The Madisonian

BETHLEHEMITE WOMEN

As the reservoirs and canals which supply Bethlehem as well as Jerusalem with water, are in ruins, and dry eleven months in the year, the women are obliged to go a league for what they fetch for household use, and to bring it back themselves in skins. Add to this, the toil of climbing steep hills under their burden, and then say, my dear friend, if it be possible to suppress a painful feeling, especially when you consider that this task has to be performed three or four times a week.

A few days since I was taking a walk out of the town with the cure. About three-quarters of a mile from it, we met with a young girl returning with her provision. She had set down her skin upon a fragment of rock, and was standing beside it, out of breath, and wiping the perspiration from her face.

Curious to know the weight of the skin, I begged her to put it on my shoulders; my request astonished her not a little; she, nevertheless, complied very cheerfully. It was as much as I could do to take a few steps under the burden.

"Poor thing," said I, as I threw it down, looking at the cure, "how old is she? not more than sixteen, I dare say."

"Sixteen!" answered he, "she is not thirteen;" and, addressing her in Arabic, he asked,

"How old are you, my girl?"

"Twelve, sir."

I took from my pocket some pieces of money, which I handed to her, and which she accepted with a lively demonstration of joy.

But to go so far for water is not the only task of the poor Bethlehemites. The town is destitute of wood, nor is any to be found nearer than some leagues. It is the women who have to provide this also.

But what wrings one's heart, and I confess makes my blood boil, is to see these wretched worn-down, emaciated creatures, having misery stamped on their faces, sinking beneath their loads, passing in sight of their husbands, listlessly seated in the public square, smoking and chatting by way of pastime; while not a thought enters the head of these heartless, base, and unkind husbands, to relieve his partner of her burden, and to carry for her, at least, from that spot to his home what she had to bring whole leagues. Is this all? No, my friend

At night, with this wood, which has cost such toil, she is obliged to heat the water brought from such a distance; she has to wash the feet of that man, then to cook his supper, then to wait upon him, standing—upon him and his eldest son—without taking the least share in the meal, and to wait till they have done, before she can step aside to eat by herself what they have left. * * * *

The pen drops from my fingers. Is it possible that she can be thus treated, who carries him in her bosom, who brings him forth with pain, who suckles him with her milk, who warms him on her heart, who rocks him on her knees, who guides his first steps, who strives by education to infuse into him all that is gentle and kind, who delights to throw a charm over his life, who shares his sorrows, who best knows how to soothe his woes, to comfort him, to nurse him in sickness and infirmity, to lighten and sometimes to embellish his old age, and to perform for him, until his last moment, services of which any other courage and devotedness, any other love, would be incapable! And that at Bethlehem!