I am sorry to say that my faith in the possibility of securing in any way a more commodious building for this school and for a head-quarters for our entire work, is not strong. Perhaps this is the reason why the oft-repeated petitions of our teachers for more room, remain without response. “According to your _faith_” it is said, “be it unto you.” One lady at the East, self-prompted, or prompted of God, has added to many a previous kindness, a donation of $100, to be used for this enlargement when it shall become possible. One member of the Executive Committee of the A. M. A., who has visited our quarters, and seen something of the need, has hinted that the easiest way to get relief would be to ask for the necessary fund to buy or build. I ventured to infer that if this request should be made, his generous heart and ever-open hand would help the matter on. It would be much that thus we could save to our work $1,200 per annum now paid for rent. This sum would keep _five_ teachers in the field for a full year. And then we should have a building suited to our needs, large enough and light enough, open enough to the pure air of heaven, to speak for itself a welcome and to bear in itself a blessing to these crowds of needy souls. Fifteen thousand dollars would secure this—a place where (if the predictions of our wisest helpers may be trusted) 300 _young men_, born in the depths of heathenism, could be brought every day of every week throughout each coming year, to sit at Jesus’ feet and hear his word. And a sum much less than that would put my faith concerning it at that mustard-seed point at which our Saviour assures us “nothing shall be impossible to you.” [Illustration: YAKUT VILLAGERS.] CHILDREN’S PAGE. * * * * * ONE BOY WHO GREW UP IN A COTTON PATCH. BY MISS LAURA A. PARMELEE. His name is Frank, his cotton patch is in Mississippi, near the Sunflower River, and he is teaching school in that neighborhood at this very time. Although he is quite grown, he is not so tall as his highest cotton stalk, and doesn’t look a bit as if he had a story. It is not an uncommon story, and might be true of a good many Williams, or Henrys, or Johns. That is why I am so particular to tell you his name and where he lives. Most of his time was spent in the field, but he ate and slept in a rough log-cabin of one room. The chimney was built outside of the cabin, and was made of sticks and clay. The one window was a board shutter, swinging on leather hinges. Two beds, a table, a few dishes, two or three pots and kettles, three or four leather-bottomed chairs and a barrel of meal furnished the house.