Within the livery stable in Harrisburg there was the sound of rough voices and the tramp of horses' feet. Outside the rain fell steadily. It was six o'clock on a December morning, and the sky was still black.

Christmas was only a few days off. David Day, who worked in the stable, anticipated neither a holiday nor a Christmas dinner. It was during the Civil War, and hither were brought the faithful, worn cavalry and artillery horses which were then taken into neighboring counties and exchanged for fresh farm horses.

A large consignment had come in the evening before, and David had helped to lead them to their places. He was dreaming of them as he lay on a pile of straw with a horse-blanket for his only covering.

Suddenly a rough voice called, "Dave! Dave!" and he started up from his straw bed. "It's time to start. Are you going to lie there all day?"

As he fastened his clothing, the loosening of which had been his only preparation for the night, David's lips quivered. The cold, his weariness of body, the glimpses he caught as he wandered about the town of other people's happiness—all were bad enough, but he could stand them if it were not for the dreadful loneliness of his heart.

"If there were only one person in the world who cared for me!" he thought. "One person to whom it made any difference whether I came or went. That is all I ask."

He found his fellow hostlers gathered together eating their rough breakfast by the dim light of lanterns. They were soldiers, detailed for this duty, and were dressed in faded blue uniforms. All were hard-working, harshly-spoken men older than David. They did not mean to be unkind; such treatment as they gave him was that to which they were accustomed.

This morning the rough commands, the oaths, the prospect of riding out into the rain and being in a few minutes drenched to the skin seemed to David more dreary than ever. He had a hope which usually sustained him, the hope of continuing his education and becoming a preacher and perhaps a missionary; but this morning his sky was dark. He mounted his horse and rode out the gate directing with his voice a hundred poor, dispirited, patient beasts, some of whom still bore the healed or only partially healed scars of battle-wounds.By this time his misery was so keen that he said aloud, "If I only had someone to care for me!"

There was no answer, and he rode on.

Six years had passed and again the rain fell heavily. That which seemed miraculous had happened. David had gone to school; friends had been raised up for him, he had become a preacher and, still more wonderful, a missionary. He had gone, not to India as he had expected, but to Liberia on the west coast of Africa. Liberia is a republic, founded as a home for colored people who wished to return from the United States to their native land. On the seacoast there was civilization, but only a little way inland the darkness of heathendom grew dense. Here David's church had a mission, and here David and his wife had just arrived.

The rain was not a steady winter rain like that into which he had ridden with his horses; it was much heavier, and it was also more irregular. For a half-hour the downpour shut out everything in sight; then the sun shone brightly, and in a few minutes a thick mist rose from the steaming earth. A little while and the same process was repeated, and so on all day long.David and his wife left the little steamer which ran part way to the mission and walked up the path preceded by the bearers who carried their luggage. They expected to find a comfortable house with food in the larder provided for them by their predecessor, who had had to return home on account of failing health.

They saw only the path before them; they did not see bright eyes peering from among the dark leaves, glittering, bright eyes which looked like a queer variety of fruit or blossom. The eyes watched them cross the overgrown clearing before the mission house and climb the steps. The porters set down their loads, received their pay, and turned back into the wall of mist, and the two young people stood alone. The black eyes could not see the faces of the newcomers and did not dream of the consternation expressed there. To them, the mission house, even in its present state, was a grand palace.

David and his wife walked into the hall and saw that the rain had come through the roof, through the ceiling, clear down to the first floor. The departure of the last missionary had to be made so hurriedly that there had been no time to protect anything from moisture or from destructive insects. The furniture looked unsafe, the walls were covered with mould, and there was naturally no food anywhere about.But they had brought some food with them, and they sat down on rickety chairs before a rickety table to eat. The sun which had shone so brilliantly for a few minutes vanished; there was a noise like thunder on the roof, and darkness fell with the rain, though night was still far away. As they ate, their spirits rose.

"We are pioneers," said Mrs. Day.

"Not quite," said David. "Pioneers do not have even as much of a roof as this." Suddenly he laughed and went to the side of the room where their luggage was stacked. He opened an umbrella and held it over Mrs. Day's head upon which the rain had begun to drip. "Nor umbrellas!" said he.

Mrs. Day laughed, and her laugh made David for some strange reason sober.

"Why, your eyes are full of tears!" said she. "There isn't anything to cry about!"

David did not explain; he continued to eat with one hand while he held the umbrella with the other. His tears were not tears of sorrow, but tears of joy. Said he to himself:

"I used to say, 'If only I had someone to care for me!' and now I have."

But his heart was not at rest. When the supper was finished, he walked to the door and looked out. Again the thunder of the rain had ceased, the sun was shining brightly, and mist was rising from the earth. He could see with his mind's eye the thick jungle extending hundreds of miles away and growing darker and darker. It was not the thought of the jungle which troubled him, but of the inhabitants whose hearts were darker than their skins, darker than the shadows of night which would soon settle down. He had now a new question to trouble his peace.

"What can one man do?" he said to himself.

Ten more years passed, and this morning the sun shone clear and unclouded. The rains were over, and fine weather was certain for weeks to come. David remembered as he rose that the eleventh anniversary of his coming to Africa had passed unnoticed. He had an important matter on his mind and he dressed quickly and came and stood at the doorway of the mission house, waiting a little impatiently for his breakfast.

The mission house had changed in appearance; the roof was sound and the floor safe to walk upon and there was comfortable furniture everywhere. Even more changed was the aspect of everything without. It seemed as though on all sides the jungle had been pushed back and the sunlight had been let in. Before the mission house was a garden; near by stood a chapel; here were dormitories; there were workshops. Surrounding the mission grounds were plantations of coffee trees.

Not only were there pleasant things to look at, but there were pleasant things to hear, the sound of children singing, the cheerful jingling of the breakfast dishes, and, above all, the soft pleasant splash of the waterfall in the river.

There were even funny sounds. A pet monkey sat on the porch railing and chattered at David—whom, by the way, we should now call Mr. Day. The poor monkey had yesterday learned a lesson which all naughty creatures must learn, to keep his hands away from that which did not belong to him. His aim in life was mischief; he liked to steal, to tear down pictures from the wall, to open ink bottles and smear ink over nice clean paper, or, better still, over paper which had been laboriously covered with reports.

But yesterday, in hunting for ink, he had opened a bottle of strong ammonia. For a moment he had been paralyzed by the fumes, then he coughed and sputtered and scolded and screamed and ran to the top of one of the tall palm trees in front of the house. He would never open any more bottles! He seemed to be saying so as he chattered.

Old Mission Chapel Built by Dr. Day, and his Coffee Industry

Dr. Day believed that not only must men be taught about Jesus, but they must be given work to keep them busy and create self-respect.After breakfast a bell rang, and Mr. Day hurried to the chapel. It was time for prayers, and then he would get at his important task. He had, besides a loving heart, a good head, and he believed that it was not enough to teach men about Jesus and to persuade them to have faith in Him. One must also give them work to do so that their minds and hands might be occupied and they might be self-respecting and busy. Then the tempter would not be able to win them back to sin.

Each boy and girl and each man and woman in the mission had a task. In the first place they went to school, and hundreds had learned to read the Bible, some so well that they could teach others. They did the work in the mission house and on the coffee plantations, they toted the baggage, and they farmed for themselves.

Mr. Day not only believed that they should work, but he believed that they should have good tools and labor-saving devices just as the white people had, and this morning a long-looked-for steam engine was to be set in place. There was no use to try to have any other work done, or even to keep school. Mr. Day was excited, but he was the least excited of all the people for miles around.

He conducted chapel soberly, and then he went down to the river, followed by a great crowd. There were little girls in neat gingham dresses and little boys in white cotton trousers and shirts and older folks who were also clean and neatly dressed. Behind them came another throng who lived near by, but who did not belong to the mission. At their head was a chief who had fixed himself up for the occasion by borrowing all the clothing his friends owned. He wore shoes which were too tight, and consequently he took mincing, awkward steps. The rest of his wardrobe consisted of three heavy coats, the lower one very long, the upper one cut off so as to show the tails of the other two, and a high paper collar.

Like all the rest, he was afraid of the large object which lay at the landing. Not much of it was to be seen through the crate which covered it, but he could tell that it was black and dangerous looking. He muttered as he went along.

"We no made for do dis ting. 'Merican man got dat sense. Country man too fool; no sava (know) dem ting called steam. Sava cook, sava eat, sava rice; but dis ting pass him."

As they approached the river's edge, the men of the mission pressed forward to the side of Mr. Day, whom they called Daddy. They were very proud of their importance, but they were half afraid. Daddy was already fastening the ropes to the boat in which the engine rested."Now, boys, pull her up!" he called.

There was giggling and laughing as a hundred hands laid hold on the ropes. There was also a great deal of boasting, such as boys do in our country.

"Me strong man!"

"Me pull powerful!"

"Dis ting nosing! Me pull whole house."

"Me pull whole tree down!"

"Ready, all together!" called Daddy.

In a few minutes the boat was high up on the sand beside a strong tripod of poles and the mission wagon which had been placed there. With still louder shouts the heavy box was swung into the wagon. There was laughter and more boasting.

"Me pull strongest of all!"

But now came the tug-of-war. The wagon sank deep into the soft soil and when it would not move, each black man let go the rope and began to shout reproaches at his mate.

"You no work!"

"You weak man!"

"You little baby!"

Daddy was for a moment in despair. Then his ever-ready smile returned, and he said to a bystander, "Get a drum."

The drummer began to beat, the crowd began to sing, the boys and girls began to dance, and the wagon moved. The rope was so long that the women and children could take hold. In a little while the engine had come to the end of its long journey from York, Pennsylvania, to Muhlenberg Mission, Africa.

But it was not yet set up, and Mr. Day was puzzled. He stood earnestly reading the directions, and then he began to give orders. He was so pressed upon by the crowd that he had to shout to them to stand back.

A smart mission boy read the number on the engine.

"Him say, 'No two four one seven.' That him name."

They were all so busy with their own thoughts that they did not see that the last section of the engine was in place and that Daddy had filled the boiler with water.

Suddenly a black boy began to yell.

"Daddy burn him engine up! Daddy burn him engine up!"

Daddy smiled again and piled under the boiler the splintered wood from the crate. The fire grew hotter and hotter, the people forgot their fear and pressed closer and closer.

Daddy was elated; for years he had prayed for this engine, and for months he had known that it was coming and had wondered whether he would be able to set it up and run it. Now here it was, put together, and with the steam pressure mounting higher and higher. He could not express his joy, but he had something at hand which could. He supposed that this fine engine had a fine whistle and he opened the valve and set it off.

Such a sound had never been heard in that part of the world. It was shriller than the monkey's chatter; it was more penetrating than the roll of the war-drums. Men, women, children—everybody—ran for the woods. Even the goats and the chickens fled. Daddy laughed and laughed, and presently they began to venture back.

"How he live for (does he) holler?" asked one.

"He shoot off wif he mouf!"

"Daddy say he have biler. Where de biler?"

"Yonder de biler!" And half a dozen fingers pointed to the smoke-stack.

Daddy let the fire go down and went back to the mission porch. It was almost noon, and the hot sun commanded all men with white skins to get under cover. He sat down to tell his friends in America that the engine was in place, and, as he wrote, he remembered his arrival at the mission, its desolation, the sinking of his heart. His pen dropped from his fingers.

One man had, after all, done a great deal.Mr. Day had, after awhile, a new title, given to him by a college at home. First he had been Dave, then David, then he had been the Reverend Mr. Day, then "Daddy," and now he was "the Reverend Doctor Day." Probably he liked "Daddy" best of all.

He had ceased entirely as he grew older to think about other people caring for him; what he wished for was to care for other people. He had had many to love, the dear wife who worked with him, and two babies whom they could only keep for a little while. Then there was Leila, a little daughter who was brought up in America. When she was nine years old she went to Africa, but lived only a short time.

He had also hundreds, even thousands, of black boys and girls and men and women, those who came to the mission as children and married there and bought themselves little farms near by, and those who came and stayed only a little while and then went back to the jungle. Of these, some forgot all they had learned, except one thing, that here was a man who had come from so far away that they could not measure the distance, simply to do them good.

For twenty-three years Dr. Day worked on, almost without rest. Mrs. Day came home to America, worn-out, but with high courage to the end of her life. She would not let anyone say that she would not get well and that she could not go back and work with Dr. Day.

"In Africa everything depends on how brave you are. I expect to go back."

Dr. Day saw many of the missionaries who came to help him fall by his side; he saw his first native helpers grow old and die, but he was as brave as Mrs. Day.

"This is my work," he would say. "I need no rest. This is my place."

In 1896 he came home. It was December, and more than thirty years had passed since that December day when he had started out in the bleak morning leading his poor horses. He traveled on a fast steamer, but it was clearly to be seen that before he reached the dock he would have started on another journey. The friends who came to meet him found only his tired body.

But all over the country hearts ached and ached, from Maine to California and from Canada to Florida, and out in Africa there was mourning. It was hard to realize that this was the boy who, when he was young, had wished so desperately for "just one person to care for him." Now thousands cared for him. The explanation is very simple, so simple that any child can understand and can imitate him. It is this—he cared for others.