How I Came to Take Little Bob

When I first went to Africa I saw there was much to do, and I felt I could do but little. At that time there was no real medical doctor within twenty or thirty miles of Monrovia. Of course there were plenty of patent medicines to be had, such as pills and quinine, and other helps. And then the natives helped in fever cases, and all kinds of sickness, by the use of herbs, which, when skillfully administered, as many know how to do, in my opinion are much better than doctors' medicines, except quinine.

But I had never been where a doctor could not be called in a case of emergency.

So I thought it I could get a nice little boy, I would train him for a missionary, and a doctor as well. I saw how he might do much good. So I felt led to pray, and ask the Lord to open the way that I might get a boy.

I saw three boy that I liked. They lived in different Liberian families.

One was the son of a king, who lived with Mrs. Crusoe at Hartford. He was a nice lad, and I would have liked to have him.

Another was at Edina, Bassa. He lived with Mrs. Moore.

The other lived with Mrs. Horris, at Lower Buchanan, in Bassa.

The were very bright, smart boys, and only needed a little help, as I thought. But non of these parties would consent to my taking them. They wanted I should take a Liberian. But I did not feel led just that way, and I plead with them for one of the boys. But I could not get them; so then I gave it up. I thought the Lord knew my heart, and what I wanted to do was for His glory only.

In 1887, while at Cape Palmas, though I had given up all hope or desire of getting a boy, little Bob and a little playmate of his used to come to Mrs. Harmon's. They were very little fellows, and as I did my own housekeeping, and so often had bits of food left, I would call these children and give them to them. My! they were pleased; and I became very fond of them, and often would talk to them as best I could. I could not understand them so well as they could understand me. Ma Harmon could talk the Gredebo language just like a native, and they almost idolized Mr. Harmon. They knew they lost a true friend when he was taken.

Ma Harmon had told these children that they must always speak to me; say "Good morning, Mammy."

So one day I was going downtown, and little Bob and his friend were hanging on the gate as I passed. When they saw me coming they began shouting, "Good morning, Mammy! Good morning, Mammy!"

I went up and put my hand on Bob's head. I always admired him so much; he was so black, and his skin was so soft and smooth, like a kid glove.

"Well," I said, "are you fine boy to-day?"

"Yes."

He understood what I said.

"True, you be fine too much," I said.

To a native child that means everything we mean when we say, "You are a good boy," or a "nice boy."

My! they were so pleased. I had noticed, as I was passing, a man and woman who stood talking together; and when I had gone a few steps away the man called out, "Mammy!"

I turned, and he said, "Mammy," (for you must know that all foreigners and Liberians are called 'Mammy' and 'Daddy;' and in the sense it is used in America, one would feel like drawing up their shoulders sometimes; but when the natives use it, it is as we would use 'Mr.' and 'Mrs.'), "I want you to take that pick'n and teach him God palavar," pointing to little Bob. "Myself, I be fool; I no sabe God. I don't want my pick'n to be fool all same like myself."

"Jack," I said, "is that your pick'n?"

"Yes."

"For true? You be his daddy?"

"Yes. I want you to take him; all that place you live to

come when you catch England and big America, you teach him, so he can sabe God proper."

"Well, Jack," I said, "myself don't be well just now; dem fever humbug me too much. I be weak plenty. So when dat steamer live to catch here, with Bishop Taylor's missionaries, myself I go down the coast a little bit. Jack, why not give him to some of the Liberian people? He will teach him."

"No, Mammy," he said, "if you left him on his hand, he no sabe nothing."

And strange as it may seem, there was much more truth than poetry in this statement.

This was on Tuesday; and on Saturday the looked for steamer arrived with Bishop Taylor's second party of thirteen or more missionaries for the Congo.

I had been down with fever for three or four days, and was very weak. I hardly knew how to get ready. But the kind friends came in, and my old standby, Betty Tubman, and Rosetta Cole, took hold and helped me get my things together; and the dear old Bishop, God bless him, got hold of my trunk and helped out with it, then rolled up my things in the rug and carried them down, and I can hear him say now:

"Come on, Amanda."

Oh! but wasn't I weak! He saw and knew it, and I could see the great sympathy in his eyes. But, Oh! he did not know how much he helped me when he went ahead and said, "Now come on, Amanda." I said, "Lord, help me." And He did, and we reached the boat. They helped me in, and we were soon off to the steamer.

Now aboard the steamer. Thank God. How nice to see a lot of home folks, and all so happy. I seemed to gather strength. We had a pleasant time.

I was away for months, and returned with but little gained, if any; for my trip of seven days from Calabar to Cape Palmas was so sad that whatever I had gained I lost, and was so weak I could scarcely get out of the boat.

"Well," I said, "it is no use; I see I have got to go home."

For three years I had been planning and hoping, but could not seem to get clear light from above, and I was so sure God Himself had sent me to Africa that I felt I dare not leave without His permission; although the doctors at Lagos and old Calabar

both said that I should come home. So I kept my few things packed so as to be ready for a homeward steamer that would stop at Cape Palmas and at Monrovia, for I must stop there for my little girl, Frances.

I waited one week and no steamer stopped. Two weeks, three weeks, and no homeward steamer stopped. How tiresome. But then, what will you do? and what could you do?

I worked away, as usual, doing all I could by day and night. The latter part of the third week brought a letter, by an outward bound steamer, to Brother Pratt, Bishop Taylor's agent, that thirteen missionaries would be out soon, giving the date that they would leave Liverpool; and the Bishop had asked me to help Brother Pratt in looking after the missionaries when they arrived. Brother Pratt came to me and said;

"Now, Ma, you can't go. These missionaries are coming, and the Bishop said he wanted you to help get them settled."

So I felt that delay to me was of the Lord, though I seemed to be of so little use. But, though I say it myself, I really don't know what Brother Pratt or the missionaries would have done if it had not been for the little help I was able to give; and this, I believe, dear Miss Whitfield and Miss McNeil would say, too.

"Well," I said to Brother Pratt, "all right; I'm in for it."

So we went to planning as best we could. Jack was not home when we first got back. So I thought it was all over about taking the child. But one day I met Jack in the street.

"Mammy," he said, "howdy; I glad for see you. You be well now."

"Thank you, Jack, but myself don't be well. Weak, weak, all time."

"Mammy, I be sorry for you. You goin' take that pick'n?"

"Well, Jack, that boy be very small boy; he live to give somebody plenty trouble; small boy, so."

So I spoke to him in what we call broken English. He could speak it well, and understand it very well if you would break it up.

"You See, Jack, if I take him I must be all same as his mammy. All same like if I born him myself. My heart must be big like his own mammy's heart; and this fever bother me all time; so I am weak."

"Well," he said, with a sad face, "Mammy you promised to take him."

BOB.

"Well, Jack, I go home; I look my head; then I will speak to God, and if my heart lay down I will call you."

So he said "all right," and went. Several times he came to see me to see if I had got light.

"No, not yet."

He and his wife came, and I still said "No."

So I said one night, "Now, Lord, this must be settled. I must say something to these people when they come again."

Then I prayed, and asked the Lord to show me His will in the matter. "Oh! Lord, Thou knowest I have no money to support this child if I take him; and I don't want to take the care and responsibility of this child, with nothing to help myself, or him. But if Thou dost want me to take him, and wilt make it clear that it is Thy will, and I should do it, it will be all right; and I know Thou wilt help me to take care of him. Now, Lord, make it clear what I must do. I will wait until Thou dost speak to me."

Then a few moments' quiet, as I knelt before Him. And these words came to me, clear:

"Is not Ethiopia stretching out her hands to God?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Cannot you help a little?"

"Lord, Thou knowest I am very weak, and I don't know what I can do."

Then these words came clear and distinct: "You do what you can, and where you leave off, God will raise up somebody to do the rest."

"Well," I said, "that is reasonable, and I will trust the Lord, and take the child, and do the best I can."

In a few days Jack and wife, Bob's own mother, came, and brought Bob; and they both signed the agreement, relinquishing all claims. Bishop Taylor and Betty Tubman were witnesses.

The following is a copy of the agreement:

CAPE PALMAS, February 16, 1888.

We, Jack Smart or Na we, his father, and We a de, his mother, do give our son, Bob, to Mrs. Amanda Smith to raise and educate as her own child. And we relinquish all claim to him from this time forth.

JACK SMART (his X mark).
WE A DE (her X mark).

WM. TAYLOR, Bishop.
ELIZABETH TUBMAN,
Witnesses.