The Fulfilment of a Dream of Pastor Hsi's: The Story of the Work in Hwochow — John Shaqi
The Fulfilment of a Dream of Pastor Hsi's: The Story of the Work in HwochowCable, Mildred
Religion
The Fulfilment of a Dream of Pastor Hsi's: The Story of the Work in Hwochow
Cable, Mildred
Missions -- China -- Huo-hsien (Shansi Province)
"Come again, come again soon," and we were off again, refreshed by a
delicious, beautifully cooked meal, and our hearts warmed by the evident
pleasure which our visit had given and the cordial hospitality which had
sought to let us know how welcome we were. And now we left the fertile
plain and well-watered land which lay all along the river-bed to climb
steep, stony roads, and follow narrow footpaths, where the difficulty of
its broad load made my donkey step gingerly as near to the chasm's edge
as she could secure a foothold, and I dug my knees into the soft bed-bag
and longed for something on which I could get a grip. How pleasant and
easy such journeying became before the end of that autumn's wandering,
and how familiar the life of the village homes. Almost day by day the
confused sounds took form to my unaccustomed ears, and I was soon able
to differentiate quite clearly between the two inevitable questions,
"How old are you?" and "How many brothers and sisters have you?" I
ceased to cover myself with confusion, by answering that my brothers and
sisters numbered twenty-three, and that my age was six--though now that
the days of helpless shame are passed, I would not _not_ have made these
mistakes, so keen is the enjoyment still felt when some one repeats the
old joke, and all laugh merrily at the recollection.
Happy, irresponsible days, in which I learned to know and love the
Chinese. I saw them now to best advantage, simple, patriarchal,
industrious and thrifty, extraordinarily resourceful, and independent of
all that their own fields and farm do not supply. I saw the women's
activities, and how they picked the cotton in the fields, spun and
carded it, then wove it into strong cloth on the loom made for them by
their own husbands; how they dyed the cloth with indigo of their own
growing, and finally converted it into the garments, and even the shoes
and socks, worn by the whole family. I saw how those same garments were
wadded with a layer of cotton-wool as the cold season approached, and
behold, the whole family was made proof against the severe onslaughts of
the keenest frosts and bitterest winds. I saw how a measure of wheaten
or maize flour, a vessel of water, and a few vegetables dug from the
field were daily converted into the three meals on which young and old
alike thrived, the men showing a muscular development and endurance and
an agility unequalled by anything I had met in other countries. I
learned to recognise their simple, unexpressed joys, and to realise the
deep tragedies which lay beneath the surface of their laborious lives.
I was in the midst of the province which--in the very year when I was
born--had been swept by the horrors of a famine and pestilence which
left whole villages with no other survivor than perhaps two or three
wailing children, feeding on garbage torn from the grasp of the dead
hand.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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