Belgian Congo, Central Africa,
(Via Antwerp.)
November 11, 1921
Dearest homefolks:
How do you like my new stationery? B.M. said this heading took up too much space, but I wanted to use it just this once. My writing always looks so bad without lines, though. I've decided not to learn to write on the typewriter now, and I had rather spend all my extra time, which isn't very much now, on practicing hymns. Even if I do say it, I can play them much better than when I came. Mr. Martin's organ is certainly a dandy, and not very hard to pump, either. That reminds me that she, Mrs. Martin, has passed her examination (physical) and is expecting to come back with Mr. Martin at the end of his next vacation. That means I'll have to give up my cook, but I hope to have another trained by that time.
The most interesting thing that has happened lately in our "family" is that Cisuaka has a new boy baby, born day before yesterday, and named Mayele, B.M.'s native name. I went to see it yesterday evening, and carried a little dress I had made for him that morning, out of some of that cloth I had a dress of a long, long time ago when I was a little girl. I don't know whether you remember it or not, it has little wreaths of pink and green. It was the first baby dress I ever made, and really it did look cute after I got the pink ribbon drawstring around the neck and arms. I had intended to put the dress on myself, I mean on the baby myself, but when I got there they were giving the poor little thing a cold bath, splashing the cold water all over it, in its eyes to boot, and my, he was yelling as loud as he could. They then put him on an old piece of cloth and gave him to his mother; after he got quiet, I didn't have the nerve to disturb him to try on the dress. Some of the things about the natives--their superstitions and beliefs--at this time just makes you want to try to teach them the right way, and do something for them.
I forget to tell you in the last letter when I sent the picture of "our boys" why Cisuaka was not in it. You see, it was this way, he was fired for a while, then we took him back, and it was while he was away that the picture was taken. We want to take his and Ngoi's picture together and send it to you, for they are our best boys next to the cook. We are believing more and more that our cook is a thief. Thank you for that pie crust recipe. He doesn't make very good pie crust, but my! he made a good potato pie for dinner. You were saying we didn't make many pies and things, but we certainly do; we put our fruits into pies and puddings sometimes, but for desserts, we hardly ever use just the fruit alone, but use much fruit for salads, with dressing, and peanuts and lettuce. We have been getting such a nice celery up from the garden lately, and we had some very nice celery soup for dinner. I wish you could come eat with me just once, then you would want to come again, I believe. You see, I can talk as I don't do the cooking.
It was certainly nice of the Livingston people to come out to see you and bring their lunch. I believe they are among the very best friends we have. Why haven't you told me more about the new building, where it's going to be, what it's for, who's going to run it, etc.?
Now, Mother, don't go to teaching school too soon; you were mighty sick and if you go to working hard again, you might not be able to stand it. Think about us a little, when we come home, how anxious we are to find you in good health.
Mother dear, please excuse my statement a while back that you did not write long enough letters or something like that. Your letters are so sweet and interesting to me, and they are much longer, and more of them than I write you, but this is what was the matter. I was so anxious to get your letters, and just a little homesick, too, sometimes, that I could just read and read your letters and not get tired. It really wasn't the fault of your letters, if you just knew how much they meant to me. Now I wouldn't have you think for a minute that I'm not happy, but I'd like to see you mighty well sometimes. We sit out on the porch lots of nights and wonder what you are doing. At seven with us, it's about 12 a.m with you. I don't think we have missed any letters since we got to Luebo. My paper has run out so goodbye. I love you.
Dorothy
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