brought about until after a difficulty arose between his son and his teacher, in which the son, on refusal to comply with certain requests, said sarcastically, "I am not from Indiana, anyhow." This was the native state of his preceptor. No sooner had the words escaped his lips than the gangling "Hoosier" hurled him through a glass door into my room, knocking me to the floor amid flying glass. Such treatment being neither Christian nor humane, I so expressed myself in the hearing of the young man's father, who manifested his surprise at my being in sympathy with his son. After this his attitude toward me was entirely changed; but my difficulties were not ended, for the principal, who had a good supply of ill-will of his own on hand, seemed to have imbibed all the animosity of the pastor, and made it exceedingly unpleasant for me the rest of the term, all of which worked out for my good.

While passing through these experiences I was painfully conscious that my Christian life was not complete, and it is partly for this reason that I have related them so much in detail.

One afternoon a note was put under the door of Davis Hall requesting some of us to call at a certain street number. Supposing some one was in destitute circumstances, Sister Iliff and I took a car to the city limits, where

we found the number on a board at the door of a dug-out. Entering, we found an old lady carrying her arm in a sling. There were three little grandchildren and a grown-up, feeble-minded son, scarcely able to take care of himself, all sitting by a board eating some fat pork, without any bread, and drinking a little tea. The two daughters, mothers of these children, had died of broken hearts from neglect and ill treatment. The fathers spent most of their time in the saloons, refusing to support their families. The old lady's arm had been broken and improperly set, which caused her intense suffering. These children had been left entirely to her care, and now being disabled, she had no means of support; she was one of the "hand-cart emigrants" to Utah, in 1856, and becoming dissatisfied with the Mormon religion she had left the faith which caused the church to refuse to help her in this time of distress.

Aside from what we saw on the table, they had had nothing to eat for two days. The half-demented son had assisted some one in butchering a pig and secured some of the meat. The next day food and fuel were sent them. In the meantime I went with Sister I and she confronted the saloon-keepers with the story of these children, whose homes they had broken up and whose fathers they were

ruining. To her plea that it was their duty to help them, they responded heartily and liberally. They apparently did not enjoy our presence nor our description of this scene, and were anxious to get rid of us both. Yet such

are the scenes that are making up the dark annals of the saloon that will burn in the soul of the rum-seller where the worm of memory dieth not and the fire is not quenched. "Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink” (Hab. 2:15).

Such is a picture of poverty in Utah, which the missionary is called to look upon. Many pitiful sights are seen of indigent and infirm persons who somehow make their way to this Mormon Zion, looking for prosperity, and expecting a miraculous healing of their bodies. Sights of wretchedness and suffering always deeply affected me, and I had to guard against seeing them.

CHAPTER VI

LAST YEAR AS A TEACHER-A SCHOOL ELECTION TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS

N JUNE I returned to Montana. My sister Nora, who had been with me in Utah, preceeded me a few weeks and was teaching a summer school on a ranch seven miles from Red Rock. Wishing to spend some time with her I stopped off at this station from a morning train. As I had no way of reaching the school house, the night operator at the depot kindly offered to take me if a conveyance could be had. There was but one horse and buggy available; the horse was a bronco, and while the owner would not recommend him, he said we might take our chances. The operator was a large man, weighing perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds. In our conversation on the road, the subject of religion was introduced. I found that my escort claimed to be an infidel, and I gladly witnessed for Christ, while he set forth tenets of unbelief. I told him that if he were facing death he would not talk so. He said that he had been at death's door and had felt no fear. With these words upon his lips, something about

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the harness gave way; the horse, with a leap, left the road, taking us over sage brush in the direction of an irrigating ditch. Seeing our danger, I kept looking to God in silent prayer, when he cried, "For God's sake, jump! Not being afraid, I refused to make a move. He tumbled out of the back part of the buggy just as we were approaching the ditch. He had no sooner lighted on the ground than the horse stopped. He rose to his feet with a blanched face and tremblingly said, "Why, you are not even pale!" He was humiliated when I reminded him how a few moments before he had boasted, and now when the testing time came, he proved himself to be a coward. He looked away, made no reply, and tried to change the subject.

Three years before, in a similar experience, I had proved that God can keep one in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Him (Is. 26:3). It was in a thunder storm in the Rocky Mountains. My aunt, at whose home I had been living, Mr. S -, an old bachelor friend, and myself were crossing the mountains from Bannock to Dillon, when we encountered a storm. A number of horses had been killed by lightning in the vicinity a few days before; my aunt and Mr. S were badly frightened. Our horses were becoming unmanageable as we began to descend the dangerous part of the