The romantic, pathetic and comical jumble themselves together in a strange medley in these field experiences. But each experience illustrates some phase in missionary work, or italicizes its importance. We drop into a mountain cabin and there find the usual inmates of such mountain homes—a pale-faced, tired-looking woman, with the “old woman in the shoe” sort of family. The oldest of the children is a girl of eighteen. She informs us, during a conversation, that she “_has never seen a book_.” She modifies this statement a bit by adding: “I ’low thayr war one ’fore grandmam died, but I plumb forgot how it looked.” Think of it! A girl eighteen years old, in the heart of this country, which boasts itself in its educational advantages, who did not know what a book looked like! What more pathetic appeal can be offered in behalf of this mountain work than this fact presents? The ignorance of the preachers is often as painfully evident as that of the people. A friend residing in this region told me that he had often been asked by the preacher to read his text for him at the church service, the preacher adding: “I thank God I cannot read; the Spirit teaches me.” This preacher was white. * * * * * Here is a case of genuine civil service reform: A member of an A. M. A. church was requested by the committee of his party to run for Congress. He declined unless they would pledge themselves that no money nor _whiskey_ should be used to influence voters. The committee replied that this could not be done, as it would lose them the election. “Very well,” said this mountain nobleman, “then you must get another candidate.” In speaking of the circumstance to this friend, I told him that all his friends rejoiced in the stand he had taken, and that the A. M. A. appreciated the honor he had conferred upon it by his loyalty to political honesty, but that the country needed such men in Congress as he was. He laid his hand on my shoulder and replied: “It was no great sacrifice; I really believe I would rather go to a good prayer-meeting than to Congress.” * * * * * We jog along and come to a little slab meeting-house, just built at considerable self-denial and persistent begging on the part of a few colored Christians. An old brother was called upon to pray at the opening of the service. This was one sentence in his quaint prayer: “Oh, Lord, bless our brother, and give him a pennyroyal tongue.” But it is not so foolish a petition, after all. Pennyroyal is an herb growing abundantly in that region, and is used for ointments and salves; it is healing, it soothes irritations, heals old hurts, reduces inflammations. That is the sort of a tongue a missionary superintendent needs. I fancy, also, many pastors would sometimes rejoice in the possession of such a tongue. I doubt if our colored brother could read, but he had in some way learned Solomon’s secret: “The tongue of the wise is health.”