mountains on his way to Tripoli, was especially ready in his plans for the comfort of his new associates in Tripoli Station. But it is not necessary to mention each one. The beauty of missionary life is the unity of fellowship and the completeness with which every newcomer is received into the intimacy and love of the circle, which is only less close and intimate than that of the family itself.

After ten days spent in Beirut in trying to get rid of the malaria and in acquiring some knowledge of the Arabic alphabet, we went on to Tripoli, our future home. It was a cold, windy Saturday afternoon. We were taken out to the steamer in a small boat, which tossed on the restless waves in a way which we supposed to be normal. The steamer was small and crowded with a miscellaneous company, most of whom were not happy, to say the least. Fortunately it is only a four hours' ride, for the wind increased in violence as we proceeded, and when the anchor was dropped at sundown off Tripoli, it seemed doubtful whether any boats could come out to meet us. In due time, however, a boat pulled alongside, and there was Mr. March, who had come out over that rough sea to welcome us to our new home, though he did not think we would venture to start from Beirut in such a storm. The steamer was rolling so badly that the ladder could not be lowered at all, and we crept out on it as it lay horizontally along the ship's side, and then, when the tip was lowest, simply dropped into the arms of the boatmen below. Then began the laborious pull for the shore. We were two hours reaching land, our clothes soaked, our spirits at zero, but most happy to reach the warm, cozy haven of the March home in the Mina of Tripoli. It was the beginning of a most beautiful fellowship with Mr. and Mrs. March and their children, whose sweet introduction of themselves won our hearts at once and who, though now grown to maturity, still call us by the old, affectionate titles of uncle and aunt. Thus, for the second time in our short missionary experience, we were made to feel the comfort and peace of being taken into the warmth and love of a Christian home, no longer as strangers, but as brethren.

We wished to take possession of our own home as soon as possible. Our household goods were in the customhouse, and another first experience was before us. Everything had to be examined and its purpose explained to the satisfaction of the Turkish inspector. To him it seemed a wholly unnecessary amount of furniture for one person, for of course he could not recognize that the wife's existence made any difference. A box of class photographs was examined in detail, and great surprise manifested that one person should have so many friends. A small vase for flowers in the shape of a kettle resting on five legs puzzled the examiner, until he picked up the perforated piece of a soap dish, and decided that he had found the appropriate adaptation of the two pieces. It did not seem necessary to explain, so long as he was satisfied, and no harm was done.

We had many things to learn besides the language. Our home belonged to a man whose name was translated to us as Mr. Victory-of-God Brass. In an arch under the parlor windows he had hung a donkey's skull and some beads, to keep off the evil eye of jealousy from his fine house. It was a pleasant house, well located near the city gate which had been known in former days as Donkey Gate, only a few minutes' walk from the girls' school and just at the end of the tram line connecting the city with the harbor, two miles distant. In planning for our new home we had indulged in the luxury of two pairs of simple lace curtains for our parlor windows. When we entered the house, our amazement can hardly be exaggerated at the discovery that the parlor had not two but eight windows, each calling for curtains twelve feet long. Our lace curtains were relegated to service elsewhere. Mr. Eddy had kindly arranged to come up from Sidon to help us in this first settling of our new home, and his help and companionship were invaluable. He went with me to the shops to purchase such things as were needed, and the shopkeepers recognized at once his fluent Arabic and his companion's ignorance of the language. More than one shopkeeper called him aside and asked him to bring the stranger to them for his purchases, promising him a handsome commission for his services.

The house was soon made habitable and just three weeks after our first landing in Syria we slept under our own roof, with our own possessions about us, and were ready to begin our own independent home life in the land of our adoption. We had made our beginning, and a bright, happy beginning it was, notwithstanding the difficulties and drawbacks inevitable in such conditions.

Chapter II LANGUAGE STUDY

Whatever differences there may be in experiences in missionary life, all missionaries are faced with a most troublesome experience in learning a new language. It is more or less natural for everyone to magnify what concerns himself. "Our children" are always a little better than our neighbors'. "Our cook" makes better bread than anyone else. And "mother's pies"—well, that calls for no argument. It is much the same way among missionaries. It is probable that there are just about as many "hardest languages" in the world as there are distinct mission fields. But, then, there must be one that is really the hardest, and we in Syria think we come pretty well up on the list, even though we do not claim absolute preëminence. The Arabic, though rich and beautiful, is certainly a difficult language, and I am sure the Syria Mission would give a unanimous vote on the resolution that it is the toughest linguistic proposition we have ever attacked. It was one of the terse and suggestive remarks of Dr. Henry Jessup that at the end of the first year the new missionary thought he knew the Arabic; at the end of the second year he thought he knew nothing; and at the end of the third year he wondered how he got hold of it.

The isolation of a new missionary is at times appalling. No matter how kind and helpful the older missionaries may be, they are strangers, after all, with whom one must get acquainted. The houses are strange, and not adapted to make one feel at home readily. Servants with their very imperfect knowledge of English must be directed mainly by signs. Everything seems unbearably dirty; the sun is unaccountably hot, even in winter; the food is strange and does not appeal to a Westerner's appetite. But, worst of all, among the babel of noises, there is not a familiar sound, and with the best intentions of friendliness, one cannot reveal the intention, except by the perpetual, inane grin.

We began the study of the language, as everyone does, almost at the wharf. Even before recovering from the effects of the voyage, the Arabic primer, with its alphabet, was brought to the bedside. At one of the earliest lessons in Tripoli, the old, gray-bearded teacher wished to impress a new word, "Milh." He repeated the difficult combination, and then inquired in some way whether we knew what the word meant. The look of blank ignorance on our faces gave him the answer, and he rose and stepped with dignity, in his flowing robes, to the door. Opening this, he called in a loud voice across the open court to the cook, "Peter, bring me some salt." Then with a little of this household necessity in his palm, he came back to his stupid pupils, and, pointing at the