ter came from a young lad in one of the lower grades of
school work. He had been seriously sick for weeks, and the teacher
to whom he wrote sat with him and ministered to his comfort after
the weary hours of her school work were over. This lad appreciated
her self-forgetful kindness; his heart was touched, and as she left
the malarial atmosphere of this Southern country for brief rest in
her Northern home, this boy sent her this letter. His letter is
"phonetic" and of the individual type, but I venture that the
tearful prayer going up to God from his grateful, loving, simple
heart may reach the Father's ear, and bring down a blessing upon his
loving friend as "demegiately" as the rounded periods of learned
lips. He evidently is no dusky Claudius whose confession must be:

"My words fly up, my thoughts remain below;
Words without thoughts never to Heaven go."

"What a privilege it is to be prayed for by such confiding souls,"
said the teacher as she handed me this letter.

* * * * *

Speaking of prayer among the colored people, calls to mind a petition
offered for myself, when Field Superintendent, soon after my
appointment. An old black woman in New Orleans was called upon to
pray, after I had spoken to the people. She chanted her words in
soft, melodious tones, keeping time with her body swaying back and
forth, as she prayed. She prayed for the former superintendent, Dr.
Roy. She thanked God for his patient, loving care of the people. She
told the Lord how he went as a prophet of Israel, back and forth
among them, bringing the bread of Heaven to their hungry souls. She
sought Divine blessing, rich, full, free, upon him and all his loved
ones. Then she chanted in the liquid accent of the Creole, "And now,
O Father, bless our young brother the new superintender. Let him down
deep into the treasury of thy word and hide him 'hind de cross of
Jesus." And the heart of the "New Superintender" said "Amen and
Amen." That experience was what he needed.

How close to the great throbbing heart of God these simple children
of cotton-field and cabin come! In gaining intimate acquaintance with
them one is reminded of Heinrich Heine's confession in his notes on
Uncle Tom's Cabin:

"Astonishing! That after I have whirled about all my life over all
the dance floors of philosophy, and yielded myself to all the orgies
of the intellect * * * without satisfaction, like Massolina after a
licenti