"MOTHER" ROSS, 1923
 
 ALISON T. ROSS, 1910
 
 A ROAD 
 of REMEMBRANCE 
 
 By 
 
 ELIZABETH W. ROSS 
 
 Fifth Printing 
 
 POWELL & WHITE 
 
 CINCINNATI, OHIO 
 
 1926
 
 COPYRIGHT 1821 
 
 POWELL & WHITE 
 
 CINCINNATI. O
 
 To 
 
 My Friends, Here, There and Everywhere 
 who have built for me, as the Samoans built for Robert 
 Louis Stevenson, "The Road of the Loving Hearts," 
 To you, who by your counsel, confidence, sym- 
 pathy and love, have been to me the Alpine 
 guides to help me in my journey up 
 toward the hill country of the 
 Eternal God, 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED. 
 
 020071
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Page 
 "Mother" Ross and A. T. Ross Frontispiece 
 
 Southern Christian Institute 39 
 
 Lida's Wood 48 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Emory Ross 85 
 
 Betty Ross 128 
 
 Roger Ross 134 
 
 "Old Baldy" *. 144 
 
 Emory and Myrta Ross and the 
 
 Children, 1923 .. ...147
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 It is an honor and privilege, sincerely ap- 
 preciated, to present to those who read with 
 their hearts and minds open toward the sunrise, 
 this volume of human experiences, written by 
 one whose passage to and fro throughout the 
 land has brought sunshine and fruitful season 
 into the life and work of score upon score of 
 churches, and hundreds upon hundreds of in- 
 dividual lives. 
 
 Out of these rich years of incessant service 
 to the King, His church, and His people, 
 "Mother" Ross has gathered some of the ex- 
 periences and soulful messages that have made 
 her presence everywhere a rich blessing to those 
 with whom she has come in contact, and given 
 them permanent form in this delightful little 
 volume. 
 
 Thousands have wept and laughed with her 
 and gone on their way with hearts all aglow 
 with a new vision of the Christ and this wonder- 
 ful world in which we are privileged to live and 
 tell of Him. 
 
 "Mother" Ross walks and talks with her 
 Lord, and upon the pages of this beautiful life
 
 story she has told what He has said and been 
 to her. 
 
 There is small need that any word should 
 be said regarding the merits of this "Story," for 
 once in your hand, no other task will have any 
 charm or call until the last word has been read. 
 
 The old will follow these pages and grow 
 young again; the young will race through its 
 chapters and be richer and wiser for their gam- 
 bol; all, old and young, saint and sinner, will 
 know in a new way of the presence and power 
 of Him who has strengthened and guided, 
 cheered and blessed, comforted and sustained 
 the author through cloud and sunshine, over 
 the rough and tortuous way of life. 
 
 Our hope is that all who read may find 
 Him the same ever faithful and satisfying 
 Friend. 
 
 WALTER M. WHITE, 
 
 Memphis, Tenn.
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "Our lives are God's gift to us; what 
 we become is our gift to Him." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 On February, the sixteenth, eighteen hun- 
 dred and fifty-two, the gates of life swung open 
 for me and I started on my earthly pilgrimage. 
 Now my day is shadowing toward the West, and I 
 will soon have lived out my allotted years three 
 score and ten. "Can't none of us help what 
 traits we start out with but we can help what we 
 end up with," says Mrs. Wiggs. As I look back 
 over the shining wake, I am humbled to think 
 how little I have accomplished, and what an im- 
 perfect gift I must bring back to Him. I would 
 not, however, with the poet cry out: 
 
 "Backward, turn backward, 
 
 O, Time, in your flight, 
 Make me a child again 
 Just for tonight." 
 
 What I have written, I have written, and I will 
 trust a merciful, loving Father to blot from His 
 
 11
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 book of remembrance all that is wrong and 
 sinful. 
 
 My mother's name was Vashti Cadwallader. 
 She was named for the queen, but she was never 
 deposed, but reigned queen of the heart of her 
 noble husband, Robert Raper Williams. Eight 
 children were born to this mother, but only five 
 lived to manhood and womanhood, and these 
 rise up and call her blessed. My mother lost her 
 birthright in the Quaker Church by marrying a 
 man outside of the fold, but they lived together 
 Godly upright lives, and strove to bring up their 
 children in the nurture and admonition of the 
 Lord. I have reason to be thankful for the herit- 
 age my parents left me, and the memory of my 
 childhood is sweet and pleasant. A dear Quaker 
 grandmother taught us to say "thee" and "thou," 
 and to turn the left cheek if we were smitten on 
 the right, and many other gracious and beautiful 
 lessons. 
 
 I went to school in the quaint Quaker 
 meeting house. "Every institution is but the 
 lengthened shadow of a man," says some one. I 
 know whoever selected the site of that meeting 
 house had the love of God in his heart. The 
 house is built on a hill, surrounded by great 
 trees, and a stream of sparkling water made 
 music all day long. Some evergreens taught us 
 of immortality 
 
 12
 
 // Road of Remembrance 
 
 "There, changeless, all the seasons through, 
 Those green cathedrals lift their spires; 
 
 The first to catch the morning dew, 
 The last to hold the evening fires." 
 
 I think my sympathies for the black race 
 were started by hearing the grandmother sing, 
 "Po' Little Black Sheep," and fifty years after- 
 ward, when I heard Paul Lawrence Dunbar give 
 his poem, I thought he must be a plagiarist he 
 surely must have learned it from my grand- 
 mother. My first missionary work was done 
 under the direction of this saintly woman. I 
 made a "housewife" a leather book, furnished 
 with needles, pins, buttons, tapes and other 
 necessary articles and sent it to a soldier of the 
 Civil War. 
 
 Our First Day school offered a premium of 
 a book to the child who would commit to 
 memory the greatest number of Bible verses. I 
 won by reciting seven hundred verses and 
 formed the habit that has followed me through 
 all the years that of committing to memory 
 something each day, scripture, poetry or 
 foolishness, for it is good to have a varied 
 diet. I heard a modern teacher say recently 
 that it is not wise for a child to commit 
 verses of scripture it is a parrot-like perform- 
 ance they do not understand what it means. But 
 
 13
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 I must differ from him. "Thy word have 1 hid 
 in my heart," said the psalmist, and so have I, 
 and while I did not at the time understand all 
 that I said, the years' experiences have inter- 
 preted to me many hidden meanings. When I 
 am sick, I've a great physician ; when in sorrow, 
 a comforter; when in doubt and perplexity, a 
 mighty counselor; when forsaken by friends, a 
 friend that sticketh closer than a brother; when 
 I've been thirsty, I've found the living water; 
 when hungry, the bread of life ; when weary and 
 worn with travel, a pilgrim's staff; when lost 
 and wandering, a shepherd of my soul; a Father 
 at all times and under all circumstances. It is 
 the Book of books, the word of life, a lamp unto 
 my feet. Some times we read of the best sellers, 
 but here is the best seller every day in the year 
 35,000,000 copies published last year presses 
 running day and night. "The entrance of Thy 
 word giveth light." 
 
 I thank my God upon every remembrance of 
 the faithful teachers I had in that Quaker Sun- 
 day School at Newport, now Fountain City, 
 Indiana. 
 
 Every Fourth Day we pupils of the day 
 school were taken into the meeting-house to 
 worship. Sometimes not a word was spoken 
 during the hour. More than once have I been 
 led up into the gallery to sit by my elders to see 
 
 14
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 If I could quit laughing and squirming around. 
 I loved the dear woman who rebuked me so 
 much that I never felt the sting of punishment, 
 but was rather elated over being in a high seat 
 overlooking the other girls. This dear Aunt 
 Mary Parker had the sweetest, saintliest face 
 and I remember telling my mother that when 
 I was a woman grown, I'd have a long, stiff, grey 
 silk bonnet like Aunt Mary's, only I'd have pink 
 ties on mine. 
 
 I have never forgotten, "A soft answer 
 turneth away wrath," as given by Aunt Mary 
 once when I had struck and scratched a boy who 
 had been imposing on a younger schoolmate. 
 
 My first teacher was Mary Hough, afterward 
 Mrs. Mary Hough Goddard, an eminent preacher 
 in the Friends' Church. I almost idolized her. 
 She was the acme of excellence to me she em- 
 bodied all the virtues. On that first day of 
 school, I was told that I must have a slate. My 
 father did not approve of this. 
 
 "What does a five year old child need 
 with a slate?" I heard him say. I was shocked 
 at the audacity of my father daring to differ 
 from my teacher. The slate was provided and I 
 learned to write my ABCs in a short time. My 
 father was greatly pleased and surprised at my 
 advance. Even at that early age I felt that 
 
 IS
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 womanly prerogative stirring in my soul, say- 
 ing: "I told you so." 
 
 We were expected to call everybody by their 
 first names the titles of Mr. and Mrs. were not 
 tolerated they savored of pride. So I was 
 taught to speak of Daniel and Emily Hough, 
 Harvey and Sallie Davis, although they were 
 then grey with years. The conversation of the 
 Quakers was Yea, Yea and Nay, Nay. One of my 
 ancestors was tried in the Quaker Church for the 
 ungodly practice of wearing suspenders. My 
 grandfather was one of a committee to labor 
 with a man for wearing shoe strings with tips 
 on them. But the committee was convinced 
 that that was a contrivance that was really use- 
 ful, one that expedited the matter of lacing 
 shoes; so instead of converting the wayward 
 brother, they were led into the same folly of 
 wearing tipped shoe strings. 
 
 The first wedding ceremony I ever witnessed 
 was in that Quaker Church. The young people 
 stood and the man said: "I, James T. Wright, 
 in the presence of God and before this assem- 
 bly, take thee, Elizabeth E. Rogers, to be my 
 lawful and wedded wife, promising to be unto 
 thee a loving and faithful husband until death 
 shall separate us." Then the young woman 
 made the same vow. I like that simple declara- 
 tion, made by the parties most concerned, better 
 
 16
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 than to have the preacher ask a long rigmarole 
 of questions to which contracting parties just 
 say, "I do." 
 
 I had a teacher, too, in a Methodist Sunday 
 School whom I greatly admired. She had a 
 small wen in the part of her hair, and I often 
 wished that I might have one too, so I could look 
 good and kind and great like this woman. 
 
 A neighbor in this village kept bees, and had 
 quantities of honey put away in stone jars in the 
 attic. A daughter of the house and I made a raid 
 on that honey once, with dire results we ate too 
 much. I can't look at honey to this day with- 
 out having the colic. 
 
 I visited Fountain City recently. I wanted 
 to wade in the branch and drink from the spring. 
 I knew how David felt when he longed for the 
 water of the well of Bethlehem. I munched spear- 
 mint delightedly, remembering how I used to 
 love it in childhood, and now I love it, not for its 
 own sake, but because that child was fond of it. 
 I gathered Black-eyed Susans and Queen Ann's 
 lace and all the wild flowers growing there. 
 How could we do without them? Life deprived 
 of them would be appalling barrenness. I looked 
 for a hollow log where tlie old black nurse told 
 me, sixty-three years ago, they got my baby 
 brother. 
 
 17
 
 A Ro<td of Remembrance 
 
 "Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise; 
 We love the play place of our early days. 
 The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, 
 That feels not at the sight, and feels at none." 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 When I was in my teens, I was sent away 
 to Dayton, Ohio, to a Young Ladies' Seminary of 
 the Presbyterian Church. I made many dear 
 friends during the years spent there. One of the 
 closest was Miss Lydia Walker, who was gradu- 
 ated from that school and went out to Africa in 
 the early seventies. All these years she has been 
 there telling of the unsearchable riches of 
 Christ. She and her illustrious husband, Dr. A. C. 
 Good, have been among the most noted mis- 
 sionaries of the earth. The Elat Mission in 
 Kameruns is the fruit of their unremitting toil. 
 My correspondence with this friend has deepened 
 my interest in missions in all fields, but especi- 
 ally in Africa. One of the teachers in this Pres- 
 byterian School used always to say in her prayer 
 on Sunday morning: "Dear Lord, may we 
 walk softly before Thee this day, lest we sin." 
 That prayer has been a factor in my life toward 
 reverence for the Lord's day. 
 
 About this time I united with the Christian 
 Church, Disciples. Readers will note by the fore- 
 going record that the Interchurch Movement 
 
 18
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 had taken place in my life many years ago and 
 so it was not hard for me half a century later to 
 welcome any movement that favored united 
 effort of Christ's followers to make a survey of 
 the world's need and together try to combat the 
 evils of the world and to alleviate its misery. All 
 such co-operation will but hasten the day for 
 which our Lord prayed: "That they may all be 
 one, Father, as Thou art in me and I in Thee, 
 that the world may believe that Thou didst send 
 me." My life has been enriched and blest by 
 knowing so many faithful men and women. 
 
 I came from that Seminary in Dayton, Ohio, 
 to Union City, Indiana, where I taught in the 
 public schools four years. 
 
 The State Superintendent of Public Schools 
 once visited us and pronounced my work ex- 
 ceptionally good. He wrote for the State 
 Journal : 
 
 "Miss Elizabeth Williams, of the Union 
 City Schools, is the best primary teacher in the 
 State of Indiana." 
 
 I cut out this statement, pasted it in my 
 scrap book, and it has been my life credential. 
 Whenever my family have been at all uppish 
 toward me, I remind them of what I have 
 been. 
 
 19
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 May the twenty-first, eighteen hundred and 
 seventy-four, was my wedding day. For thirty- 
 nine years I walked life's way with A. T. Ross 
 as my beloved husband. There were varied 
 scenes and experiences through those years, but 
 with an undying love for each other and a con- 
 fident and unfaltering trust in our Heavenly 
 Father, the years were blest. Life has been a 
 braver, truer thing because we passed it hand in 
 hand, than if we had passed it alone. 
 
 It was the time of lilies of the valley, bridal 
 wreath, lilacs and the sweet wild flowers of the 
 woods this happy day that we set up our home 
 in Winchester. Just a year later, the same sweet 
 odors greeted me as I opened my eyes in a 
 shaded room and saw, I thought, just banks of 
 lilies of the valley high as the ceiling, and I 
 faintly discerned a little white casket covered 
 with flowers. Then I went down into the valley 
 and shadow, and twelve hours afterward came 
 back to find that they had carried away the child 
 of my heart. 
 
 "The Passing of Our First Born," as written 
 by Dr. William Dubois, is one of the most pa- 
 thetic things in all the English language. His 
 
 20
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 pen was dipped in his heart's blood as he wrote 
 it. 
 
 "In heaven their angels do always behold 
 the face of my Father which is in heaven." 
 
 We lived in Winchester, Indiana, one year, 
 then moved to Kendallville. Mr. Ross's people 
 lived in Winchester, father, mother, two brothers 
 and three sisters. The oldest sister, Myra, was a 
 singer with deep contralto voice. She delighted 
 in sacred music and sang often and in many 
 places in evangelistic meetings. Her singing 
 won many souls to decide for Christ and His 
 Church. Her ardent love of music instilled the 
 same passion into the hearts of her brothers and 
 sisters. She and her sister and two brothers 
 consituted the choir of the Methodist Church at 
 Winchester for many years. Their singing 
 "Nearer My God, to Thee," to the tune of Robin 
 Adair, was one of the sweetest songs I've ever 
 heard. They have all gone now "To join that 
 invisible choir whose music is the gladness of 
 the world." 
 
 Mr. Ross' grandmother was a great, strong, 
 fearless soul. It was in the days when the Cru- 
 sade fires swept the country. I was urged to join 
 the older women and go sing and pray in the 
 saloons. We went one day, and just as we were 
 about to leave, the saloon keeper thought he'd 
 lock the door and keep us. We all walked out 
 
 21
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 but Grandmother the door was shut and she 
 was kept a prisoner all day. She had her knit- 
 ting with her, and she sang and knelt down and 
 prayed and knitted, and passed an enjoyable and 
 profitable day. They served her a hot lunch at 
 noon, and treated her with great respect. She 
 always told with glee that she kept men from 
 drinking one whole day. In just a few weeks 
 that saloon keeper sold out and quit business. 
 He told that the sight of that old woman on her 
 knees, praying that God would convict him, kept 
 him awake at night and he had no peace of 
 mind from that day until he quit selling 
 whisky. 
 
 Those were tempestuous days. Reformed 
 men like John B. Gough and Luther Benson 
 traversed the country with their matchless 
 words against the liquor traffic. The Woman's 
 Christian Temperance Union was organized, 
 which proved to be a vine of the Lord's own 
 planting; it grew and grew until four hundred 
 thousand women were numbered with the 
 "White Ribbon Hosts," and they in turn organ- 
 ized and educated and agitated until the slogan 
 adopted by the Christian Endeavor Society in 
 1915, "A Saloonless Nation in 1920," was 
 brought to pass and the nefarious business was 
 forever banished from our land. 
 
 One of the foremost advocates and speakers 
 22
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 in these days was Mrs. Zerelda Wallace, widow 
 of Gov. David Wallace, of Indiana, step-mother 
 of General Lew Wallace. She was a guest in 
 our home once, when she came to speak on 
 Temperance and Suffrage. She was past her 
 four score years, but possessed a masterful mind 
 and wonderful fluency of speech. Her hair was 
 white and curly; she wore it short. She had a 
 strong face that one never could forget. She 
 wore a black dress with white fichu folded over 
 her breast and a long black alpaca apron, and 
 carried a Bible in her hand. The Word of God 
 was her authority, and the way she would ring 
 out the "Woe of Almighty God" in scathing, fiery 
 words, was enough to make King Alcohol trem- 
 ble. He did tremble and fall, and we owe much 
 to these dauntless pioneers, who, in the face of 
 scorn and suspicion and ridicule, went forth to 
 champion this unpopular cause. 
 
 One time at a W. C. T. U. Convention in 
 Bloomington, Indiana, Mrs. Zerelda Wallace and 
 I were entertained for four days in the home of 
 Prof, and Mrs. Amzi Atwater. She told me a 
 sweet story of her life. She married Governor 
 Wallace and became the mother of his four chil- 
 dren, Lew being the youngest. The boy was a 
 sore trial to all of them. He would run off from 
 school, sit on a fence or loll on the grass, and talk 
 to the birds and bees all day. He would follow a 
 
 23
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 brass band and be lost for hours at a time. He 
 came to manhood and wrote the marvelous story 
 of "Ben Hur." He brought the manuscript to his 
 mother to read critically. When she had finished, 
 he came for it, and she said: "Lew, where did 
 you ever conceive that character, the mother of 
 Ben Hur?" Great bearded man that he was, he 
 put his arm about her and said: "Mother, I 
 thought of you every minute." Gen. Lew Wallace 
 himself said that if he possessed any literary 
 talent, he owed it to the impress of the great, 
 strong intellect of his mother upon his receptive 
 mind. 
 
 "Wonderful how life touches life, and how 
 boundless influence is." 
 
 We heard great lectures in those days. I 
 sat on a hard wooden bench and listened to 
 Joseph Cook for two hours on "Ultimate Amer- 
 ica." He had a prophet's vision and a seer's 
 sympathy as he pictured to us our Country's 
 future achievements. 
 
 Jehu DeWitt Miller, the ugliest man I ever 
 saw, spoke to us in our Lecture Course on "The 
 Uses of Ugliness." He was familiar with his 
 subject. 
 
 Susan B. Anthony spoke in our town. 
 "Woman, thou hast been faithful in a few things, 
 now God is going to make you ruler over many 
 things," she said. Some women in our town 
 
 24
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 scorned her. In another city they stoned Miss 
 Anthony. This did not deter her. 
 
 "Master, the Jews of late sought to stone 
 Thee and goest Thou thither again?" We never 
 really know our Master until we toil amid the 
 hurling stones. A scarlet thread runs through 
 every reform. 
 
 Dr. Russell Conwell told us of "Acres of 
 Diamonds." I've found a heap of them in the 
 common walks of life. 
 
 I heard many of the great preachers of the 
 Restoration movement, too. My father's house 
 was the preacher's home. I had great reverence 
 for the ministers of the manifold grace of God. 
 When I was a little girl I loved to hear them talk 
 and tell stories. Some of them chewed tobacco, 
 and I'd watch them spit on the fenders and see 
 it sizz. It made my older sister mad. I thought 
 she was wicked to rail out about the preacher 
 and call him filthy. 
 
 I heard some great singers, and went to a 
 few good plays. Maggie Mitchell, Mary Ander- 
 son, Lawrence Barrett and Edwin Booth were at 
 the height of their careers and, as I recall, their 
 plays were uplifting. 
 
 All of these varied experiences have gone 
 to make my life. I used to teach a kindergarten 
 verse to my little folks. It is good for grownups, 
 too: 
 
 25
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "Out of each moment, some good we obtain, 
 Something to winnow and scatter again ; 
 All that we look at, all that we read, 
 All that we think about is gathering seed." 
 
 In 1877, a tiny baby girl came to gladden our 
 lives for fourteen months ; then she slipped away 
 "Into the everlasting gardens, where angels 
 walk and seraphs are the wardens." A box in 
 my trunk contains a pair of little blue shoes, a 
 chain and locket with a lock of golden hair in it, 
 a ring with "Bessie" engraved upon it, and these 
 reminders have been very precious to me. I 
 have sometimes passed the house of a stranger 
 and have seen them carrying out a little white 
 casket, and at such times I have been sure to 
 open up the box in the trunk and brood over it 
 not with anguish in these later years, but with 
 the glad thought that we have two baby children 
 in heaven waiting for us. 
 
 "Heaven is nearer 
 And Christ is dearer 
 Than yesterday, to me." 
 
 In the summer of 1882 and '83, the National 
 Conventions of the Christian Church were held 
 at Island Park, Indiana, seven miles from our 
 home at Kendallville. I think some scenes I 
 witnessed at those gatherings made the most 
 
 26
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 profound impressions on my heart of anything I 
 ever experienced. 
 
 Jamaica is the first born of the Mission 
 Stations of our Woman's Board. Mr. and Mrs. 
 W. H. Williams, of Platte City, Missouri, were 
 sent to Jamaica in 1876. The Island being under 
 English control, the people speaking the English 
 language, and the Island being so near us, it 
 seemed more like a home than a foreign mission. 
 But this was the occasion of the setting apart of 
 our first missionaries to a foreign field, for while 
 we had accepted the slogan, "Where the Bible 
 speaks, we speak, and where the Bible is silent, 
 we are silent," we had been strangely silent as to 
 the great commission given by our Lord on the 
 Mount of Ascension. 
 
 There were Mr. and Mrs. G. W. Wharton 
 ordained to go to preach the Gospel to India. 
 The Christian Woman's Board of Missions was 
 sending out its first messengers to India, Misses 
 Mary Graybiel, Mary Kingsbury, Ada Boyd and 
 Laura Kinsey. 
 
 I watched the stately, beautiful mother of 
 Mary Graybiel lay her hands upon her daughter's 
 head while the princely Isaac Errett offered to 
 God the prayer, ordaining Mary to "Go tell." It 
 was a touching sight. In my heart I questioned 
 how a mother could do it, and I had a faint 
 suspicion that God surely did not require that at 
 
 27
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 the hands of a widowed mother. But, as I re- 
 member, I never joined the throng who openly 
 declared that it was fanatical and an uncalled- 
 for sacrifice. There was such an awe in my soul 
 that I can feel it to this day whenever I recall 
 that marvelous scene. It may have been a pre- 
 monition of what was coming to me in after 
 years. 
 
 Brother Wharton and Ada Boyd spent many 
 years carrying the Water of Life to the people 
 who were dying of soul thirst out in India, and 
 then they went home to God. 
 
 Mrs. Wharton, Mary Graybiel and Laura 
 Kinsey Mitchell gave valiant service till failing 
 health compelled them to return to the home 
 land. Here they are used mightily for our God 
 in interesting others and inspiring them to go. 
 
 It has been given to Mary Kingsbury to 
 serve the longest of any of the missionaries of 
 the Disciples thirty-seven years. Her life has 
 been a savor of life unto life in "India, Sad 
 India." We do not wonder that Bilaspur's most 
 distinguished barrister, a high cast Hindu 
 gentleman, took the garland of flowers that was 
 intended for his head, and said: "It is not for 
 me, but for one more worthy," and put the 
 flowers upon the head of Miss Kingsbury, Mama 
 Ji, as she is called in India. 
 
 All these faithful pioneer missionaries will 
 28
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 be crowned with crowns of glory that fadeth not 
 away. Their dauntless courage and faith have 
 influenced scores of people to offer themselves 
 for this blessed task. There was another signifi- 
 cant happening at this meeting in 1882. A. 
 McLean was elected Secretary of the Foreign 
 Christian Missionary Society. 
 
 The next year, Charles Garst, the tall soldier 
 man and his round rosy bride, were set apart at 
 the same time and at the same place. I did not 
 dream of the rich fellowship I should have with 
 dear Mrs. Garst in after years, when our then 
 unborn children should be among earth's 
 toilers, one in the flowery kingdom of Japan, the 
 other in the dark continent of Africa. 
 
 George T. and Josephine Smith were among 
 those who were ordained at Island Park. Mrs. 
 Smith wrote in my autograph album, "Here we 
 have no continuing city, but we seek one to 
 come." Hers was our first grave on foreign soil. 
 
 The missionary conscience of the church 
 was just being touched and quickened in 1882. 
 Today we have three hundred missionaries and 
 twelve hundred native workers in India, Japan, 
 China, Tibet, Africa, Jamaica, Latin America, 
 Mexico and the Philippines. They are hewing 
 out pillars for the temple of our God. 
 
 Some friends from across the seas attended 
 the first Island Park Convention, Mr. and Mrs. 
 
 29
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 Timothy Coop, of England. It was whispered all 
 around that Mr. Coop was a millionaire. We 
 were a feeble folk in that day, and the coming 
 into our midst of a real live millionaire was 
 something to set our blood tingling. I remember 
 that Mr. Coop was immaculately dressed, and 
 wore a tall silk hat, kid gloves, and carried a 
 cane; while Mrs. Coop wore beautiful shimmer- 
 ing silk dresses, which shone through a creamy 
 lace mantilla. I must confess that at one service, 
 when I sat behind Mr. and Mrs. Coop, my mind 
 was wandering and worldly. I did covet that 
 lace shawl, and have never seen one since with- 
 out thinking of the gracious English sister who 
 so unconsciously set all our hearts a-flutter with 
 her finery. 
 
 I stopped in the same hotel with the Coops, 
 met them and found them delightful and enter- 
 taining people. 
 
 Times have changed. Now, at our annual 
 gathering, it is nothing unusual for us to hob- 
 nob around with millionaires who give, as did 
 the Coops, of their means lavishly for the King- 
 dom's sake, and who have not been blinded or 
 consumed with gold dust. I once rested a few 
 days in the home of one of these wealthy mem- 
 bers, and as I laid me down to sleep on a rose- 
 wood bed, with Sealy mattress, India linen 
 sheets, eider-down blankets, yellow satin com- 
 
 30
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 forter and cluny lace spread, I thought of a 
 hymn my dear mother quoted when her mother 
 was slipping away into the "Land of the Leal:" 
 
 "Jesus can make a dying bed 
 Soft as downy pillows are." 
 
 I never do get away from my childish im- 
 pressions and I am glad and thankful for vivid 
 memories of my father and mother and their 
 consecrated lives. The last time I heard my 
 father speak in the Sunday morning Communion 
 service, he held up his Bible and said, "I want no 
 other criterion for my life than this Word of 
 God." I felt so proud that he could use such a 
 stunning word as criterion, and I wondered if the 
 other elders really understood what he meant to 
 say. 
 
 My father was a dry goods merchant, and I 
 had good clothes and was considered a leader of 
 fashion in my set. My ideal was Mrs. Abraham 
 Lincoln, whose picture was often in the papers 
 of those eventful days. My form was not unlike 
 that of Mrs. Lincoln's; I dressed my hair like 
 hers and wore a net; then I had a black silk 
 dress made with a long train, around which was 
 a white swiss under-ruffle, so I was a good like- 
 ness of the first lady of the land. In my maturer 
 years I have often been taken for Lydia E. Pink- 
 ham, so my conscious and unconscious efforts 
 
 31
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 have led me to look like two of America's illus- 
 trious women. 
 
 Sometimes when I hear criticisms of the 
 modern young lady's manner of dress, I just can- 
 not help but remind the carpers of the time when 
 we wore a full pound of jute switches on our 
 heads, and round, roomy, hoop skirts, with bus- 
 tles on which we could safely carry an ink bottle, 
 and sleeves that looked like inflated balloons. I 
 wonder that the boards of health did not arrest 
 us for carrying around and scattering disease 
 germs in those street-sweeping dresses. But 
 come to think that was before the days of 
 germs and Health Boards. 
 
 I've little patience with the people who sigh 
 for the "good old days." These are the greatest 
 days in the history of the world days of knowl- 
 edge of art, of science, of inventions, of patri- 
 otism, of benevolence. Never did men and 
 women gather in such numbers to map the world 
 for King Emanuel; never did the young people 
 pour out the rich, red wine of youth as now, for 
 world betterment. 
 
 "We are living, we are dwelling 
 In a grand and awful time 
 In an age on ages telling 
 To be living is sublime." 
 32
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "On, let all the soul within you 
 For the Truth's sake go abroad. 
 On, let every nerve and sinew 
 Tell on ages, tell for God." 
 
 For ten years Mr. Ross was a traveling 
 salesman, having headquarters in a place from 
 two to four months, so I went with him from 
 Minnesota to Florida. I found solace for my 
 bereft heart in visiting many primary schools 
 and kindergartens and making friends of the 
 children, 
 
 "Trailing clouds of glory do they come from 
 God, Who is their home." 
 
 I've read that away beyond the blue sea, in the 
 City of London, there is a playground and over 
 the entrance are these words: "No adult may 
 enter here unless accompanied by a child." And 
 away beyond another sea is the city of God, and 
 over the entrance to this city "Except ye be- 
 come as little children, ye cannot enter here." 
 So I want to keep close to these boys and girls, 
 tender pilgrims, and learn from them the lessons 
 of trust and faith. My life's way has been 
 brightened by the children as I've traveled and 
 come to know so many of them. One of the 
 sweetest verses I read in the Bible is Zechariah's 
 prophecy of the rebuilding of Jerusalem "The 
 streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls 
 
 33
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 playing in the streets thereof." And we shall see 
 this New Jerusalem coming down from jGod 
 when Christians everywhere shall clear the 
 streets of every harmful, hurtful thing, so that 
 the children shall play in the streets in safety. 
 God bless the boys and girls they are the hope 
 of the world. 
 
 In 1887 we returned to Kendallville, Indi- 
 ana, and built us a home, the first house to be 
 painted red, and with the first big square window 
 in town. Some farmers passing one day, one 
 said, "What's the fool man painting his house 
 red for? It looks like a barn." But with a white 
 rose in the front yard, a lavender clematis climb- 
 ing over the porch, cherry and apple trees and 
 lilacs in the back yard, it was a beautiful place, 
 and it was into this home that we carried our 
 son, Emory Ross, when he was ten weeks old. 
 
 His first birthday gift was a pair of knitted 
 socks sent from Liverpool, England, by my 
 missionary friend, Miss Lydia Walker, who was 
 on her way to Africa, after a visit in the home- 
 land. She sent them with the wish that his feet 
 would some day turn toward Africa. 
 
 When we laid the cement walk, the father 
 put the boy's foot in the soft cement and marked 
 the date, 1892. The foot was pointed outward, 
 away from home, but we little dreamed it would 
 tread the wilds of the African Jungle. 
 
 34
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 At this time I had a large Sunday School 
 class of young men and women seventy-two of 
 them. We had an organized class, with presi- 
 dent, secretary and organist. We had our class 
 motto, class flower, class song and class yell. 
 Our minister, J. O. Rose, wrote to one of our 
 papers of the size and activities of this class, and 
 asked if there were another one in the Brother- 
 hood like it, and as no one answered, we con- 
 cluded that ours was the first large organized 
 class. The young people of that class are scat- 
 tered over the earth today. It has been a joy to 
 meet many of them in the different walks of life. 
 
 When Emory was six years old, Mrs. 
 Caroline Pearre, the mother of the Christian 
 Woman's Board of Missions, visited in our home. 
 She sat out on the porch and told Emory stories 
 that he has never forgotten. 
 
 Mrs. Pearre gave two addresses in our 
 church the one in the evening was on the "Joy 
 of being a minister's wife." She spoke with such 
 convincing power that every girl in Kendallville 
 church felt that no other need apply but a minis- 
 ter. It was a blessing to have this gifted woman 
 in our home. 
 
 Another illustrious visitor in our home was 
 Miss Prances Willard, the flaming evangel, who 
 came to speak for our Woman's Christian Tem- 
 perance Union. I never can forget her wonder- 
 
 35
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 ful address, closing with these memorable 
 words : 
 
 "Only the golden rule of Christ can bring in 
 the golden age of man." 
 
 We hear much in this day of "World Democracy," 
 and this means exactly the same thing, for we 
 will never have a world democracy until the 
 spirit of the living Christ shall dwell in the 
 hearts of men everywhere, purging them from 
 greed of gain and lust and power. Then and 
 only then will every man look upon every other 
 man as his brother and say, "Our Father who 
 art in heaven." 
 
 In after years, we had in our home such 
 friends as Sunshine Willit, Dr. Gunsaulus, W. J. 
 Bryan, Carrie Nation, George Stuart, George W. 
 Bain, Billy Sunday, and scores of great mission- 
 aries and preachers, and we always felt that we 
 gained much, for they brought to us visions of 
 life that we would not otherwise have had. 
 
 "The ornaments of a home are the friends 
 who frequent it." 
 
 "The true measure of a man is by the height 
 of his ideals, the depth of his convictions and 
 the breadth of his sympathies." By this measure, 
 these were all great men and women. 
 
 Henry Drummond said: "I become a part 
 of every man I meet, and every man I meet be- 
 
 36
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 comes a part of me." Our lives have become en- 
 riched and blest as these lofty souls have touched 
 ours. 
 
 One of the significant events in the life of 
 the church at Kendallville was the organization 
 of a Woman's Missionary Society, auxiliary to 
 the Christian Woman's Board of Missions. Only 
 seven women were charter members, but that 
 was a Biblical number and the Society has 
 proven a spiritual asset to the church. It now 
 numbers one hundred and twenty members, and 
 the church supports its own Living Link out in 
 Africa. So while the people serve faithfully in 
 Kendallville, their representative, Mrs. Myrta 
 Pearson Ross, serves there, and there if not an 
 hour in the day that that church is not telling 
 the Gospel Message. 
 
 The boys and girls of my Sunday School 
 class of Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-five are 
 now the men and women of the church. 
 
 The church building is dear to me, for we 
 were in the struggle and effort to build it. Every 
 stone in it represents sacrifice and toil of those 
 who were then members of that congregation. 
 Emory laid the corner stone, striking it with a 
 mallet made of wood of the building by one of 
 our closest friends, Mr. John Miller. That 
 mallet is in Africa today, one of the most prized 
 possessions. 
 
 37
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "Other foundations can no man lay than 
 that which is laid, Jesus Christ, the Chief Corner 
 Stone," were the words spoken by the five-year- 
 old lad that day. He probably did not know just 
 what they meant, but he has learned since, that 
 "Except the Lord build the house, they labor in 
 vain who build it." 
 
 Most of the friends of that early day have 
 gone, their spirits loosed from the moors of time. 
 I visit the City of the Dead at Kendallville, a 
 beautiful spot, and think that 
 
 "As life goes on, the world grows strange 
 With faces new; and near the end, 
 
 The milestones into headstones change 
 'Neath every one a friend." 
 
 38
 
 SOUTHERN CHRISTIAN INSTITUTE
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 In 1897, Mr. Ross and I were called to the 
 work of the Southern Christian Institute, at 
 Edwards, Mississippi, and called so providen- 
 tially that we dared not resist it, lest we be found 
 fighting against God. A former pastor, Brother 
 J. Randall Farout, and his good wife had gone 
 South and established the school, and through 
 them we had kept in touch with the work. 
 Brother Farout was a tall, angular man with 
 long gray beard. I always stood in awe of him, 
 he had such a patriarchal appearance a man of 
 God, I called him. Mrs. Farout was a dainty 
 little woman, with a wonderful mind and a faith 
 that never failed. They endured many hard 
 things, but they endured as seeing Him who is 
 invisible. 
 
 Brother Farout lived only a few months; his 
 body lies in the Edwards Cemetery. A tall white 
 stone marks the grave, a juniper tree stands like 
 a God-stationed sentinel above it. 
 
 Sister Farout lived past her four score years, 
 "wearing her crown of wild olives, type of grey 
 honor and sweet rest." 
 
 Mrs. Farout named the place Mt. Beulah, and 
 it is so known locally now. It is said to be the 
 most beautiful plantation in Mississippi. The
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 old antibellum mansion stands in its clear white 
 on a hill surrounded by great trees magnolia, 
 holly, poplar, maple, and is a beacon of hope for 
 the black race. The school is a monument to the 
 faith and fidelity of Mr. and Mrs. J. Randall 
 Farout. 
 
 For thirty years Mr. and Mrs. J. B. Lehman 
 have been in charge of the school, and their lives 
 have been a blessing in all our Southland, to the 
 islands of the sea, and to the uttermost parts of 
 the earth. 
 
 For six years we assisted them in the work, 
 and we count those years the choicest seal of 
 our calling. The school has always stood for the 
 three-fold training of head, heart and hand, and 
 hundreds of boys and girls have gone out from 
 that school into honorable vocations of life, step- 
 ping to the marching music of high resolve and 
 earnest purpose. There has never been a grad- 
 uate of that school convicted of crime. They 
 have gone out and built better homes, schools 
 and churches many of their own children are 
 now in the school, having even greater advan- 
 tages and facilities than the parents had. 
 
 Directly after we went into the school, there 
 came a tall, broad-shouldered black man from 
 Missouri, a man who caught a vision there of the 
 world's need and who went out to Africa and 
 "Forgot himself into immortality," Jacob 
 
 40
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 Kenoly. Jacob was a great man, great in his 
 grasp of God's truth and in his faith and fellow- 
 ship with God. 
 
 There sprang up between the black man and 
 the ten year old white boy, Emory Ross, a love 
 and a devotion that was like unto that of David 
 and Jonathan. Their souls were knit together. 
 They weather-boarded and shingled and set type 
 and rode the horses after the cows and set opos- 
 sum traps, and often in the evening I've seen the 
 two down on the ponds of the plantation, sailing 
 little ships the white boy had made. And they 
 were always sailing, sailing off to some far 
 country, and it looked just like boy's play, but in 
 the light of what has since come to pass, it seems 
 more like a prophecy, for the day came when the 
 black man sailed the great waters and the day 
 came when the white boy followed him. 
 
 One of the things I remember with so much 
 pleasure, of our stay in that school of negroes, 
 is their singing. 
 
 "Dear to the black man's heart 
 Is his wonderful gift of song; 
 
 The gold which kindly Nature sifts 
 Among his sands of wrong." 
 
 Who can measure the influence of song? 
 
 41
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "We sing, we know not how or why, 
 
 Only this we know, 
 When the heart's barriers overflow, 
 
 We must sing or die." 
 
 In the summer of 1897 and 1898, we passed 
 through the terrible epidemic of yellow fever. 
 All the people of the village were sick at one 
 time ; one-tenth of them died in a few days. The 
 air seemed laden with death. One of our splendid 
 boys was digging a well out near my window, 
 and he sang, 
 
 "A little talk with Jesus 
 
 Makes it right, all right, 
 Through trials of every kind 
 
 Thank God, I always find 
 To have a little talk with Jesus 
 
 Makes it right, all right, 
 
 The melody of that song has remained with me, 
 and its simple philosophy has helped me over 
 many a hard place. 
 
 We read much in the Bible of song. When 
 the forty-two thousand returned to rebuild the 
 walls of Jerusalem, they brought with them not 
 only carpenters and artisans, food and money 
 and implements, but there were among them 
 two hundred singing men and women. 
 
 The Psalmist said: "Thou wilt compass 
 42
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 me about with songs of deliverance. Thy stat- 
 utes have been my songs in the house of my 
 habitation." 
 
 Martin Luther said: "Song is the shortest 
 path to God." 
 
 Who does not remember the power of Mrs. 
 Scovill's singing in our great conventions? Men 
 and women are lifted to the heights of new in- 
 spirations and new endeavor by song, as tired 
 soldiers spring into a swinging gait or make a 
 dashing charge, stirred by drum, trumpet and 
 flying banners. 
 
 "God gave the gift as my portion 
 
 To ease life's burdens in part; 
 That whatever I do or suffer, 
 
 I have a singing heart. 
 So I shall not fear in the darkness, 
 
 Nor falter at pain or smart, 
 For I know he can reach God always, 
 
 Who has a singing heart." 
 
 The good natured humor of the negro is one 
 of his alluring traits. I recall some amusing 
 things in our school work. A class was asked: 
 
 "If you had just four potatoes, how would 
 you divide them among six people?" 
 
 "Mash 'em," was the boy's reply. 
 
 I asked my cook, "Johnny, are you sick?" 
 43
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "No Ma'am, Miss Ross, I'se not sick. I jes 
 feel slightly decomposed." 
 
 A boy read from his new Testament, "If a 
 man ask thee to go a mile, take the twins." 
 
 One of the girls who had gone home, wrote 
 to me during the time of the yellow fever; she 
 tried to express to me the sentiment of the 
 Mizpah benediction. This is what she wrote: 
 
 "Mrs. Ross, may God stand between me and 
 you with regards to misery." 
 
 I have been interested in gathering peculiar 
 names of people. One girl in school was named 
 Careesa Burgoyne Arleen Morrison. One of the 
 girls told me of her twin sisters at home, Cora 
 Luster Dixie Cluster Eddie Rhea Travillion and 
 Caroline Beatrice Earl Octavarious Travillion. 
 
 I once heard from my hotel window down 
 in Alabama, "John de Baptist, what's yo doin' in 
 dat wattah?" I had always connected the 
 thought of the forerunner with water, but this 
 was a startling question outside the theological 
 realm. 
 
 Among my white friends, I have found a 
 minister named "Sackville Patterson Promenade 
 Swayse-Smith," a Miss "Cuba Doloris Nunez," a 
 "Boston Hague Bartholomew Greyston, M. D.," a 
 "Battle Manasses Bull Run Brown," and three 
 sisters in a banker's home whose nick names 
 were, "Tip," "Lace" and "Bus." 
 
 44
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 The annual visit to the Southern Christian 
 Institute of Brother C. C. Smith was eagerly 
 looked forward to with joy by teachers and stu- 
 dents, and no one ever reveled with more 
 delight in the fun, frolic and music of the place 
 than did Brother Smith. He always brought his 
 field glasses and would stroll for hours through 
 the woods. "The friendly trees gave up their 
 secrets" to Brother Smith. He loved the out of 
 doors, and delighted in walking the verdant 
 aisles of the forest. "The earth is the Lord's and 
 the fullness thereof," and he, being a child of 
 God, looked on this "Great, wide, wonderful, 
 beautiful world" as his inheritance. The white 
 boy of the plantation adored Brother Smith and 
 was his constant companion. His chapel talks 
 would always bring hope and inspiration to the 
 young people, and his sermons on a Lord's day 
 morning were never to be forgotten. How he 
 did leave the impress of his life on the black boys 
 and girls! "A Great Man" was written by a 
 negro, one of the finest and most beautiful 
 tributes that I have ever read. It was the 
 irresistable outpouring of a soul that loved 
 Brother Smith and to whom the world was lonely 
 after his friend had gone from earth. 
 
 On our trips back and forth from the South, 
 we would stop off at Chattanooga to visit Look- 
 out Mountain. It was before the trolley was 
 
 45
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 built and we would drive up in a carriage. We 
 were told that we could see into seven different 
 states from the top of that mountain, a magnifi- 
 cent scene that just holds you fast. 
 
 "Mountains are God's thoughts raised up; 
 the sea His thoughts spread out." 
 
 How often our Lord resorted to the moun- 
 tains to pray! The higher altitudes have clearer 
 vision. 
 
 "The mountains and the hills shall break 
 forth before you into singing, and all the trees 
 of the field shall clap their hands." 
 
 In August of 1898, Emory went low with the 
 dengue fever. Doctors said there was no hope 
 of saving his life, but God cured him and he was 
 "Saved to serve." 
 
 Lois Lehman was the one little white baby 
 on the plantation. When she was three years 
 old, Emory took his first lesson in carpentry, 
 under his father's instructions, and built Lois a 
 playhouse with real windows and doors, with 
 hinges and locks. He named it "Windsor Cas- 
 tle." It was a homey sweet place out under the 
 great trees. He constructed a telephone out of 
 wire and tin can^ from the play-house to the 
 printing office, so he could talk to Jacob. An 
 electrical storm came one day and the lightning 
 
 46
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 ran down the wire and laid Jacob out, covered 
 with type, plaster and other debris. 
 
 On Emory's twelfth birthday, a negro maii 
 gave him a goat. He built a cart, hitched the 
 goat to it, and proceeded to take the little white 
 lady riding all over the plantation. I received a 
 picture the other day of Lois in cap and gown, 
 for she had just graduated from Hiram College. 
 She will be in the College of Missions next year, 
 her face toward Japan, but she will never sail in 
 the great ocean steamer with any more pride 
 than she rode in that cart over Mt. Beulah, 
 drawn by the white goat, driven by Emory. 
 
 "The thoughts of youth are long, long 
 thoughts." 
 
 "One ship drives east and another drives west 
 
 With the self same wind that blows. 
 'Tis the set of the sail and not the gale 
 
 That tells us which way it goes. 
 Like the winds of the sea are the ways of fate, 
 
 As we journey along through life; 
 'Tis the set of the soul determines the goal 
 
 And neither the calm nor the strife." 
 
 47
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "Planting colleges and filling them with stu- 
 dious young men and women is planting the seed 
 corn of the world," said Judson. The pioneer 
 families who came to Illinois from Kentucky in 
 an early day and established this school of learn- 
 ing, Eureka College, had a veritable Joseph's 
 dream, and their sheaves stand today straight 
 and tall all over the earth. 
 
 For eleven years we lived in Eureka and had 
 charge of the dormitory for young women, 
 "Lida's Wood," a lovely home given by Mr. and 
 Mrs. W. J. Ford in memory of their daughter 
 Lida, who went away to her heavenly home just 
 after she had reached her thirteenth birthday 
 here. 
 
 Once Brother and Sister Ford spent a month 
 with us at Lida's Wood. They did so enjoy the 
 young people. They realized that Lida "had 
 gone where she no longer needed their poor pro- 
 tection, where Christ Himself doth rule," so they 
 were blessed in making this beautiful home for 
 other girls. Their gift was not in vain, for out 
 from this building and college have gone em- 
 bassadors of Christ into every quarter of the 
 habitable globe. 
 
 A cherished friend, Miss Fannie Boggs, was 
 
 48
 
 LIDA'S WOOD
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 a sewing teacher in the Southern Christian In- 
 stitute. She spent her summers with us at Lida's 
 Wood. She put us all in "good repair" with her 
 deft fingers and swift needle. We all loved her 
 and called her "Cummi," after Robert Louis 
 Stevenson's nurse. 
 
 These were eventful years in our lives. It 
 is a joy to recall the happy days with the young 
 people in that home. I am thinking of them now 
 as I write. 
 
 "All to myself 
 I am thinking of you, 
 Thinking of the things you used to do, 
 Thinking of the things you used to say, 
 Thinking of each golden yesterday. 
 Sometimes I sigh and sometimes I smile, 
 But I keep each olden, golden while 
 All to myself." 
 
 Yes, I am thinking of the things they used to 
 do. The annual "Night Shirt Parade" was an 
 event to be dreaded, but endured. Young men 
 did not think their education complete if they 
 did not once a year array themselves in white 
 raiment and make a ghostly raid on the young 
 women's domicile. The leaders of this gang 
 found vent to their exuberance in many ways 
 by putting a Professor's cow up on the chapel 
 rostrum; by swiping the bride's cake from off 
 
 49
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 the dining table of her own home while the 
 waiter's back was turned; by securing my cook's 
 clothes and dressing up one of their number and 
 daring him to walk right by my door into the 
 buttery and carry off three large chocolate cakes, 
 and they all becoming partners to the crime by 
 devouring the same. 
 
 O yes, sometimes I sigh and sometimes I 
 smile. I find now that the most audacious of 
 these marauders are filling places of trust, many 
 of them in prominent city pulpits of our land, 
 some gone as missionaries. I was thrown com- 
 pletely off my subject as I was trying to speak 
 in a church once, when one of these desperadoes, 
 who bears the mark of my clothes-line on his 
 neck to this day (he was running across the yard 
 with half-filled ice cream freezer, when he hung 
 on the line with his throat cut,) walked solemnly 
 down the aisle with the deacons still serving 
 tables. I refrain from giving names "Silence 
 is golden." 
 
 We had many festive days at the "Wood." 
 On our wedding anniversary, May 21st, we 
 always served supper on the lawn and sometimes 
 donned our wedding garments for the amuse- 
 ment of the girls. 
 
 On Easter morning, we always had a special 
 yellow breakfast. A tall papier mache rabbit 
 stood in a bed of moss on the center of the table, 
 
 50
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 surrounded by yellow eggs. We recited the 
 Resurrection Story that morning, then went out 
 to the front porch for the egg hunt, just as they 
 did at the White House. The dignified Pro- 
 fessors, who stayed with us, would join in the 
 frolic and hunt until the last egg was found. The 
 one who found the most was rewarded by an 
 extra orange. 
 
 On Thanksgiving Day we had special morn- 
 ing service, then went to the church for one of 
 those inimitable church dinners, where college 
 girls, who are always starved, would get filled up 
 for once. 
 
 A sweet, precious hour was the hour of 
 prayer on Sunday morning, just after breakfast, 
 in the back parlor. No one was compelled to 
 come in just those who wanted to. Most of 
 them came but I used to think they did not 
 enter into it very heartily. Years afterward, one 
 of the most mischievous of the group wrote back 
 to me: "Dear Mother Ross, the most precious 
 memory I have of Lida's Wood is that Sunday 
 morning hour in the back parlor." One of the 
 wildest harumscarums of all wrote me recently 
 for missionary literature, saying: "I think you 
 will be surprised to know that I am President of 
 the Woman's Missionary Society way out here 
 in New Mexico." 
 
 One night at twelve I heard a screech, and 
 51
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 went upstairs to find sixteen girls in a room, 
 having just finished a nine course banquet. I 
 made them scamper, reproving them: 
 
 "Girls, one of the secretaries is in the room 
 below came in so tired and worn, I'm afraid 
 you have kept him awake." Of course every girl 
 felt like a culprit and was filled with remorse. 
 Next morning, when H. H. Peters returned 
 thanks at the table and said, "O, Lord, we thank 
 Thee for the rest and quiet of the past night," 
 those girls screeched again. 
 
 A dear girl, who was preparing to be a sing- 
 ing evangelist, went to her home for a few days' 
 vacation, sang at an evening meeting, "Beautiful 
 Isle of Somewhere," and early next morning 
 was burned to death. Her family and church 
 furnished a room in Lida's Wood, bearing the 
 name of Sarah Fletcher. The memory of her is 
 sweet and precious. 
 
 What story of those Lida's Wood days would 
 be complete without telling of Clark Marsh? He 
 was a poor, rich boy, who worked his way 
 through college and who was the big brother to 
 all the girls unselfish just literally lived for 
 others full of fun and frolic, always wanted to 
 go as a missionary, always was a missionary 
 wherever he was always serving. A dear wife 
 with three little children out in California long 
 for "The touch of a vanished hand, a voice for- 
 
 52
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 ever still," for Clark Marsh gave his life lor 
 world betterment, 
 
 "With just a cross to mark his bed, 
 And poppies growing overhead." 
 
 I think of Jessie Snively, the brilliant stu- 
 dent, who made A's the whole four years; never 
 dreaded an examination; married and had two 
 dear children; went away to hear the Master 
 say, "Well done." 
 
 And Lovell Hull, a strong, fearless, resource- 
 ful girl! How unlikely it seemed that she should 
 go so soon, her life so full of promise! A 
 motherless child will be taught to love her mem- 
 ory. Lovell furnished a room in the dormitory 
 and it may be that some day her own daughter 
 will occupy it. 
 
 A splendid young Canadian, Elmore Sinclair, 
 was graduated in the class of 1908, and he and 
 Emory joined the Student Volunteers on their 
 graduation day. Elmore was hindered from going 
 into the "uttermost parts," but served with 
 marked success as pastor, first in Watseka, 
 Illinois, and then in Jackson Boulevard Christian 
 Church in Kansas City. In the midst of a stren- 
 uous work, with a devoted little family to cheer 
 and encourage him, he was called to join that 
 great company who serve Him day and night. 
 
 Some one likens our ocean steamers to 
 53
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "shuttles in God's great weaving loom, moving 
 ever across the world, bearing the threads of His 
 tapestry." Many of these patterns are being 
 woven by threads that reach out from Eureka 
 College into India, Japan, China, Africa, the 
 Philippines, Porto Rico, into all the dark corners 
 of the earth. And the cloth of gold is being 
 wrought redeemed men and women are clothed 
 in the robes of righteousness and are clad in 
 garments of praise, because scores of Eureka's 
 young people have heard the bugle call of the 
 Lord, saying, "Who will go for us, and whom 
 shall we send?" and have answered, "Here am I, 
 Lord, send me." 
 
 "The Master Builder of the Congo," Ray 
 Eldred, was once a student of Eureka College. 
 The story of his heroic life has stirred the hearts 
 of hundreds of people. His lonely grave, out by 
 the Lokolo River in Africa, is one of the guide 
 posts to a Christian civilization when a sufficient 
 number of men and women of Ray Eldred's cali- 
 ber are found willing to go bearing the lighted 
 torch. 
 
 Just recently I was in a Michigan town and 
 my hostess and I were talking of "tithing." She 
 said, "We have a woman in our church who is 
 not satisfied with giving a tenth, but she gives 
 nine-tenths of all she earns." She is a masseur. 
 Whether my tired muscles needed her more or 
 
 54
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 whether my heart just longed to see this woman 
 any way, I sent for her and had a treatment 
 of body and soul. She told me of her life, one of 
 trial and hardship. She was baptised in the 
 same stream and at the same time with Ray 
 Eldred. Was there magic in the waters? There 
 must have been a baptism as of fire, that led 
 these two to walk the Red Road. I said, "You 
 surely ought to lay by enough to have a home in 
 your old age," showing my wordly prudence. She 
 answered, "Our Lord had no home, the disciple 
 is not above His Lord." But she told me that she 
 was paying into the Benevolent Association 
 enough to provide for her if she becomes 
 helpless. She gives hundreds of dollars every 
 year and lives on the simplest fare. As I looked 
 into the strong, clear face of this plain woman, 
 I thought she must have prayed Henry Martin's 
 prayer, "O, God, make me an uncommon Chris- 
 tian." 
 
 One of the most radiant gifts made by 
 Eureka College was Ella Ewing, a beautiful girl 
 with a face that just beamed and shone with joy 
 and love and hope. With the most buoyant faith 
 she went out to Congo land, and was only per- 
 mitted to serve there a short time. After three 
 days' illness, Mrs. Eva N. Dye had to tell the 
 dear girl that she must die. Ella's face lighted 
 and she said, "Tell Mother I am so glad she let 
 
 55
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 me come. These have been the three happiest 
 months of my life." Then calling her classmates 
 by name, said, "Tell them to come out and take 
 up my work." 
 
 "Christ, the Son of God, hath sent us 
 Through the midnight lands; 
 
 Ours the mighty ordination 
 Of His pierced hands." 
 
 When soldiers of our Country die in a 
 foreign field, their bodies are brought back at 
 public expense, if friends so desire. A funeral 
 ship enters the harbor to the booming of minute 
 guns from forts and ships. Public buildings are 
 closed and ensigns dropped at half mast. The 
 president, admirals, generals, statesmen and 
 diplomats bare their heads as the honored dust 
 is borne through our Nation's capital to historic 
 Arlington. But the dead soldiers of the Cross 
 lie where they fall on our lonely missionary out- 
 posts. 
 
 "When God plows long, deep furrows on the 
 soul, then He purposeth a crop." 
 
 There was a smoldering sentiment of mis- 
 sionary zeal in the hearts of the young people of 
 Eureka College that leaped into a red flame un- 
 der the burning messages of Dr. and Mrs. Royal 
 J. Dye, who returned to tell us what God had 
 wrought. This great man and woman, with their 
 
 56
 
 A Rood of Remembrance 
 
 little daughters, made their home in Eureka for 
 four years. What a blessing they were to the 
 whole community! They talked in chapel and 
 church in words that burned; they pictured 
 Africa's degradation and woe, then told how God 
 had verified His promise: "I'll open rivers in 
 high places and fountains in the midst of the 
 valleys. I will make the wilderness a pool of 
 water and the dry land springs of water." 
 
 Then came Mr. and Mrs. Fred Hagin and Mr. 
 and Mrs. Clifford Weaver, telling the same cry- 
 ing need of Jesus Christ in the flowery kingdom 
 of Japan. 
 
 W. E. Doughty says, "The reason the sob of 
 weariness and pain in the heart of Christ has riot 
 died away into the silence of victory and peace, 
 is because His followers have not made Him the 
 passion of their lives." But here were six men 
 and women who had seen the countries without 
 Christ and what it meant to humanity, and the 
 passion of their lives was to make Him known. 
 
 A woman said to me about this time, "I'd be 
 afraid to send my daughter to Eureka for fear 
 you'd make a missionary of her." When the 
 "Men and Millions" team told in the Southern 
 part of the State that ten young men of the 
 College had offered themselves for the fields, a 
 mother came to them at the close of the meeting 
 and said, "I hope my son was not one of them." 
 
 57
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 The Boards tell us that nine times out of 
 ten, when a young person offers himself for this 
 God-given task, the parents object. I can't 
 understand it. The one specific prayer our 
 Saviour ever taught us was, "Pray ye the Lord 
 of the harvest that He would thrust forth 
 laborers into the harvest." Christ would have 
 us so deepen the prayer-life of the church that 
 young men and women would be thrust forth of 
 the spirit of God as was Jeremiah, who felt this 
 passion as a consuming fire in his bones. 
 
 58
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 After Emory's graduation day in June, 1908, 
 he went to the Southern Christian Institute as 
 financial secretary. 
 
 In 1911, the news came of the drowning of 
 Jacob Kenoly out in Liberia. Soon a letter came 
 from the Christian Woman's Board of Mis- 
 sions asking Emory if he would go out 
 and see what could be done with the work 
 that Jacob's nerveless hands had laid down. 
 Emory gladly responded to the call. Harry and 
 Lula Smith, who had been among our most faith- 
 ful students at the Southern Christian Institute, 
 volunteered to go out with him, taking their 
 little three year old daughter, Willie Sue. Harry 
 and Lula were friends of Jacob, and they found 
 joy in going to his mission. Jacob Kenoly had 
 started for the heart of Africa, but he fell in 
 with some Liberians at the St. Louis World's Fair 
 and he decided to go with them. But while his 
 work was blest in Liberia and only eternity can 
 reveal the good he did, yet he was disappointed; 
 he wanted to go to the very neediest field where 
 no messenger had ever gone. But he was 
 hindered. I always think of his gravestone out 
 there on the West Coast as a guide post to the 
 regions beyond. The coast climate proved 
 
 59
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 deadly for the black as well as white people 
 from America. Lula Smith went near death's 
 door with the black water fever. She came back 
 to America and is serving with great fidelity in 
 our Jarvis Christian Institute at Hawkins, 
 Texas, while Harry is State Evangelist of that 
 great Commonwealth Texas. They are real 
 missionaries wherever they are, and would gladly 
 go again to Africa if the way should open. 
 
 These three messengers sailed from New 
 York in October, 1912. Four young men, former 
 classmates of Emory, went from Harvard and 
 Yale to see them off. Many college students 
 wrote steamer letters. Mine was to be read first. 
 
 "With God over the sea, without God not 
 over the threshold," was my message to him. 
 
 Just a few weeks after Emory sailed, Miss 
 Eva Holmes, a former student of Eureka College, 
 came down from Chicago and brought with her 
 a little negro girl, Freda Brown, from Monrovia, 
 Liberia, West Africa. She was in our home 
 three days, and told us a most interesting story 
 of her life. She was the child of a rich African 
 chief. When Freda was born her mother died; 
 the father carried Freda to the coast, and gave 
 her to the care of a Methodist missionary, Miss 
 Osborne, who kept her for eight years. Then 
 Miss Osborne sickened and died and the father 
 took Freda to Monrovia and put her in the col- 
 
 60
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 lege of West Africa. When she had finished the 
 elementary course there the principal of the 
 school brought her to Chicago and put her under 
 the care of Mrs. Myer, in the Methodist Mission- 
 ary Training School. While Freda was with us, 
 she wrote to President Daniel Howard and his 
 family with whom she was intimately associated 
 while in Monrovia. She wrote them of Emory's 
 going to Liberia and the President wrote us a 
 letter thanking us for our kindness to the little 
 girl in a strange land and sent us a picture of his 
 Inaugural. Mr. Howard was the first native to 
 be elected to the presidency of the republic; he 
 is a godly, upright man, a class leader in the 
 Methodist Church and his influence for right- 
 eousness has been indelibly impressed on his 
 people. He welcomed the missionaries who had 
 come, received them into the executive mansion, 
 and was helpful to them in every way possible. 
 
 Miss Eva Holmes is now a missionary to 
 Central Africa under the board of the Methodist 
 Church. Her love for Freda Brown and her sym- 
 pathy for the little black girl undoubtedly helped 
 to lead her to offer her superb young life for the 
 redemption of the Dark Continent. 
 
 Another most helpful friend in Liberia was 
 Col. Charles Young, who had been sent out as 
 military attache from the United States to train 
 a native army to protect the border lines of 
 
 61
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 Liberia. He received the missionaries most cor- 
 dially and set aside a room in the Legation 
 Building at Monrovia which he called the "Mis- 
 sion Room." 
 
 Once Emory heard that the Colonel was very 
 ill with black water fever; he hastened to the 
 capitol to see if he could be of assistance. He 
 nursed the Colonel back to convalescence and 
 then the government asked him to take the 
 Colonel to Paris and put him on ship board for 
 America. This he did. Mr. Ross and I went to 
 Wilberforce, Ohio, to see the Colonel and hear 
 the latest word from our son. We found a most 
 luxurious home. Colonel Young is a graduate of 
 West Point, the only negro Colonel in the world. 
 He has been in the employ of our government for 
 thirty-nine years; has traveled extensively and 
 read widely; he is a linguist and speaks seven 
 languages, is a musical composer, has a Steinway 
 grand piano in his home and does not allow his 
 children to hear ragtime. His wife is also an 
 accomplished woman, a graduate of Spelman 
 Seminary at Atlanta, Georgia. Colonel Young 
 spoke words of deepest appreciation for what 
 Emory had donj for him and said repeatedly, 
 "He saved my life." The few days spent in that 
 beautiful home was one of the most profitable 
 visits we have ever made. 
 
 The crowning joy of our lives was when 
 62
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 Emory sought and won one of the truest and 
 dearest girls to walk life's pathway with him. 
 We found in Myrta Maud Pearson all that our 
 hearts could desire. The announcement of their 
 engagement was made June 13, 1913. 
 
 Commencement Day of 1913 came and went. 
 Then Mr. Ross and I went away for the summer. 
 We visited old friends in Kendallville, Indiana, 
 then on to Cleveland and spent a month at my 
 sister's cottage on the Lake Shore. Came to 
 Winchester, Indiana, Mr. Ross's boyhood home, 
 and spent a few weeks in the home of his sister. 
 Mr. Ross had not been well, but had been riding 
 out every day and enjoying the visit with his 
 home folks. On the night of August 26th, a few 
 minutes after retiring for the night, I went to 
 his room and found that "The chariot had swung 
 low, come to carry his spirit home." After the 
 first piercing dart of anguish and a cry for 
 Emory, there flashed before my eyes, as in 
 letters of fire, "I will never leave thee nor for- 
 sake thee." "When thou passest through the 
 waters, I will be with thee." All my life I had 
 said these words, but now they were an eternal 
 verity to my soul and in that very moment I 
 knew that Jesus, the Christ, was more to me than 
 husband or son. I went out that summer night 
 and sat on a rustic bench where he and I had 
 
 63
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 sat the night before. Some young people over in 
 a neighboring church were singing: 
 
 "What a wonderful Saviour 
 Is Jesus, my Jesus 
 What a wonderful Saviour 
 Is Jesus, my Lord." 
 
 I felt that they sang better than they knew, but 
 I prayed that they too might keep close to Jesus 
 all the way, and that when their crisis hour came, 
 as come it must to every one of us, that they, too, 
 might know indeed and in truth, 
 
 "What a wonderful Saviour 
 Is Jesus, my Jesus." 
 
 Mr. Ross's brother and a nephew accom- 
 panied me back to Eureka. On our way, at a 
 station, a woman dressed in the deepest mourn- 
 ing, supported by two strong young men, came 
 into the car. She was moaning and crying so 
 piteously her grief seemed uncontrollable. 
 Directly I went back to see if I could help her. I 
 asked, "My dear woman, what is the cause of 
 your grief?" 
 
 "Oh, Lady, my husband's body is in the bag- 
 gage car." 
 
 "So is mine," I answered her. 
 
 She looked up at me in dumb amazement. I 
 asked: "Are these your two fine sons? I have 
 
 64
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 just one and he is 10,000 miles away in Africa. 
 He would be such a comfort to me if he were 
 here." Then I told of Emory's work and how 
 glad I was that he found it in his heart to serve 
 the dark needy people. She listened and quieted 
 down, and rode the rest of the journey in silence. 
 When the train drew near Eureka, one of the 
 sons came and took my arm and walked out with 
 me and thanked me for the words I had spoken 
 to his mother and the way my own faith and con- 
 fidence had strengthened her. I was glad to be 
 able, out of my own stricken heart, to say some- 
 thing that would soothe her anguish. 
 
 "Be strong to bear, O heart of mine, 
 Faint not when sorrows come, 
 
 The summits of these hills of time 
 Touch the blue skies of home." 
 
 I have read that migratory birds have been 
 discovered six miles above the earth, flying 
 across the disc of the sun. They have found out 
 the secret places of the most High; far above 
 the earth, invisible to the human eye, hidden in 
 the light. They are delightfully safe from fear 
 or evil. Thus it is with the soul that soars into 
 the heavenly places. No arrow can reach it, no 
 fowler can ensnare it, no creature of prey can 
 make it afraid. "He that dwelleth in the secret 
 
 65
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 place of the Most High shall abide under the 
 shadow of the Almighty." 
 
 O, what a vantage ground of peace and joy 
 and confidence! 
 
 We brought Mr. Ross's body back to Eureka 
 and laid it "Under the green tent whose curtain 
 never swings outward," 
 
 "Till death do us join." 
 
 Mr. Ross and I had contracted with the 
 Trustees of Culver-Stockton College at Canton, 
 Mo., to go there September 1st, to take charge of 
 their new Hundred Thousand Dollar dormitory. 
 It was with deep sorrow and regret that Dr. 
 Johann and the Board received the news of Mr. 
 Ross's sudden death. 
 
 Three months before this I had promised 
 the Iowa Board of Missions to give an evening 
 address at their State Convention on September 
 8th in Keokuk. Friends urged me to go, but I 
 do not recall that I ever made a journey with so 
 little interest just numb, dazed. I stood before 
 the audience that night I do not know one 
 word that I said, but I do remember at the close 
 of the meeting that I clasped hands with scores 
 of people and entered upon some of the sweetest 
 and most helpful friendships of my life. Mr. and 
 Mrs. E. L. Aldrich had asked to have me in their 
 home. The warmth and genuineness of their 
 
 66
 
 A Road of Remembrance, 
 
 welcome was like balm to my wounded heart. It 
 was as grateful to me as was ever Blim's shade 
 to the children of Israel. 
 
 The next morning the women of the Iowa 
 Board came and asked if I would work for them 
 in Iowa. It seemed just as if the Lord had said 
 to me, "This is the way, walk ye therein." That 
 day I received a telegram from Dr. Johann, ask- 
 ing me to meet the trustees in Canton that even- 
 ing. I went, just fearing they would ask me to 
 take charge of the dormitory. They did not, 
 but wanted me to make my home there. I asked, 
 "What to do?" They said, "Not anything, just 
 live here." I made every excuse. "I don't know 
 whether I could stay among strangers." I recall 
 so well, one of the men said, "You come and see 
 if we treat you like strangers." I told them I 
 was to travel and work for Iowa, that I would 
 come and see if I could be content there. I sent 
 to Eureka, Illinois, for my trunk and went up 
 to the dormitory on the hill. I have since traveled 
 two hundred thousand miles in forty-one differ- 
 ent States and Canada, but I have never looked 
 out on a more beautiful scene than the sunrise 
 above the Father of Waters, as seen from my 
 dormitory window at Canton. Sunrise always is 
 to me a kind of miracle. The daily renewal of 
 the earth life is always a wonder. Once when 
 Emory came to visit me, I did what Ruskin did 
 
 67
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 when a friend visited him at Brantwood. I 
 rapped on Emory's door and asked, "Have you 
 looked out?" 
 
 "The Glory of the Lord God came in by way 
 of the east gate, and the earth shines with His 
 Glory, and the Glory of the Lord God filled His 
 house." And the young people of the college too, 
 
 "Open for me the eastern windows 
 
 That look toward the sun 
 Where thoughts are singing swallows 
 
 And the brooks of morning run." 
 
 Our greatest aspirations come in on the 
 wings of the morning. They come by way of 
 new dawnings, new revelations through the 
 doors of expectancy and hope. So there came to 
 me through those glorious sunrise hours, sur- 
 rounded as I was by those young lives, new 
 hopes, new strength, new courage. The unfail- 
 ing kindness of the trustees and their families, 
 the faculty, and, in fact, scores of friends in 
 Canton, helped me through those hard days of 
 loneliness and grief. I spent many happy days 
 there "On the Heights." I follow with my love 
 and prayers all the splendid young people who 
 have gone out from Culver-Stockton halls and 
 always rejoice to hear of their advancement and 
 success. Some of her most loyal sons and daugh. 
 ters are serving the King in South America, 
 
 68
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 mdia and Japan, while others are in prepara- 
 tion to go as ambassadors of Christ. 
 
 Once when I was crossing the State of Iowa, 
 I had a blessed experience. A man and woman 
 came into the train. I was greatly attracted to 
 them and just felt that I must speak to them. 
 They sat down three seats back of me, on the 
 opposite side of the car. I would turn and look 
 at them with just an indescribable feeling that 
 I wanted to know them. Finally I got up my 
 courage to go speak to them. There were leaf- 
 lets spread out in front of them. I said: "I beg 
 your pardon, but I see you are Christian 
 workers." "Yes, we are missionaries from 
 Africa." We held hands till the train whistled 
 for them to get off. They knew of our mission 
 in Africa, gave me pictures of their station, and 
 told me so many interesting things. Now, if 
 God did not direct my thought toward those 
 people, I don't know who did. It was some per- 
 son or power that knew there was a joy in store 
 for me across the aisle in that car, "Like ships 
 that pass in the night." 
 
 Once the foot ball team from Culver-Stock- 
 ton got on the train and espied me. 
 
 "Well, here's Mother Ross." Some one yelled, 
 "What's the matter with Mother Ross?" "She's 
 all right." "Who's all right?" "Mother Ross." 
 Everybody in the train was made acquainted 
 
 69
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 with me. At a nearby station the boys got off 
 with some more parting yells at me. Everybody 
 in the car was looking at me. A woman came 
 over to me and said, "You must be from the 
 same college with those boys." "Yes." "We 
 have a Mother Ross in our church too," she said. 
 "O, that is interesting, what church?" I asked. 
 "The Christian Church. She has just one son 
 and he is a missionary in Africa." I let her go 
 on and tell all she knew of her Mother Ross, 
 then I said, "I think I must be the woman." She 
 called her husband and we had a delightful 
 journey together for several hours. They were 
 from Kansas; had been visiting in Indiana. 
 
 In the winter of 1913 I was tried out on the 
 patient and long suffering people of Iowa. I 
 am greatly indebted to them for their words of 
 encouragement and their loyal support. I have 
 never felt worthy of all the fine things they said 
 to me of my work. I was heartened by them to 
 accept calls from other states, and so I have gone 
 from Boston to Los Angeles, and from New 
 Orleans to Prince Edward Island. I have 
 spoken in churches, colleges, clubs, schools, 
 factories, picnics, prisons, jails, old peoples' 
 homes, orphanages and camps. I have met all 
 kinds of people in all the different walks and 
 conditions of life, and I know that nothing but 
 the love of Jesus Christ in the heart is sufficient 
 
 70
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 to satisfy the human soul. It will sweeten every 
 joy and lessen every sorrow. It will turn every 
 darkness into light. It will put songs of praise 
 on the lips and melody in the heart. I have 
 visited people who have lain on beds of pain for 
 years, whose faces shone like the faces of angels. 
 I met a man in a wheel chair whose body was 
 drawn and warped almost beyond the semblance 
 of a man, and yet he radiated light, and joy and 
 peace to all about him. I dined in a home where 
 the host had the worst birth mark covering half 
 of his face, but he was one of the most delight- 
 ful men, so animated, so interesting, so spiritual. 
 I saw triumph written in every line of his coun- 
 tenance his spirit had conquered the flesh. I 
 was in a happy company once where there was a 
 young bride, a stranger in the community. She 
 was so deaf that she wore an acoustican, but her 
 beautiful face beamed, her eyes sparkled, as she 
 looked upon us in our merriment. She could not 
 hear a word we said, but her sensitive soul 
 caught the gladness of the moment and she was 
 one with us. She was a brilliant woman, and 
 when it was her turn to talk, we listened. Such 
 chaste beautiful language and such artistic 
 power of expression and description. Another 
 dear gentle woman who is one of my best friends, 
 has ears dull of hearing, but her choice spirit is 
 attuned to the harmonies of life and I am always 
 
 71
 
 blessed in her presence. Yes, the greatest battles 
 that ever were fought were fought in the hearts 
 of men. 
 
 Iowa seemed a far away land. My older 
 brother returned home after the Civil War with 
 such a roving, adventurous spirit, that nothing 
 would satisfy him but an over-land trip to the 
 "wild and wooly West." It was a mournful day 
 for all of us when that covered wagon pulled out 
 from Winchester, Indiana, with three venture- 
 some youths bound for Iowa. My mother lay in 
 a darkened room with a wet cloth on her head 
 and we children tiptoed through the house, our 
 minds so filled with thoughts of the Indians and 
 wild animals, that we were afraid to go out to 
 our playhouse. From 1865, "it's a long, long 
 way to Iowa" in 1920. I have spent many 
 months in that beautiful State and have only 
 seen four Indians and just a few wild things. 
 Horace Greeley's advice, "Go West, young man," 
 has been so literally fulfilled that the whole 
 country is taken up and only a poet knows "Out 
 where the West begins." 
 
 72
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Emory came home for his first vacation by 
 way of New Orleans, and I went South to Ed- 
 wards, Mississippi, to meet him. Myrta Maud 
 Pearson was teaching there that year in the 
 Southern Christian Institute, preparatory to her 
 work in Africa. 
 
 The Woman's Board decided that before we 
 put up any permanent buildings in Africa, we 
 would explore the Ubangi region north of Congo. 
 Emory Ross and Dr. Ernest B. Pearson were 
 appointed on that commission. They left for 
 Central Africa in the fall of 1915. They carried 
 with them a passport from our government 
 signed by Secretary Lansing, a letter of intro- 
 duction from the French Consul to the Congo 
 General, and letters from Dr. Royal J. Dye and 
 Mr. Hensey. But one day I was reading in the 
 Old Book and I saw a verse that brought more 
 assurance than any of these letters. I found it 
 in Ezekiel. "So now, therefore, although I have 
 sent you out among the nations and cast you off 
 among the heathen, yet will I be to you a little 
 sanctuary in the countries to which you come." 
 That is the word of the omnipotent God, and He 
 is my heavenly Father. 
 
 73
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "So have I quieted my heart, 
 So have I kept it still, 
 So have I hushed its tremulous start 
 At tidings of good or ill. 
 
 So have I silenced my soul 
 In a peacefulness, deep and broad, 
 So have I gathered divine control 
 In the infinite quiet of God." 
 
 There was one time while Emory was with 
 the exploring party in the Ubangi country that I 
 did not hear from him for six months. Then a 
 cablegram came, telling of safety. I got down 
 the encyclopedia and read how Cyrus W. Field 
 laid the cable, and how grateful I was for his in- 
 domitable will that caused him to keep on, al- 
 though the chains broke many times. How in- 
 debted the whole world is to such a man, and yet, 
 how seldom we ever think of him! 
 
 I kept busy through all the years, starting 
 out, as I said, without any preparation; but a 
 friend said that I had been preparing for forty 
 years for just such work. True, I had been a 
 member of the Woman's Missionary Society 
 since 1875, but I never had a thought of doing 
 public work. I have no words to tell what these 
 forty-five years of elbow touch, this fusion of 
 hearts, has meant to my life. 
 
 I was going with some women from Peoria, 
 74
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 Illinois, to a district convention; we wore our 
 C. W. B. M. badges. The station master asked 
 if it were a secret society. One woman answered, 
 "No." But I thought, why yes it is a secret 
 society. Where have we so felt the secret of His 
 presence? God said, "Eye hath not seen nor 
 ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart 
 of man, the things that God hath prepared for 
 those that love Him." And again Jesus said, 
 "To him that doeth the will of God shall be given 
 to know the mystery of the kingdom." So I am 
 persuaded that it is a secret society and the 
 eastern star that shown over the Judean hills 
 is its guide. The Christian Woman's Board of 
 Missions, with its educational and benevolent 
 program, has been a great spiritual blessing to 
 the church, ani has led us out into the far 
 reaches of the kingdom. 
 
 In July, 1915, I went to California to the 
 National Convention. I journeyed by special, 
 conducted by Mr. George Jewett of Des Moines. 
 There were seventy-five people in the party. 
 This long trip convinced me that ours is a 
 country of "magnificent distances," and I do not 
 wonder at the Englishman, who having traveled 
 for five days from New York without seeing the 
 end, said to a fellow traveler, "I don't think it is 
 strange that Columbus discovered America. 
 How could he help but discover it?" 
 
 75
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 One of the rare privileges of my life was to 
 visit the Grand Canyon of Arizona. It is a 
 sublime spectacle. It seems infinitely old and as 
 permanent as peace. No pen can describe, no 
 artist can paint it. The canyon is too fresh from 
 God's hand to conceive it in terms of art. One 
 looks across miles and miles of tumult, of form, 
 and color, that seem to swirl in the great deep. 
 People are affected differently by the awesome 
 sight of this gigantic chasm. Two men, a clergy- 
 man and a rough scout, stood on the brink to- 
 gether. The former bared his head and ex- 
 claimed reverently, "Almighty God, how won- 
 drous are thy works!" The scout raised his 
 hand and said in an unsteady voice, "Good Lord, 
 can you beat it?" And they both meant much 
 the same thing. Anybody who can look unmoved 
 upon such a scene and not feel his soul stirred is 
 dead, and Gabriel's trumpet will do little for 
 him. I wanted to be alone. I went out and sat 
 on the rim. I went as Moses approached the 
 burning bush. 
 
 Emory met me in Los Angeles, coming from 
 the North, where he had been with the Men and 
 Millions team. He and I were the guests of the 
 California women and were in the Bible Institute 
 Hotel, where all the sessions were held. The 
 first morning we went to the Roof Garden Prayer 
 Meeting and there we met "The Angel of the 
 
 76
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 Church," as Mr. G. M. Anderson calls her in 
 the June World Call of 1920, Mrs. Mary F. Hoi- 
 brook. I had heard of her in her old home at 
 Onawa, Iowa, and she had heard of me. It was a 
 case of love at iirst sight. She invited us to be 
 her guests at breakfast through the convention, 
 and we had glorious fellowship hours together. 
 
 I met many friends from Indiana and Illi- 
 nois, now living in California; among them 
 some nephews and nieces of mine, and they did 
 show us a good time. We spent one day with 
 several others out at the beautiful home of Mr. 
 C. C. Chapman, at Fullerton. It was my first 
 sight of a large orange grove. As I lifted my 
 hands to pull an orange from the tree, I thought 
 of Mother Eve. If the apple looked as enticing 
 as this golden fruit, I do not wonder she yielded 
 to the temptation. 
 
 Two years ago Brother Garrison wrote that 
 Mr. Chapman had struck oil on his farm and it 
 was running six thousand barrels a day. I was 
 glad to hear it and was not at all surprised to 
 learn that he had given $400,000.00 to start a 
 Christian College. He is an ardent advocate and 
 liberal supporter of religious education. Brother 
 Chapman knows that he can't take his money 
 with him, but he can send it on ahead. 
 
 I heard of a newly rich woman, who was 
 very ignorant. She sent for her landscape garde- 
 
 77
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 ner and said, "I thought I would like to have one 
 large bed of Saliva." "Oh, yes, Madam, do, and I 
 will put a row of spittunias around it and I hope 
 it will come up to your expectorations." Still 
 another newly rich woman in New York said, 
 "I have a new coat lined with vermin." 
 
 A Los Angeles woman, with her Packard 
 car, came to take Mr. Hensey, Emory and me for 
 a ride. There were seven people in the car, but 
 as we rode and were about to pass a poorly 
 dressed man walking, she slowed up and called 
 out to him, "Are you going far?" "Five miles," 
 he answered. "Jump on the step and ride," she 
 said. The incident reminded me of a short 
 biography that I had read, "And He went about 
 doing good." I have seen other women riding 
 in big cars with nothing but a poodle dog for 
 company. I read a fine tribute paid to Alexander 
 Stevens by his black servant, "Marse Alex, is 
 better to dogs than some folks is to other folks." 
 "I often wonder why it is that we are not all 
 kinder than we are. How much the world needs 
 it. How easily it is done. How instantaneously 
 it acts. How infallibly it is remembered. How 
 superabundantly it pays itself back, for there is 
 no debtor in the world so honorable, so superbly 
 honorable, as love." Henry Drummond. 
 
 How often Jesus said, "Father, I have mani- 
 fested Thy name unto the world." 
 
 78
 
 A Rocul of Remembrance 
 
 In a banker's home in Kansas they kept a 
 colored maid, Katie. At nine o'clock my hostess 
 came to my room and asked if I were too tired 
 to go tell Katie and her boy friend about Jacob 
 and his work in Africa. "It will be such an in- 
 centive to them," she said. What a beautiful 
 thought that was! I've loved that woman ever 
 since. 
 
 In another southern home there was ham- 
 mering and noise. The lady said, "We are hav- 
 ing another room built on for Caroline, our 
 colored woman. She has lived with us thirty 
 years and helped raise all the children; now she 
 is old and can never work any more, and we 
 want to make her comfortable and happy. It 
 would break her heart to leave us and go live 
 with her sister." 
 
 A Nebraska home took three orphaned 
 children when their widowed mother died. The 
 man wrote to the grandfather in Sweden, but in 
 two weeks time they regretted having written, 
 they were so attached to the children. No word 
 has ever come from the grandparents and this 
 beautiful home is made glad by this young life. 
 Manifesting the Father's name! 
 
 Another Iowa man and woman had taken a 
 boy from the orphanage. When he was six years 
 old, they went again to the home for another 
 child. When I was with them, the wee baby was 
 
 79
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 nine months old and was just beginning to raise 
 its head. I asked, "How did you happen to take 
 a sick baby?" "Oh, Mrs. Ross, it looked no piti- 
 ful, and I thought, 'why nobody will ever take 
 you, poor little thing.' I just could not leave it." 
 I know that this woman's heart must have 
 learned much of the compassion of Christ toward 
 the physical needs of men. Pour-fifths of his re- 
 corded miracles had to do with the relief of 
 men's bodies. 
 
 I know a young lady of considerable means, 
 who supports her own missionary out in China. 
 She went south to visit one of our schools for 
 negroes, found they were short of help, and 
 stayed as a teacher. She is very happy in the 
 work. I know a cultured, university trained 
 woman, who was for three years Mrs. Russell 
 Sage's private secretary, who is a teacher in a 
 colored school. 
 
 President Ware, of Atlanta University, was 
 once asked how he, with his rare scholarship and 
 culture, could bear to work among the negroes. 
 "O, I'm color blind," he said. Wasn't he like 
 Jesus of whom it was said, "He was not 
 ashamed to call them brethren." 
 
 A beautiful woman in Indianapolis enter- 
 tains frequently the Chinese students in the 
 University. She is helping to establish "Inter- 
 national Christian Relationships" of which we 
 
 80
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 hear so much in these days. Dr. Edward Steiner 
 says, "Jesus Christ was the first to have an in- 
 ternational mind and an interracial heart." 
 Harry Emerson Fosdick says, " A Christianity 
 that is not international has never known its 
 Master." "He hath made of one blood every 
 nation of men to dwell on all the face of the 
 earth." It is the growing realization of this 
 truth that is causing a gradual disuse of the 
 word "foreign" in connection with missions. 
 "The field is the world," said Jesus, and we must 
 be World Christians (not worldly Christians) if 
 \vo are to be like Him. 
 
 A visit to Bethany College was a glad ex- 
 perience for me. Spent a day with Mrs. Decima 
 Campbell Barclay, the tenth child of Alexander 
 Campbell, in his old home. She was nearing her 
 eightieth year, a woman of rare intellect and 
 possessed of a good memory. She was a charm- 
 ing hostess. She told us much of her father and 
 of the great men who gathered in his home to 
 spend days of intercourse; Judge Jeremiah 
 Black, Jefferson Davis, Abraham Lincoln, James 
 A. Garfield and others, who were intimate 
 friends in their home. The house is old and 
 quaint, the furniture, most of it, two hundred 
 years old. An octagon brick building without a 
 window, just a skylight, was Mr. Campbell's 
 study. He said he got his light from above. The 
 
 81
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 piano that was bought for her stood in what she 
 called the new parlor where the fine embossed 
 paper had been on the wall for seventy-five 
 years. We asked her to play. She said she didn't 
 play any sacred music, just "Money Musk" and 
 jigs. So she jigged for us. This last winter in 
 Bartow, Florida, the lady with whom I stopped 
 said, "Mrs. Ross, I'll put you in Mrs. Barclay's 
 room." She went South every winter to escape 
 the rigorous climate of the North. Now she has 
 heard her Master's call, and has gone where the 
 many mansions be.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In the spring of 1917, Emory entered the 
 University of Chicago for some special work. He 
 secured a suite of furnished rooms in the Uni- 
 versity apartments, kept for ministers' and mis- 
 sionaries' families. It was my first chance to 
 keep house in twenty years, and I went so joy- 
 ously to the task. My ardor was somewhat 
 dampened when I saw the condition of the 
 rooms. Mrs. E. M. Bowman was in New York 
 when she heard we were in Chicago. She wrote 
 me to have the University workman clean, paint 
 and kalsomine and send her the bill. "I am 
 writing the Committee, too, and you will hear 
 from them," she wrote. In a few days there was 
 brought up an Axminster rug for our living 
 room, runner for the hall, linoleum for the kitch- 
 en, dishes, linen, everything that was needed 
 for our comfort. I think I was never so happy 
 over any material gift, unless it was when some 
 Iowa friends had given me a seal skin coat. 
 Always when there is a kindness shown me, I 
 try to pass it on, so I paid for a term of music 
 lessons for a little child who could not other- 
 wise have had that privilege. I felt so especially 
 favored by Mrs. Bowman, but I've found out 
 
 83
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 since that I am only one of many whose way she 
 brightens by her loving generosity. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. W. E. Gorden and their two 
 lovely children, Margaret and Laddie, lived in 
 the flat below us, and how we did enjoy our 
 neighbors. They had their family worship at the 
 breakfast table and they would sing our Chris- 
 tian hymns in Hindi. They had choice mis- 
 sionary friends in the University and frequently 
 had them over for an evening, and we were 
 always invited to join the group. The ends of 
 the earth were brought very near to us as we 
 listened to the stories of the different lands 
 where these men and women had worked. 
 
 I attended lectures in Mandel Hall. I heard 
 Ralph Connor tell, "Why Canada went to War." 
 I heard Harry Emerson Posdick. I had become 
 so familiar with his books, "Meaning of Prayer" 
 and "The Manhood of the Master," that I felt I 
 was listening to a friend. Other great men came 
 to that platform, but it remained for a woman to 
 receive the greatest ovation. The whole audi- 
 ence arose as she was presented as "Chicago's 
 greatest citizen," Miss Jane Addams. The 
 great teacher told us, "He that would be the 
 greatest among you, let him be the servant of 
 all." Miss Addams has won her distinction, 
 according to our Lord's pattern. "They bear the 
 palm best who only wish to serve." 
 
 84
 
 EMORY ROSS AND MYRTA PEARSON ROSS
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 The fellowship we had with the different 
 churches in Chicago was so helpful and enjoy- 
 able. Along about the middle of June I knew I 
 was to yield my place as housekeeper and home- 
 maker to another. I put the house in perfect 
 order. Emory preceded me a few days to Eureka. 
 I waited for a sister and niece from Cleveland to 
 join me to go down for the wedding. June 15, 
 1917, shone clear and bright. It was Commence- 
 ment Day and many of the former students were 
 back. The ceremony was in the church at three 
 o'clock. Dr. Ernest Pearson pronounced the 
 words that made Emory Ross and Myrta Maude 
 Pearson husband and wife. There are souls that 
 are created for one another in the eternities; 
 hearts that are predestined each to each from 
 the absolute necessities of their [nature, and 
 when this man and woman come face to face, 
 their hearts throb and are one. This was one of 
 the mountain peaks of joy in my whole life. I 
 lived over my own happy wedding day. My in- 
 most thought refuses to be imprisoned in my 
 vocabulary, and I cannot tell all that my heart 
 felt on that glad June day that brought into my 
 life a daughter. A reception was held at the 
 Pearson home. There wasn't a more beautiful 
 woman in that happy company than Myrta's 
 grandmother, ninety-two years of age, clad in a 
 drab silk with creamy lace about her neck, 
 
 85
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 snowy white hair, a soft, dreamy, far-away look 
 in her eye, and she told me afterward that it 
 made her think of her own marriage in St. 
 Pancras Church in London, a church that has 
 stood three hundred years. Dr. Ernest Pearson, 
 her grandson, on one of his trips to Africa, was 
 privileged to attend a wedding in this same 
 church. "There is a beauty of youth and a 
 beauty of old age; the first is given to us, the 
 second we earn." This mother in Israel had 
 earned her beauty. "As the lamp that shineth 
 upon the holy candlestick, so is the beauty of the 
 face in ripe age." She has since been called 
 away "unto the marriage supper of the Lamb." 
 
 It was such a joyous company that con- 
 gratulated the young couple and wished for them 
 the choicest blessings. It was scarcely fair that 
 Emory and Myrta should have made Dr. Pearson 
 perform the ceremony, when he was a doctor and 
 not a preacher. Doctor got even with Emory a 
 few months later when Miss Evelyn Utter went 
 out to Africa to become his bride and Emory had 
 to say the words. 
 
 After a few weeks I went up to Chicago to 
 visit them and learn what kind of a mother-in- 
 law I would make. I could only stay a few days, 
 for I must be off to fill my dates. We three went 
 together to our Kansas City Convention and 
 were entertained in a beautiful home. We 
 
 86
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 stopped off at Mexico, Missouri, for an evening, 
 for I did want the children to see and know the 
 dear people there. The time was drawing near 
 for them to leave for Africa. I went to Eureka 
 to be with them that last Sunday. Soon after I 
 got in they had a most urgent call to go to Nian- 
 tic. It was hard for them to do, but they went 
 They spoke on Sunday morning and a good man 
 in that church gave them one hundred dollars 
 to buy them a victrola. So I was real glad 
 that I hadn't objected to their going. I de- 
 cided later that I would go with them to New 
 Orleans to see them off. We had to stop off 
 at Memphis, Tennessee, as Mr. and Mrs. Walter 
 M. White had so decreed. We reached there 
 at midnight and left at nine the next morning. 
 I have made up for it since though, as I now 
 take from two to six weeks to change cars at 
 Memphis. We were sorry afterward that we did 
 not stay longer, for the boat did not sail for a 
 week. We had just gotten well settled in our 
 hotel in New Orleans when some church friends 
 came to take us out for a lunch and a drive. 
 They kept that up for a week, thinking every day 
 would be the last. The time of sailing was very 
 uncertain and secret. The ship was strictly 
 guarded. The customs officer doubted if they 
 would let me go on the ship at all, but the day 
 they were to get their baggage down, Emory told 
 me to linger on the dock till nearly every one 
 
 87
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 had gone. My friends, Mrs. Jetmore and her 
 three children, stayed with me. Just at dusk 
 Emory and the old English Captain came down. 
 Emory introduced us and the Captain said, 
 "Madam Ross, bring your friends and come on 
 shipboard and take dinner with us." We accepted 
 with alacrity. I never had been on a sea-going 
 vessel and I was surprised at the luxury; Stein- 
 way piano, beautiful pictures, brass furni- 
 ture, and red velvet carpet "knee deep in June." 
 It was the most formal dinner I ever attended. 
 Seven courses and five knives and forks at each 
 plate. I had to watch the Captain to know which 
 one to use. Hindu waiters in oriental costumes 
 and orchestra music. The last piece they played 
 on the victrola was John McCormick's "O, send 
 me away with a smile." I took the hint. I left 
 at ten o'clock and came back at eight the next 
 morning. We had our pictures taken on board. 
 We had two happy hours together, then the 
 gong sounded, and I said good-bye to the friends, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Charles P. Hedges and son, Dr. 
 Pearson and Myrta. Emory came down the 
 plank with me; we sat in the auto together for 
 just a little time, "A moment of immortality," 
 then he went back up the gang plank. I followed 
 out and stood on the dock. Just at this time, as 
 if to break the tensity, Mrs. Gwinn hurried up 
 the plank with three dozen American Beauty
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 roses and five pounds of candy from the church 
 ladies for Myrta and Mrs. Hedges. That gave a 
 sweetness and aroma to the occasion. I thought 
 there would be a clanking of chains and ringing 
 of bells and blowing of whistles, but to my 
 astonishment that ship glided out like a swan 
 upon the water, and I didn't know they were 
 going until I saw the water widening between 
 them and me. 
 
 "The anchor is lifted, the sails are set, 
 The waves are dancing in glee ; 
 Away from her moorings the trim craft slips, 
 There's a good-bye smile from those 
 
 precious lips, 
 And there's one more ship at sea." 
 
 My heart strings tugged and strained until 
 it seemed they would snap in two, but I stood 
 there and waved and smiled (sort of cama- 
 flouge), and never shed a tear. I watched that 
 ship until it was just a speck on the horizon, 
 then turned away. My son wrote me afterward 
 that he saw me plainly when I turned and got 
 into the auto, for he was looking through his 
 strong binoculars. 
 
 There was to be a meeting at three o'clock 
 that afternoon and my sympathetic hostess said 
 I must not try to go, but I asked to be left alone 
 in my room until the hour, and I would be ready. 
 
 89
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 She respected my wishes, only sending the maid 
 up at twelve o'clock with the most appetizing 
 lunch. We went to the parsonage and had a 
 good meeting. I can never forget the kindness of 
 Brother and Sister William Allen and others in 
 New Orleans. 
 
 I went into Texas for a month's work; 
 stopped a few days at Southern Christian Insti- 
 tute, Edwards, Mississippi. I heard a lecture one 
 time "bound Texas." He said it was bounded on 
 the north by the Aurora Borealis, on the east by 
 the rising sun, on the south by the equator, and 
 on the west by the Judgment Day. All the people 
 who live in Texas would think this was not over- 
 drawn. A secretary from Texas was at our Col- 
 lege of Missions once at a banquet, where thirty- 
 two women were each to rise t introduce herself, 
 and tell what State she was from, etc. This 
 loyal Texas woman told us many wonderful 
 things about her state, and ended her speech by 
 saying that if all the inhabitants of the earth 
 were put down in Texas, there would only be ten 
 to the acre. Her listeners just groaned; they 
 knew that nobody could outreach her unless it 
 was the woman from Kentucky. My turn came 
 next. I was born in Indiana and could boast of 
 the greatest number of the Literati, but I would 
 have to confess that Texas had produced the 
 most talked of man at the time, the man who was 
 
 90
 
 A Hood of Remembrance 
 
 most in the limelight, Jack Johnson. That 
 Texas secretary has had it in for me ever since, 
 and she is only biding her time to get even. I 
 never have found bigger hearted people than in 
 Texas. I was exposed to a bit of snow in my 
 travels in that sunny Southland, was taken ill 
 and had bronchial pneumonia. An assistant 
 secretary, Mrs. Berta McMasters, was with me 
 and took me into one of the dormitories of Texas 
 Christian University. There she and Mrs. King 
 and others gave me the tenderest care. They 
 called the best doctor and a trained nurse. I 
 knew by their looks that they thought my case 
 was serious. But the next morning when I asked 
 the doctor if he knew which way a pin goes, he 
 thought it had gone to my head. But I insisted 
 that he tell me which way a pin goes. "I don't 
 know," he said. "Well, it is hard to tell, for it is 
 pointed one way and headed the other." I think 
 he had hopes for me from that time on. One day 
 when I had a sinking spell, those women fixed 
 up a toddy for me. They tell it on me that I 
 smacked my lips and said, "My, but that is good. 
 I haven't tasted one for forty-five years." 
 
 There was no one in the town that I had 
 ever seen except Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Weaver, 
 and they were constant and devoted in their 
 care for me. Women unknown to me sent me 
 fresh eggs every day, buttermilk, and peach pre- 
 91
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 serves, bed-room slippers and lysol, flowers, 
 fruits and sweet cream. Relatives thought it was 
 so sad that I had to be sick among strangers, but 
 I didn't see anything sad about it. I was per- 
 fectly taken up with my doctor, and I think that 
 helped me to get well. He was a fine, large, 
 handsome, fifty year old Texan. One day I asked 
 him, "How did it come that they took the best 
 looking man in Texas and made a doctor out of 
 him?" I saw that it pleased him, though he was 
 a little embarrassed. When, some weeks later, 
 I asked for my bill, he said it was nothing. Now 
 those attending women tell that it was because I 
 called him handsome that he made no charge 
 for services. But I knew it was because he was 
 so surprised that I lived, and was so thankful 
 that God skilled him in the right use of his 
 knowledge to save me for the boy over in Africa. 
 I am mighty grateful to Dr. Woodward and all 
 the friends who helped to pull me through. I 
 know that God still has work for me to do. 
 
 I had a lark in my convalescing days with 
 those Texas Christian University students, and 
 was able, before I left, to give Chapel talks and 
 play some games with them in the evenings. 
 Camp Bowie, with 40,000 soldiers, was in plain 
 view from my window. I met the Y. M. C. A. 
 Secretary, and he invited me out for a Sunday 
 afternoon meeting. I was so glad to go, but 
 
 92
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 when I was getting out of the auto, he said, 
 "Mother Ross, we have two speakers today, but 
 I want you to have a word too." "Oh, no, I can't 
 do that," I said. But he marched me onto the 
 platform with two dignified divines. I sat there in 
 a nervous tremor wondering what I'd say to that 
 strange looking audience. It seemed to me that 
 the whole 40,000 had turned out; seats, aisles 
 and windows were full of khaki-clad fellows. 
 When I got up they all looked alike to me. I 
 asked the Lord to steady me. I said, "Boys, 
 when you get out in front of the guns, if you are 
 as scared as I am right now, you'll never hit 
 anybody." They gave me an ovation, a regular 
 khaki ovation, and I was encouraged to go on. 
 "It is our hearers who inspire us," says some 
 great preacher. Those boys were certainly an 
 inspiration to me. I could have talked as long 
 as Paul did, but I didn't want any of them to fall 
 out of the windows and break their necks. I 
 went there every time I had a chance, and also 
 out to the Aviation Camps. I found one of my 
 Eureka boys at Benbrooke Field. One of the 
 boys said, "O, Mother Ross, you don't know how 
 fine it is to be way up above the clouds, light and 
 airy, and no fear." I let them finish, then I said, 
 "Yes, boys, I know all about it, I belong to the 
 Aviation Corps myself. I live above the clouds 
 all the time. I am upheld and sustained and 
 
 93
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 have no fear, because the everlasting arms are 
 round about me. When you get out yonder in 
 "No Man's Land," maybe your planes will come 
 down and you be mangled and hurt, but I pray 
 that you may still be confident and secure be- 
 cause of your trust in Him." I don't see how a 
 child of God can live in the low lands. No good 
 thing will He withhold from them that love Him, 
 is his sure promise. 
 
 "Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen 
 you and ordained you, that you should go forth 
 and bear fruit, and that your fruit might remain ; 
 that whatsoever ye ask of my Father, in my 
 name, He will give it you." There is Jesus' sure 
 word and promise, conditioned in our bearing 
 fruit. Paul tells us that He is able to give us 
 
 All that we ask; 
 All that we ask or think; 
 Above all that we ask or think; 
 Abundantly all that we ask or think ; 
 Exceedingly abundantly above all that we 
 ask or think. 
 
 We Christians are the richest people on earth. 
 "All things are yours, and ye are Christ's and 
 Christ is God's." A hundred fold in this world 
 and in the world to come life everlasting. But 
 it takes a wholly surrendered life to claim these 
 promises. Real prayer means the breaking 
 
 Q4
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 down in the secret places of the heart in full and 
 free submission to the will of God. And so, and 
 only so, does the inner life become a great high- 
 way for the transmission of God's message. 
 
 I made a ludicrous mistake one day. I went to 
 introduce a soldier friend to some of the college 
 girls. His name was Gus Rammage. I guess I 
 must have been excited, for I said, "Young ladies, 
 I want you to meet my friend, Mr. Gas Rummage" 
 After I came North, on Mother's Day I received 
 through the mail a small khaki-covered Testa- 
 ment, and on the fly leaf I read, "To Mother Ross 
 from Gas Rummage." I prize that little book 
 and carry it with me all the time. That mistake 
 was not as bad as the one an angry woman made 
 when she found some one sitting in her pew at 
 church. She said to the usher, "Some one is 
 pitting in my sew." He replied, "Oh, yes, Madam, 
 I'll sow you to another sheet." 
 
 That experience with a soldier audience al- 
 most spoiled me for just plain church audiences. 
 No church people ever stamped their feet and 
 yelled their appreciation of me. Every time I 
 had a chance, I went to a camp; I visited eigh- 
 teen in all. My stay in Houston, Texas, was in a 
 home where I reminded them so much of a dear 
 mother who had slipped away just a short time 
 before. They cordially urged me to come and 
 spend a winter with them, and about Christmas 
 
 95
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 she mailed me a picture of a dinner table with 
 one vacant chair, and that was for me. She is 
 one young mother who prays earnestly that her 
 only son may give his life to mission work. She 
 is a wonderfully gifted woman; she can do so 
 many things. I asked if there was anything she 
 couldn't do, and she said, "I've done everything 
 but make a circus tent, and I think I could do 
 that." "My Rose Garden," which appeared in 
 one of our recent Sunday School papers, shows 
 how she works with human flowers, girls. I do 
 hope I may some day go and spend a few weeks 
 in that dear home. 
 
 I went into a southern city and was met by a 
 beautiful young woman, but there was a hurt 
 look in her eyes, and her hair was white as with 
 the snows of sixty winters. I knew, at once, that 
 there must be some deep sorrow in her life. 
 When we reached the home I learned of a little 
 twelve year old afflicted boy. The mother 
 showed me his picture taken when he was four 
 years old, a well formed, beautiful child, but soon 
 after that a dreadful malady had fastened itself 
 upon him, and for ten years the little body had 
 been limp and helpless, paroxysms of intense 
 pain. The agony of those years had left its im- 
 press upon these devoted parents. 
 
 I was in the home again recently. They 
 took me out to the cemetery to look at a little 
 
 96
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 mound of earth covered with flowers, and to tell 
 me that early on last Easter morning they 
 carried the body of the child here, for his spirit 
 had taken its flight to that land where there is no 
 sickness, no pain. The faithful, black boys who 
 had cared for the little lad through all his suffer- 
 ing years carried him to this, his last resting 
 place, and tenderly covered the casket with earth. 
 "I am the resurrection and the life" came to 
 these young parents with new meaning on that 
 Easter morning. The father is a man of large 
 business interests, but he begins every day with 
 a season of prayer and consecration. He calls 
 the colored servants from the kitchen, and we 
 read from the word of God and kneel together to 
 praise and adore His matchless name and to seek 
 His guidance for the day. There is a calmness 
 and serenity in that home that I do not always 
 find. That home has been purified and purged 
 as by fire, and the chastened souls radiate light 
 and beauty as of pure gold. A strength and 
 blessedness of spirit come to me as I remember 
 the days I tarried there. 
 
 I started North just in time to reach Mem- 
 phis for the Easter Sunday. Memphis is one of 
 my homes. The parsonage there, occupied by 
 Mr. and Mrs. Walter M. White and five lively 
 girls, is a haven of delight to me, with not one 
 dull moment. I was to rest there six weeks. I 
 
 97
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 spoke twenty-four times and was out to twenty- 
 four dinners and luncheons. It seemed to agree 
 with me. I wouldn't mind doing it again. The 
 Linden Street Church has its prayer meeting at 
 noon on Wednesday. It is a down town church 
 and I've seen one hundred at the prayer meet- 
 ing. A cafeteria lunch is served and it proves to 
 be a happy arrangement for the business men. 
 They come in and are refreshed in body and 
 spirit. It has seemed the very gate of heaven to 
 me when I've been with them. This church has 
 the most aesthetic Aid Society I've ever seen. 
 "Daughters of Linden" they call themselves. I've 
 heard Aid Societies called "Busy Bees." That 
 name is capable of too many different meanings. 
 "Willing Workers," "Handmaidens," nothing 
 quite so euphonious as "Daughters of Linden." 
 And to attend one of their meetings, one feels 
 that she has been out in society sure enough. 
 The women wear their best clothes, they have 
 music and flowers and dainty refreshments, and 
 reports of work done that make the heart glad. 
 The McLemore Church is great, too. I was 
 there on Sunday morning when four men spoke, 
 each of them five minutes, then I was to have 
 twenty-five. That showed how chivalrous those 
 men were to give the woman five times as long 
 to talk. A man named Glass came up and gave 
 a blackboard performance that brought four 
 
 98
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 thousand dollars in ten minutes. I heard a Greek 
 scholar say that in the sentence, "The Lord 
 loveth a cheerful giver," the word "cheerful" 
 should be "hilarious." It was so rendered that 
 day at McLemore. 
 
 There is a dear woman in Memphis who 
 raises canary birds for sale to make her church 
 and mission money. She names them for mis- 
 sionaries, and when a purchaser comes, they 
 hear all about the missionary's work. I was 
 invited out to her home with six other ladies to 
 eat strawberry short cake and see the birds. She 
 had just named a young pair, "Emory and 
 Myrta." About Christmas time she sent me ten 
 dollars, the highest price she had ever gotten 
 for a single bird, and this money was to be sent 
 to Emory Ross for his Christmas gift. I have 
 told this story twice, with embellishments, once 
 to a Sunday School in Worcester, Massachusetts, 
 and again in Fayetteville, Arkansas, and it took 
 well with the boys and girls in both places. One 
 boy said, "Gee, a feller could raise lots of mis- 
 sionary money with Belgian hares." So there 
 may be a "Bunny Fund" started by this time. 
 
 I saw what they called a "Bunny Hug" one 
 time on a boat on the Mississippi River. E. E. 
 Elliott and L. W. McCreary and their families, 
 saw it, too. I read where the Aldermen of New 
 Orleans had pronounced against it, and when 
 
 99
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 New Orleans condemns a thing, it must be bad. 
 Some one recently said, "If the dance craze keeps 
 up as it is going, the next generation won't 
 recognize 'Home Sweet Home' unless it is 
 jazzed." 
 
 A great statesman has said, "Tell me what 
 your young people are thinking about, and I will 
 tell you what your country will be in twenty-five 
 years from now." 
 
 I have just been reading Herman Hage- 
 dorn's book, "You Are the Hope of the World." 
 "To you who carry the unblunted swords of ten 
 to seventeen, you are the ones who carry the 
 hope of the world. Not to die for the world, 
 to live for it, to think for it, to work for it, 
 to keep sharp and unstained by rust the sword 
 of the spirit." It is an appeal to the boys and 
 girls of America. Everyone of their hearts will 
 thrill in its perusal, and it would be "good medi- 
 cine" for the parents, too. Another book that is 
 most helpful is Arthur Conwell's "Manhood's 
 Morning." Conwell tells that there are boys 
 enough in the United States to go into the forests 
 and cut the trees and make the ties; go into the 
 mines and dig the ore and smelt it, and build a 
 railroad from New York to San Francisco be- 
 tween the rising and the setting of the sun. What 
 a tremendous power for good or ill! The hope of 
 the world, they are, sure enough, our greatest 
 
 100
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 asset. If there is anything I love better than a 
 boy, it is some more boys. 1 could write a whole 
 book on "Boys I Have Known." I heard a mother 
 of three sons say, "I just feel like I was wasting 
 time when I read. I would rather crochet, and 
 have something to show for my time." 
 
 I was in a home where there was a son of 
 fifteen years; handsome as ever was made. At 
 the dinner table the mother, who was President 
 of the Woman's Missionary Society, regaled us 
 with things about the preacher. "He seems so 
 worldly; rather be rollicking around with the 
 boys of the town than tending to his duties; 
 taking them on long hikes after school, when 
 they had better be doing something useful. I 
 just don't think he was ever cut out for a 
 preacher; he doesn't seem at all spiritual." Up 
 spoke the boy champion, "You bet all the boys 
 in town like him. He's a sport. He is the kind 
 of a guy that gets the boys all right." Then the 
 father reprimanded the boy sharply for contra- 
 dicting his mother. I felt sick, like I had been 
 in a dissecting room. She was to lead the 
 devotions that afternoon at the convention. 
 "The Children's Work" was the subject. She 
 asked me to give her a scripture that would be 
 suitable. I told her I thought, "Do not sin 
 against the child" would be timely and appro- 
 priate. I don't think she "caught on." 
 
 101
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 I have had some happy experiences with the 
 Boy Scouts. In Waycross, Georgia, two of them 
 were so helpful to me that I wrote them up in 
 their town paper. This is what one of the 
 youngsters asked me: "If Arkansaw Virginia, 
 how far can Tennessee?" Of course I didn't 
 know. "Waycross, Georgia," was the answer. I 
 have met with the boy scouts in many different 
 towns. I love to hear them take their scout 
 oath. 
 
 "On my honor I will do my best, 
 
 I. To do my duty to God and my country 
 and to obey the scout law; 
 
 II. To help other people at all times; 
 
 III. To keep myself physically strong, 
 mentally awake, and morally straight." 
 
 And then to hear them say, "I will be true; I will 
 be clean; I will be loyal." One troop gave a yell 
 that pleased me. "Whawho! Whayet! Nasty, 
 dirty cigarette!" I gave them the definition I 
 had read of a cigarette, "A roll of paper and 
 poison with fire at one end and a fool at the 
 other." It means much that 390,000 boys in the 
 United States are living under such standards as 
 their oath implies. I am glad that thousands of 
 men find joy in serving as scout masters. They 
 are stamping their personality upon those im- 
 pressionable boys as truly as the Philadelphia 
 
 102
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 mint puts the symbol of the United States upon 
 our golden coins. 
 
 A mother asked me if I would compel a boy 
 to go to church. I said, "No, I would constrain him. 
 I would so love the church myself, and uphold it 
 and talk of it, and tell of its glorious triumph 
 through all the ages; I'd tell him that the church 
 was the body of Christ, and if we did anything to 
 hurt the church, it would hurt Christ Himself; 
 I'd so enthuse the child's heart that his feet 
 would be swift and his blood would tingle when 
 he would hear the church bell ring." A boy 
 would not be dead in love with the church if his 
 Christian father sat at home on Sunday morn- 
 ing and read the paper, and his Christian mother 
 had a violent headache every seventh day of the 
 week. I have known women who claim that 
 they are so nervous that they couldn't sit an 
 hour and a half in church, who go to a movie 
 and sit three hours without a collapse. Now, 
 this "nerve business" is terribly overworked. 
 When I meet a woman, I hate to have her take 
 up all the blessed, God-given time talking about 
 her nerves. The Psychologist tells us that every 
 thought leaves a groove on the brain, and every 
 time we repeat a thought, that the groove grows 
 deeper. I should think that some brains would 
 be worn through. 
 
 I visit a most interesting woman, who is in 
 103
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 the eighties. She talks about the W. C. T. U. 
 work in her own town, about contests in the 
 public schools, with essays on Scientific Temper- 
 ance. She talks about suffrage, and quotes from 
 Carry Chapman Catt. She tells of the marvelous 
 triumphs on the mission fields. She tells of the 
 rat killing campaign along the Mississippi River 
 to keep off the bubonic plague. She discourses 
 about the "Child Welfare League." She talks of 
 King Albert and Lloyd George; about the Chau- 
 tauqua program. She is a walking encyclopedia, 
 and the whole town knows it. She is an author- 
 ity; everybody consults her. If she has any 
 "Rheumatiz," she never talks about it. I wonder 
 if it does any good to talk about our aches and 
 pains? 
 
 A bright, cheery woman, went to a meeting 
 of an aid society. The women told about their 
 afflictions. One told of her liver, and another of 
 her heart; still another of her spleen; the eyes 
 and ears came in for some attention; the corns 
 and bunions, the goiters and catarrh, high blood 
 pressure, eczema, tonsils and adenoids. At the 
 close of the meeting, one of the members asked 
 the visitor if she had enjoyed the afternoon. "O 
 yes," she said, "I thought, though, that I was 
 coming to an Aid Society Meeting, but I'd call 
 this an 'Organ Recital'." 
 
 "Joy is the sunshine of the soul, and laughter 
 104
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 the greatest antiseptic and mental purifier on 
 earth," and every doctor knows it, too. "A laugh 
 is worth a hundred groans in any market," says 
 Charles Lamb. "God smiled when He put humor 
 into the human disposition and said, 'That is 
 good.' " Beecher. Once I made a whole family 
 laugh. I did it on purpose; they needed it. A 
 new baby greets the world with a cry, the uni- 
 versal volapuk. After awhile it smiles. That 
 makes everybody laugh. It's easier to cry than 
 to laugh. We never cry unless we feel like it, 
 but I know people who laugh when their hearts 
 are full of tears. Harry Lauder rises from his 
 son's grave out there in France and goes to sing 
 to 12,000 boys. His friend remonstrates, "Harry, 
 you can't sing." "Oh, yes I can, those boys are 
 waiting and my boy is watching. I'll go and 
 sing out of the break of my heart." 
 
 One can sing if her son falls on a field of 
 honor, but I know a dear mother whose son was 
 killed, shot down in a bawdy house. She was 
 killed, too. O, she will walk around a few years 
 longer, ministering to the rest of her family, but 
 some day a disease will fasten upon her and she 
 will succumb. Doctors will say, "She had no 
 vitality to resist the attack." No, there was no 
 resistance, she was stabbed, mortally wounded, 
 and her heart's blood had oozed away. It's a 
 dastardly thing for a boy to kill his mother. 
 
 105
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 I know a man in the very prime of life, who 
 was vigorous, strong and alert three years ago. 
 I met him again, recently. His hair is white, he 
 has sad lines on his face, his step is slow and 
 lacks elasticity, he has aged. I marveled at the 
 change in him. His only son, by whom his 
 honored family name was to have been per- 
 petuated, had gone wrong, woefully wrong, and 
 was languishing behind prison bars. 
 
 "My son! My son! Would to God I had 
 died for thee." David's lament over Absolam is 
 being reiterated in the hearts of men today, and 
 there are mothers who will have to take up 
 Judah's plaint and say, "How can I go up to the 
 Father, and the lad be not with me?"
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I have visited twenty of our own church col- 
 leges, and many others. I was in one school 
 where they had twenty-five mission study 
 classes, and the students had given $10,000 to- 
 ward a hospital in China. There are forty-seven 
 thousand college students in mission study 
 classes in the United States. The study of mis- 
 sions makes for intelligent Christianity as noth- 
 ing else does, except the study of the Bible. 
 Mission study today is the study of civilization. 
 To be ignorant of missions is to be ignorant of 
 the great life currents of progress. An editor of 
 the Outlook, recently home from the East, says, 
 "The missionary movement is today the greatest 
 unifying force at work among men." The mis- 
 sionary is talked of in the newspapers; he is 
 acknowledged by science ; he enters into the cal- 
 culations of statesmen; he is recognized as a 
 permanent factor in the re-making of the world. 
 Charles Darwin said, "The lesson of the mission- 
 ary is like an enchanter's wand." A war corres- 
 pondent of a Chicago paper goes into Tibet to 
 help rescue our intrepid Dr. Shelton, and to tell 
 the world of his capture and release. Fred 
 Smith's trip cost the Chicago Tribune $3,000. 
 His cables were copied by a score of leading 
 
 107
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 papers, and hundreds of small ones. Dr. Osgood 
 writes that because of Mr. Fred Smith's trip and 
 his writing, more bankers are going to put 
 money into Chinese securities ; more Consuls are 
 going to be scattered over China; more steam- 
 ships are going to cross the Pacific; more hos- 
 pitals are going to be built; more schools opened, 
 and more churches erected. Yes, newspapers, 
 magazines, books, leaflets and calendars are pub- 
 lishing the good news of the oncoming Kingdom 
 of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. Great 
 public libraries are devoting space for mission- 
 ary literature with separate catalogs, so great is 
 the demand. Any church, that is in fact as well 
 as profession, seeking first the Kingdom of God 
 will demand and will have fresh and full tidings 
 of that Kingdom throughout the earth. 
 
 I went East and was in Boston a few weeks. 
 I was shown many interesting places, Cambridge 
 and Harvard, Phillips Brooks' monument and 
 church. I thought of how a newspaper man said, 
 "It was a rainy, dreary Monday morning, but 
 Dr. Phillips Brooks came walking down the 
 street and everything was bright." I saw the 
 Bunker Hill monument, I visited the Mother 
 church, a magnificent building. Was on the 
 bridge where Longfellow stood at midnight. I 
 stood by the grave of this beloved poet. A 
 woman pointed out to me the graves of two of 
 
 108
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 Boston's most exclusive, aristocratic families, 
 the Cabots and the Lodges. She said it was told 
 of them that the Cabots only spoke to the Lodges 
 and that the Lodges only spoke to God. But the 
 sight that gave me the thrills was over at the 
 Aerial School, where I saw 5,000 boys, all dressed 
 in white, march over to the Stadium, the light of 
 the morning in their faces and their hearts as 
 strong as steel. I visited all our churches in 
 Vermont, only two, ten miles apart. The love- 
 liest valley towns nestled down at the foot of 
 the Green Mountains; the most gracious people, 
 and pure maple syrup three times a day. 
 
 Was in Danbury, Connecticut, and the sub- 
 urb, Bethel, which is the birth place of P. T. 
 Barnum. He gave a beautiful fountain to the 
 town. One evening I rode out with Mr. Barnum 
 and his family, next evening with Mr. Bailey, so 
 I can truthfully say I have traveled with "Barn- 
 um and Bailey." 
 
 Worcester, Massachusetts, has a great 
 church and great people. I have enjoyed their 
 fellowship several times. 
 
 I went up into the Maritime provinces. 
 Visited the churches in Nova Scotia, New Bruns- 
 wick, and Prince Edward Island. Never have I 
 seen such entrancing beauty of sea and land. 
 Met the most loyal people, English and Scotch. 
 Everything was named for Royalty. Queen's 
 
 109
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 Gardens, King's Parks, Victoria Hotel, Windsor 
 Inn, Prince of Wales College, Royal icehouses, 
 and Royal Baking Powder. I crossed the 
 Northumberland Strait over into Prince 
 Edward Island, one beautiful moonlight night. I 
 remembered that this water was where Brother 
 A. McLean was baptized. What that hour of life 
 dedication has meant to the world! The original 
 Indian name of the Island was "Abegweit," 
 "Cradled on the Waves." The Island was ceded 
 by the British to the French in 1764. It was 
 given its present name for Edward, Duke of 
 Kent, Queen Victoria's father. It is a gem of 
 beauty. I had my headquarters for a month at 
 Summerside, in the hospitable home of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Maynard Schurman. I was in Charlotte 
 Town, the capital, a quaint old city. This was 
 the home of Miss Montgomery, the author of 
 "Ann of Green Gables," but she is not living 
 there now. A friend, Miss Agnes Williams, told 
 me much of her. Her books have had a tremen- 
 dous sale, and Miss Montgomery said she thought 
 every red-headed girl in America wrote to her 
 after reading "Ann." Was in many country 
 homes and enjoyed the fruit, especially the 
 strawberries. The Island is noted for its many 
 fine horses. The automobile was just beginning to 
 put in its appearance, to the great discomfort of 
 the women folk, who drive their own teams. 
 
 110
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 I went to see the silver fox farms. The fox 
 business is one of the great industries of the 
 Island. We drove through "Beaver Street." The 
 gentleman told me it should have been called 
 "Fox Street," for it was built with Fox money. 
 
 I am afraid to tell about the big fish I saw. 
 My readers would say, "That is another fish 
 story." 
 
 In Nova Scotia I was shown a sugar camp 
 where, in the spring, there were seven tons of 
 sugar brick made. 
 
 I saw wonderful apple orchards. I wonder 
 why people who pretend to go North don't go up 
 on the St. John River in New Brunswick. 
 
 "Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
 Stand dressed in living green," 
 
 may equal it, but I don't see how they could sur- 
 pass it. 
 
 I only had a glimpse of Evangellne's land. 
 There is the village of Grand Pre, the same old 
 willows and the well with the sweep; the old 
 church with its high sounding board; Gabriel's 
 blacksmith shop. The villagers keep a white 
 heifer on the green with a blue ribbon around its 
 neck to make the whole setting of the famous 
 poem real. 
 
 I visited Halifax, soon after the disaster, 
 with its terrible devastation and loss of life. I 
 
 ill
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 was in our own church when the list of lives lost 
 was read. Nineteen of our little group were 
 taken. I heard some heart-rending stories of the 
 tragedy. I have never seen more beautiful 
 parks than in Halifax. I had my home with Mr. 
 and Mrs. Lorenza Miles, where I was made very 
 welcome. 
 
 We had but just entered into the world war, 
 and I had not sensed what it meant, until I had 
 crossed the Canadian line. In nearly every 
 home there was a vacant chair, a mute symbol 
 of the sacrifice that Canada was making for 
 world democracy. I was in the home of a 
 widowed mother, whose only two sons were in 
 France. One morning there came a cablegram, 
 "Ira Stewart killed in battle." Two hours later, 
 another message, "Jack Stewart wounded." I 
 was in the home a month later. The girls of the 
 church had had Ira's picture enlarged and hung 
 in the mother's room. Mrs. Stewart stood be- 
 fore that picture with a light in her eye that 
 never was on sea or land, and she spoke more to 
 herself than to me, "He was so young, only 
 seventeen, so bright, so good, my boy," then 
 turning to me, "I am so proud, Mother Ross, that 
 Ira died for humanity." That seemed to be the 
 spirit of the Canadian women. 
 
 An American soldier wrote home, "If any- 
 thing happens to me, Mother, don't grieve about 
 
 112
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 ' i 
 
 it and mourn. Just count it an investment, like 
 buying a Liberty bond." These bereft fathers 
 and mothers have made an investment of their 
 own flesh and blood, that the world may be 
 made free. 
 
 I was invited to a Presbyterian home in 
 Charlottetown for Sunday evening tea. The 
 hostess told me of her uncle, Dr. James T. 
 Hughes, of Toronto, whose only son was killed 
 in France. Dr. Hughes had written a poem a 
 few weeks before his boy's death. She gave it to 
 me. It expresses just the way I feel about my 
 son, so I will commit it to this book that other 
 parents may read it. 
 
 "God gave my son in trust to me, 
 Christ died for him and he should be 
 A man for Christ. He is his own 
 And God's and man's; not mine alone. 
 He was not mine to give; he gave 
 Himself that he might help to save 
 All that Christians should revere, 
 All that enlightened men hold dear. 
 What if he should not come? you say, 
 Ah well, my sky would be more gray 
 But through the clouds the sun would shine 
 And vital memories be mine. 
 God's test of manhood is, I know 
 Not, will he come? but, did he go?'" 
 113
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 I was in Bridgewater, Nova Scotia, where I 
 had been told a brother of our Brother McLean 
 lived, but the word had just reached them of the 
 death of their son in France, a brilliant young 
 lawyer. I did not try to see them, but just prayed 
 for their stricken hearts. 
 
 We were in a convention at Milton, Nova 
 Scotia, an all-day Sunday meeting. The glorious 
 sunshine flooded the earth. A sparkling stream 
 of cool water near the church refreshed us; it 
 was a blessed Lord's day. A man and wife from 
 a distance had come in their automobile. He 
 was especially helpful in the sessions of the con- 
 vention. Then, at two o'clock, a cablegram, like 
 a deadly lightning flash, was handed them that 
 their first born was killed in battle. The day was 
 darkened for all of us, sorrow settled upon us 
 like a pall of gloom. "Bleeding" and "Blessing" 
 come from the same Anglo-Saxon root word. 
 Thousands of homes have given up their life's 
 blood out yonder in "No Man's Land." John 
 Keats, in one of his poems, tells us about the 
 Master walking in the garden and, seeing the 
 ground all covered with fallen rose leaves, says, 
 "The roses will be redder and sweeter next year 
 because these have bled for them." 
 
 I visited a Canadian hospital, where there 
 were twelve hundred soldiers, maimed, and 
 bruised, and broken. I saw a man without eyes 
 
 114
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 and without arms. I never so realized the mean- 
 ing of the Atonement as I did when I looked at 
 that boy and thought of how he would grope in 
 darkness all the years of his life for my sake, for 
 your sake. Talk about giving these men a 
 "Bonus?" Let's call it back pay. Were we to 
 empty the United States Treasury of its bound- 
 less, incomprehensible store, and lay it at the 
 feet of these heroes, we would still be indebted 
 to them. 
 
 I found "a wayside sacrament" in a little 
 dovecote of a home by the sea up in Nova Scotia, 
 where two rare spirits lived, sisters, the Misses 
 Freeman. I must have stressed the needs of the 
 colored people of our Southland, for within six 
 months they were both enrolled among the 
 teachers of Spelman Seminary, Atlanta, Georgia, 
 where I have met them twice since. 
 
 An elderly woman in Prince Edward Island 
 asked me if I ever knew "Sweet Anna Mc- 
 Donald." I did not know her by that name, but 
 when she told me she was the wife of H. T. 
 Morrison, my memory flew back to the time 
 when Brother Morrison came to be our pastor 
 at Winchester, Indiana. "Sweet Anna McDonald" 
 just expresses the Mrs. Morrison whom every- 
 body loved. She would sometimes be lonely, and 
 longing for her Island home. I would often go 
 
 115
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 with my horse and carriage and take her and 
 her baby boys, Charles and Hugh, out riding. 
 
 I didn't know the Christian church was so 
 indebted to Canada until I was told of her illus- 
 trious men and women who had crossed the line 
 to live and work with us. A. McLean, Dr. Mack- 
 lin, Petrus Rijnhart and Dr. Susie, President 
 and Mrs. Paul, Professor Lumley, the Morrisons, 
 the Simpsons and McDougals, the Riochs and 
 Maddens, the three Sinclair boys, Mr. and Mrs. 
 Loren Sanford, George Campbell, the Linklet- 
 ters, May Louise Cory, and others whose names 
 I do not recall. How enriched the church has 
 been by the infusion of the blood of these strong 
 Canadians! 
 
 The Canadianb sing "God Save the King" in 
 every service. I sang heartily and once the 
 chorister, noticing, no doubt, what a contribution 
 I was making, said, "Now let's sing 'America' for 
 Mother Ross," which they gladly did. Oh, the 
 fellowship was so delightful, and I just pray that 
 I may go again to the Provinces. 
 
 I came back to Boston and waited two weeks 
 for the New England convention. Was in the 
 home of Mr. and Mrs. Loren Sanford, pastor of 
 the Everett church. Their sixteen year old son, 
 Wallace,- was a congenial and interesting com- 
 panion for me. I am often entertained in homes 
 where there are no children, and I always try to 
 
 116
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 make the best of it. 1 feel so sorry for the child- 
 less couple, but if you want to show me a real 
 good time, place me where there is a houseful of 
 youngsters. In a St. Louis home there were five 
 ranging from four to sixteen years. We older 
 ones were telling stories, rhymes and conun- 
 drums, when the little boy piped up and said, 
 "Mother Ross, I know a funny story, too." "Tell 
 it, child," said I. 
 
 "The honey bee gets honey 
 With a funny little buzz, 
 
 But there's nothing very funny 
 About the other thing he does." 
 
 When I learn a good thing, I try to pass it on. I'd 
 like to see all of the boys and girls that I have 
 taught this verse, hold up their hands. 
 
 I try to avoid all controversial subjects. I 
 don't know much about theological questions. 
 One day a rather serious, sober man asked me 
 a corker, "Sister Ross, do you spell 'Disciple' 
 with a big 'D' or a little 'd'?" I was scared, my 
 heart was in my throat, but a six year old boy, 
 God bless him, who was never serious or sober, 
 yelled to me to come out and see a toad he had 
 in a glass jar. That boy taught me more natural 
 history, Toadology, in the next five minutes than 
 I had ever known. I told him I knew a verse 
 about a toad. "Tell It," he said. 
 
 117
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "Ain't a toad a tunny ting? 
 
 Ain't dot no tail atall, 
 
 When it tannen up look like it titten down 
 
 When titten down look like it tannen up. 
 
 Ain't a toad a tunny ting?" 
 
 I had to say it over and over till the boy learned 
 it. Charles Dickens said, "You make a child 
 happy today, and you make him happy twenty- 
 five years from now by the memory of it." So, 
 if I made that boy glad, I consider that of vastly 
 more importance and farther reaching in its in- 
 fluence, than if I had told that man which way I 
 spelled "disciple." 
 
 I was punished in school once and made to 
 write five hundred times, "Many men of many 
 minds." In life's school I've learned the truth of 
 this statement. We quote Scripture to bolster up 
 our convictions. An Elder would not come to 
 hear me because Paul had said, "Let your women 
 keep silent in the churches." I never deported 
 myself as did those Corinthian women. If Paul 
 were here today he would be glad to "help these 
 women" who labor in the Gospel. An old man 
 left the house once when I walked up into the 
 pulpit with the minister. He had never seen a 
 woman stand in that "sacred place." Another 
 saint asked me if I had been- ordained. A 
 preacher standing by, said, "Mother Rose haa 
 
 118
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 been fore-ordained." I don't know much about 
 Heresy and Orthodoxy. I just know that I love 
 my Lord and that I have passed from death unto 
 life because I love the brethren. "I am deter- 
 mined to know nothing among you save Jesus 
 Christ and Him crucified." He is my pole-star 
 and the Bible is my manual of conduct. I pray 
 for the church that not one of us may "grieve the 
 Holy Spirit of God, whereby ye are sealed unto 
 the day of redemption. Let all bitterness and 
 wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speak- 
 ing, be put away from you, with all malice; and 
 be ye kind one to another, tender hearted, for- 
 giving one another, even as God for Christ's 
 sake hath forgiven you." 
 
 I was in a town once where the church was 
 torn and rent by a quarrel, a sight to make 
 angels weep. I had just heard of an unfailing 
 remedy for such a dreadful malady. I was glad 
 to give it to them, "Every one connected with the 
 affair just close their mouths and keep their lips 
 pressed close together." 
 
 I was in conversation with a man on a train. 
 He criticized the Inter-Church World Movement 
 on account of its financial aim; said it was just 
 preposterous, absurd, out of the question; that 
 it was making ministers dissatisfied with their 
 salaries; the church talked money too much. I 
 reminded him that I had Just read that the 
 
 119
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 United States had spent $800,000,000 for cigar- 
 ettes; $500,000,000 for jewelry; $175,000,000 for 
 perfume this last year. Charlie Chaplin has a 
 salary of $1,000,000, and Bud Fisher, the "Mutt 
 and Jeff" cartoonist, is paid $250,000 for making 
 one picture a day, just a few minutes' work. I 
 have not heard any Christian say this was pre- 
 posterous, absurd, out of the question. We pay 
 for what we like. Our Lord spoke often of 
 money. Sixteen of his thirty-eight parables are 
 on this theme. The earth is the Lord's and the 
 fulness thereof, but some are attempting desper- 
 ately to transfer the title. A great Christian 
 statesman has said, "The money that belongs by 
 every right to God, but is kept back from Him by 
 His people, is probably the greatest hindrance to 
 vital spirituality that there is in the world to- 
 day." W. W. Pinson says, "we have been singing, 
 'Like a mighty army moves the church of God.' 
 Can we sing it now? We have seen how a great 
 army moves. It levies its billions of dollars and 
 gets them. It enters our kitchens and tells us what 
 we may eat. It builds ships, requisitions fac- 
 tories, builds cities overnight, and takes over 
 whole railroad systems. It demands our best. 
 Mothers kiss their boys goodbye and send them 
 to face cannon. Men go singing by the million 
 to the 'red rampart's slippery edge.' If we dare 
 
 120
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 sing like that, we must set an undreamed of 
 standard of loyalty to the Prince of Peace. We 
 have not been marching; we have been marking 
 time."
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I read an article in a recent magazine, "Los- 
 ing My Trunk," which, struck a sympathetic 
 chord in my heart, for I had just been "losing my 
 suitcase." I was in an all-day meeting in 
 Atlanta, Georgia. At four o'clock two friends 
 urged me to go over to Capitol City Club, where 
 a Silver Tea was being given for the benefit of 
 the Children's Home. I was loathe to leave my 
 suitcase in the auto. "It was borne in upon me," 
 i*s my grandmother used to say, that it was not a 
 safe thing to do. But those two Atlanta women 
 had such faith in the inhabitants of their city 
 that they insisted that the bag would be perfectly 
 safe. We went into the club room and I was 
 called on, unexpectedly, to make a few remarks. 
 I skirmished around through my tired, over- 
 worked and rather anxious brain for something 
 to say, while I was rising and going to the front. 
 It was at the time when the slang "I should 
 worry" was at the height of its usage, and I re- 
 membered a classic that Ben Perrall, a popular 
 pastor in Buffalo, New York, had taught me. 
 
 "I've joined the new 'Don't Worry Club' 
 
 And now I hold my breath. 
 I am so worried for fear I'll worry 
 
 That I'm worried nearly to death." 
 122
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 1 think I discoursed a while on the subject of 
 "Worry." I must have told them that worry was 
 a canker to the soul; that John Wesley said he 
 would as soon curse as worry, and I felt the same 
 way. As I look back to that afternoon, I know 
 those Atlanta women must have wondered what 
 my talk had to do with a Silver Tea for an 
 orphanage. My whole speech I know was out of 
 the fullness of my heart, for I was worried nearly 
 to death about that suitcase. Sure enough, when 
 we went out into the street, we found the auto, 
 but the suitcase was gone. I was thankful that 
 the car was left, for in some cities I have heard 
 of the whole auto being taken. The way those 
 women summoned the police, put notices in the 
 papers, and sent out spies, made me think that 
 they must belong to Atlanta's detective agency. 
 Their good husbands were alert, too. I remem- 
 ber having such a detached feeling as I faced the 
 clothes-wearing world with just one dress! As I 
 reviewed in my mind the contents of that bag, 
 it just seemed to me that I had left nothing at 
 home. All the dainty Christmas gifts that had 
 been sent to me, handkerchiefs, laces, boudoir 
 caps, photographs, silk bags, dresses, petticoats, 
 shoes, slippers, all gone. I wrote cards to Mem- 
 phis, Keokuk, Indianapolis, and other towns, for 
 I wanted to share this catastrophe with sympa- 
 thetic friends. I never before felt so prominent 
 
 123
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 about earthly possessions. I wrote and felt the 
 poignant truth of this kindergarten verse: 
 
 "Poor little fly on the wall, 
 Ain't you got no clothes at all?" 
 
 The one thing that can never be replaced is my 
 first and only written speech, and it was on 
 "Prayer." Here's hoping that it may find lodg- 
 ment in some good and honest heart! The next 
 day I took a train out of Atlanta, and that is all I 
 did take. A feeling of equanimity of soul came 
 over me, almost exhilaration. I was so unencum- 
 bered, so free. No packing nor repacking, no 
 checking nor rechecking, just a little bag with 
 comb, brush and powder puff. I felt as if I would 
 like to travel so forever. I had so much leisure. It 
 suddenly occurred to me that none of my real 
 possessions were in that suitcase. I'll not re- 
 member very long one thing that I lost. 
 
 I'll always have the priceless memory of a 
 whole day in the Lord's house with women "Who 
 look up, lift up and lend a hand; " of a visit to the 
 Wren's Nest, where I refreshed my mind with 
 "Brer Rabbit" stories to tell to the children; of 
 going out to Spelman Seminary, where 800 
 colored girls listened eagerly as I talked of the 
 "Upper Road," and told them of some of their 
 own people whom I had met and known, preach- 
 ers and poets, editors and educators, bankers and 
 
 124
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 statesmen, doctors and nurses, men and women, 
 who had "paid the price" and had gained their 
 footholds on the heights; of my visit to the 
 Federal Prison, where a friend of mine, a 
 Brother in Christ, is "doing time." Tall, digni- 
 fied, stately, he reminded me of Sidney Lanier's 
 picture of his ideal man. "My democrat shall be 
 as tall as the red woods of California, his height 
 shall be the height of great resolution and love, 
 and faith and beauty, and knowledge and medita- 
 tion. His head shall be forever among the stars; " 
 the memory of the dear homes where I was so 
 lovingly cared for, the meeting of a friend of my 
 childhood, a man I had not seen for forty-live 
 years I called him "Freckles" many years be- 
 fore Gene Stratton Porter wrote a book by that 
 name. 
 
 I journeyed on to some eastern towns and 
 out to Southeastern College, where I met the 
 young people and had such a good time with 
 them, that I forgot I had ever had a catas- 
 trophe. I was not to enjoy for long my freedom 
 from dress, for here were two of those Atlanta 
 women with such an outfit as I had never had. 
 The President of that Capitol City Club took off 
 a hundred and fifty dollar black silk suit and 
 sent it to me. I know she must have read I John 
 III, 17. The other women had gone to the store 
 and provided every needful thing, beautiful 
 
 125
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 things, and I felt like the Queen of Sheba when 
 I was arrayed in them. The Miami, Florida, 
 women had heard of my loss, and as I had a 
 birthday while there, they took occasion to add 
 a few more articles. Now I have too much bric- 
 a-brac for the journey. I fear as I go into a 
 church that some one may have respect for her 
 that weareth the gay clothing and say unto her, 
 "Sit thou here in a good seat." Clothes are a 
 heap of trouble. I want, however, to be among 
 the King's daughters whose clothing is of 
 wrought gold. 
 
 On one trip East I was in Washington, 
 Philadelphia, Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Cleveland 
 and Buffalo. In Washington I visited the Con- 
 gressional Library, was told there were two 
 million volumes and room for as many more. 
 Ten thousand new books come from the press 
 every twelve months. I am glad when a friend 
 calls my attention to a book can't read every- 
 thing and this helps in selecting. What price- 
 less treasures our books are! "A small library! 
 Infinite riches in a little room." I've been giving 
 away some of my books ; it has been like parting 
 with old friends. 
 
 I spent an afternoon in the United States 
 Senate. Most of our "servants of the public" 
 slept through a long harangue against "The 
 League of Nations." 
 
 126
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 In Philadelphia I learned a Civil War story 
 of Dr. Russell Conwell's sword, which I find 
 delights the boys. 
 
 In all of these places I visited the churches, 
 aiid met the faithful men and women who are 
 standing for the truest and best in the city's life. 
 
 The first of March, 1918, I went to Lynn, 
 Indiana, to see my older sister, who had been 
 like a mother to me. A bachelor brother had 
 lived with and cared for her through seven years 
 of her widowhood. A cousin beloved, just my 
 age, was with us, a strong, true helper as we 
 walked through sorrow's lonely crypt. My sister 
 was ill. "Her feet were slipping o'er the brink." 
 For four weeks we watched over her. She talked 
 of the "green pastures," of "still waters"; she 
 longed for the rest that remaineth for the people 
 of God. One Sunday night, just as the sun set be- 
 yond the Western horizon, the glow of life faded 
 into twilight shadows, and we knew she was 
 satisfied, for she had awakened "In His like- 
 ness." 
 
 "Just think of stepping on shore and finding 
 
 it Heaven! 
 Of taking hold of a hand and finding it is 
 
 God's hand; 
 Of breathing new air and finding it celestial 
 
 air; 
 
 127
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 Of feeling invigorated and finding it im- 
 mortality; 
 
 Of passing from storm and tempest to an un- 
 known calm." 
 
 We can never forget the kindness shown by 
 the neighbors and friends as we kept the tireless 
 watch. How it eased the hurt to be surrounded 
 by people whose sympathy was so real and gen- 
 uine, for every one of their homes had. been 
 touched by the mystery, Death. A common sor- 
 row and a universal hope of eternal life make 
 the whole world akin. 
 
 On August 13th, I received a cablegram from 
 Africa: "Born, Frances Elizabeth Ross," my 
 first grandchild. My joy knew no bounds. I 
 was on the Atlantic Coast, and as I looked out 
 across the wide expanse of water, I just wished 
 for a power to transport me away to that far off 
 land where "Mary and the young child" once 
 found shelter. What a mingled cup we quaff in 
 this life birth and death, joy and sorrow! Some 
 day we will understand and bless the hand that 
 meted out to us "That wove into the garland of 
 our years the cypress and the rue." 
 
 The winter of 1919 I spent in the South, in 
 company with Mrs. C. N. Downey. We visited 
 churches in Georgia and Florida, a land of sun- 
 
 128
 
 BETTY ROSS
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 shine and perfume. The orange groves were 
 surely beautiful, and I made friends that are an 
 incentive and inspiration to me.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I was so interested in the new home that the 
 National Benevolent Association has bought at 
 Jacksonville. Friends took me out to see it. It 
 is an ideal location, large brick building, which 
 is being put up in fine condition with all modern 
 conveniences. Our old people will revel in that 
 fresh, balmy air, and can live out of doors to 
 their hearts' content. 
 
 I heard Brother Mohorter tell how it broke 
 his heart to have to turn away seventy old 
 people who applied for admittance to our 
 homes. I've only seen one, one of our very own, 
 in a County House. Was reared a Catholic; at 
 twenty years of age united with the Church of 
 Christ, and for thirty-three years has been true 
 to her Lord. Now, helpless and hurt, she will be 
 in a wheel chair all the rest of her days. She 
 does exquisite needle work, embroidery and 
 crochet. When I asked her if the days seemed 
 long, her face flushed and she answered, "They 
 would, only I am so busy. These poor people 
 cannot read or write, many of them, so I write 
 their letters and make out their laundry lists 
 and read to them." She is an angel of light right 
 where she is. 
 
 I was troubled, and have had her on my 
 130
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 mind. I told a Bible class about her and asked 
 if they wouldn't like to give money to send her 
 the World Call. They gave me enough for two 
 papers, so I sent the Christian Evangelist, too. 
 Some church people are now trying to find a 
 place in one of our Homes, and there will be no 
 lack of money when it is known and there is 
 room for her. 
 
 This incident hurt me, but not like hearing 
 that a Brother has gone wrong, one who lovingly 
 called me "Mother Ross" and said, "I'll be your 
 son while Emory is away." Is there a more 
 pitiful sight in all the world than to see a man, 
 who has been a "Minister of Christ" and who 
 has been instrumental in winning souls to the 
 Lord Jesus, himself becoming a cast-away, home 
 wrecked, wife's heart broken, crushed? Better 
 the grave that wounds the earth and breaks the 
 heart than moral overthrow. 
 
 "There, Little Girl, don't cry, 
 
 They have broken your heart, I know, 
 
 And the rainbow gleams of your youthful 
 
 dreams, 
 Are things of the long ago, 
 
 But heaven holds all for which you sigh, 
 
 There, Little Girl, don't cry." 
 
 Another one, humble servant of our Master, 
 who had endowed him with extraordinary brain 
 
 131
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 power, imagination and expression, uses these 
 talents to make money, which, in its turn, ruins 
 him, breaks up his home, and he drifts away 
 from the wife of his bosom, away from his boys, 
 away from his God. The Church, which is the 
 body of Christ, is smitten, for if one member 
 suffers, we all suffer. The Church cries out, as 
 did David in his lament over the death of Saul 
 and Jonathan, 
 
 "The Beauty of Israel is slain in high places! 
 How are the mighty fallen; I am distressed 
 for thee, my brothers!" 
 
 Sin is such a subtle thing. How we all ought 
 to pray, "O God, keep our hearts from evil and 
 our lips from speaking guile." 
 
 I went into Arkansas for a month. I own 
 a piece of land in that State and I had heard 
 stories of great rice fields. A friend from the 
 Little Rock Church went with me to look at my 
 property. He told me he had seen worse look- 
 ing land sell for five thousand dollars an acre, 
 but it was after oil was struck. Mine was not 
 rice land. It is mine "To have and to hold." No 
 sale for it. 
 
 I greatly enjoyed my stay in Little Rock. 
 There are some "Kids" there that can't be beat 
 "Bonner Pleasant Kidd" is the man's name, and 
 I was certainly well cared for in their beautiful 
 
 132
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 home. The Mission Girls honored me by naming 
 their Circle for me. 
 
 I was in a dozen or more towns. I never met 
 more gracious people. They are very proud of 
 their State and told me it was the only state 
 mentioned in the Bible. "Now Noah opened the 
 'Ark an saw' the ground." I think the higher 
 critics would be justified in pronouncing this 
 rendering spurious. 
 
 I came North the first of May, to get ready 
 to go to Africa with Dr. and Mrs. Barger. I had 
 been told they would sail the last of July. But 
 when I reached Keokuk, I found a letter from 
 Dr. Barger, saying they would sail the fourth of 
 June. I had asked him what to do to get ready, 
 and what he told me was a plenty, "Be examined 
 by a doctor, vaccinated for smallpox, inoculated 
 for typhoid, get permit from Belgium Govern- 
 ment, passport from Washington, helmet from 
 London, dark heavy clothes for the sea, all white 
 dresses for Africa, leather leggings and raincoat 
 to keep mosquitoes off going up the Congo 
 River." Just think of being in a torrid climate 
 wrapped up in raincoat and putties! It was this 
 last straw that broke my determination. I could 
 have had the white dresses all right, for several 
 societies of women had taken my measure and 
 had their needles all threaded. I could have had 
 inside of twenty-four hours white clothes 
 
 133
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 enough to last me three years. I wrestled over 
 the matter all night long, "a la Jacob." With 
 the peep of day, my first thought, as my eyelids 
 opened was, "Write the book," and right then 
 and there the title was given to me, "A Road of 
 Remembrance." After I had asked my Lord 
 whether I should go or stay, it seemed I had an 
 unmistakable answer and I've never for a 
 moment regretted my decision, unless it was 
 when the Foreign Christian Missionary Society 
 forwarded a cablegram from Bolenge: "Born, 
 May 27th, a boy; mother and child doing well. 
 Strongly urge mother to come out with the next 
 party. Mr. and Mrs. Emory Ross. 
 
 Well, it did seem as if they needed a grand- 
 mother to help take care of the babies, but 
 still I knew I must not go. So many friends ad- 
 vised me against it; thought it was a great risk. 
 The thing I tried to decide was, where my life 
 would count most for Christ and the Church. I 
 am happy and blest in writing this message to 
 you, my friends, and I am praying that the 
 lesson you may learn from it is that 
 
 "'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay, 
 But the high faith that failed not by the 
 way." 
 
 The month of June I spent in Michigan, in 
 company with Miss Mary Johnson, State Secre- 
 
 134
 
 ROGER ROSS
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 tary, and Mrs. Terry King, of Texas. We visited 
 twenty-seven churches, and attended State Con- 
 vention at Owosso. I had the pleasure of 
 going to Kalamazoo, where my bachelor brother 
 lives. He entertained me in a beautiful hotel, 
 the Rickman. I found a Bible in my room. I 
 knew the Gideons had been there. They are the 
 greatest colporteurs in the world. Five hundred 
 thousand copies they have placed in hotel rooms 
 and need one million, five hundred thousand 
 more to complete their task. 
 
 Another hotel, just a block away, was where 
 Mr. Ross and I boarded the summer of 1878, 
 and where our Bessie baby learned to take her 
 first steps along the side wall of the long halls. 
 A colored boy named "Orange" carried her up 
 and down stairs for me. 
 
 Michigan is a great state, with its Univers- 
 ity, its Battle Creek Sanitarium, and its manu- 
 facturing plants. I don't know just how many of 
 the seven million, five hundred thousand auto- 
 mobiles in the United States were made by 
 Henry Ford and the many other factories in the 
 State. Some people call Mr. Ford a crank. Well, 
 it takes a crank to make things go. 
 
 When I reached Chicago, I had expected to 
 go to Minneapolis, for the Tipi Wakin Club had 
 invited me to be their guest for two weeks. But 
 I could not secure a berth and was too tired to 
 
 135
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 undertake a day trip, so had to give it up. I was 
 with them a year ago at their Young People's 
 Training School of Missions, and now, as I read 
 the glowing reports of this summer's sessions, I 
 am more than sorry that I could not have been 
 there. Last year was the first school of its kind 
 in our Brotherhood. In the two sessions there 
 have been twenty-seven volunteers for Life Serv- 
 ice. It is destined to become, in future years, a 
 great recruiting station. 
 
 Minneapolis and St. Paul brought sweet 
 memories to me. The summers of 1882 and 1883 
 Mr. Ross and I were at Lake Minnetonka, com- 
 ing out on the last boat each time, then spent 
 most of the two winters in Minneapolis, board- 
 ing on Nicollet Avenue. At that time there was 
 considerable jealousy between the two cities, but 
 now they are coming closer together each year. 
 A visitor recently said, "a few more trolley wires 
 between, to act as arteries, and the two will be 
 one and will probably be called "Minnie Paul." 
 
 Cedar Rapids is one of my stamping 
 grounds. My heart beats quickly and fast when I 
 think of what those people have done for me and 
 have been to me. The church building is beauti- 
 ful and commodious. 
 
 A minister in Chicago once introduced me: 
 
 "This is Mother Ross, the homeless woman 
 with hundreds of homes." I have some verses I 
 
 136
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 often say to the friends who make me feel that 
 their home is indeed mine. 
 
 "The roses red upon my neighbor's vine, 
 Are owned by him, but they are also mine. 
 His was the cost, his the labor too 
 But mine the joy, as well as his, their loveli- 
 ness to view. 
 
 "They bloom for me and are for me as fair, 
 As for the man who gives them all his care, 
 Thus, I am rich because a good man grew 
 A rose clad vine for all his neighbors' view. 
 
 "By this I know that others plant for me, 
 And what they own, my joy may also be, 
 Then why be selfish when so much that's 
 
 fine 
 Is grown for you upon your neighbor's 
 
 vine?" 
 
 A friend from a Western State, when she 
 learned that I was writing a book, wrote me to 
 be sure and put in some of my pretty quota- 
 tions, such as my sunrise verses. 
 
 "Thy mercies, O Lord, are new every morn- 
 ing and Thy loving kindness every night." 
 
 "In the morning will I direct my thought 
 unto Thee, and look up." 
 
 137
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "Now, in the day's blue porch, look and 
 
 behold 
 
 Dawn's newly kindled torch, a flame of gold, 
 Over land and sea it shines as fair 
 As when His hand first planted it there." 
 
 Another that I so often say when I awaken 
 in the morning is: 
 
 "When first the dawn streak up the earth 
 
 doth steal, 
 
 The birds outburst with all their rap- 
 turous art; 
 Happy art thou if awakening, thou cans't 
 
 feel 
 
 The same melodious impulse at thy 
 heart." 
 
 This is one that I have verified the truth of 
 in my own life: 
 
 "Much has been said, written and read 
 
 Concerning old friends tried and true; 
 But a thought comes to me of experience 
 
 wrought, 
 
 That represents a broader view, 
 That the same stamp of gold you found in 
 
 the old 
 You'll find shining bright in the new." 
 
 I do not love my old friends any the less, 
 138
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 but the world is full of good folk. I have learned 
 as I have traveled about that 
 
 "In Christ there is no East or West, 
 In Him no South or North; 
 But one great fellowship of love 
 Throughout the whole wide earth. 
 
 "In Him shall true hearts everywhere 
 Their high communion find, 
 His service is the golden cord 
 Close binding all mankind. 
 
 "Join hands, then, brothers of the 
 
 faith 
 
 What e'er your race may be; 
 Who serves my Father as His son 
 Is surely kin to me." 
 
 Our Christianity knows no color, no caste, 
 no continent. This is the verse that I sometimes 
 send to the women on our Board, as I think of 
 them so constantly in service and carrying such 
 heavy loads: 
 
 "I like to feel in all the work 
 
 Thou has to do, 
 That I, by lifting hands of prayer, 
 
 May help thee too." 
 
 Some favorite quotations I have used when 
 talking to young people : 
 
 139
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 ''Choice and Service: these are required of 
 you; these only in these are the whole of life." 
 
 "Make the most of every occasion; you never 
 know when Fate is standing around taking your 
 measure for a bigger place." 
 
 "Nothing so dwarfs the mind as a constant 
 dwelling on trivial things." 
 
 "Aim at the stars if you only hit the tree 
 tops." 
 
 "All that is human must retrograde if it 
 does not advance." 
 
 "The youth who does not look up will look 
 down; and the spirit that does not soar is 
 destined perhaps to grovel." 
 
 "Our lives still travel with us from afar, and 
 what we have been makes us what we are." 
 
 "There is undiscovered territory in every 
 man's life; blessed is he who is the Columbus of 
 his own soul." 
 
 "The trust ttat risks is the life blood of 
 faith." 
 
 A good man in Chicago, Mr. O. O. Kinney, 
 has been the first to meet me and see me through 
 the labyrinths of so many cities: Toronto, 
 Canada; Riverside, California; Chicago many 
 times, that I told him on this last venture 
 through the Metropolis that I just knew that 
 when I reached the "Celestial City" I would look 
 around for him. But there will be "No night 
 
 140
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 there." I'll never be bewildered or confused, and 
 not know my way, "For the Lord God giveth 
 them light." 
 
 A young Swedish couple in Chicago are my 
 friends, tried and true. He is strong and rugged, 
 she, little and dainty, but very capable. I call 
 them, "Cap'n Bob" and Queen Esther," and it 
 just warms the cockles of my heart to see how 
 happy they are together and what promise of 
 life there is before them. 
 
 From one dear home in Chicago, where I've 
 so often found rest and comfort, has gone the 
 strong man of the house; he was one of earth's 
 brave toilers, an indefatigable worker. A great 
 teacher he was in the Chicago Public Schools 
 never spared himself. No matter how arduous 
 his work through the week, the Lord's Day found 
 Horace Herrick in the Lord's house, faithful and 
 constant. One day the heart strings snapped and 
 an aged mother in the nineties mourns for her 
 only son, the strong support of her declining 
 years. A devoted wife and three lovely daughters 
 miss his coming, while an only son in the Philip- 
 pines will, when he returns to the United States, 
 never see the father in his familiar place again. 
 
 "There is no pain, no death, no tears 
 In that City four square, 
 
 And they count not time by years 
 In that City four square." 
 
 141
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 One of the corner stones of Christianity and 
 Civilization is the loving home. I've been in 
 hundreds of homes and shared their comforts, 
 their benefits, their ideals, their spiritual atmos- 
 phere. I have become so much a part of these 
 homes, that when any one of them is smitten 
 with grief or loss, I suffer too; when they re- 
 joice, I rejoice, and when they weep, I weep. 
 
 I love a trip on the C. B. & Q., South out of 
 Chicago, not that the trains are palatial or ele- 
 gant, but because they run for miles along the 
 Mississippi River. About nine o'clock I catch a 
 glimpse of bright lights extending across the 
 waters and I know it is the famous Dam, a rival 
 to Panama. They call this Dam a mighty piece 
 of construction work. All I know is that the 
 Mississippi Power Company gathered up and 
 held the blue waters and made a utilitarian 
 drudge for all this Mississippi Valley. I wonder 
 if, when the St. Louis people turn on their elec- 
 tric lights, they think of this servant up there at 
 Keokuk, who works for them day and night. I 
 fall to musing. That River to me becomes the 
 great Atlantic, or Pacific Ocean. On the distant 
 opposite shores I see just a few lights. It seems 
 dark, as if they needed more light. Then I see 
 
 142
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 this long row of lights across and I think they 
 are the reinforcements new Missionaries 
 forty-nine of them right now who are going 
 out to help the few who are already over there, 
 praying day and night for more workers for the 
 vineyard. I think of the old hymn: 
 
 "O the lights along the shore 
 That never grow dim, 
 Never, never grow dim, 
 Are the souls that are aflame 
 With the love of Jesus' name, 
 And they guide us, yes, they guide us 
 unto Him." 
 
 Jesus said to His disciples, "Ye are the light 
 of the world." 
 
 One of the last words that Theodore Roose- 
 velt wrote was this: "All who give service and 
 stand ready for service are torch bearers. We 
 run with the torch until we fall, content if we 
 can pass it on to the hands of others." 
 
 The shrill shriek of the whistle arouses me 
 from my reverie and I know I am at Keokuk, 
 Iowa, "The Gate City." 
 
 Once when Mark Twain lived in Honolulu, 
 he directed a friend, who was coming to visit, 
 "Take the boat at San Francisco and I'm the 
 fourth house to the right." 
 
 I'll say to you, my friends, "Cross the Missis- 
 
 143
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 sippi River at Keokuk and I'm at the fourth 
 house to the right," a tall, three-story brick 
 house, gray, with jib windows and long, narrow 
 verandahs. The paint is all wrinkled like the 
 skin of an old man's face. There are fifteen 
 rooms in the house. The inside walls are brick, 
 fifteen inches in width. There are massive cup- 
 boards built into the wall and four old-fashioned 
 fire places. I call the house "Old Baldy." I don't 
 know why there is an old iron paling fence with 
 sharp points on every paling, unless they were 
 to impale wandering robbers and cut-throats in 
 those primitive days. A conservatory on the 
 East looks as if it might have sheltered a cen- 
 tury plant in full bloom. Built for all time ; stood 
 for all time, " Since the memory of man runneth 
 not to the contrary." 
 
 The mansion with a cupola or mansard roof 
 was the triumph of the architect in those days, 
 so there was built by some aspiring magnates on 
 the street, the grey brick with a cupola, and just 
 opposite, a red brick with the mansard roof. In 
 this grey brick live Mr. and Mrs. B. L. Aldrich 
 and their two daughters, Margaret and Dorothy. 
 Now it so happens that these young ladies are 
 very partial to antiques and they persuaded their 
 father, four years ago, to buy this old house. It 
 is well adapted to their needs. They can each 
 have three rooms apiece, and then some. A 
 
 144
 
 "OLD BALDY."
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 brass kneading bowl that has been in the 
 Aldrich family a hundred and fifty years graces 
 an old-fashioned mahogany table in the parlor, 
 while the black hair-cloth furniture and gilt 
 framed mirror that reaches almost to the ceiling 
 make one think of the styles of the days of 
 George and Martha at Mt. Vernon. The whole 
 family is musical. Piano, violin and flute are in 
 evidence from four to seven hours every day. 
 Margaret writes. Her den is up in that cupola. 
 A long stairway, like Jacob's ladder, leads up to 
 this aerial chamber. Away up there above the 
 city's dirt and din she writes feature stories for 
 Keokuk and Des Moines papers. With all the 
 mystic and endearing silences of that Upper 
 Room the muse may some day touch her pen 
 and there will issue a great epic or story or 
 poem. She reminds me of Hawthorne's "Hilda 
 and her Tower" and the white doves circling 
 about, only here it is just the murmuring 
 pigeons. 
 
 Dorothy keeps her feet on terra firma, but 
 loves her violin and is in an ecstasy of joy when 
 practicing Kreisler's "Indian Lament," or Ovid 
 Musin's Mazurka, or singing "I Am My Daddy's 
 Sweetheart." 
 
 The mother finds equal joy in playing the 
 accompaniments. The indulgent father fur- 
 nishes all the equipment and pays gladly for the 
 
 145
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 lessons for the training of these daughters. 
 They in turn are devoted to their parents and do 
 not fail to constantly show their appreciation. 
 Mr. Aldrich deals in real estate to make ex- 
 penses, but his business is to serve the King. He 
 has a Sunday School class of eighty men and 
 women and prepares his lessons with as much 
 care as he would make a land contract. 
 
 Into this happy group I've come to make my 
 home. We have delightful evenings on the east 
 porch, looking out over the river and watching 
 the brilliantly lighted boats as they go and come 
 with their merry excursionists. I am taken into 
 all the confidences of the family life and made 
 to feel in every way that I am one of this house- 
 hold. There is most delightful fellowship in the 
 churches of Keokuk. The people of all the com- 
 munions are of one heart and purpose to bring 
 in the kingdom in greater power and beauty, and 
 work together harmoniously to that end. I have 
 found there most congenial and helpful friends. 
 
 "It is a joy to find 
 At every turning of the road, 
 
 The strong arms of comrades kind, 
 To help me onward with my load. 
 
 And since I have no gold to give 
 And only love can make amends, 
 
 My one prayer is, while I live 
 Lord, make me worthy of my friends." 
 146
 
 EMORY AND MYRTA ROSS, BETTY AND ROGER, 
 AT HOME IN 1923
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 Now I am at the International Convention 
 of the Churches of Christ at St. Louis. The 
 Lord's hosts are gathering from the East and 
 the West, from the North and the South. It is a 
 blessed privilege to look into the faces of these, 
 my brethren, and feel in their warm hand shakes 
 the heart throbbings of "good will," as we labor 
 together in this common cause of our Lord. 
 
 Word has just reached us that the bells of 
 heaven have rung for our dear Mrs. E. M. Bow- 
 man, and she has gone away to behold the 
 Father's face. Hers was a choice sweet spirit. 
 She has brightened and gladdened life's way 
 for us. 
 
 "She is not dead, she is just away; 
 
 With a cheery smile and a wave of her hand, 
 
 She has wandered away to the unknown 
 
 land, 
 
 And left us here wondering how very fair 
 It must be since she entered there." 
 
 I am alone this afternoon while the thou- 
 sands are at the Coliseum, remembering our Lord 
 in partaking of the emblems of His broken body 
 and shed blood. Alone, and yet not alone, for 
 there is One who walks with me like unto the 
 Son of man. 
 
 147
 
 A Road of Remembrance 
 
 "O, He walks with me and He talks with me 
 
 And He tells me I am His own, 
 And the Joys we share as we tarry there 
 
 None other has ever known." 
 
 When that great Scottish Presbyterian min- 
 ister, Samuel Rutherford, was thrown into 
 prison for preaching what he thought was the 
 truth, he said he thought about Jesus until every 
 stone in the prison wall gleamed red like a ruby. 
 He was communing with his Lord. 
 
 I have often thought of the Home over 
 there, 
 
 "And the building of the wall of it was of 
 jasper; and the city was pure gold, like unto 
 clear glass; and the twelve gates were of 
 pearl and the street of the city was pure 
 gold." 
 
 And I think of my friends who are waiting just 
 round the bend in the road to welcome me into 
 that City which hath foundations, to join the 
 great company who serve Him day and night; 
 then I will know that I've come, 
 
 "To the end of the road of that Golden Town 
 Where the Golden Houses are." 
 
 148
 
 A 000023 440 1