In "the house" that we enter, a man lies helplessly drunk upon a dirty rug on the floor; a woman, too much overcome to rise, sits propped up in one corner. There is altogether, perhaps, fifty cents worth of furniture and clothing in the room.
And this is the loved home of one of the smartest, brightest, most intelligent little girls in this God-forsaken neighborhood.
The missionary made known his errand and was told that he might do anything he pleased with the girl, if he would catch her and tame her.
"For," said her mother, "what do we want with her at home—at home!—She is never here, only to sleep."
Only to sleep! Where did she sleep? On the damp, bare floor, of course, where else could she sleep in that home?
The next morning various devices were contrived to catch her, to force her into a better home. All failed.
When did force ever succeed with one of her sex?
If the serpent had bid our first mother to eat the apple, she would have thrown it down the villain's throat, splitting his forked tongue in its passage.
Finally it was arranged that a boy, noted as "a runner," should stand behind the door, and when she came with her jibes, sometimes provoking mirth, and sometimes ire, he should jump out and catch her.
"Catch me if you can!" and away went she, away went he, under this cart and over that. Now he will have her—his hand is outstretched to seize his chase—vain hope—she drops suddenly in his path, and he goes headlong down a cellar. When he came up there was a great shout, and a great many dirty bare-footed girls about, but that one was nowhere in sight. So back he goes, enters the door; and a wild laugh follows him close upon his heels.