I am on my way to the Santee Mission and write from a wayside ranch where I have had to lay by for a few hours a little indisposed. What with a prolonged term of excessive heat and drought which tried human nature sorely and blighted the Indians' hope of fair crops, a plague of grasshoppers which have alighted on the corn in such numbers that the stalks are hardly visible, the general muss in Indian affairs both at Washington and out in the Indian country, and the half truth, half lie which the telegraph sends weekly from this part of the world to the papers, and the disgusting liberties which the press is taking with my name both East and West, I find it hard to preserve my equanimity. I should utterly faint by the way, but that faith can discover in this country as well as in Palestine the footprints of a weary Lord.
William Hobart Hare, Missionary Bishop, letter to his sister, July 18.
1 comment:
Aha, that bishop. What trying times he must've had back in his day. Amazing that they were able to preach, teach, and build churches in the excessive heat, et. al.
(By the way, I love your Independence Day photo of Mt. Rushmore. I'll have to show Steve!)
Post a Comment