School. They held their own easily. One of their bowlers was a terror; barefooted, hands and feet whirling like a wheel, he sent down the ball at a great pace. Meanwhile the field, also barefooted, when a wicket fell, or a catch was made, stood on their heads, clapping their feet together. On Sunday, in Church, as they know the run of the Service in their own language, they were most devout, and in the afternoon they themselves, after an address from the Bishop, entertained a great gathering of children and teachers, with hymns sung in their own language, accompanied by a barefooted organist on the harmonium.
An incident which then occurred will illustrate one of the minor hardships of a Missionary's life. I had given up my study to the Bishop for rest and preparation for the evening service and, coming in to see if he had all he needed, I found several of his boys there, some sprawling on the floor, some lounging in chairs. I promptly turned them out. "Ah," said the Bishop, "that's one of our great problems; they have no idea of our need of privacy; they will creep in and lie about, like dogs, simply to be with you."
"Why not turn them out?" I said.
"Well, you see, we wish to make them feel quite at home with us; it is part of our plan of leading them to realize what is meant by Christian fellowship and brotherhood." This seems to me a counsel of perfection open to argument.
The Mission is well supported in New Zealand, both by subscription and regular offertories.
We have now a system of Diocesan inspection of Sunday Schools, greatly to their advantage. The Inspector visits every school annually, examines, advises the staff, and, by sermons and addresses, stirs
