Bolivia, the Hermit Republic of South America, is hidden away behind the mighty Andes. It is the fourth country in the continent in point of size, and a vast treasure house of silver and tin.

More than half the inhabitants are pure-blooded Indians, degenerate descendants of the valiant Inca race.

The most interesting and useful animal to the Indian is the llama. He will travel for miles without food or drink, over precipitous mountains and rocky paths, carry his 100-lb. load, and not an ounce more; for if you should happen to impose upon him he simply lies down on the path and refuses to budge an inch. They are splendid “passive resisters,” these llamas, and will have no nonsense from anyone, though, of course, their Indian owners know better than to overburden their llamas with superfluous luggage.

The llama, known as “the Bolivian Railway,” can travel fifteen miles a day. When he dies his flesh is eaten, but the Indian loves his animal too well to kill him for food.

“In many places the Indians are ill-treated, deceived, and robbed by the white Spanish-speaking people. They are looked upon as mere brutes, fit for nothing but work, instead of human beings with immortal souls. They sometimes live together in villages, sometimes in isolated, quiet nooks, or it may be in clusters of huts where there are two or three families.”

Each Indian has a few patches of ground for himself, and in exchange for this cultivates a few acres of crops for his owner. He also has a certain number of animals to care for, but this is mostly the work of his wife and family. Little children of from four to five years of age are supposed to be capable of driving a flock, and when a few years older they are away on the hills all day alone with their flocks.

One scarcely sees an Indian, either man or woman, altogether idle. If they have no other occupation, they spin away at wool for the clothing of their families.

Though this is an open and very healthy climate there is much sickness among the people, chiefly because they do not know how to take care of themselves. It is very amusing to see what remedies they use for inward and outward complaints. Dirt, feathers, and anything horrible is the common ointment for sores or wounds. At a little ordinary warm water they laugh. Through the ignorance of their mothers, children, when sick, have a hard time. Some care very much, and would do anything to save their children; but others, rather than have the trouble of watching them, prefer that they should die, as a good many do.“It is the condition of the little children that calls forth most sympathy and pity, and makes us long for the day when the True Light shall shine into the hearts of the people. The majority, unloved and uncared for, surrounded by dirt and disease, know nothing of the joys of childhood, nor of the blessing of home life.

“Mothers are continually seen carrying their babies, full of disease, about the streets, and, what is worse, sitting in the market-places selling meat and bread with their sick babies in their laps. Passing along one day, a child was seen without a shred of clothing, yet with its little body literally covered with smallpox.”

Mr Will Payne, a pioneer missionary of Bolivia, says it is quite a common thing to buy and sell children in this country. He tells of three little girls who were purchased for £2 each, “and are held by their owner until they reach the age of twenty-one, during which time they are compelled to work in the house, receiving their food and clothing in exchange.

“If they fall into the hands of a kind master or mistress they have an easy, happy time, and in a few cases are taught to read and write. Should they, however, find a cruel owner, there is nothing to prevent their suffering very much like the slaves of other days.

“These children are sold by their parents when young, and sometimes never know their father or mother. How often has blood been seen flowing from the head of one of these girls, the result of a cruel blow with a strap, because she did not move quickly enough.”

A very sad story is told by one of the missionaries of the Bolivian Indian Mission, of a little Indian boy. “His left forearm, and half of left leg, are one mass of partially-healed ulcers. He tells us how, over a year ago, he was caught and deliberately thrown into the fire. His father had sold him to a neighbour, and one day, whilst shepherding, he allowed some goats to fall over a cliff: then his owner, in a fit of rage committed this inhuman act.

“After a year of intense suffering, he was brought by his apathetic father for treatment. But perhaps we ought not to blame the father too much, as he is totally blind. However, the man who burned the boy was compelled to pay the father a sum of 28s., and to release the boy. After this the boy’s father sold him again, but the boy escaped, and is now under treatment.”

Such incidents happen daily, showing how inhuman and ignorant the majority of the Indians are. The Roman Catholic religion has not converted their hearts, the only change that has taken place has been that of the religion and the idols. The hearts and lives that were dark before, without the knowledge of Christ, have been plunged into deeper gloom through the blighting influence of the Roman priesthood.

Some of the Romish masses celebrated by the people are called the “Little Masses for the Child Jesus.” These take place from Christmas to the time of Carnival. Everybody who has an image of Christ as a child is supposed to provide a feast during this time. A band of music is procured, and the little image is decked out with pearls and gay flowers, and carried to the Roman Catholic church, in front of a crowd of neighbours. A mass is said, and then the figure is taken home amid great rejoicing. Drinking, feasting, and dancing follow, and are kept up until a late hour.

On January 31st and February 1st the people prepare for Candlemas, which takes place on the 2nd. They are taught by the priest that on this day the children who have died without baptism can get a little light. It is the feast of the mothers, and the priests tell the people how necessary it is to come to church with their candles.

“Do not be like so many pieces of stick; come and bring your candles, and think of your poor dead children awaiting your candles to get some light!”

“So the next day the poor mothers come with their candles of all sorts and sizes. Long candles, short candles, thin candles, thick candles. What a mine of wealth for the priests the sale of this holy (!) grease must be!

“May God light the candle of each life in order that some day someone who reads this may be able to show the Bolivian Bairns the way to Heaven. Only the light that Christ gives is of any service to Him, and to those who ‘sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.’”

The Bolivian Indians do not have many children, as the poor mites, through neglect and ill-treatment, die in hundreds every year, most of them under two years of age.

Another reason why Indians have such small families is that when the children grow up to be twelve or thirteen years of age they marry and have homes of their own.Mr and Mrs Will Payne did some splendid pioneer work amongst these people before the liberty of preaching the Gospel was proclaimed in the Republic. They suffered much persecution at the hands of the Roman Catholics, but now missionary work can go forward without hindrance, and to-day the South American Missionary Society is at work in Southern Bolivia, while the Bolivian Indian Mission is ministering to the Quechua-speaking remnant of the bygone Inca race.

In writing of the children, one of the missionaries in San Pedro says of the school work:—

“The school is open to all, and boys and girls of the white and half-caste classes attend. (The Indians do not live in the town.) The school opens every morning with the singing of a hymn, a Scripture lesson and prayer, in all of which great interest is taken. Mother earth constitutes the floor. The walls are of mud, and the ceiling is of a rough thatching of rushes. For years the room served as a cook-house, and knew neither chimney nor window, nor any other means of exit for the smoke.

“Nowadays two large holes in the wall, one shuttered, the other not, admit light which reveals a blackness that water cannot cleanse. Two or three geography maps gravely endeavour to hide the sooty walls, and, aided by three mud seats that traverse the room, humbly announce that this is Ch’iquipampa School-house.”

Outside, mounted upon a pole which stands in the centre of the “estancia” courtyard, is the school bell. For nearly a century it hung in the belfry of a Roman Catholic chapel away out among the Bolivian mountains. But it, too, has felt the impulse of modernism, and now follows a reformed calling.

The sun is the only time-keeper known in the “campo.” The only definite hours are those of his rising and setting; therefore the bell sounds the assemble at sunrise, and soon two or three groups of children, enveloped in gay-coloured and picturesque ponchos, are seen leisurely sauntering to obey the summons—perhaps. In they come at the open door, doffing their “sombreros” (hats) respectfully enough, with a “Buenos dias, SeÑor!” (“Good day, Sir”).

Now we have before us seven or eight black heads, whose owners range in age from five to fifteen years. There are really as many grades as there are individuals.

Modestly, seated farthest back is Haquin, a bright Indian lad. He came to school early, and has already been a full half-hour hard at his reading-book, for he must soon leave in order to take his father’s cattle afield to pasture. Three months ago, he did not know a single letter. Now he reads and writes fairly large words.

Now slates, books, and pencils are served out, and for three long hours our young Bolivians are under restraint. Lazy little Antonio raises his slate high in air with both hands and yawns audibly. A tap on the big, black head, and a quiet word, recall him to his task. During a full half-hour he has written only one word, but Government forbids the rod.

The time has arrived for reading-lessons, and a whisper of appreciation is heard, for reading from the “Spanish Reader” involves a lesson in Spanish; and Indian and “Cholo” (half-caste) alike learn eagerly and quickly the tongue of the ruling class. Confronted by Bolivia’s map, a barely suppressed giggle ripples through the school. They think the names of towns, rivers, and mountains are so foreign and funny!

Arithmetic is useful, however, and all work diligently at this. Little Manuel is the pride and joy of the school in this department. Three months previously he could not write a single figure. Now, he adds and subtracts and multiplies with great exactness.Now, at the words, “Slates down,” these articles reach the hard floor with a rattle. Little Nieva draws her naked feet up on to the seat, and arranges her “manta” with the air of a Turkish princess. Word goes round, “The Jesus Book”; and a respectful silence prevails. Thank God, for these wonderful stories of the Saviour. The children’s verdict is: “Beautiful.” Thanks to Him for at least this small portion of the Gospel of St John translated into Quechua.

Now comes time for dismissal—with a respectful “Hasta maÑana, SeÑor!” (“Until to-morrow, Sir!”), or the Quechua “Ce’aya cama,” they file out, soon to break forth into whistle and shout, just like the little folks in the homeland.

Our head is somewhat muddled with this two-language task of teaching Quechua-speaking children from Spanish text-books. Some attend for a week or two, and then come no more. The parents desire that they should be educated, but confess to being powerless to persuade the young folks to attend.

Mr Grocott, of the Bolivian Indian Mission, having given such an interesting account of the day-school work, Mrs Grocott now tells about the Sunday-school. She says:—

“Could you visit our little school-room some Sunday morning, between seven and eight o’clock, you would find a little gathering of from twelve to twenty-five men, women, and children, representing the whites, the half-castes, and the pure Indians. These are gathered to learn about Jesus. They do not come because it is God’s Day, for Sunday to them is as other days. No, they come because they like to come.

“They have dirty faces, uncombed hair, and clothing which has not been washed for many weeks. Not an attractive audience, is it? But a missionary may not be critical. She has come to teach them to do better, and one must always begin at the beginning.“The day-school children come to these meetings, as do some of the parents. The Indians are rather shy at entering, and often prefer listening at the window. Those who do come in look round for an out-of-the-way corner, and, despising a seat, squat on the floor. One day a young Indian came in and immediately knelt down bareheaded before the blackboard, in an attitude of prayer.

“At the time of his entering, the attention of those present was centred upon the words written on the blackboard and he evidently thought of worship. Being accustomed to kneel in the Roman Catholic church before shrines and images, he was quite prepared to kneel to anything that appeared to him to be the object of worship for the day.

“Very few Indians can sing, but some of the half-castes do fairly well. Several hymns have already been translated into Quechua.”Christ’s command to “heal the sick,” as well as to “teach” and “preach the Gospel,” is being faithfully carried out as far as possible by the missionaries to these benighted people. The healing of the body opens the door to the healing of the soul.

A Spanish doctor will not touch an Indian; and for this great work of healing, the power of God is needed.

There are very many villages in this hermit republic without a missionary of any kind whatever. Come with me, and see for yourselves. Here on a mud bed in a corner sits a poor woman amidst her rags. A wound which she has had a long, long time has reduced her to a skeleton. Beside her is a sickly-looking baby. Between her sobs she tells us she has neither a home nor a husband.

The tiny room, which serves as a living-room, bedroom, and cobbler’s shop, is full from floor to ceiling. The floor is covered with cooking-pots, ten altogether, “stones for grinding corn into meal, great earthenware pots for making chicha (the native drink), old boots, piles of potatoes and maize, bones, rags, and dirt—plenty of dirt. From under the bed run guinea-pigs, whilst keeping the woman company in bed are a dog and a pigeon!

“Amidst old tins and bottles on the shelves we see San Antonio and the Virgin. On the wall hangs a picture of what looks something like a woman, the Virgin. A rope full of clothes stretches across the room, and a few other odds and ends leave but little space, which is filled up with smell.”

This is what the missionary has to contend with, and as we emerge into the sunshine, and breathe God’s air once more, we long to see a large, airy building where the sick ones can be tended and nursed back to health. Shall we not begin to pray: “Lord send out some of Thy messengers, and some day, if it is Thy will, I will go and help them.”