Alumni ASSOCIaTiON Wheaton College + Wheaton, Illinois 60187

ADDRESS CORRECTION REQUESTED

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(ONE SIXTH OF A SQUARE MILE oF Missionary Activity (120 Acres)

WOMEN'S HIGHER BIBLE SCHOOL 50 STUDENTS

Primary and High School for Missionary Children of all Korea

120 Students

Boys’ Academy 570 Students Union Christian

College Agri- cultural Station

Industrial Shops

Union Christian Men's College

171 Students

15 City Churches

15,000 Christians

0 Country Churches in Province

99,458 Christians

WOMEN'S STATION BIBLE INSTITUTE 150 STUDENTS. a

WOMEN’S INDUSTRIAL SCHOOL 100 STUDENTS.

Pyengyang Presbyterian Compound

Entrance to compound

Union Christian Hospital Buildings West Gate Church

Seminary Administration Building and Dormitories

Dr. Engel’s Home

Dr Clark's Home

Dr. Robb’s Home

Dr. Reynold’s Home

Dr. Park Home

Domestic Science Building of Girls’ Academy Administration Building of Girls’ Academy Miss Snook’s Home and

Girls’ Academy Dormitory

Y. M. C. A. Residence

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Dr. Blair's Home

Dr. Robert's Home

Mr. Hill's Home

Dr. Bernheisel’s Ome

2. Women's Bible Institute & Bible School 2 Mr. Philip's Home Mr. Mowry's Home Lady-Workers’ Home Dr. Bigger’s Home Dr. McCune’s Home Miss Doriss’ Home & Lula Wells Institute Dr. Moffett's Home Foreign School Teachers’ Home Foreign School Dormitories & Infirmary Mr. Reiner’s Home Foreign School & Athletic Field and Gym. Dr. Baird's Home Mr. McMurtrie’s Home Anna Davis Industrial Shops Bc Academy Building & Dormitory Union Christian College Library Union Christian College Science Hall Union Christian College Main Building & Dormitory U. C. C. Auditorium-Gymnasium and Ayademy Boys’ Farm Fields 42. Dr. Swfllen’s House Between 17 apd 187 < !

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Presbyterian Theological Seminary of all Korea 120 Students Local Church Congregation 1,500

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775 Sunday Schools in the Province

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ae | AN ILLUSTRATED: NEWS-WEEKLY~ FOR» THE- HOME’ &

* GRAHAM PATTERSON, PUBLISHER °

OR many years I have been dismayed by the difference between the dictionary definition of ““parent’’ and the definition as accepted by the average group of men and women in the com- munity. I have addressed in school cireles, church cireles, in towns large and small, a great many parents’ associa- tions and parent-teacher ciations and have found almost without exception that parents are mothers! This seems to be the case whether the speaker be a man ora woman and regardless of the topic to be presented or discussed. Parents, for all purposes of child-study, for consideration of child-welfare, child hygiene, recre- ation and amusements, school curricula, moral, ethical and religious training, even when meetings are held in the evening at the place and hour supposed to be most convenient to men, parents still seem to be mothers. Yet despite this rather discouraging fact I insist upon following the definition of the dictionary and believing that fathers as well as mothers are parents, sharing equally the responsibility for the erea- tion and preservation of the sons and daughters of earth.

I look often at various types of men and their young sons with deep interest and with earnest effort to understand. The boy perhaps has done something that at the moment displeases his father and by angry, impatient word and gesture is sent hurrying from his presence; or the young son is asking the man who brought him into the world, some question about this old planet upon which he finds himself. I wait for the father’s answer to the keen questions of a fresh young mind eager for knowledge. Sometimes one question is answered, in rare instances five or six questions, then the newspaper wins and the boy is sent away with his ‘‘everlasting questions.’

I want to call out to the young father shouting at his son, ‘‘Now, I won't answer another question to- night; go ask your mother. Go to bed. You ought to be in bed now. No, not another word!’”—I want to say to him, ‘‘ Young man, just a few years and your son will ask you no more questions. You will give him a lot of information about life in general, about com- mon sense and behavior, his behavior in particular. Information and knowledge will drop generously from your lips, but your son will not pay the slightest attention. Now is your great chance to answer ques- tions. You would better take it

But the average father does not take it and the son goes to bed unsatisfied and rebellious, leaving me to ponder on the ways of parents with children.

fg THE first place I can never, struggle as I may, blind myself to the fact that this man and this woman brought these questioning, wriggling, never-

a@sso-

Atel, D

Parents

It Is the Fathers and Mothers Who Make

Today and Determine Tomorrow

By MARGARET SLATTERY

still-a-moment human specimens into existence. In obedience to law and for the gratification of the in- stinect for the perpetuation of life, these children came into being. Somewhere along the way they became thinking minds, human spirits, living souls. They did not ask to come. Only on the stage in the appealing and poetic play do little souls clamor to be born. No, you who are parents, you dared to launch these spirits upon the sea of human experience. They had nothing to say about it, they could not choose their parents, their race, their color, their social status. They had nothing to say about the time or place of the lz vunch- ing, not a word to say about the language they should speak, they could not choose either poverty or riches. If the sea of life should buffet them and the storms beat upon them with such fury that in despair one day they should ery, ‘‘I wish I had never been born,” it will be a futile ery. You have made them live. You have forced upon them without their asking for it this thing called Life. Here they are—your sons and your daughters.

Perhaps one of them is now ealling to you from his little white crib, over and over, with great persistence, ‘Mother—moth-er, I want a drink of water!’’ The stairs are long and you have traversed them scores of times since morning. And, too, the child had a drink of water just before he went to bed. It is very hard to think of parental responsibility under these cireum- stances, but the fact remains. Or it may be that some father, persuaded against his will to read this article, feels two little sharp elbows on his knees and a clear little voice is asking, ‘‘ Daddy, what makes a chimney smoke for? Where does the smoke go, Daddy? Daddy, what does God eat? ‘Course He eats! How can He not eat I know you are man, the affairs of state or city, business purely personal, the struggle and anxiety that crush the heart out of you, have surrounded you all‘day. You don’t care where the smoke goes and you are annoyed, a little shocked, at the daring of a mind that frames such concrete questions about God. You don’t think much about Him yourself. You are not at all in the mood for the consideration of the question of parental responsibility, but the facts are there. You created that little thing.

a weary

wre MONLY

He is dependent upon you for life—his body, mind and spirit More than that, what he is in the long days to come will depend upon what you, his father, and the woman who is his mother do to him now that you have given him—Life.

S' YMETIME since, on a won- derful spring day, I stood in the room where a father and mother were looking at a tiny little red thing, all hidden—except the ery in dainty, delicate blankets. It was a boy, a perfect specimen of humanity. The other two children were girls and in spite of the fact that to the Anglo-Saxon man both boys and girls are supposed to be of equal value, there was a ring of special rejoicing in the father’s voice when he announced, ‘‘It’s a boy. Poor little beggar,”’ he said, looking down at it, with pride that gave real meaning to the words.

It was a beautiful home into which this boy had come; wealth, culture, refinement, generations of strong, earnest Christian character were his inher- itance. I had recently returned from a trip around the world, looking at its childhood What would happen, I asked myself, if I Should take this precious bundle of possibilities from its nursery and returning to China exchange it for a tiny almond-eyed little boy in a well-to-do home on a very narrow and very dirty street in a walled town far from haunts of white-faced foreigners. I let myimagination, building upon the facts of inheritance and environment. picture what would happen. With the little son of the cultured Christian home in my arms I cross the Pacific, land at Shang- hai, take passage on the Yangtze, going for days up that mighty stream until I reach the terminal wharf for the big river boats. On smaller craft, then by chair, I make my way to the humble home, leaving the white-skinned, straight-eyed baby there with a motherly Chinese woman, giving her instructions to bring him up as her son. After searching about for a while I take from the arms of his mother a little Chinese boy, a perfect physical specimen. Back do the Yangtze, across the Pacific I come with my bundle of oriental babyhood. I give him to the care of an understanding woman in a home of wealth, culture, refinement and opportunity

Twelve years pass. I am ready now xchange my boys, to give to the oriental lad and the oceide ntal and his own land. I ask the America and upstanding little fellow. His e slant, yet one thinks little of it His skin is ivo but one thinks little of that. He is as tall as the 1erican boy of his He is dresse rican boy in a prosperous is dressed. The Chinese brought and books he

to ¢

lad each his orn people parents of my Chinese boy claim their son a fine,

to come to sturdy,

years

home parents are

to his room where surrounded by games

hs at work the details of a home-made radio- graph. He looks at his parents with great curiosity. Why have they come? Are these the people about whom he has readin school? Relations of the laundry- man at. M Street, the folk who eat rice and other more dreadful things it is said! What a costume! They begin to speak. Is it a language? Can they really understand each other? At lunch he watches their attempts to eat with knife and fork. In spite of him- elf, he laughs. Their courteous host serves a Chinese dish and he observes their skill with chop-sticks and is fascinated. After lunch they tell him the truth Here are his father and mother. He is to go home to China. He is a son of the Orient—their son. But he will not go. He flees in terror to his Anglo-Saxon mother by adoption. He shrieks for his white- skinned blue-eyed father, though his own eyes are deep lustrous dewy brown with almond-shaped lids secking to hide them. He will never leave them. He is an American boy, he is not Chinese, he cries, and in all save his hody he speaks the truth. Whether or not in long years to come he would if sent back to China ‘‘revert to type” no one can say Meanwhile the blue Anglo-Saxon bo farthest hills of the Yangtze border, sees for the first time his American parents. Sereaming with fear at their approach, he calls at them, his face half-hidden in his Chinese mother’s gown, ‘‘ Foreign devil, foreign devil!’’—the only English words he knows. He rushes to the street, through the mud, past the pigs, over the dogs, to seek his playmates, to show them the curios- ity, the ridiculous foreigners with their unspeakable clothes, the foreigners who could not eat with chop- sticks, though the best ivory ones were given them, the foreigners who did not know how to drink tea properly. The Anglo-Saxon man and woman talk together. In astonishment the boys listen. Is it a angus: =~—Can xy tand each ather? ow the Chinese father tells the boy that these are his parents, he must go with them. His skin is fair, his eyes are blue, his hair is light and it curls, but he eries aloud in terror, he calls upon the gods, he will not go— he is a Chinese boy, he begs his Chinese father rescue him. And in all save in body he is a Chinese boy. His sins are the sins of Chinese boyhood, his thoughts are the thoughts of a Chinese boy of twelve. If he is taken to America, in the years ahead he may completely ‘‘revert to type,’’ but no one can say how long it will be, if ever, before the twelve years’ training of the Orient shall drop away and leave him Anglo- Saxon in mind and character as he is in face and form.

upon

beyond the

under

HE lusty ery of the new-born son of America, there in his dainty nursery, brought me back to realities. But my dreaming has truth in it, and my picture is made out of fact. With that little human thing wildly waving its tiny red hands, its parents may do as they will. It can learn to speak French, Russian, Chinese, Hindustani, with equal ease. It can learn to sit on a mat, or on a chair or squat in the dust. It will eat with chop- sticks as a Korean, Japanese or Chinese, or with fingers as a Hindu. It will be Catholic, Protestant or Hebrew, Mo- hammedan, Taoist, Confucianist or Buddhist. It can not decide for itself for long years to come either its language, its food, its moral and ethical standards or its religious faith. What challenge and what hope! These children brought into being by you are yours to make them what you will. The consciousness of it ought to thrill you with joy at what you may do or with fear lest you should fail. Two distant parts of our country are spending the month in the hotel where I find myself, close by Their tables are on either side of mine. There are four children in one family, the oldest fifteen, the youngest ree years. Five children make up the ther family, the youngest two years , the oldest thirteen. In one familys 1e children roll every letter ‘‘r’’ in svery word. They use a very flat ‘a.’ In the other family hears no rolling ‘“‘r’’ but the broadest of “a's.” It is most interesting to hear the parents speak—then the children’s ttle echoes in pronunciation, intonation, vocabulary The family of five greatly enjoys life to be no need for discipline at table. There is often a shout of laughter. Sometimes they play a game Father and the oldest boy have some great joke on each other that rejoices the rest of the family. It makes merriment at every meal. The boys always remain standing until their mother is seated. Each day seems to have a program of happy events. The younger children go to bed early because ** tomorrow we will a a! the program with them eh night as they discuss it Rain makes no difference except in raincoats and rubbers. On Sunday they go to church. Mach child seriously drops his money into the plate. They find the places in hymn book and psalter for each other. They sing with all their hearts. Sunday afternoon they go to the woods, never to the shore or I would so love to follow. 1 am very curious as to what them so eager for that Sunday afternoon

Ses tee families from

1e sea.

one

There seems

enjoy

the rocks.

makes

F ONE were looking for a study in contrasts in

human life, he would find no better one than that of these two families For all that the first family is, the second is not. Arguments and tears at the table silent father, a scolding mother. The father leaves the table before the others have finished. Protesting, the others wait for their mother. Getting the younger children to bed is an agony in which ali the hotel shares. No outbursts of happy laughter, no tramps, no corn-roasts Father will not take the younger children in bathing. Sometimes mother wil) not—it is so hard to dress them—so they spend the morning pleading. At last they move mother as far as the beach. Yesterday the youngest child walked straight into the waves, all dressed, his little pail in his hand. One would hardly blame him—the tempta- tion is so great. Sunday the family always goes on a little trip in their car. It takes almost half an hour of coaxing, bribing and threats to get them seated, so dreadful is the quarrel over who shall sit in the small seats, the front seat, the back seat. is a relief when they have gone

““Mr.and Mrs. B. are so fortunate in their children,” “They have such happy dispositions and they are so well behaved. The poor C’s have such wilful children—so hard to manage.”

I felt no sympathy for ‘‘the poor C’s.”’ They have made their children. They are the products of environment and training. Neither of the boys ever stood in his mother’s presence, but one can not con- demn them. They have never seen their father do it. Even the littlest boy answers his mother in very rude fashion—just as the older children do, just as their father does. The ten-year-old daughter lies to both her father and mother. I can not condemn her. I heard her mother twist the truth the other day in such fashion that it completely deceived the father.

These four parents who brought these eniidren ito the world, two fraiming them wisely with great patience, at a sacrifice of their own personal desires and pleasures, two @iaking discipline a matter of convenience, refusing® absolutely to give up their own present desires for the future good of their children, have each their reward. The lawf consequences is a powerful law, and parent@@an not escape it. Troubled mothers may look helplessly upon their sixteen-year- old daughters, eriticize them, upbraid them, weep over them, but the fact remains they made them. A little girl six days old, six weeks old, six months old, may be made into anything. At sixteen it is late— in most cases too late.

—ae

said one of the guests to me yesterday.

June I saw a sad-faced man, who making an heroic struggle against

NE morning las is Just now

great odds in the business world, taking the train for a

colleze town. He told me his errand. His son, a freshman, was in serious trouble “He has meant nothing but trouble,’ he said. ‘‘Trouble in the sophomore class in high school and trouble ever since! This is the end. I'm through with him.”

It was a hard thing for an upright man to face. Yet that father, honest enough according to his own standards, was known as a shrewd bargainer. He was ““a good business man,’ men said, nodding their heads sometimes as they said it. While he was about his business in the years when his sons were growing up, meeting the ’teen years, facing their difficulties, he knew no more about them than if they were bo: . in his home, for whom he had to provide cet things. Now the law of consequences met him disinterested father and a weak-willed indulgent mother who took the easiest way and the product his son—a keen disappointment, bringing upon him, demanding money, time and now when it was too late for any one of them to help much in the formation of character.

One afternoon, a few wee later, when college

r

disgrace attention

had

closed, I met a father and his three sons, twenty-four

and just going into business with him, twenty-two

and twenty years of age, bound for the golf course. “The Jolly Four” they eall themselves

avedhisstick atme. ‘‘It,will beafearsomegame

ather brandishing the vietor’s sword,” he called

They were such stalwart, splendid physical speci- mens, so clean, so free, so normal, so thoroughly in love with life, all four of them. Many a man looked on with envy. But I knew from the long years what it had cost that father to produce these splendid sons whose lives he now so fully shared. I knew what it had cost their mother. I knew how they had spent their evenings, their Saturdays, their summer vaca- tions, their holidays for years and years in order to produce this fine type of American youth. Those were the hard years of patience, of toil, of seed-sowing. These are the years of rich reward.

At least eighty per cent. of the responsibility for the bodies, minds and souls of the youth of our day rests upon those who have brought them into the world their parents. Even the most tolerant of judges who has had experience with life can not put more than twenty per cent. of the responsibility upon the com- munity. Little by little parents have been shifting their responsibility, ten per cent. here, ten per cent there, until many American cities are filled with parents unwilling to take even fifty per cent. of the responsibility for the product called modern youth But that does not change the facts. Those who have given them life are before God and the future re- sponsible for their product.

Certain it is that without you who have dared to eall these souls to life and destiny, there would be no world. And certain it is that without you, the splendid host of you, who having called them to life have given the best that you are and have to make them worthy products, strong, high-minded and pure, thes worid endure life.

wuuid ot bu aw place Where: air eward

HEN I see you with your babies in your arms I

often wonder whom you are holding there so care- fully—what great soul that shall lead the world to peace, that perchance shall lead it to vietory over famine and disease. When I see some earnest father with his little ones by the hand, or his sturdy son strutting along beside him, I often ask myself, ‘*Who walks there beside him? Some future leader of the troubled men of commerce and trade, some soul who shall overcome hatred and greed, one who shall shape anew the destinies of great nations?’’ No one can say. You may hold in your arms the great leader for whom America waits. You may, at this moment, be tucking him snugly in bed.

That cold raining February day, in the year 1809, three inen stood talking around the stove in the little Kentucky village store.

“What's the news?”’ said one.

“Wall,” said his neighbor, ‘‘no special

news—nuthin’ important. They’re

doing the same old fool thing up in

Washington; there was cargo lost at

had some cotton on board; widow too bad. Ob yes, and another baby down to incoln's—a boy. No, nuthin’ im-

portant. News been short lately.”

Could he only have had the prophet’s eye and looked down the years—Feb- ruary 12, 1809—a new baby down to Ancoln’s—a boy! How could that jumble mother know that every school- soy would one day know that date How could she know that to millions of people it should be the day of the birtt of hope. How could she know the day, standing in the highest place of 1onor and trust that the American veople can bestow, his homely, honest kindly face, upon which sympathy merey and love had carved many a ine, turned toward the group of states- men in the hour of his triumph, he would say, “All that Tam I owe to mj

What greater reward could a mother

sea, 3’s cow died

they're got

some

angel mother ask than this?

I do not know how I should feel if I looked down at night into little faces knowing that I had brought them into this puzzling, troubled old world with its mixed measure of pain and joy. I do not know how | should feel if | looked up at some sweet girl upon the platform at Commencement or at some strong lad quite ready to ‘‘get into the game,’’ and know that / had brought them into being, called them without their consent into the problems and the opportunities life brings. But of this I am sure, if I had failed them if through self-indulgence, carelessness or unwilling- ness to bear the burden, I had done for them less than my best, I would ery aloud to them God

Fo forgive!’ I should rise from my knee repentant, to repentance by renewed effort and wiser love

and to

prove my

which

and lecturer o1

This ts the Mi Slattery,

second of a series of three article

world-famous author relating to the younger ger

Christian Herald at ( They Forgi

eration, has written The third published

request. —will be

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