairly to cry out its own message to these 
 Oriental gropers in graveyards: ‘‘ Why seek ye the 
 living among the dead?” And last of all was 
 pictured the entreating one: “ Behold I stand at 
 the door and knock.” Oh, why don’t they let 
 Him in? As we folded up and rode away, the 
 village was again wrapt in its mantle of the night. 
 
 The Heart of the Jungle 
 
 Wazidke is the heart of the jungle. Although 
 but a short distance, as the crow flies, from Lahore 
 on the one side and Delhi on the other, it is as 
 different as night is from day. Miles and miles 
 from the railway, it is reached by a winding, pre- 
 carious road, through grass as high as your head. 
 Once we passed through a grove of acacia wood 
 like that used for the altar of the Lord. Jackals 
 peer out at you, and later make your nights miser- 
 able with their unearthly yells. It’s easier to un- 
 derstand Isaiah after hearing them. They told 
 us to watch out for wild boar, but we didn’t see 
 any. These must be especially obnoxious to the 
 Mohammedans that live in these regions. 
 
 Flying foxes were hanging head downwards on 
 the trees outside the canal resthouse where we 
 stopped, and green parrots chattered from their 
 hidden perches among the thick leaves. We saw 
 a herd of deer run across the lawn so near that a 
 baseball pitcher could have hit one. Venison is no 
 
42 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 rarity in India. Once a wolf trotted by close 
 where the baby was lying, and then slunk away. 
 We often feast on wild peacock. 
 
 But the greatest freak of all is the nylghau 
 or “blue cow.” It is an ungainly thing the size 
 of a Texas steer, but with a sloping back. Those 
 who ought to know say it has a head like a horse, 
 horns like a buffalo, feet like a cow and back like 
 a camel! One galloped clumsily ahead of us as 
 we drove along, then plunged into the canal stream 
 and swam to the far side. 
 
 One morning just at daybreak I had stepped 
 outside to enjoy the early cool breezes, when I 
 chanced to look up at the roof of the resthouse, 
 and what should I see but a tiny pair of owls sit- 
 ting shoulder to shoulder, so close together as to 
 seem a single goblin creature with four round eyes. 
 I walked far to one side, watching them all the 
 time, and those eyes never left me, in exactly the 
 same uncanny manner that the eyes of an oil por- 
 trait follow you wherever you turn. Not a stir of 
 a feather, not a movement of a limb, just the 
 steady, silent gaze. To be called an owl in India 
 is to be termed a fool. But in this land of constant 
 chattering, their quiet watchfulness seems rather 
 the mark of wisdom. 
 
 A Serenade 
 One Sunday morning in December our tent, 
 pitched at the outer edge of the village, was 
 
THE CALL OF THE OPEN 43 
 
 stormily bombarded by a group of persistent 
 school boys. I went out to see what could be 
 the matter, and there stood a dozen or more 
 turbaned, barefoot, wide-awake Punjabi young- 
 sters who exclaimed: 
 
 “We have come to sing you our new song.” 
 
 I listened to their high-pitched, irregular singing 
 and recognized one of our Christian psalms. They 
 had bought one of the song books that we sold in 
 the village public meeting the evening before, had 
 labouriously copied it off in their curious curlycue 
 language, set it to a tune of their own, and now 
 lustily pealed it forth. 
 
 My, how they did grip our heart-strings, these 
 fourteen-year-olds coming at us pell-mell in their 
 soul-starved eagerness. One recited to me in full- 
 est detail the story of the healing of the blind man 
 at the pool of Siloam. He had seen the picture 
 and heard us tell it the day before, and the ap- 
 pealing narrative of the Light of the World had 
 lodged firmly in his mind and heart. 
 
 The Deserted Village 
 
 Upon reaching Kudani we found all the Chris- 
 tians had gone away. It was hot, and the place 
 seemed quite deserted. The rag-flag of the low- 
 castes hung limp above their crude mud worship- 
 ing place. 
 
 We sat down in the empty house of a Christian; 
 it was open, with a growly dog at the door. Basant 
 
44 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 Singh had walked the six miles from Bhiki, Patras 
 rode his pony, and I, my bicycle. We were all 
 three tired and dusty. Three wasps kept up a 
 steady buzzing under one corner of the smoke- 
 covered ceiling. The growly dog yawned deeply 
 and dozed off. 
 
 After a bit we learned from a stray lad that 
 five of the youths of the Christian community had 
 died very suddenly since our visit of the year 
 before. This is the second sign of the apparent 
 return of the horrible plague, so quick, so decisive, 
 so thorough in its awful work. Patras said: “ Let’s 
 go home.” Basant Singh yawned and agreed. 
 What could we do? I ventured the opinion that 
 we might go farther into the village among the 
 non-Christians, and preach to them. It would be 
 no use, I was told. The harvest is ripe and all the 
 men are out in the field. ‘‘ Well, then, let’s pray.” 
 
 So we turned to the old, old Book, ever new, 
 and in the fifth chapter of the Revelation we read 
 about the sealed book and the heart-broken on- 
 looker who found no one worthy to open the book. 
 Then the chapter takes on momentum as the Lamb 
 standing as though it had been slain, appears on 
 the scene, and we are carried on the wings of a 
 glorious chorus of ten thousand times ten thou- 
 sand and thousands of thousands pealing forth the 
 anthem of everlasting joy: “ Worthy is the Lamb 
 that hath been slain to receive the power, and 
 riches, and wisdom, and might, and honour, and 
 
THE CALL OF THE OPEN 45 
 
 glory, and blessing,” and the chapter ends in an 
 oratorio of thundering splendour. 
 
 We three in the deserted, smoke-ceilinged hut 
 were humbled and awe-stricken. Is this our Gos- 
 pel, our Message, our Life, we asked one another? 
 Then to our knees, for power to present it. And 
 as the prayer continued, the place took on a new 
 meaning and we walked out into the deserted vil- 
 lage past the heathen rag-flag to conquer in 
 His Name. 
 
 One sleepy ash-covered mendicant was all we 
 met at the first door. He informed us that the 
 village was absolutely abandoned; he had begged 
 at the vacant doorsteps and come away empty 
 handed. A single farmer at the second town-gate 
 told us he was the only one around. We sat down, 
 and: a couple of listless individuals sauntered 
 toward us. 
 
 Basant Singh began to sing, and twenty ap- 
 peared. We started to preach, and sixty-eight 
 gathered around, listening eagerly and attentively 
 for an hour and a half while we preached ourselves 
 hoarse. They crowded close to see the coloured 
 Christ-pictures. They urged us to come again,— 
 these simple, needy, heart-hungry lost ones, for 
 whom the Lamb was slain from the foundation of 
 the world. 
 
 A Handful of Dirt 
 They threw a handful of dirt at me one evening, 
 
46 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 and hooted and yelled in derision. My, how I 
 . cherish the experience. Centuries ago they jeered 
 my Lord, spat upon Him, and mockingly beat His 
 thorn-crowned head with a reed snatched from 
 His hand. Mine was only a paltry handful of 
 dust, yet, like Paul, it thrilled. me to be allowed 
 the privilege of a tiny taste of the “ fellowship of 
 His sufferings.” 
 
 Perhaps you wonder what was my offense. I 
 had taken up my abode with the low-castes,—the 
 offscourings under their sacred feet. And so a 
 group of youths, learned in a smattering of the 
 foreign tongue, who “spent their time in nothing 
 else, but either to tell or to hear some new thing,” 
 came to me by night with a lantern, and their 
 spokesman softly said: 
 
 “Sir, we have come to be benefited by your 
 teaching.” 
 
 And I left the hated sweeper-quarter and fol- 
 lowed them to the gateway of the village. There 
 we sat on the raised platform where discussions 
 are wont to be held. And I preached on the New 
 Birth. They listened without any uproar, but at 
 the close began their cross-examination of me. 
 Each question, carefully prepared, was meant to 
 lead to a second, then a third, until finally the 
 foreign preacher would be entangled in their philo- 
 sophical net, and they could laugh him to scorn. 
 
 I refused to carry on their public debate, for 
 that meant only confusion and hubbub. So, find- 
 
THE CALL OF THE OPEN 47 
 
 ing they could not arouse me, they began yelling 
 at one another about me. And with extreme bit- 
 terness they finally let it out: I had committed 
 the unpardonable offense of associating with 
 their menials. 
 
 And so I left them, snapping and snarling among 
 themselves, and went back to the lowly ones, who 
 were eager to be baptized then and there. 
 
 A year went by, and we were back again. They 
 sensed our arrival, and came stormily into the 
 courtyard where we were sitting, breathing out 
 wild denunciations. One grey-beard waved a 
 short-handled axe, and raved of the baneful in- 
 fluence of cork hats, motor cars and taxation. 
 
 In the course of their remarks they proudly 
 said they were free from all sin and obeyed the 
 law of God perfectly, and that I was unworthy 
 to preach to others, when I myself was a sinner. 
 I asked them to show their equality and love for 
 the low-castes, so loudly affirmed, by eating with 
 them then and there. They said they would, 
 but didn’t. 
 
 Soon their force was spent and they cooled off 
 and sat down; whereupon I told them of the 
 Saviour who loved them so much as to die for 
 them. One of the ranters knew in his heart that 
 it was true, because his wife had recently been 
 cured in the Christian hospital. They listened 
 intently and without interruption when I tried to 
 explain that our message was one of love and 
 
48 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 friendliness and salvation, that we had no desire 
 to argue with them as to whether the Creator in- 
 tended we should never cut our hair or our finger- 
 nails either for that matter, but merely that the 
 Son of Man came to seek and to save that which 
 was lost. But one must first recognize that he 
 is lost. 
 
 It was a curious sensation to have three dagger- 
 wearing, long-haired men tell me they knew no 
 sin. For, to make such a declaration is, of course, 
 the blackest sin of all. And twelve months before 
 they had bought portions of Scripture and torn 
 them into bits. 
 
 When we left they were so subdued and friendly 
 that they asked me to stop in their house and 
 drink milk. So I went in and accepted their queer 
 hospitality, while a group of frightened women- 
 folk huddled behind their veils in the corner 
 fluffing out cotton. 
 
 We crossed the road, and a few hundred yards 
 away came to the village of Jhundan, not far from 
 Patiala, where the Prince of Wales was enter- 
 tained. We had passed from darkness into light. 
 Suta, the weaver-Christian, welcomed us cordially 
 into his clean, three-roomed brick house, (a con- 
 trast to the mud hovels about him) and soberly 
 told us of how he had been beaten, his house 
 broken into, his well torn down, and himself 
 dragged off to court and fined fifty dollars for 
 becoming a Christian. 
 
THE CALL OF THE OPEN 49 
 
 We asked him if it paid. “Paid?” he ex- 
 claimed. They could tear his house down and 
 reduce him to beggarhood, but he would never go 
 back on his Lord. He showed me the money he 
 had all ready to go and pay the fine; it was 
 wrapped in a napkin. 
 
 At his earnest request, we baptized his wife and 
 four fine children, the oldest of whom is in school; 
 and the father looked on with his son at the place 
 in their very own Bible, as we read of bearing 
 crosses, losing life to save it, and blessings on them 
 who endure persecution for His sake. He had 
 gone through the same thing, only far worse, Him- 
 self. He came not to bring peace but division; a 
 man’s foes shall be those of his own household. 
 Suta does not fear those who are able to destroy 
 nothing but the body. 
 
 Finding the Way 
 
 Near one village a man was tending a herd of 
 goats, some of which were perched on their hind 
 legs under the thorn trees. Grasping the low- 
 hanging branches with front feet, they were nib- 
 bling away at the jagged leaves in bland unconcern. 
 
 I stopped and asked the way. I was purposely 
 guarded in the wording of my question. If I had 
 asked merely: “ Where is the village of Thoa? ”’ 
 he would have blithely replied: ‘“ There, just in 
 front of you.” For the one you meet by the way 
 in India is so eager to be accommodating and make 
 
50 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 you feel good, that he assures you that your desti- 
 nation is very close at hand, and your tiresome 
 journey very nearly ended. Truth and accuracy 
 must not be allowed to interfere with convenience. 
 So I cautiously ventured: 
 
 “ Brother, do you see that village yonder? ” 
 
 “What one? That one? ” 
 
 “Yes. Do you see it? ” 
 
 “Yes, I see it.” 
 
 “Tell me. Which is it? ” 
 
 “What? That?” 
 
 ce Yes.”’ 
 
 “ That is Thoa.” 
 
 Ah! The information gained; the manipulation 
 unsuspected. 
 
 “The road? Where is it? ” 
 
 “To the village, you mean? ” 
 
 <9 Yes.” 
 
 “ Well, you can go by that tree yonder, then 
 around that well.” He pointed with his chin. 
 “Or you can go this way across the field.” 
 
 “ But the road, brother?’ The regular road? ” 
 
 “ By your kindness, sir, take your choice.” 
 
 Despairing of anything more definite, I struck 
 out, frightening one goat down from his tree-lunch 
 as I mounted my rattly bicycle. 
 
 “‘ Anyway, I now know it is the place,”’ I pon- 
 dered, as I proceeded to pick out a way to go. 
 
 But lo, upon arrival, I found it was not Thoa at 
 all, but only a sort of “Little Thoa” or suburb 
 
THE CALL OF THE OPEN 51 
 
 of Thoa, and the village proper was still a mile off 
 to the right. Clever indeed is the man who actu- 
 ally extracts dependable information from an 
 Oriental. 
 
 The Abode of Jackals 
 
 We held a Sabbath service in a sandy spot called 
 “ The Abode of Jackals.” The Punjab has a num- 
 ber of such dwelling places. We had ridden a 
 number of weary miles on bony nags, and the only 
 thing that relieved the desert landscape was here 
 and there a clump of reeds shaken by the wind. 
 But we went not out in the wilderness to see such 
 as these. 
 
 Once a kind of oasis appeared which yielded us 
 radishes a foot in length; these we munched and 
 jogged along. As we drew near the village, a mad 
 dog rushed out, pursued by two men with long 
 clubs. Inside the courtyard, with its huts covered 
 with corn stalks, we met two snarling women 
 waving their arms and lashing with their tongues. 
 
 My, what surroundings for a Sunday morning 
 service! A frowzy-headed faqir strolled in, sat 
 down, and began to shake his long iron pincers 
 to the accompaniment of our laboured singing. 
 Soon a lad with a dirty rag around his head pro- 
 duced a pair of clanging cymbals. These, together 
 with our own lame boy’s nail-keg drum, made up 
 quite an orchestra. In the front row sat a sinister 
 youth, fresh from the field, with his sickle in his 
 
52 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 lap. Next the wall was a group gurgling at regular 
 intervals from the ever-present hookah, or water- 
 chamber pipe. Gobindas led the singing, line upon 
 line, precept upon precept. They picked up each 
 strain after him, and the effect was not unlike a 
 series of wavering echoes. 
 
 When the time for prayer came, they obeyed the 
 order to lay aside their turbans, and obediently 
 bent unkempt heads in the sand. And, thanks to 
 the working of the Spirit, when we unrolled the 
 picture of the Lost Sheep, and told of the Shep- 
 herd who went out and reached down to save his 
 own lost one, the clatter and banging died down, 
 and even those quarrelling women, now standing 
 on the outer edge, seemed unable to keep back a 
 pleased look of approval, though they tried never 
 so hard. 
 
IV 
 WANDERING WITNESSES 
 
 HEN I first saw Sobha, he came on his 
 camel to the camp to plead for help in 
 prosecuting the murderer of his son. Fire 
 
 flashed from his tearful eyes as he related in hor- 
 rible details how his enemies had crushed in the 
 skull of Rangu with huge clubs. He was clearly 
 bent on vengeance. 
 
 Conquered by Christ 
 
 Two long years have dragged themselves 
 through since that day, and reams upon reams of 
 testimony have been written in a curlycue lan- 
 guage by clerks who sit on chairs with their feet 
 curled under them, in front of red-turbaned magis- 
 trates under the reign of the star and crescent. 
 And still no sign of justice. But Sobha pursues 
 his relentless way. 
 
 Once we came to his house to perform the double 
 marriage ceremony of two other sons. But before 
 the wedding and before the feast of chicken curry, 
 there was an angry, snarly quarrel to straighten 
 out. And on another occasion Sobha came to our 
 house in connection with a double marriage of 
 
 53 
 
54 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 quite a different hue. He was in search of one 
 of his own two wives, who had run away! And 
 so you cannot blame us for getting quite dis- 
 couraged with this wild, fighting sinner, with the 
 tendencies of his past life clinging so strongly 
 to him. Persistent rumours have it that he comes 
 of a tribe of robbers. One thing is certain, he 
 has a wild, rugged disposition to subdue and to 
 tame. I talked to him very straight about the 
 second wife,—he had no right to her. I was 
 glad to see her show enough spirit to flee his 
 clutches and, instead of helping him to run her 
 down, I would help her to escape. He snapped 
 his jaws and left the room; but he never found 
 the woman. 
 
 Next I met him in his own village. He crouched 
 in the sand and listened with glistening eyes to the 
 story of Mary beseeching the “ gardener ” to show 
 her where he had laid her Lord, and his haggard 
 face was aglow through its wrinkles when he heard 
 how the “ gardener,” who was the Risen Master, 
 gently spoke her name, and she recognized her 
 Saviour, the victor over the grave. 
 
 After the service we rolled up the resurrection 
 picture and went into Sobha’s house. He had built 
 a new one since the night of the weddings and the 
 straightened-out quarrel, and over the doorway 
 was written in laboured lettering: “‘ Sobha, Chris- 
 tian. Enter, brothers, and take a seat.” We ac- 
 cepted the hospitality and went in, sitting on a 
 
WANDERING WITNESSES 55 
 
 rope bed, while our host took a humbler place at 
 our feet. 
 
 He took down his chubby violin and lovingly 
 ran the bow over its thick, husky strings. A 
 bunch of sleigh-bells jingled on the end of the 
 bow. In the corner sat his one rightful wife, 
 contentedly stuffing cotton into a sort of clothes- 
 wringer, to separate out the seeds. Two sleek 
 hunter-dogs that on one occasion had run down 
 a fat rabbit for our meal, were dozing in the side 
 doorway. The music soon took on a regular 
 rhythmic movement, and the sleigh-bells shook 
 with a resolute sudden jerk at the end of each 
 strain. 
 
 Then he began to sing,—high-pitched, shrill, 
 with a mighty martial air. Wars and rumours of 
 wars were rehearsed with a fierce wild abandon. 
 And later, tenderness and love mingled with that 
 haughty martial tone, as he sang as if his very 
 throat would split of the triumphant life of release 
 and victory that is found in Christ Jesus the King. 
 The singing stopped with a jerk, cut off abruptly 
 high and shrill, as if he had brought us storm- 
 ing up to the edge of a steep cliff mounted on a 
 charger and then halted, head high, with the reins 
 drawn taut. 
 
 What a curious mixture the old man is, I 
 thought, patriarchal head of a family with its in- 
 tertwined sub-families of twenty-eight souls all 
 baptized, and twenty-seven still living. 
 
56 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 The “ Holy Man” 
 
 I met a “holy man” the other day. The 
 first words that issued from his mouth were 
 vile. ‘‘ Behold how great a matter a little fire 
 kindleth.” 
 
 The occasion was this: When his two vicious 
 dogs, chained to a stump, tried to break loose and 
 devour me, he called down foul vituperations, not 
 upon the dogs themselves, but upon their mothers 
 and sisters. One wonders what the advantage is 
 in cursing absent relatives; perhaps the thought is 
 that the pain caused is greater when innocent loved 
 ones are reviled. Curious study in sympathetic 
 reaction! Made doubly curious when applied to 
 ferocious curs by a man who believes in transmi- 
 gration of souls. 
 
 I had paused by his stile to admire the beautiful 
 marigolds in his garden. Truly his courtyard was 
 a bower of beauty, but the man himself, who had 
 chosen this spot apart from the world to live alone 
 and meditate and learn of the Unknown, had de- 
 generated into a hideous animal. His flowers were 
 clothed in more splendour than Solomon; he wore 
 but filthy rags. In place of a face of peace in his 
 holy pursuit, he presented features ghastly, leering 
 and half-witted. 
 
 ‘“‘ Know ye not that ye are the temple of God? 
 . . . If any man defile the temple, him shall God 
 destroy.”’ And the process of destruction is a slow, 
 leprous eating away at the vitals. 
 
WANDERING WITNESSES 57 
 
 The Christian “ Faqir” 
 
 Instead of the usual hesitant cough, there was 
 a distinct knocking at the door. I was interested 
 at once, and opened to find a bare-foot youth in a 
 saffron robe, with a Bible under his arm. 
 
 His face was boyish and open, one in which there 
 is no guile. He smiled in a frank way, quite ob- 
 livious to the fact he was a stranger, but with 
 rather an air of certainty that he would be taken 
 in. Such a manner was quite resistless, and he 
 stayed throughout our Summer School, then in 
 session. 
 
 Day by day as he quietly took his place on the 
 floor with the others he completely won the hearts 
 of all by his unassuming, peaceful manner. We 
 learned that his name was “ Blessed of the Mes- 
 siah.” He told us how he went from place to place 
 trying to be a Living Epistle, for those among 
 whom he worked could read no other kind of let- 
 ter. He referred to his yellow mantle as a sign of 
 the “ new man ” acquired after first putting off the 
 “old man ” and all his trappings. 
 
 He carried no scrip nor wallet, and was con- 
 tentedly resigned in all things. He remembered 
 that the body was for the Lord, and the Lord for 
 the body, so there were no traces of clinging filthi- 
 ness or lurid blood-shot eyes, so common to mis- 
 taken wanderers of his class. Clean without as 
 well as within, he seemed to have grasped both 
 sides of that important but neglected truth. 
 
58 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 He disappeared as mysteriously as he had ar- 
 rived, and is probably spreading his gospel of con- 
 tagious peacefulness in other quarters wheresoever 
 his free spirit leads. 
 
 “A Little Child Shall Lead Them” 
 
 A year ago when we visited Bhaini we found 
 the little Christian group huddled on the tumbling- 
 off edge of their village. They were sorrowing 
 over the death of a child. This year they were 
 joyously gathered around a heaping brass platter 
 of solidified molasses. A new babe had just 
 been born. 
 
 Last year we did not beat the drum, nor sing, 
 nor show the bright pictures. This year we 
 pounded our nail-keg drum until our finger-tips 
 were sore, and sang to split our very throats. 
 Last year we had spoken quietly and prayed com- 
 fortingly and walked silently away. This year 
 voices rose in joyous praise to the Great Giver of 
 life, and the Lord’s beautiful words about children 
 were read, and taken to heart. 
 
 Those who had decided themselves to be greatest 
 in the kingdoms of this world had shoved and 
 pushed these lesser brethren to the jumping-off 
 place of the village. There they crouched and 
 struggled for existence, with their separate well 
 and their untouchable vessels. And the mighty 
 God somewhere behind that grey sky had 
 seemed to side with these merciless ones, as He 
 
WANDERING WITNESSES 59 
 
 snatched the little one from them on that day a 
 year ago. 
 
 Well might they ponder over the same question 
 that troubled Christ’s disciples. ‘‘ Who then is 
 greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” Is there 
 caste and cruel exclusion in that realm, too? As 
 in those early days the wise and loving Lord gave 
 His followers an object lesson, so He did today. 
 He set a little child in the midst of them. This 
 time He set him down out of heaven. He placed 
 the little one in their midst to teach them some- 
 thing: these who were groping and bitter twelve 
 months ago. He taketh and He giveth back 
 again; blessed be His Name. And once again 
 with the babe is the answer to their puzzling ques- 
 tion that the unkind neighbours had forced to their 
 minds: ‘“ Except ye turn, and become as little chil- 
 dren, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom 
 of heaven.” 
 
 The Place That is Desert 
 
 I walked across a ploughed field with a man 
 who wore a pink turban and carried his red san- 
 dals under his arm. He quietly asked me my 
 business, and I easily and naturally told him that 
 I went about telling people of the Lord Jesus. 
 
 He listened respectfully as we walked along, 
 crossing over the numerous tiny waterways that 
 cut the Indian fields into huge checker-boards. 
 When we reached the canal bridge, I paused, for 
 
60 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 our ways parted at that spot, and asked him to 
 take one of my Gospel booklets home with him 
 and read it. He refused, however, for he had no 
 money with him—not even the one cent which was 
 the price of this Gurmukhi copy of Matthew. I 
 wanted to give it to him, but he was too proud 
 
 
 
 for that,—a Sikh, member of the clan who never 
 cut their hair. 
 
 He crossed the bridge and disappeared. Appar- 
 ently nothing had resulted, but yet I experienced 
 a joyous sense of fellowship with Stephen, who 
 conversed with the Ethiopian on the roadway in 
 that country which is described (as this road from 
 Dalla to Kaonke might also be described) by the 
 phrase: “ the same is desert.” 
 
V 
 CHAINED TO THE PAST 
 
 ANY and varied are the demands made 
 upon the missionary. Truly he must be 
 “all things to all men.” 
 
 What the Postman Brings 
 
 The following few letters throw a little light on 
 the variety of the service required of the mission- 
 ary and the requests which come to him in the mail. 
 
 REVERED, REVEREND SIR: 
 
 After greeting you, the petition of your 
 slave is that a missionary lady has de- 
 creed that with your honour there is a 
 man, Peter by name, who wishes to make 
 his girl’s wedding. So there is by us one 
 Christian Compounder, works in Govern- 
 ment Hospital, and to him eight dollars 
 and fifty cents per month salary meets; 
 so with kindness your honour should 
 make this arrangement. Now my peace 
 unto you. 
 
 (Signed) Amir KHAN. 
 
 61 
 
62 
 
 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 Here’s another: 
 
 DEar Sir: 
 
 Nothing from you up to date, from 
 the time I had seen your pious soul at 
 village Mallah, and I pray to God that 
 the cause of your not writing to me 
 may be something else than any serious 
 mishap. Kindly refer me about your 
 self soon. I am very anxious to know 
 about it. 
 
 Kindly let me know up to what date 
 are you here at Ludhiana, and when are 
 you going to visit our surrounding vil- 
 lages; as I myself and my son, about 
 whom I had perhaps talked with you, 
 who is studying in the civil engineering 
 school at Lucknow, (U.P), are anxious 
 to see you. I have a mind to send him 
 in the Thomson Civil ‘Engineering Col- 
 lege, Roorkee after passing the course of 
 his present study. please write me can 
 you help him to some extent to join that 
 college. 
 
 Hoping to receive an early and fa- 
 vourable reply, thanking in anticipation, 
 
 Yours ob’t’ly, 
 NAURATA Ram. 
 B. C. to dear madam and the same to 
 you please, love to dear chaps. 
 
CHAINED TO THE PAST 63 
 
 The “dear chaps” referred to are aged two 
 years and six months respectively. I haven’t the 
 faintest idea what “ B. C.” means. 
 
 ORE ee ae 
 
 The following correspondence is from a 
 young Hindu who in his capacity as teacher 
 of Urdu proved quite acceptable. The degree 
 of his acceptability as a master of the Eng- 
 lish tongue will speak for itself. When I 
 called on him one day, he hurried in from an 
 adjoining building, and apologetically remarked 
 that he had been “ beguiling himself ” in the social 
 rooms. 
 
 My DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 Yours to hand and gives me much 
 pleasure. With respect to my health, I 
 am very well and tolerably cheerful. 
 
 I am much thankful that you have 
 not forgotten me. It is very warm in 
 Ferozepore these days. and no rain at 
 all here. 
 
 I perform my religious duties daily 
 as usual, and attend religious meetings 
 every sunday in the evening. 
 
 As to my conversion into your re- 
 ligion for nothing as you have pointed 
 out in your letter I would like to tell 
 you that there is no more superamacy 
 in the Christianity than other reli- 
 
64 
 
 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 gion. As to the Scientific Reasons 
 Hindu Religion is by all means con- 
 sidered highest. 
 
 Man tries hard to find out ways and 
 methods to obtain salvation these ways 
 can be had from the Hindus Sacred 
 Books very easily therefore the Hindus 
 are found on the top in the Spirtual 
 Improvement. 
 
 I regret that my wife could not pen a 
 single word in english to your wife as she 
 is ignorant of that language. She thanks 
 very much your wife as she keeps her 
 name on her lips. My wife would like to 
 pen in her own language if she would ap- 
 prove in reply. 
 
 Best complements to Mrs. on behalf of 
 my wife and daughter. Both expect you 
 (pair) here on the expiry of hot weather 
 with great success. 
 
 We believe you will be thus writing. 
 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 KasHir Ram. 
 
 My DEAR SAHIB: 
 
 Having no cause of such long silence 
 since you have left Ferozepore for 
 Ludhiana. 
 
 Hoping you and madam are getting 
 on well. 
 
CHAINED TO THE PAST 65 
 
 How are you going on with your ver- 
 nacular lessons? 
 
 You have not forgotten me. I with 
 my wife are expected at Ludhiana very 
 shortly to see the Lady Doctor, and 
 will seek your help and hope you will 
 at your best help me in every case at 
 Ludhiana. 
 
 My children are remembering you at 
 heart. 
 
 Yrs, 
 Kasur Ram, 
 Shah Ganj Street. 
 
 As for the following, whatever else we may say, 
 it does not lack in directness of appeal and great- 
 ness of expectancy. Ambition, that restless driver 
 of the soul, cares naught for confusion of motives. 
 
 To THE HEAD PRIEST, 
 AMERICAN MIssIon. 
 Dear SIR: 
 
 With due respect and humble submis- 
 sion I beg to say that I am educated up 
 to matriculation and I wish to go to an- 
 other country. I have heard that Ameri- 
 can Mission of Ludhiana send the men to 
 America or Australia if he embrace their 
 religion. So I wish to go on embracing 
 the Christianity religion if you may send 
 
66 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 me to Australia or America at your 
 expense. 
 Yours faithfull, 
 DuRBAR SINGH, 
 Ladhai_ ke Moga, 
 Bagaparana, Ferozepore. 
 
 Christmas Without Christ 
 
 It was the evening before Christmas. The nar- 
 row market street was packed with followers of 
 Islam gathered together for the great annual 
 “ Festival of Light.”” The moon had proven pro- 
 pitious; the red-bearded elders had given the word, 
 and so the eager villagers had come in thousands 
 to the great City. 
 
 To venture into the crowd was vain; when we 
 struck the outer edge the whole mass seemed 
 merely to sway, each unit playing on the next 
 and sending the vibration through the whole, but 
 revealing no possibility of a break. They were 
 not disorderly, but seemed solemnly intent. If we 
 should ask one what it all means, he would reply: 
 “ It’s the Festival of Light.” Beyond that he can- 
 not tell; he is merely faithful to tradition. 
 
 How strange that this year it so fell out that 
 this Festival came on the eve of the birthday of 
 Him who is the Light of the World. Bound in the 
 prison-house of darkness, how pitiful to be cele- 
 brating a supposed festival of light, with their tiny 
 mud dishes and the bit of wick floating in the oil, 
 
CHAINED TO THE PAST 67 
 
 on the very night commemorating the birth of 
 Him who is the “light for revelation to the Gen- 
 tiles and the glory of thy people, Israel.” 
 
 New Year with Nothing New 
 
 ’Twas New Year’s Eve far in the interior of 
 the Punjab. The lantern of magic was balking 
 for some reason, and the crowd in front of the 
 abandoned schoolhouse was getting restless. 
 
 There had been a flood of water in the tent and 
 at the same time the tin trunk of books got soaked, 
 the lens somehow got blurred. The rugged farmer 
 folk jostled each other good-naturedly at first; 
 then here and there a fit of anger flared up, and 
 blows were struck in earnest. It was the same 
 village where two years before we had to call the 
 police to keep the black-bearded Mohammedans 
 from cutting off the water supply of the Christians. 
 They remember long and deep; these sullen 
 grudge-bearers. 
 
 And so the crowd got bigger and bigger, and 
 noisier and noisier. At last the pictures of the 
 Christ-life had to be shown, dim as they were, and 
 accompanied by a rapid-fire preaching for two 
 solid hours, so as to give no pause for untoward 
 interruption. They slipped away quietly and in 
 order. The hour was late; soon the happy New 
 Year would be ushered in. But in Malla all 
 was still. 
 
 A Hindu storekeeper asked if I’d have some 
 
68 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 tea, and then took me to his shop with its tins of 
 grain and pots of herbs on the floor, scene of such 
 shrill-voiced bartering in the day time, but now 
 weird and silent enough, with its long shadows 
 caused by the single, sputtering wick. | 
 
 Then my host was in a quandary. He must be 
 unstinting in his hospitality, but at the same time 
 he must save his brass vessels from the Christian’s 
 polluting touch. What could he do? Midnight 
 was approaching; the departure of the Old, the 
 arrival of the New. 
 
 And there he stood perplexed, clinging to his 
 “Old;” secretly longing to be released by the 
 “ New.” The Kingdom of God consisteth not in 
 eating and drinking. The pictures, though dim, 
 had caused a new longing to rise in his heart. But 
 there were the sacred dishes in all their Hindu 
 purity, never yet defiled by touch of those beyond 
 the pale. 
 
 He thought of a scheme, quickly despatched a 
 messenger, who ran and roused one in the lowly 
 Christian quarter, and brought Christian dishes. 
 The tea and bread and pulse were served in the 
 borrowed cups and plates, and in perfect polite- 
 ness he bowed me out into the night. Soon the 
 year of newness came and found Malla and her 
 poor polite Hindu still living in the “ Old.” 
 
 A Knotty Problem 
 One evening precisely at dusk three Hindus 
 
CHAINED TO THE PAST 69 
 
 came to our tent. All doffed their shoes; all 
 bowed in great dignity; none shook hands; one 
 sat on a chair with his feet folded under him, one 
 sat on a grass stool, and one on the ground. 
 
 Without any preliminaries the conversation 
 plunged into religion. And, O so different from 
 the Mussulman inquirers who had come once 
 before. These men had no difficulty in acknowl- 
 edging Christ as divine, as the Son of God, as 
 having risen from the dead. But they had a 
 puzzling problem. Fateh Masih had said, when 
 we preached in the bazaar two days before, that 
 through faith in Christ our sins are forgiven, and 
 Kharm Chand could never believe that. 
 
 He explained to me how that all deeds, good or 
 bad, were followed by their fruit; there could be 
 no changing of this law. 
 
 “ Quite true,” I admitted, ‘“‘ but the punishment 
 due me, He took upon Himself.” 
 
 Kharm Chand couldn’t grasp that, or rather 
 wouldn’t. He muttered something about injustice, 
 and stoically preferred to bear his own burden of 
 consequences, . confidently looking forward to 
 numerous other chances after death. 
 
 I held out a coin to him, and asked him to take 
 it as a gift. 
 
 When he hesitated and drew back, I showed him 
 that God’s free gift of salvation was merely that 
 and nothing more. All we need to do is to receive 
 it at His hands. The theory and the illustration 
 
70 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 fascinated him; he probably inwardly added it to 
 his store of religious arguments. 
 
 The man sitting on the ground spoke up, putting 
 forward the same argument that was in vogue in 
 Paul’s time; if we are forgiven, then what is to 
 prevent our sinning to our heart’s content and 
 always being forgiven. No different than what 
 confronted the Apostle, who, in the sixth of 
 Romans, meets the point: “ Shall we continue in 
 sin, that grace may abound?” And the same 
 answer suffices now as then, so long ago. Once 
 dead to sin, we are become bondservants of the 
 risen Lord. 
 
 But still my three friends talked glibly and pro- 
 fusely on and on. They believed all things and 
 yielded their hearts to none. They loved generali- 
 ties, but shunned personal applications. They 
 abounded in abstractions, but were lean in con- 
 crete experiences. Like the Pharisees who re- 
 fused to believe that the blind man had been made 
 to see, saying, in their philosophical phrases, that 
 it can’t be done. But the man who had sat by the 
 wayside and had heard the Lord’s voice, and had 
 obeyed by washing in the pool of Siloam knew, 
 because something had occurred to him. 
 
 And so something must occur inside of Kharm 
 Chand and his two friends, and must occur farther 
 inside than their agile minds, so alert and so ready 
 to build feasible chain-arguments. 
 
 When they politely asked for permission to go, 
 
CHAINED TO THE PAST 71 
 
 and stolidly backed out of the tent in true Oriental 
 form and respectfulness, I could not help but recall 
 Paul’s admonition to his ‘ beloved child,” Tim- 
 othy: “Shun profane babblings,” “ Strive not 
 about words, to no profit.” 
 
 A Fright! 
 
 A Hindu woman was struck with terror the 
 afternoon she saw my wife. We tried to soothe 
 and calm her, but the poor old creature was actu- 
 ally trembling when she cautiously sat down beside 
 the strange white woman. 
 
 She had lived all her life in the small town of 
 Raikot, never going away except twice to Hardwar 
 to try and wash her sins away in the sacred river. 
 But so secluded had she lived,—so strictly kept 
 behind curtains, that she had never set eyes on an 
 American woman, and didn’t know of the existence 
 of such people. The sheer shock of it when she 
 came into the little courtyard where we were sitting 
 was almost too much for her distracted nerves. 
 Mind you, such are the things that are happening 
 today with all of our boasted enlightenment. 
 
 Dead Tradition 
 
 It was night and rainy. I had scrambled and 
 stumbled down the rocky pathway that led from 
 Kasauli to the little mountain station where the 
 train bursts forth out of a long, dark tunnel, 
 swerves around a sharp curve, and comes to a 
 
72 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 jerky stop, screeching and hissing to be on its 
 rough-and-tumble way down the hillside. 
 
 But this night all was perfectly still. The 
 track,—so narrow that one felt the tunnel-opening 
 must be the mouth of a mine, and these rails those 
 on which the plodding mules haul forth their carts 
 of coal,—could hardly be seen through the driving 
 rain and the deepening darkness. Drenched to the 
 skin, I peered into the dimly lighted room that 
 served as ticket office, telegraph office, storehouse 
 and waiting room combined, and asked about the 
 train. There had been a derailment somewhere 
 near Simla, and no word had come through as to 
 when a train would arrive. 
 
 What could I do? Well, one thing was certain; 
 I should try to get my wet clothes dry. Train or 
 no train, I could not afford to run the chances of 
 pneumonia. So, spying a tiny burner of charcoal 
 coals in an adjoining room, I proceeded to take 
 possession of it. The place had no light in it 
 except the reflection from the fire. . 
 
 Just as I stooped to pick up the red-glowing 
 vessel, a gruff voice accosted me from the corner 
 on the floor. 
 
 I was startled, but managed to mumble forth 
 in jumbled Urdu that I was wet and needed the 
 fire. He replied in perfect English that I should 
 take the coals outside, and not contaminate him 
 while he was eating his dinner. 
 
 Sure enough, crouched in the pitch darkness of 
 
CHAINED TO THE PAST 73 
 
 that corner, stripped to the waist, with the small 
 round caste-mark on his forehead, and eating with 
 his hands from many brass vessels, sat the station- 
 master, learned in English, telegraphy, and hand- 
 ling of railroad trains, yet sitting in the darkness 
 to eat his caste-regulated meal. 
 
 “What a picture! ” I thought. Still sitting in 
 darkness. The world rushes past his door every 
 day in its ceaseless progress toward the light, while 
 he prefers to crouch in the corner. Had I touched 
 his dish of pulse and meal, it would have been 
 ruined! ‘O, Brahman, chained in the prison- 
 house of a dead tradition, know ye not that ‘ not 
 that which entereth into the mouth defileth the 
 man; but that which proceedeth out of the mouth, 
 this defileth the man.’” Blind leaders of the blind. 
 “Ye have made void the word of God because of 
 your tradition.” 
 
 Intercepted in An Alley 
 
 On entering the village of Dalla on my bicycle, 
 I soon found myself in a very narrow, winding 
 lane. A man sitting in a doorway, making potters’ 
 vessels of clay, called out to me, and I stopped. 
 
 Soon a curious crowd gathered around, wonder- 
 ing what I could be doing in so narrow a side-lane. 
 They inquired what the roll was, tied to the back 
 of my bicycle, so I showed it to them; a picture of 
 Christ healing the man at the pool of Bethesda. 
 Then they asked me to come to the town meeting 
 
74 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 hall and tell them at length about the picture, and 
 we wound back through the lane to the building, 
 situated right in front of the big village well 
 with its several pulley-wheels where the ropes are 
 let down. 
 
 By this time a considerable crowd had gathered 
 to see the strange coloured picture of Him who, by 
 the mere word of command, brought healing to a 
 man sick for thirty-eight long years. Then the 
 lesson of how we, too, are sin-sick, lying helpless 
 for years and years, and this same Saviour comes 
 with His power-message of ‘“ Arise, take up thy 
 bed, and walk.” How eagerly they had crowded 
 around; how keenly they looked and listened. No 
 one can ever make me believe that chance meet- 
 ings are merely by chance. 
 
 A Touch of Court Manners 
 
 As I stood in the doorway of the Government 
 Canal Bungalow at Chakar, I saw six men coming 
 across the field from the village. They approached 
 in dignified silence, slipped out of their shoes, 
 without so much as bending over, and then coming 
 inside, each in turn bowed and extended both 
 hands in which lay a silver rupee. 
 
 I could have gathered and pocketed the equiva- 
 lent of two dollars from these half dozen bearded, 
 turbaned men, but it would have been a serious 
 breach of etiquette. My part in this formality was 
 graciously to touch the coins as a sign that I pre- 
 
CHAINED TO THE PAST 75 
 
 ferred not to accept their offer, but that I prized 
 the spirit of hospitality and generous friendliness 
 which prompted this greeting, more than the mere 
 money. 
 
 How fascinating to find, far out in the farming 
 community, this touch of court manners, so elegant 
 and withal so expressive of something inward and 
 fine. These men are so simple that they have to 
 put their thumb impression on papers that require 
 their signature. 
 
 They sat on the floor in a semi-circle. In per- 
 fect naturalness the conversation trended toward 
 the Saviour, who had such a spirit toward His 
 followers that He arose one time after a meal and 
 washed their feet. Did they want to see the 
 beautiful coloured picture illustrating this inci- 
 dent? All agreed eagerly, and gazed at it in 
 childlike adoration. ‘The scene, and more than 
 that, the deep meaning of the act, gripped their 
 hearts. These six are elders in an infant church 
 situated in the heart of the Punjab, fourteen miles 
 from a railroad and thirty-six miles from a city. 
 
VI 
 GROPING IN THE DAY 
 
 T was evening at dusk when I entered the 
 quiet Punjab village where weavers make 
 soft blankets from sheep’s wool; and when I 
 
 alighted from my bicycle, a yellow flag on a tall 
 staff caught my eye. It marked the spot where 
 a revered teacher had lodged in his wanderings 
 many years ago. 
 
 I took off my shoes and entered the building. 
 Not a soul was astir. I called, and somewhere 
 from the glazed recesses a barefoot attendant 
 appeared wearing a tall turban encircled by a ring 
 of steel. 
 
 The Entombed Book 
 
 He washed his hands and feet, muttered a 
 prayer, and entered the inner chamber where lay 
 the Sacred Book enshrouded in a heavy crepe. 
 Removing the covering, he read to me in sepul- 
 chral tones a chain of dead platitudes. He sighed 
 and came out, and the bare walls echoed back his 
 every sound. 
 
 It was all so cold, so lifeless; this funereal cere- 
 mony over a dead book, harping on a remote 
 
 76 
 
GROPING IN THE DAY 77 
 
 past. Thank God, His revealed Word is not like 
 that, I thought. So tomb-like. 
 
 “* All flesh is as grass, and the glory thereof as the 
 flower of grass. The grass withereth, the flower 
 falleth: but the word of the Lord abideth forever.” 
 “For the Word of God is living, and active, and 
 sharper than any two-edged sword... .” It is 
 living. Yes, thank God, it is living. 
 
 Stumbling Over “ Temptation” 
 
 The Christians were sitting huddled in a circle; 
 it was dark, one big Dietz lantern serving us all. 
 With pride they pointed to a little boy of their 
 number who had learned the Lord’s Prayer. He 
 coughed, hemmed a little, and then glibly rattled 
 off the meaningless phrases until he got to the 
 word “ temptation.” 
 
 There he stumbled. In Urdu as well as English 
 it is a difficult word. Its difficulty seems to over- 
 ride all languages. And it’s a deeper matter than 
 mere pronunciation. 
 
 They had all stumbled and fallen right where 
 the school-boy did. It was one thing to have a 
 small lad say off high-sounding phrases; but quite 
 a different thing when it was driven home that the 
 word of stumbling meant for them precisely that 
 opium they sneakingly ate each morning. 
 
 They would have preferred to have the mission- 
 ary come and tell them sweet, smooth things about 
 a Gentle One who healed the sick and fed the 
 
78 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 poor, but it burned home when he pictured them 
 as cherishing snakes in their bosoms and kissing 
 their fangs. Of what use the water poured on 
 their heads; of what value the name in the Sahib’s 
 notebook; of what avail their constant grunting 
 approval of the fine moral platitudes pouring into 
 - their ears, and the wagging of heads, and the re- 
 peating of “correct,” “right,” ‘true,’ in the 
 steady regularity of an Amen-row, when all the 
 time they were secretly soaking their precious few 
 brains in the deadly drug. 
 
 There is nothing new about Mass Movements; 
 they were in vogue in John the Baptist’s day. 
 And he said: “ Bring forth therefore fruits.”” Gen- 
 erations of vipers don’t produce Christian fruits of 
 the Spirit. 
 
 Some said frankly they couldn’t quit and 
 wouldn’t try, preferring to die in their misery, 
 and considering God as a weakling. Others prom- 
 ised to stop, crowded around, and pleaded for for- 
 giveness, and forgot their uneaten evening meal, 
 following us to the tent, then slinking away in 
 the darkness. 
 
 The Ass Speaks 
 
 In the darkness before dawn we heard the bray- 
 ing of a donkey, long drawn out, regular and 
 modulated. His tones broke the stillness of the 
 early twilight; he seemed to be protesting against 
 his lot. 
 
GROPING IN THE DAY 79 
 
 And why not? Thousands of Hindus with bob- 
 tailed hair and spotted foreheads, honestly and 
 conscientiously hold to the conviction that a 
 human soul of past ages is bound up in that dis- 
 contented beast. And so as they speculate and 
 ponder over their chain of existences over many 
 century periods, is it not fitting that a ludicrous 
 echo should come back to them from that pre- 
 daylight realm; product of their own Oriental 
 imaginations? 
 
 Chasers of phantoms, it is indeed proper that 
 they should be answered from the phantom realm, 
 and that in a ridiculous voice. Once before in our 
 queer world’s history, providence saw fit to endow 
 a dumb ass with clearer vision than man, and 
 caused the animal to speak out in rebuke. One 
 pauses to wonder if history is not repeating 
 herself. 
 
 Chains 
 
 I know you'll pardon me when I tell you that I 
 wrote this on a piece of wrapping paper, for it 
 was hailing outside, and there was quite a pond 
 of water between me and the little tent with the 
 tin trunk of books and stationery. ‘‘ Buddy ” had 
 his face glued to the string-lattice-work window 
 watching the hailstones pound on the canvas, and 
 his baby brother was cooing contentedly in his 
 snug wicker-basket. In fact we were all warm and 
 dry inside the tent, with our oil heater; and the 
 
80 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 big black kettle was singing merrily outside in 
 front, though the charcoal burner beneath it stood © 
 in a puddle of water. 
 
 Hathur village, a few hundred yards to our left, 
 stands upon a small hill and cannot be hid. But 
 her prominence is more than topographical. The 
 night before our arrival there occurred a cruel 
 murder with a curved reaper-knife. The smiling, 
 courteous police official came and took his prisoner 
 away in chains. Twenty or more witnesses were 
 subpoenaed, and many long brown sheets were 
 covered with curlycue testimony. 
 
 So there was a solemn hush over the community 
 that night as they watched the pictures of the One 
 who catcheth men alive. He it is that cometh to 
 their village not to bind ankles and wrists with 
 shackles of iron, but to bind hearts with chains of 
 love. Their fellow townsman is to hang for his 
 sin, but think not that before the Great White 
 Throne they are less guilty than he. 
 
 Here is One who from His cross with out- 
 stretched arms beckons to them to cast all their 
 sins upon Him, and He hangs on the tree in their 
 stead. There is the kindly Hindu gentleman with 
 his lands and his titles, who held the meeting in 
 his own house, who furnished us with wood and 
 milk, and waved his hand magnanimously refusing 
 our offers to pay; there is the humble curer of 
 skins who made the leather washer for our spirits 
 stove; there are the haughty storekeepers; there 
 
GROPING IN THE DAY 81 
 
 are the cringing sweepers; all must some day be 
 bound with the heart-chains of Him who catcheth 
 men alive. 
 
 “ Fat Bread Under My Roof” 
 
 “Tf it please you, sir, eat bread under my roof 
 this day.” 
 
 The speaker was a stately, refined gentleman. 
 His kind face and gentle manner were in striking 
 contrast to the fierce-looking dagger at his belt 
 line. I looked at the card, which in great formality 
 he had sent into my tent, and read: “ Hukam 
 Singh, Jagirdar,” typewritten in purple ink, and 
 bordered with a line of stars. One of the two 
 sons, who were standing respectfully while their 
 revered father was seated, had been trained in our 
 Mission School in Ludhiana, 
 
 The gracious invitation was accepted, and soon 
 a canopied ox-chariot was sent to convey the mis- 
 sionary’s wife and baby across the mile of sand to 
 the village. On the way, our host’s son opened 
 the conversation with this question: 
 
 “What do you believe about the future life? ” 
 
 We trudged together over the dry, arid field, 
 and talked of things heavenly, while the five- 
 months-son, latest arrival from that glory land, 
 cooed happily to the accompaniment of tinkling 
 bells on his carriage of state. As we neared the 
 village, the topic had somehow spread out into 
 creation and God’s omnipresence, so that the 
 
82 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 young Sikh revealed decidedly pantheistic tenden- 
 cies of thought. 
 
 But when we were seated within the courtyard, 
 and large round brazen vessels enclosing various 
 tiny dishes of spicy morsels were set before us, 
 then conversation, again begun by this eager 
 seeker, turned at once to the perplexing question 
 facing this and every age: 
 
 “Wherewith shall a young man cleanse his 
 way?” 
 
 Various answers were proposed. ‘The ones re- 
 ceiving most favour were: 
 
 “ By associating with those of the cleansed 
 way,” and “ By striving with all one’s mind and 
 might.” 
 
 How tenaciously they clung to these outer 
 husks! By all means, strive; strive with every 
 ounce of our power from early dawn to late at 
 night. To be sure, associate with those of like 
 endeavour, for “ Blessed is the man that walk- 
 eth not in the counsel of the wicked. . . . He 
 shall be like a tree planted by the streams of 
 water.” But these all follow upon; they do not 
 precede, they can not supplant the inner wash- 
 ing by water and by blood. “ Marvel not, anx- 
 ious friend, that He saith unto you, ye must be 
 born again.” 
 
 “How can these things be? ” he burst forth in 
 the intensity of a military race. “ Faith cannot 
 save; it does not save. Look at the sluggish 
 
GROPING IN THE DAY 83 
 
 Christians of this very village that you foreigners 
 have converted. They are dirty; and when you 
 turn your backs they lie, they steal, they deceive. 
 One must fight, one must struggle, one must 
 strain.” 
 
 To be sure, ‘“‘ Faith without works is dead,” but 
 works without faith are vain. And would you 
 condemn the Teacher for the faults of His fol- 
 lowers? Shall we blame Guru Nanak for the sins 
 of wicked Sikhs? Furthermore, it is Christ, not 
 these erring brethren, who calls you to Himself. 
 He from His blood-stained cross beckons for you 
 to accept His sacrifice for your own sins, not those 
 of anyone else. Then, “thoroughly furnished ” 
 with the armour of God, the breastplate, the hel- 
 met, and the shield, go forth to strive and win in 
 the conflict. But no true warrior fighteth without 
 weapons. 
 
 “ Slave of Christ” 
 
 Ghulam Masih (his name means “Slave of 
 Christ ”) told me that when he became a Chris- 
 tian his wife would not cook for him for sixteen 
 days. Their little son asked him why he sat in 
 one corner and ate corn grains, instead of eating 
 the big round meal-cakes with him and mother. 
 
 The bitter Mohammedan housewife rebuked 
 the child and said that father had become a low- 
 caste. She used the hateful word “ Chuhra,” or 
 sweeper. 
 
84 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 “Do you like to be a sweeper? ” the little fellow 
 asked his daddy. 
 
 “Yes, indeed, son. It’s fine,” was the reply. 
 
 When night came on the husband was given an 
 old worn out quilt, and told to roll up in that in 
 his corner. 
 
 But again the youngster piped up: ‘“ Papa, 
 your quilt is all torn and dirty. Why is that? ” 
 
 “ That’s the kind of quilts that sweepers use,” 
 was the cheerful reply. Again came the boy’s 
 question. 
 
 “Do you like being a sweeper? ” 
 
 “QO, yes indeed, son,” was the same happy 
 answer. 
 
 Patiently he lived through the sixteen days, 
 despised by his proud wife who never spoke to 
 him during that time, and bombarded by ques- 
 tions from his bewildered small son. Today that 
 woman herself is a strong Christian, and the wee 
 lad is happily studying in our Mission school. 
 
 The Veteran 
 
 We were eating lunch in front of the fireplace 
 when a note was handed me from our next-door 
 neighbour, who has been a missionary here since 
 long before I was born. The note: was one in- 
 troducing Bhola, a Christian from the village of 
 Mangarh, ten miles away. 
 
 I finished eating and asked Bhola into the 
 study. He politely stepped out of his shoes 
 
GROPING IN THE DAY 85 
 
 before putting foot on my carpet, put down his 
 staff and the bundle he had swung over his 
 shoulder, and, disregarding the chair that I mo- 
 tioned toward, crouched, balancing himself on his 
 bare feet beside it. 
 
 He plunged into his tale of how he had been 
 baptized nearly forty-eight years ago, had learned 
 to sing and read about the Lord Jesus, and now 
 was lonesome for more fellowship in Him. He 
 had walked here from his home and sought out 
 my fellow missionary because they were nearly 
 of an age. What an interesting meeting of East 
 and West it must have been, the two grey-bearded 
 followers of the same Master. The “ Doctor 
 Sahib ” turned him over to me, and it seemed so 
 incongruous for this veteran, older than my father, 
 to come to me in the attitude of a spiritual child. 
 
 “Please come to us and teach us and baptize 
 more of us, and preach to us and sing and pray 
 with us,” he said, and it was with a very curious 
 feeling that I promised to come. Can this be one 
 meaning of that Scripture verse: ‘“ And a little 
 child shall lead them,” I pondered, as I looked at 
 this elder sitting at my feet. An hour before he 
 had bid goodbye to the last veteran missionary of 
 his own time, and now turned in simple faith to 
 one younger than his son. 
 
 A Distinguished Fugitive 
 I had scarcely finished dressing one murky 
 
86 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 morning when Milki handed me a calling card. 
 He had received it in the midst of sweeping up 
 the thick coat of dust that had blown into the 
 house during the sand-storm of the night before. 
 Such catastrophes are not unusual in the Punjab. 
 I read: “ Col. Singh.” 
 
 When I asked the Colonel in, he first solemnly 
 scuffed off his sandals at the threshold. He was 
 a huge man, heavily bearded, loftily turbaned, and 
 wearing a long, imposing sword. He carried a 
 portfolio of credentials, many of which he showed 
 me in the course of the conversation. 
 
 As he progressed in the telling of his story and 
 grew more and more cryptic in his remarks, I 
 found myself thinking of the stories in the 
 “Arabian Nights.” ‘This old man had fled from 
 a nearby State because the local king tried to 
 steal his wife and add her to his collection. I 
 was shown a photograph of the wife, some forty 
 years younger than her husband. 
 
 The enraged ruler had then started a systematic 
 looting of the man’s property; night raids had 
 been made on villages, police bribed, locks broken 
 and even blood spilled. The king; his enemy, is 
 a Sikh too, fellow member of the same faith. 
 
 Why did he come to me and pour all this into 
 the ears of a Christian missionary? ‘‘ Because 
 Christ loves justice and mercy and truth,” he said; 
 thus admitting that Guru Nanak and his own false 
 faith harboured trickery and intrigue and false- 
 
 
 
GROPING IN THE DAY 87 
 
 hood. He asked for no special favour, no im- 
 mediate service. Merely wanted to put himself 
 in my good graces; this fugitive from injustice at 
 the hands of one of his Oriental brethren. 
 
 His credentials referred to him as former Min- 
 ister of Finance, now drawing a huge pension, in 
 return for distinguished service both in peace and 
 war. There was also reference to a long line of 
 ancestry, noble blood, fabulous wealth and high 
 connections. All was passing, he said, with a sigh, 
 and even his own son had turned against him. 
 
 The truth of his story is, of course, a debat- 
 able question, but the reality of his spirit-poverty 
 was evident. With extreme politeness he finally 
 arose and joined his stately attendant, who had 
 been standing on the verandah throughout the 
 interview. 
 
 Virgin Soil 
 
 It was Sabbath morning when he appeared, 
 from goodness knows where. By dint of per- 
 sistent inquiry he had learned where the Mission 
 was, and had walked straight to the house of the 
 head teacher in our Christian school. 
 
 Sardar Khan brought him to me, and then he 
 told us what he wanted. During the war he had 
 been taken from his village to Bangalore, the 
 large recruiting centre in the south. There he had 
 become a Christian, and now upon returning home 
 his heart was set on having his family and friends 
 
88 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 also hear the Good News and become baptized. 
 No one had ever been to Mansuran, his village, 
 to tell of Jesus. And only about seven miles 
 from here! 
 
 We studied the map together, discovered how 
 that by following the main road part of the way, 
 then going along the government canal a short 
 distance, the Ford could make the trip. We 
 would pass over a dozen other unvisited villages 
 enroute. 
 
 His clear, steady eyes brightened as we prom- 
 ised to come that very week, and he arose from 
 the place on the floor where he had been sitting, 
 folded his brown army blanket around him, which 
 was used in lieu of a coat, slid his bare feet into 
 the slippers by the doorstep, and walked away. 
 I watched him out of the yard, a living example 
 of how the Holy Spirit is moving among the hearts 
 of these people. 
 
Vil 
 
 STRANGE MODES AND MANNERS 
 
 NE day when engrossed in statistical fig- 
 () ures on a two-feet-long report sheet, while 
 Masih Dass was arranging cots, tables, 
 chairs and mud water-pots in the different rooms 
 to accommodate the missionaries at our Annual 
 Meeting, and two other men were cutting hedge, 
 and another leveling dirt, and three more drawing 
 water with the help of oxen and a leather bag; 
 all in all, with the supervision of these and other 
 details, I was feeling that this is mere cogwork, 
 not real missionary service;—then in walked a 
 tall youth from the villages. His eyes were full 
 of entreaty as he stumbled forth in broken 
 English and Urdu, asking if I could help him get 
 his sister. now very sick in the hospital, back home 
 to the village. My wife and I got out the Ford 
 and drove to the hospital. Just as we came to the 
 door, the woman breathed her last. 
 
 The Funeral 
 
 Then the rock-ribbed heathen practices began. 
 She was hurriedly dumped from her bed onto the 
 cold ground. Wrapped in a long cloth, no Chris- 
 
 89 
 
90 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 tian eye was allowed to look upon her, and no 
 Christian hand to touch her. The day before she 
 had been ministered unto by snowy-white nurses 
 and skillful doctors in the Christian hospital; now 
 she lay by the roadside outside the hospital gate, 
 and the doctor was forbidden to come near. 
 
 Doggedly the bearded husband stood guard. 
 Falteringly he asked if I were still willing to take 
 the body in the car; his own people would not 
 have allowed the contaminating thing to touch 
 their carriage. He said she pdssed away with the 
 name of God on her lips, but we wondered what 
 god. In that last hour the steel hand of Hinduism 
 had reached into the Christian institution, drawn 
 her out, and cast her on the ground. She lay 
 “just outside the door.” 
 
 Upon arrival in the village a crowd of gaping 
 onlookers gathered around. For ten minutes the 
 husband left his wife lying in front of her own 
 mud home while he, snatching up a handful of 
 cow manure, rushed inside to prepare a place to 
 lay her, by plastering the floor with this filth. 
 They brought us water for the car in a vessel 
 that would have been defiled had we touched it 
 ourselves; they had to pour the water in the 
 radiator. 
 
 When we came away they were busy preparing 
 the wood for the pyre. Early the next morning 
 the sacred drops would be sprinkled on her form, 
 the husband himself would cruelly apply the 
 
STRANGE MODES AND MANNERS 91 
 
 torch, and then walk round and round chanting; 
 the wailing women would start beating their 
 breasts and moaning in their professional, method- 
 ical way, and one span in an endless chain of 
 recurring existences would have ended. 
 
 Water-Tight 
 
 One morning the meat-man came to our door 
 with his basket of beef and mutton balanced on 
 his head. While I was talking with him, up came 
 the vegetable-peddler carrying his wares in the 
 same way. I asked the vegetable man if I might 
 weigh a piece of meat on his balances, and was 
 met with a storm of protest. He was a Hindu 
 and would not allow the flesh of the cow, which 
 he had never tasted, to touch his scales. The 
 meat-man was a Mohammedan. 
 
 The chaukidar (literally “‘chair-man,”’ but 
 really “ gate-keeper ”’) lay sick of a fever. With 
 the best of intentions we went to his house to 
 offer help, but had not set foot upon the sacred 
 precinct of his mud floor before he cried out 
 frantically: “‘ By thy kindness, do not bring thy 
 honour here.” 
 
 With great effort and groaning he left his rope- 
 bed in the dark corner, and crawled on all fours 
 to peer out at me. Although too sick to sit up; 
 although he had been a servant of the missionaries 
 for sixteen years, working faithfully night and 
 day, always showing a cheerful, willing disposi- 
 
92 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 tion; although he respected and looked up to us, 
 and attended the service every Sunday morning 
 in reverent, attentive mood; nevertheless he could 
 never allow us to pollute his dwelling-place and 
 cooking-spot by entering his home. There he 
 squatted on a board, with his pig-tail of hair about 
 six inches long hanging from his otherwise closely 
 shaven head, and told us he was in great pain, but 
 would take no medicine from our hand. 
 
 A Cough in the Dark 
 
 Instead of knocking we heard a cough just out- 
 side the study door, then a rattle at the window. 
 We looked out into the darkness, then called, and 
 in stalked two turbaned, bearded men carrying 
 long, solid staffs. They slipped off their shoes at 
 the doorway by a deft twist of one foot upon the 
 other. They squatted on the floor, disdaining 
 chairs, and, instead of coming to the point, began 
 to talk aimlessly and leisurely about the weather 
 and things in general. No thought of the late- 
 ness of the hour, nor of the length of their 
 journey. They, for all the world, gave the im- 
 pression of having merely dropped in to pass the 
 time of day. 
 
 They were Ralla and Bishna from the two vil- 
 lages of Bhanbora and Manvi, about thirty-two 
 miles away, in the Mohammedan state of Maler 
 Kotla. I remembered that day in camp, ten days 
 before our Lord’s Birthday, when Ralla trudged 
 
STRANGE MODES AND MANNERS _ 93 
 
 fourteen miles to tell us to come and baptize his 
 friend Bishna and six others in Manvi. 
 
 Now Bishna had gotten into trouble; so he 
 went to his friend Ralla in the nearby village, and 
 together they came on the train to the missionary. 
 Slowly the real purpose of their visit trickled out. 
 It appears that a certain man Sundar had been 
 looking with longing eyes upon Ram Dei, the 
 Christian widow in Manvi. Failing to get her 
 consent to marriage, he had gone boldly to the 
 court, trumped up a charge that the woman was 
 already his wife, and was determined to win his 
 fair prize by foul means. So the two men, 
 friends of this helpless widow, bethought them- 
 selves that the only thing to do was to go to the 
 missionary for advice and counsel, for he can do 
 all things. 
 
 “ Lord, That I May Receive My Sight” 
 
 I was reading in the First Epistle of John. 
 “ God is light, and in him is no darkness at all.” 
 The room was filled with the subdued light of 
 early morning except for a single white ray stream-_ 
 ing through the window. 
 
 Yes, no doubt, He is light, but we here on earth 
 are surely groping, with but here and there a gleam 
 to guide us in the Way, I thought. Surely our 
 seeing is through a glass darkly. As I was musing, 
 a cripple came to the door, hobbling along on his 
 crutches. He was stone blind as well. 
 
94 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 “IT have come to say good-bye,” he said. “I 
 am going back to Ferozepore at eleven.” 
 
 He stopped and talked a little, telling of his 
 joy in the service of Christ as he sold little pamph- 
 lets and portions of Scripture. He “reads” the 
 Word with the aid of his fingers, and is even teach- 
 ing a blind boy to read, too. It is one case where 
 the blind is leading the blind and neither one is 
 falling into a ditch. 
 
 Joyously he left me, as he started back to his 
 home. It seemed never to enter his mind that he 
 was in darkness; the reason being that he wasn’t. 
 “Ye are the light of the world.” Humbly and 
 meekly clump-clumping along on his crutches, 
 those trusty supports in more ways than one, for 
 they served as antenna-like feelers as well, he was 
 letting his light shine before men, and proving that 
 there is a radiance superior to that of the eye of 
 the body. 
 
 An Oriental “ Mammy ” 
 
 None of us could ever understand Ralli, the 
 servant of the children. She lived so spasmod- 
 ically; she died so curiously. At times she would 
 burst forth upon us with a tirade of jumbled lan- 
 guage, incoherent and disconnected. We couldn’t 
 make out her words, but her stormy manner told 
 unmistakably that her world was awry. But whom 
 she was abusing and why, one could not discover. 
 Then quite as suddenly she would portray such a 
 
STRANGE MODES AND MANNERS _ 95 
 
 motherly kindliness to the little folk that they 
 were drawn to her in love, as she crooned to them 
 in mixed English and Punjabi. 
 
 Once she stamped out of the house in a rage 
 never to return, so she said, and we gazed after 
 her utterly at a loss to know what had taken hold 
 of her. And then the next morning she appeared 
 again as usual with her queer respectful salute, 
 made in a country style, with the back of the 
 hand, palm outward. 
 
 Queer spirit of incongruity and discontent, she 
 seemed always to be seeking rest and never find- 
 ing it. Her efficiency was unexcelled. Service in 
 a number of particular households had given her 
 a vast amount of skill in the care of babies in 
 the East. She was scrupulously clean. The old 
 Brahmin habits of ritualistic bathing fortunately 
 clung to her after her conversion. She combined 
 within her peculiar nature the haughty pride of 
 the high caste, not deigning to contaminate her- 
 self by indiscriminate eating, and the sweet hu- 
 mility of a consecrated Christian servant, holding 
 no contact or task unworthy that meant the wel- 
 fare of those she served. | 
 
 Her non-Christian relatives cast her out; a son 
 came miles to visit but wouldn’t eat with her, his 
 own mother. One’s foes shall be those of his own 
 . household. When she took the plague that later 
 brought on her death, by a curious turn of provi- 
 dence it was while visiting her son, sitting in his 
 
96 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 house but not so much as drinking from his cup. 
 It is fitting that the evil disease was contracted 
 in the place where her heart had already been 
 broken. 
 
 Cruelly cast off by her loved ones, she turned 
 her face toward the hills, and wearily trudged to 
 meet her foreign baby, who loved her more than 
 her own. He saw her coming from a distance 
 and, squealing, ran to meet her, plump into the 
 outstretched arms of his kneeling mammy. Over 
 and over she murmured love terms, two lan- 
 guages mixed higgledy-piggledy in a rush of eager 
 expression, but perfectly understood by the two- 
 year-old of foreign parentage and native birth. 
 Only a few days more and the plague brought her 
 low. Then, seeming to divine something of her 
 condition, she forbade him near her bed, loving 
 him none the less, though it was love at arm’s 
 length. 
 
 As she lived, so she died, a mystery. She was 
 all alone in a secluded pest-house, separate from 
 relatives and even habitation. She had never 
 in life seemed near to either, in her weird mental 
 isolation. Relentlessly the disease had borne her 
 down, deserted and alone. But now she lies 
 among the whispering pines, overlooking the 
 scorching plains, in the midst of the graves of 
 the foreigners. By them she had been accepted; 
 among them she had lived. And at her feet lie a 
 half dozen children; perhaps they who alone un- 
 
STRANGE MODES AND MANNERS 97 
 
 derstood and thronged her here, understand and 
 throng her over there. 
 
 Driftwood 
 
 I wonder why the summer season seems always 
 to bring forth the “ floating population of the 
 East.” The rains especially appear to pour out 
 their crop of these travelling victims of ill fortune. 
 Cast up on the shores of civilization, they squirm 
 and cling to the outskirts of society. Slick bat- 
 tered riff-raff, they appear at my doorway with 
 their smooth-running stories, always needing just 
 enough ready coin to reach the next station, never 
 willing to pause and wait a while. 
 
 How well I recall the “polite gentleman ” 
 stricken with a bit of hard luck who came to me 
 in Ferozepore with his tale of the abandoned mine, 
 family starving, work waiting with outstretched 
 hands, as it were, at just the next town farther 
 on. Unfortunately for him, I had been trans- 
 ferred to Ludhiana when chance brought him there 
 two years later, and there were identically the same 
 details of the story, same tearful tones, same wait- 
 ing opportunity, but still just out of reach. 
 
 Then there is the young man who knew my 
 friend in Lahore so well, but, sadly for him, I was 
 just packing preparatory to going to Lahore when 
 he came up, and would gladly interview his friend 
 and mine. Pained at my lack of understanding, 
 he disappeared. 
 
98 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 The other day brought the one who was but 
 temporarily embarrassed, who had seen better 
 days in Allahabad, knew all the missionaries there 
 very well. But, no, he really couldn’t wait until 
 I communicated with those good friends of his 
 and mine in the far away city, for he must be off 
 on the afternoon train for Jullundur. He had 
 been so sorry to be continually coughing in my 
 face, but he just couldn’t check this “ chronic 
 bronchitis.” But it stopped, curiously enough, as 
 soon as he left me empty-handed. 
 
 Another has just come and gone. Hat off, hair 
 ruffled, smooth ever-running English. He was all 
 apologies, all unworthiness, but still, “‘ what is one 
 to do?” He knew the missionaries were big- 
 hearted; his first instinct had been to come to 
 me. He seemed to glide into the chair where I 
 motioned him to sit. Then he waxed confidential 
 on the tricks of the trade, as the conversation, so 
 it seemed to him, grew chummy. The E. I. R. 
 was an easier road to ride; up here on the N. W. 
 R. the ticket inspectors were so unimaginative, so 
 unreasonable, in fact, so stubborn. He smiled 
 dryly when I asked him why such as he were 
 always on the go, and hinted that too long a local 
 residence involved too intimate acquaintanceship. 
 I looked at my watch, reminded him that his pro- 
 longed stay in my study had brought about that 
 very result, and suggested that he had better 
 follow his dozen brethren, who had been here in 
 
STRANGE MODES AND MANNERS _ 99 
 
 as many days, in their continual process of 
 “moving on.” 
 
 The Lie 
 
 The village school-children were listening to 
 our story of “ The Lie,” whereupon their teacher 
 spoke up. Warm were his praises of that ab- 
 stract thing, truth, and earnest were his entreaties 
 that the pupils walk in the way thereof. What 
 the missionary had said about the danger of the 
 lie we tell taking the shape of a gruesome demon 
 that would come and take his abode with us and 
 pursue us and pester us until we would fain be done 
 with him, was indeed true. And so, to further his 
 endorsement and enforce his point, he quoted an 
 incident from the life of his prophet Mohammed. 
 
 It seems that once upon a time a rich young 
 man came to the great prophet and asked of him, 
 “What good thing shall I do to gain salvation? ” 
 And the revered one replied, ‘‘ Quit sinning and 
 thou shalt be saved.” 
 
 But the youth frankly confessed that he could 
 not leave off his evil habits, for they had gotten 
 too fast a hold on him. The prophet admired him 
 for his honesty, and asked what were the sins that 
 thus held him in their grasp. These were stealing, 
 gambling, drinking and profanity. 
 
 “ Well, then,”” Mohammed advised, “ go on sin- 
 ning, but always tell the truth, and thou shalt 
 gain salvation.” 
 
100 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 So the young man went away, and the first time 
 he stole something, and they came to catch him, 
 he confessed and said, “ Yes, I stole.”” Where- 
 upon the police were so surprised that they said, 
 “Since you tell the truth and do not deny the 
 theft, we will forgive you this time, provided you 
 never steal again.” So the lad went away and 
 never stole again. 
 
 Likewise when caught in each of the other gross 
 sins, he always confessed his guilt, and he always 
 gained forgiveness. So one by one the habits 
 were sloughed and at last, by virtue of his truth- 
 fulness, he gained salvation. 
 
 Poor, pale-light imitation of the tale of the rich 
 young ruler who came to the Good Teacher. 
 What a curious twisting of the real incident as 
 recorded in the Book of Life; how absurd and 
 weak the answer, leaving the inquirer limp and 
 helpless. Likewise for the children who sat listen- 
 ing to their teacher, the illustration took all the 
 force out of his remarks. They were left with- 
 out incentive or animation. 
 
 For if the young man in the story did not have 
 the moral strength to rid himself of his other evil 
 habits, how could he have the power to cease his 
 habit of lying? 
 
 It is easy enough to advise in naive terms; but 
 a bondservant needs more than good advice, he 
 needs “‘ Good News.” 
 
 “One thing thou lackest,” said Jesus. One 
 
STRANGE MODES AND MANNERS 101 
 
 thing thou lackest, O, Mohammedan teacher and 
 all thy schoolboys, and thy tale of truth lacks that 
 one thing. ‘‘ Come, follow Me.” He who alone 
 is the Truth looked upon the youthful inquirer 
 and spoke those mighty words. Throw off the 
 encumbrances of wealth, cast off the hindrances 
 of the dull, wordy Koran with its lack-lustre. Seek 
 not to follow after vague, abstract truth. “I am 
 the Truth; come, follow Me.” 
 
VIII 
 SCENES OF OLD LIFE 
 by Russian peasant girls on the morning 
 
 of a marriage, and it begins somewhat 
 like this: 
 
 4 hanes is a beautiful old-world ballad sung 
 
 “Tis thy wedding morn 
 Bright the stars above.” 
 
 And the air rises in delicate strains of praise of 
 the dawn, full of fragrant joy. 
 
 A Wedding After Midnight 
 But in India a wedding morn means night with 
 no dawn, darkness with no light. Proceedings are 
 all carried on between midnight and sunrise, and 
 the “ceremony” is marked by a feverish haste 
 to be through before daylight, lest perchance the 
 rising sun should discover them still at their dark- 
 some deed. As they crouch and scurry and puff 
 nervously at long-stemmed pipes, there is repeated 
 shouting to those few fortunates who have watches 
 to tell again the hour, that the “profane bab- 
 blings ” may not lag till late. One aim is upper- 
 
 102 
 
SCENES OF OLD LIFE 103 
 
 most; to be finished with the gruesome business 
 before sun-up. . 
 
 I got up in the starlight when our tent was at 
 village Poawat, near the canal. It was half past 
 two, and the crisp night air was disturbed by the 
 raspings of an unusually bad brass band. The 
 “music”? marked the approach of the groom. 
 Truly he was late a-coming; I wondered if the 
 “virgins ” had their lamps trimmed and burning. 
 *Twas an unearthly hour, ushered in by an un- 
 earthly noise. My path from the tent led past 
 the creaking sugar-cane presses busy at their 
 twenty-four-hour-a-day task; sputtering torches 
 marked the scene of the “ festivities.” 
 
 It was a home wedding, or rather I should say 
 house wedding, for the idea of home has not 
 entered Hindu life. Narrow, stuffy quarters, 
 jammed to the door with smoking, chattering 
 people. They gave me a place of honour, just 
 next to the centre of ceremonies where the groom, 
 all bedecked and bangled, sat on a small wooden 
 platform awaiting his bride. He had at last 
 arrived; now, however, it was her turn to be leis- 
 urely in her approach. And well she might, in 
 view of the undignified, rude and crude treatment 
 that awaited her. 
 
 But the hour or more before she came was 
 busily spent in preparations. There were incan- 
 tations and wavings, ablutions and lavings, drops 
 of water to be sprinkled on the sacred square of 
 
104 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 ground, grains of rice and dabs of grease to be 
 scattered as offerings. Then more drops of water 
 to be sipped,—for was there not a thimbleful from 
 the distant, immortal Ganges mixed therein, pre- 
 served for this special occasion? His hands must 
 be washed, his feet moistened, his head, bangles 
 and all, sprinkled and blessed. 
 
 And all the time the squatting, fat priest 
 mumbled various bits of sacred writings to the 
 praise of Krishna and all the minor gods. 
 
 Solid silver anklets, gifts to the bride, (maybe, 
 after the marriage, to be returned to the pawn- 
 broker, from whom they had been borrowed for 
 the occasion!) were brought forth, displayed, and 
 sent back into the mysterious region behind, from 
 which she would emerge. There was exchange 
 of copper coins rolled up in a wad of dough, 
 whimsically suggestive of the much larger fees 
 due to the different masters of ceremonies; more 
 dippings and wavings and droppings, until at last 
 all was in readiness for the arrival of the bride. 
 
 Someone stopped gurgling his long-stemmed 
 pipe long enough to bellow out, ‘“‘ Bring her in.” 
 Whereupon the women scampered and chattered, 
 and, amid confusion and bustle, a bundle of 
 something about the size and shape of a bushel 
 basket, completely enshrouded in a heavy cloth, 
 was carried in and deposited on the tiny platform 
 adjoining the groom. 
 
 Not a sound or move emerged from that piti- 
 
SCENES OF OLD LIFE 105 
 
 ful, little heap of cloth-covered life. No beauty, 
 no dignity, no love. She was wrapped almost to 
 smothering, and dumped down like so much prop- 
 erty. Her trousseau was a shroud, serving only 
 one good purpose, and that mercifully to shut out 
 from her own frightened eyes the hideous, heathen 
 rite of which she was the victim rather than 
 the centre. 
 
 Some of the sacred water was hurriedly poked 
 up under her “ veil” for her to drink, more say- 
 ings were repeated over her head, and soon all 
 was in readiness. 
 
 The bald Brahmin repeated in shrill chanting 
 the pedigree of the groom with his bangles over 
 his face like a fly-net. Eighteen unaltered and 
 unalterable sub-castes fixed forever the fact of 
 his family’s worthiness. Proudly his family-tree 
 was sung, and the party which had accompanied 
 him in the canopy-covered bullock-cart from his 
 village, forty miles down the canal, all sat and 
 grunted pleased approval. Then her genealogy 
 was meekly proclaimed, and when no one pre- 
 sented objection, they proceeded to the business 
 in hand. It was four-thirty, and no time must 
 be lost. 
 
 Fire was brought and fanned into a flame. 
 Grease was added, which sizzled and smelled. A 
 blanket was held up to shut off all sight, ironically 
 symbolizing the shielding of that poor little hud- 
 dled heap of a bride from vulgar gaze, although 
 
106 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 she was already buried nigh unto suffocation. 
 Furthermore those of us who were standing merely 
 looked over the top of this blanket-wall. 
 
 A white cloth was tied rope-like to the girl, 
 and the boy held the other end. She was also 
 “ crowned ” with a sort of Hallowe’en paper mask. 
 
 Someone began to beat a tom-tom, another to 
 toot a shell-shaped trumpet, brass platters were 
 used as shields to keep the clothing of the “ high 
 contracting parties ” from catching fire, and, amid 
 a deafening din, they jostled, shoved and carried 
 the bundle of bride four times around that sputter- 
 ing, greasy fire, while her future lord walked first 
 behind, then in front, with his cloth “rein” in 
 hand. Thus was the marriage “ solemnized.”’ 
 
 There are those who are inclined to eulogize 
 Hinduism, referring to its sacred rites and in- 
 censes aS mysterious and spiritually suggestive. 
 There is, however, but one impression received 
 from one of these night-time affairs. It is the dull 
 pity of it all. No snowy-white finery, no spark- 
 ling eyes and tears of joy. Only a heaviness and 
 a shuddering as they shuffle the mute girl-child 
 around a fire and into a life of subjection eternally 
 fixed by numerous grease-appeased gods. 
 
 Hoodlums 
 
 Our tents are on a mound overlooking a city 
 of ancient civilization. The mound itself is the 
 remains of some forgotten village of centuries 
 
SCENES OF OLD LIFE 107 
 
 ago, as witness the bits of pottery and building 
 brick that our tent-pegs turn up. 
 
 While not exactly shaped like a skull, it is a 
 raised place and it does lie outside the gate of the 
 city. And the city has turrets and towers. 
 
 Of a morning, God reveals His wonder in the 
 sunrise, streaking the sky first with tinted rays, 
 then folding and unfolding until soon, very soon, 
 there bursts forth a perfect blaze of glory. And 
 of an evening there are the snow-capped foothills 
 of the Himalayas to our left, upon which the de- 
 parting grandeur rests for an instant, bringing 
 into bold relief the perfect purity of unreached 
 peaks, then quickly fades into twilight and night. 
 
 But as for the city, one feels a bit like Abraham 
 pleading for Sodom, only it’s somewhat of a strain 
 thinking that the fifty, forty-five, forty or thirty, 
 twenty or even ten righteous are here. For when 
 we entered the schoolyard the other day a mob 
 of hoodlum boys, four hundred or more, swarmed 
 around, grinning and hooting. The teachers made 
 no effort to check them. It seems that in this 
 raja-ruled state with its anti-government and anti- 
 Christian agitation, it is considered a step toward 
 self-rule to nurture a spirit of disrespect in the 
 youth of the land! Because the insult is not per- 
 sonal but intended for the Cause we represent, it 
 is quite easy to understand why Jehovah-God had 
 the she-bears come out and eat up the lads who 
 yelled “thou baldhead ” after Elisha. 
 
108 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 There are, however, many more than ten 
 here; more than fifty, even. The local pastor 
 tells me that the roll of our Christian commun- 
 ity in this city of Bassi includes seventy names, 
 and there are a good dozen bright-faced—though 
 sometimes dirty-faced—children in the Christian 
 school, where his wife teaches. And they learn 
 courtesy to all. For the teaching of Jesus is 
 that self-government comes to them who govern 
 themselves. 
 
 The Place of the Manger 
 
 Christmas is inseparably bound up with the 
 Orient. True, we have conjured up a white- 
 bearded, rosy-cheeked, frosty, smiling grandfather, 
 stamping over snow-covered roofs and cracking 
 a long lash at his prancing reindeer. But he is 
 only a creature of fancy; there was probably 
 not a flake of snow in sight that quiet starlit 
 morn. And, instead of reindeer, there were camels 
 with cushioned feet, approaching so noiselessly 
 through the sand as not to disturb the little 
 sleeper. Gravely the ‘“ wise ones” alighted and 
 with all courtly demeanour and respectfulness 
 they bowed low and presented their scented 
 offerings. 
 
 The people of India do indeed know manners; 
 they abhor bluster and noise. Imperturbable in 
 spirit, they may come miles and miles just to pre- 
 sent themselves, to bow and wish you peace, and 
 
SCENES OF OLD LIFE 109 
 
 then return the long, dusty way. The room 
 wherein they greet you may be a mud hovel, their 
 garb but rags, but they will never lose their gra- 
 ciousness and ceremonial bearing in paying their 
 respects. So truly, the straw, the stable, the man- 
 ger took nothing away from the supreme dignity 
 with which those followers of the star must have 
 presented themselves before the Presence. Rather 
 did such surroundings enhance their purpose. 
 
 *Twas nearing Christmas when we were in the 
 village of Mahal. At evening time we were all 
 gathered together in Samma’s house. Our strong 
 petrol burner quite put to shame the tiny wick 
 flickering and smoking in its mud saucer of oil. 
 We talked of light and of not putting it under.a 
 bushel. In the group were “Slave of Christ,” 
 “ Conquered of Christ, “ Victory of Religion,” 
 “Praised One,” and others, together with their 
 wives and children, and also a large number of 
 Mohammedan neighbours who looked on with 
 doubt and wonderment. 
 
 And as we talked together of shining before 
 men, yes, even before these watchful, suspicious 
 neighbours, the family cow contentedly munched 
 her straw from a manger in the corner, faintly 
 suggestive of that other humble room into which 
 the Light came that glad morning. And all the 
 time our camels were outside resting from their 
 labour of bringing our camp equipment from the 
 last stopping-place; they, too, brought to remem- 
 
110 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 brance the wise star-gazers of the East, very wise 
 indeed. ve 
 
 A stillness that was a benediction came over 
 us as we brought the simple service to a close. 
 Verily it was as though we were those upon whom 
 the dayspring from on high had shone. 
 
 Loading the Camels 
 
 Well, well, did you ever hear the noise a camel 
 makes? Some provincial folk think camels don’t 
 make any noise, but just stretch their long 
 necks and look lazy. That may be the way circus 
 camels act, but honest-to-goodness camels are 
 different. 
 
 You see it’s this way. We live part of the 
 time in a tent, and we have chairs and beds that 
 fold up, and tables that roll up in a little bundle. 
 And when we move from one camp to the next 
 we pack all our stuff on the backs of camels. 
 Well, when they are being loaded they have to 
 sit down with their front legs tied, and then the 
 rolls of tents and furniture and trunks and boxes 
 of dishes and many things that you have to have 
 in camp are roped onto their backs, half on each 
 side so as to even up the load. And when the 
 things are being tied on, the camel thinks he is 
 terribly abused, and so he turns his head around 
 and looks and then groans in a most unearthly 
 fashion. It is a sort of dismal grunt. Whereupon 
 Baby Bruce, who is sitting by watching the show, 
 
SCENES OF OLD LIFE 111 
 
 claps his hands with glee and makes a sound just 
 like their groaning. You have to start it way 
 down in your throat and it sounds very funny 
 indeed. In fact, when the camel makes it you 
 feel right away he isn’t really in pain, but is only 
 carrying on that way so as to keep them from 
 loading too heavily. 
 
 But when the ropes are all tied and they are 
 ready to start it’s a great sight. They don’t make 
 any more fuss now. I suppose they know it’s no 
 use. ‘They walk away in a long line, the first 
 one with tinkling bells around his neck, and all 
 the others tied each to the tail of the one in front. 
 Thus they slouch their way along, their big 
 cushioned feet falling ever so softly on the sand. 
 And as they go, the baby cries after them and 
 groans very hard in joyous mockery. 
 
 Blind Leading the Blind 
 
 The blind may not be able to lead the blind, 
 but I know of a case where a blind man leads 
 those who can see. They call him the “ wor- 
 shiper,” for he spends the major part of his time 
 in praising and thanking God. It never seems to 
 occur to him to complain or to think of himself 
 as in trouble. 
 
 He goes about with his long curved stick tap- 
 tapping in front, grateful to any urchin who may 
 snatch up his staff and lead him thereby, but 
 getting on nicely alone, if no such lad is near. 
 
112 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 When he smiles, which is often, his empty sockets 
 do not exactly shine, to be sure, but the rest of 
 his face wrinkles so completely that the very hol- 
 low spaces are forced to radiate the joy welling 
 up from within. 
 
 And how does he lead his seeing brothers? 
 Why, in most every way. He alone in his village 
 knows how to sing the Christian songs, and he 
 has a sort of mandolin that he fingers crudely 
 enough, but ever so lovingly, and his tunes are 
 strange and maybe weird at times, but ever so 
 genuine. He sings of the King of Kings, of His 
 birth, His life, His love, His death, His resur- 
 rection and His return. He leads his seeing 
 fellow-Christians in singing. 
 
 And he also leads them in grasp of the Word 
 of life. He can tell you accurately of the won- 
 derful things the Lord has done for him. He 
 knows the written Word as well as the Living 
 Word. And he leads in witnessing. Most any 
 day he may be found off by the big gate where 
 the rope-makers gather and gossip, and as they 
 gibe him about this Saviour of his about whom 
 it is written that he restores sight to the blind, 
 old “ worshiper ” will answer them stoutly that 
 so He does, and he himself has eyes that they do 
 not have, and visions to behold that they never 
 see. Then they treat him kindly and set him 
 on the right path as he goes tap-tapping away. 
 
 And “ worshiper” leads in trustfulness, too. 
 
SCENES OF OLD LIFE 113 
 
 Each morn dawns for him with no surety about 
 today’s bread, but he calmly prays for daily bread 
 and gets it. Once his goat ran away and was 
 gone over night. He put the matter before the 
 Lord, and the next morning the little black, bleat- 
 ing thing was back again. Whereupon he dedi- 
 cated the goat to God and gave it as his offering. 
 So you see he leads in giving, too. And most of 
 all he leads in watching. To him the coming of 
 the day when this corruptible shall put on in- 
 corruption and this mortal shall put on immor- 
 tality is a great and glorious hope. It will mean 
 release for him, an entrance into what is far bet- 
 ter. The future for “ worshiper” has no fear. 
 Perhaps the blind cannot lead the blind, but they 
 can surely lead the seeing. 
 
 Greatheart 
 
 He has a very small head but a very large 
 heart. He is so clumsy that once he fell in the 
 canal and once he sprawled flat in the sand, but 
 he himself laughs longest and hardest at his mis- 
 fortunes. The night he dreamed he was being 
 eaten up by a jackal and he awoke the whole 
 camp by his outcries has furnished great amuse- 
 ment to the other men, but no one enjoys the 
 joke as much as Dharm Das himself. 
 
 He will stand in the midst of the bazaar and 
 sing with such fervour that his yellow turban 
 shakes dangerously in the breeze, and the veins 
 
114. IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 in his narrow throat fairly stand out. His songs 
 are often literal reproductions of parts of the 
 Gospel. 
 
 This little man with the big spirit will lift his 
 roll of bedding onto his head and trudge reso- 
 lutely across country to witness for his Saviour. 
 He sees no dishonour in honest labour. I have 
 known him to take two hours getting ready to 
 start out from the tent on his tiny horse to get 
 our mail from the Post Office, many miles away; 
 preparations that would ordinarily take ten min- 
 utes; but, bless his simple heart, there is not a 
 vestige of false pride in his make-up, and that is 
 saying a great deal in caste-ridden India where 
 men of the standing of a religious teacher love 
 to load men with burdens grievous to be borne 
 and themselves touch not the burdens with one 
 of their fingers. 
 
 He is not talented, but he is faithful and de- 
 pendable. His good wife teaches psalms and 
 Bible stories to the village Christian children. 
 They have a small white dog by the name of 
 “Some,” for whose sake they will gladly go 
 hungry, that he may have bread. ‘They also 
 keep a scrawny pony. Their entire income is 
 exactly five dollars and thirty-five cents per 
 month to support man, wife, horse and dog. All 
 live merrily and cheerfully, sometimes suffering, 
 sometimes languishing, but forever contentedly, a 
 credit to the great Cause. 
 
SCENES OF OLD LIFE 115 
 
 Mystery 
 
 After six days of meetings with fourteen rugged, 
 bearded villagers, I wonder more and more if I 
 can ever understand these Indian folk. 
 
 They will sit by the hour chanting and clapping 
 their hands, and gently swaying their bodies. One 
 of their most favourite tunes is “O, gardener, 
 where have you hidden Him,” and the whole 
 story is unfolded in song, of the two Marys in 
 
 
 
 the early morning who, coming to the tomb and 
 meeting the Risen One, mistake Him for the 
 gardener, and put their plaintive appeal before 
 Him. 
 
 Then there are the tales of Daniel’s three 
 friends in the fiery furnace; the Angel’s an- 
 nouncement to Mary; the sower and the three 
 kinds of ground; the palsied man let down through 
 the roof. All is sung over and over, on and on 
 by these simple souls, not a one of whom can 
 read a word of the Bible. God has planted the 
 
116 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 Word in their hearts and they cling to it tena- 
 ciously. They cling to it verbally, too; their 
 songs are not about the Scripture, but literal quo- 
 tations from it. One young man, baptized a 
 month ago, sings songs of his own making, for all 
 the world like David. Another plays the drum; 
 no sticks, just his fingers beating out a tattoo on 
 the goat-skin stretched over the ends of a nail-keg. 
 
 But the mystery of the people is nothing com- 
 pared to the mystery of the working of the Holy 
 Spirit in their midst. Truly His ways are past 
 finding out. For one night old Nikka and old 
 Sunder had their hair cut off, which, like Sam- 
 son’s, had grown since childhood. But it was an 
 insignia of the ancient Sikh religion, and in a 
 group of Christians they were ashamed. So off 
 it came, and Sunder told me it felt like having 
 an evil spirit cast out. You know the man in 
 whom the evil spirit dwelt was in church when 
 Christ came to him. 
 
 When Wednesday came they were all restless 
 and wanted to go home, like sheep. By Saturday 
 they wanted to stay on and on. They never get 
 tired of hearing the ‘ Pure Word,” as they call 
 it. We all sit on the floor and dip the morsel in 
 simple gruel for meals. At prayer-time they are 
 prostrate. On Sabbath after the Communion 
 Service at twilight the first short-term Village 
 Elders’ School came to a close. Only the future 
 can reveal the lasting results. 
 
IX 
 SIGNS OF NEW BIRTH 
 
 AN you imagine how difficult it is to gather 
 C together, for a Christian conference, a hun- 
 dred or more lowly people who live in a 
 community where there is no railroad, who could 
 not read any written message you might try to 
 send, and who keep no track of the days of the 
 month? 
 
 The Christian “ Jelsa”’ 
 
 We set the date, counted up how many days 
 intervened, and then sent out messages on camel- 
 back and horse-back to bid them come in after so 
 many twenty-four-hour periods had elapsed. Each 
 nightfall they diminished the number by one. 
 Perhaps they put pebbles into a mud pot and took 
 one out each morning,—I know not. 
 
 Anyway on Saturday, the nineteenth, we had 
 our tents up, the whole-wheat flour, pulse, rice 
 and spices bought, the hole in the ground dug in 
 which the cooking was to take place, the pro- 
 gramme made out, speakers primed; and then sat 
 down to await their arrival. Would they actually 
 arrive? No one knew. We fidgeted a bit as the 
 
 117 
 
118 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 forenoon disappeared and the afternoon began to 
 wear away. At four o’clock a few began to 
 trickle in. By five-thirty a considerable stream 
 was coming; some on tiny mules, one or two on 
 camels, some even on horses, others in lumbering 
 two-wheeled ox-carts, one in a_ red-curtained 
 chariot-affair drawn by more lively bullocks, four 
 loads in tum-tum carts where the traveller is 
 perched high above the two wheels, a few in the 
 motor-car, but most of them on foot. Groups 
 of children and grown-ups, too, came down the 
 road singing as only a Punjabi can sing, in an 
 endless chant so fascinating that after a bit, arms, 
 shoulders and body are brought into captivating 
 obedience to the rhythm. 
 
 Would you know what they were singing about? 
 There was the sower who goes forth to sow, the 
 invitation to the dinner which was refused by 
 those who had bought oxen, married a wife or 
 secured a parcel of land; the conversation with 
 Him who was mistaken for the gardener by the 
 two anxious seekers, on that early Sabbath morn- 
 ing in front of the open empty grave. And so 
 they love to sing over and over again these inci- 
 dents about country life, of seeds and cattle and 
 land and things with which they are so familiar, 
 for these people cannot read a single word of the 
 Good News, you know. They merely retain it in 
 memory through song. Soon the contagion spread, 
 so that by the following morning the air was so 
 
SIGNS OF NEW BIRTH 119 
 
 full of joyous singing that eager spirits forgot 
 sleep and all else save only to beat the hand drum, 
 shake tambourines, pick long two-stringed harps, 
 wave jingly cymbals, and peal forth with tireless 
 voices. It began long before daylight that mem- 
 orable Sabbath morning. 
 
 You will wonder if there was anything of order 
 and carefully directed preaching, and quiet wait- 
 ing on the Lord, so essential to a successful con- 
 ference. I confess it was hard to pin down these 
 carefree folk, so oblivious to either the presence 
 or the passage of time, yet we did gather under 
 the big awning at set intervals, and messages were 
 presented on such subjects as sin and idolatry 
 and lethargy and the living Saviour, all in the 
 beautiful musical language of these primitive vil- 
 lagers, a language quite different than that of the 
 larger towns and cities fifteen miles away. 
 
 And the night the coloured lantern slides of 
 the Christ-life were shown, with the women sit- 
 ting on one side of the white sheet-screen and the 
 men and boys on the other, they were quite 
 rapt in awesome attention. Hari Singh, who was 
 baptized only a month before, sang a song of his 
 own composition, after seeing the picture of the 
 crucifixion; and it had even more of tenderness 
 and plaintive earnestness than his other song 
 about the time he accepted the Lord Jesus and cut 
 off his long Sikh hair. 
 
 Old blind Bhagat from Pharwali brought a 
 
120 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 small goat which he put in the offering. We 
 counted two hundred and three on Sabbath 
 evening as they sat on the grass matting to eat 
 their wheat-cakes and curry. The cakes were 
 fished off the inside wall of a hot cistern-hole where 
 the spanked-out dough had been slapped. 
 
 Monday forenoon, after more preaching admo- 
 nitions and scores of salutations, they picked up 
 their small bundles and disappeared as mysteri- 
 ously as they had come. By noon the tents were 
 deserted, and numerous dusty roadways leading 
 to various mud-hut villages were filled with happy, 
 carefree delegates from the Annual Raikot Chris- 
 tian Conference, or rather “ the Jelsa,”’ as they in 
 their simple brevity prefer to call it. 
 
 The Importunate Widow 
 
 Before six one morning a widow came to me 
 saying: ‘‘ Avenge me of my adversary.” She had 
 been here once before, about two weeks back. I 
 am beginning to understand how that judge felt 
 who in despair decided to do something “ lest she 
 wear me out by her continual coming.” 
 
 I well remember the day, about a year and a 
 half ago, when she and her husband-to-be came 
 for their wedding, shambling along on his camel. 
 They had followed us along the canal bank far 
 into the interior of the district where we were 
 camping at the village of Chakar. A date was 
 set, and we promised to come and perform the 
 
SIGNS OF NEW BIRTH 121 
 
 ceremony, Babu Istifan to officiate, I to be present 
 and help. 
 
 The wedding took place in the open air, in front 
 of the mud hut they were to make their home. 
 The camel was being shorn during the proceedings, 
 and the solemn vows were interspersed with deep 
 guttural protests from that disgruntled beast. As 
 I started away, the happy bride partly threw back 
 her veil that had ’till then completely covered her 
 face and, running after me, put a silver rupee into 
 my hand for the Lord’s work. Now that her hus- 
 band is dead, that coin has taken on something of 
 the sacredness of the widow’s mite. 
 
 And why is she today in the réle of the importu- 
 nate widow? Well, you know the fate of such as 
 she in this unhappy land; they have taken away 
 the camel, her brass vessels and cooking utensils, 
 her one or two bits of household belongings, and 
 left her little more than the baby boy astraddle 
 her hip. Christian as she is, she flies thirty-five 
 miles across country to the Christian missionary 
 for justice. One can hardly blame her for 
 “ wearing me out by her continual coming.” 
 
 Sounds Before Dawn 
 Before daylight the sound of a shouting multi- 
 tude came to us through the darkness. It was 
 ominous. Like the roar of distant thunder. 
 The special train of the King’s son is scheduled 
 to pass through early tomorrow. But he travels 
 
122 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 over an unsteady roadbed, for three separate dates 
 have been rumoured as set for a widespread traffic 
 strike. The air is bristling with expectancy and 
 uncertainty, while rumours and fragments of 
 rumours fly hither and thither about our heads. 
 Our jail is filled with political prisoners, but the 
 wild unrest is unabated. 
 
 Once while motoring by night, a man with a 
 waving lamp attempted to stop us, but we shot 
 right by, and caught a glimpse in passing, of a 
 form lying by the roadside, and a half dozen more 
 standing near with long clubs. One morning we 
 went to a village twenty-eight miles away, making 
 the whole trip before sun-up. The way led 
 through a hotbed of sedition where fourteen 
 arrests had just been made. It seemed we had 
 taken to darting about while others slept. And 
 still the crowds roar; sometimes beginning even 
 before dawn. 
 
 Enmeshed Spirits 
 
 We’ve been sitting on a hilltop for two weeks 
 studying to shew ourselves approved unto God, 
 workmen that need not to be ashamed, rightly 
 dividing the word of truth. And it’s been a stren- 
 uous study, for it has involved such ticklish ques- 
 tions as: is there any difference between a white 
 lie and a black one; or between gross gambling 
 and mere games of chance. Enmeshed spirits 
 have fought resolutely for the compromised view- 
 
SIGNS OF NEW BIRTH 123 
 
 point. But unitedly we have forged right ahead, 
 meeting every problem fairly and squarely. 
 
 Early in the course one tottering Moham- 
 medan inquirer sprawled flat over the grand old 
 stumbling-block; for when it came his turn to 
 read, the verse that fell to his lot was John 3: 16, 
 and the word “Son” was too much for him. His 
 classmates described the incident in true Oriental 
 quaintness, saying “ his turban caught on fire.” 
 
 So, dropping him by the way, we had to go on, 
 morning after morning gathering in the long, nar- 
 row room with its brick lattice-work instead of 
 windows; sitting on grass matting instead of 
 chairs. With swaying shoulders and rhythmic 
 hand-clapping we followed together through the 
 fascinating, swinging strains of many and many 
 a Punjabi song. We could look out and up unto 
 the hills, from whence came not our help but the 
 suggestion of the higher Helper. Below us lay 
 the threshing floor where patient, unmuzzled oxen 
 trod out the grain, and chaff blew away like the 
 wicked. We had our “ upper room,” too, where 
 earnest discussions about the kingdom took place. 
 Every man was interested, from the big grizzly 
 farmer with his ungainly frame, to the meek, quiet 
 lad with the far-away look. The one venerable 
 white-bearded minister in our midst kept dignity 
 and reverence from being overtopped by the rest- 
 less seeking energy of one or two younger spirits. 
 
 One day the city’s highest government official, 
 
124 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 an Indian Christian, left his judge’s bench where 
 he had been busy prosecuting hot-brained revolu- 
 tionists, and came to our “upper room,” sat on 
 the floor with the rest of us, and talked in a won- 
 derfully helpful way about the Christian’s basis 
 for poise when all about him seems to be turning 
 and overturning. Another quiet evening we stud- 
 ied the Life by means of big, white pictures pro- 
 jected by the “lantern of magic” onto the mud 
 wall outside. Mornings at ten an enthusiastic 
 young teacher of teachers drilled us in the prin- 
 ciples of catching men alive, illustrating his points 
 on a blackboard in the queer curlycue language of 
 this land. The last night the members of the 
 class on the Pilgrim’s Progress enacted before us 
 what they had learned about the trials and tri- 
 umphs of that rugged Way with its shining goal. 
 
 When it was over, there were vast, scorching 
 plains, dotted with hundreds of hard baked vil- 
 lages, awaiting us, over which we must scatter and 
 into which we must go. What a beautiful privi- 
 lege it is to be a messenger from the mountains 
 whose feet bringeth good tidings, that publisheth 
 peace. 
 
 The Man Who Watched the Road 
 
 A year ago I was stopped on the canal road- 
 way by a refined villager, who urged me to come 
 to his place because the people there were not 
 good. But I was rushed with scores of other 
 
SIGNS OF NEW BIRTH 125 
 
 communities suffering from that same malady, and 
 besides his village was just over the border in a 
 fellow missionary’s territory. 
 
 But this year he and I were together as we 
 passed that way, and again there came the 
 Macedonian call. The villager seemed almost to 
 have been waiting those twelve months; watching 
 the road. 
 
 We crossed the bridge and entered his town, 
 passing a worshiping-place of the Sikhs, partly 
 built but never completed. Our host explained 
 that the wearers of the black turban had started to 
 build, but those of the white turban had stopped 
 them. So the place remained there, an unfinished 
 skeleton; monument to the insufficiency of the Sikh 
 faith. Farther on was an old dirt fortress, remind- 
 ing us of the days of this man’s grandparents, when 
 each family provided for its own defense. 
 
 The people were gathered on the slope next to 
 our distinguished friend’s palace. All were quietly 
 expectant. Their chief citizen had sent a mes- 
 senger through the narrow winding ways, calling 
 them to this slope to hear about the Way. 
 
 Obediently they had assembled and silently 
 squatted in the twilight. We could just discern a 
 sea of faces; from where we stood they were 
 about on a level with our feet. Behind them in 
 dim outline were the mud roofs even with our 
 eyes; and above, there shone a single brilliant star. 
 
 We preached Christ crucified and raised from 
 
126 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 the dead. There was no time for anything else; 
 it was such a desperate business, and time was 
 passing. They nodded serious assent when their 
 sins were mentioned; they even laughed at the 
 reference to idols of stone, helpless and ridiculous; 
 they remained strangely quiet when the Way of 
 Release was presented. 
 
 After the prayer, some bought portions of 
 Scripture; one wished to argue: we turned to our 
 gracious host. With extreme courtesy he led us 
 away, and thanked us. He said no man had ever 
 been to his village with that Message. He invited 
 us back to dine with him, and when we came the 
 conversation instantly turned toward Jesus. He 
 had eagerness in his pleasant eyes as he took the 
 New Testament we gave him. He said he wanted 
 to believe and would certainly read it all. 
 
 Erased 
 
 Megh Nath is dead. But the expression they 
 used in reporting it to me was “he has become 
 erased.” Nothing could be farther from the 
 truth, for his life and memory are quite indelible. 
 
 Two scenes remain with me in connection with 
 this faithful witness who served his Master in 
 return for a monthly income equal to a day’s 
 wage at home. They mark the beginning and the 
 end of our acquaintance. The former was soon 
 after I had arrived in the country. He left his 
 little ‘‘ upper room ” near the sellers of pulse and 
 
SIGNS OF NEW BIRTH 127 
 
 herbs, and walked by my horse’s head as I rode 
 across-field to Ahmadgarh. It was the season of 
 the birth of the Christ-child, and as we journeyed 
 together he talked continually about stars and a 
 manger and sweet-smelling spices, and as he talked 
 his wrinkled face fairly beamed. Verses of the 
 Account fell from his mouth with the ease befitting 
 one whose entire library is a single Sacred Book. 
 The very clods under his feet took on new mean- 
 ing, and I rejoiced in my new brother of the East 
 who loved his Lord indeed. 
 
 The other hour I shall never forget with Megh 
 Nath was when they had brought him to the hos- 
 pital at Ludhiana, and that beaming face was now 
 swollen and disfigured. Some disease germ had 
 done its work within, and he couldn’t see, he 
 couldn’t eat. It was my duty to count out into 
 his hand the twelve small pieces of silver repre- 
 senting his pay for the preceding month, and with- 
 out a moment’s hesitation he handed back one of 
 the coins to serve as his contribution to the Work. 
 He couldn’t speak, for it was near the end, but his 
 act spoke louder than words. Somehow or other 
 I couldn’t speak either just then, so I pressed the 
 hand with the eleven remaining rupees in it, and 
 walked away never to see him again. 
 
 No, such as he are not erased. They are epis- 
 tles, written in hearts, known and read of all men. 
 Saturated with his single Book, he had spent his 
 years trudging across fields to those who could 
 
128 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 not read. Ah, but they could read “ epistles,” and 
 so there is a corner of the Punjab dotted with tiny 
 villages, where many a small out-of-the-way group 
 of illiterate believers remembers how they used 
 to read this their “epistle,” the little old man 
 with the beaming face. 
 
 Rhythm 
 
 After this morning you can’t make me believe 
 that God ever meant we should use only our 
 mouths in singing. 
 
 I have seen a great truth incarnated in a group 
 of worshipers; had they been forced to be quiet, 
 the stones would have cried out. Lips were but 
 the place of outlet, not the source or beginning. 
 
 Nor could the expression of that which had 
 taken possession within be forcibly confined to 
 voice alone; flashing eyes moistened by joy, sway- 
 ing shoulders unconscious that they moved, tap- 
 ping fingers, beating palms, all took their natural 
 rhythmic share in the song. 
 
 Two of the group were standing, and with high 
 ringing sounds led on, line upon line, precept upon 
 precept. There was something that had happened 
 for them and to them, and tell it they must. Woe 
 is meif I sing not His praises. And so they 
 pealed it forth about Him who came to take us 
 across. And the rest, sitting on the grass mat- 
 ting, would catch the strain the instant it left the 
 leaders, and carry it lovingly on and on in 
 
SIGNS OF NEW BIRTH 129 
 
 rhythmic joy. All the time the undertone of 
 drum thump-thumping, and the faint, plaintive 
 baby-organ strains, served as a distant echo of 
 an accompaniment. Again the pause in ex- 
 pectant waiting for the signal, then another 
 heralding about the one who came to break our 
 chains, and once more they fairly leaped at the 
 chorus. 
 
 I now know why they stop singing when sorrow 
 comes, when they are broken in spirit. It was a 
 song of ascents. Thus the psalmist must have 
 burst forth. ‘ When Jehovah brought back those 
 that returned to Zion, we were like unto them 
 that dream.” 
 
 The dull mud surroundings, the droning insects 
 in the torrid heat, the squalid tumbling babies, the 
 hunger, the dirt, the want, all fade away into hazy 
 uncertainty and we see in a vision afar the things 
 which are eternal. And seeing, we are possessed 
 of it soul and body, rhythm taking up its abode 
 not merely in our throats, in all our members, 
 and that which dwells within bursts forth. It 
 sweeps all the mere temporal things, the things 
 which are seen, out of its way and marches on 
 triumphant. 
 
 A small son of a preacher used to refer to his 
 father’s pulpit work as singing. Be that as it 
 may, I venture the assurance that such choir- 
 work as we had in India this morning is real 
 preaching. 
 
130 IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 Romance in Mud Huts 
 
 Heed not the one who would decry missions as 
 having lost their romance. There has been no 
 lessening of the thrill of the pioneer. 
 
 Precisely as in the days of our Lord, the chief 
 task of going about among the common folk and 
 bringing them “ Good Tidings ” remains unabated. 
 One marvels at the similarity of surroundings. 
 Passing herds of sheep and goats together (as yet 
 unseparated), and the shepherds with their staffs, 
 we come to open wells where weary, dusty travel- 
 lers pause to rest and refresh themselves, and 
 women carry water in earthen vessels. 
 
 There are hundreds of wide-mouthed wells of 
 water that might be named “Contention” and 
 “Enmity,” like those so named by Isaac when 
 his herdsmen strove with the herdsmen of Gerar. 
 For the herdsmen of Hindustan still strive over 
 wells of water. 
 
 Women wear a cloth-covering over their heads 
 that is most becoming, and may be drawn over the 
 face, should occasion arise. Likewise did Rebekah 
 as she alighted from her camel, and likewise did 
 the women of Corinth. Servants make the mar- 
 riage arrangements, only in the Punjab it is usually 
 the family barber, not the trusted household man 
 of Abraham’s day. On the night of the ceremony 
 they always wait long hours for the bridegroom; 
 also he “ decketh himself with a garland,” while 
 his bride “adorneth herself with her jewels.” 
 
SIGNS OF NEW BIRTH 131 
 
 These consist of headtires, nose-rings, bracelets 
 and anklets, as in the anxious days of Isaiah and 
 Ezekiel. When a man dies, his brother is expected 
 to marry the bereaved wife; and I have had at 
 least one visit from an importunate widow. 
 
 In tracing relationships, the mother is not 
 considered; it is ‘Santa, son of Chanan,” and 
 children are often given names with religious sig- 
 nificance. Babies are carried astraddle the hip; 
 “borne upon the side ” is the way it is put in the 
 sixty-sixth chapter of Isaiah. 
 
 Social customs also reveal a striking resem- 
 blance. There is the low, deferential bow when 
 entering your presence, the quiet greeting of 
 “ Peace,” the patient inquiry after each and every 
 member of your family, the omission of proper 
 names when referring to oneself. David called 
 himself ‘thy servant” when talking with Saul. 
 Most common is the interrogatory method of 
 making a positive statement, akin to the practice 
 of answering a question with a question. Samuel 
 said unto all Israel, ‘‘ Whose ox have I taken? or 
 whose ass have I taken? or whom have I de- 
 frauded? ” and the questions resound, O, so famil- 
 iar in the ears of all who have lived in the East. 
 For the meaning is not so much a challenging, 
 defiant attitude, but rather a delicate, evasive 
 manner of stating the opposite truth. Epistles of 
 commendation are in widespread usage, in spite 
 of Paul’s testimony to their inferiority to the kind 
 
132. IN THE HUTS OF THE PUNJAB 
 
 that are known and read of all men. Permission 
 is always asked before leaving your presence; not 
 until one is bid be gone may he presume to go. 
 Thus did the servant politely request of Laban 
 and Bethuel that they send him away to his 
 master. 
 
 Most any morning can be heard the dull, steady 
 drone of the stones where two women are grinding 
 at the mill, and you are startled at the thought of 
 one of those heavy wheels being hung about the 
 neck of any who should place a stumblingblock in 
 the path of these “little ones.”’ The villages have 
 their huge doorways, where the jury of five sits for 
 judgment. They weigh out pieces of silver in the 
 balances; on all sides are threshing floors where 
 the oxen unmuzzled tread out the grain, and the 
 chaff is blown away like the wicked. At funerals 
 they wrap the body in a pure white cloth for 
 burial. One dips the morsel when eating, water 
 is carried in skins, things are kept wrapped in a 
 napkin. Potters make their pots of clay, and the 
 clay is indeed pliable in their hands as the wheel 
 whirls before them. The sower still goes forth to 
 sow, and he encounters the four kinds of soil. 
 
 There are many other things that might be 
 enumerated which illuminate the Gospel narrative, 
 and make vivid the customs and life of early 
 Christian times. And in a field where pastoral 
 work consists of guarding lest the people slip into 
 subtle entanglements with idols, coaxing the un- 
 
SIGNS OF NEW BIRTH 133 
 
 learned parents to send their children to school, 
 urging them to give part of their grain to the Lord, 
 gathering the people into conventions, choosing 
 and preparing elders, and in many ways helping 
 the infant church to walk; in a field enclosing 
 about a thousand clusters of mud-huts where live 
 nearly a million farmers and their vassals huddled 
 together in space, but far isolated one from the 
 other in social separation; a field where in less 
 than a hundred villages are found groups ranging 
 from a single family to a dozen, who have ac- 
 cepted the Saviour, and where there are always 
 crowds to gather about the village gateways and 
 in individual homes and squat and listen and urge 
 you to come back; in such a field there is still 
 pioneer work and a-plenty, there is still ample 
 room for romance. 
 
 THE END 
 
ce, ; 
 \ Waid 
 
 
 
MISSIONS AND RELIEF WORK 
 
 
 
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 plete record of the question, and will be found particularly 
 useful in that it presents in full the official documents illus- 
 trative of the course of diplomacy with relation to Shan- 
 tung.”—N. Y. Herald. 
 
 OTHER BOOKS BY GE-ZAY WOOD 
 
 China, the United States and the 
 Anglo-Japanese Alliance ‘ 
 2.00. 
 
 The Chino-Japanese Treaties of 
 May 25th, 1915 
 
 $2.00. 
 
 The Twenty-one Demands 
 Japan versus China, $2.00. 
 

 

 

 

 

 
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 NO 15°34 
 
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