Sta,-I am dying! We all are in the general sense that can he applied to every exile in this vale of tears. But I speak of death in the strict, narrow sense when one feels the sword of death tickling at his throat.
When I got sick nine months ago I had just completed 13 years' missionary work in the tropics. In the good old pioneer days I would have been allowed to die quietly and inexpensively.
But in this era of the stratosphere. when specialists and stethoscopes are only a matter of hours away, dying is made difficult. Sodiums and salts, fats and phosphates, proteins and vitamins must be graded and controlled. This tablet, that tablet and the other tablet must be experimented with in an effort to find something which will give strength to a weak heart while not irritating a rebellious stomach.
And so. while the cost of living never worried me, I am now positively worried with the cost of dying. Somewhere in the tropics a poor bishop paid over £100 to get me home, and since then has footed a bill of approximately £200 in an effort to keep me alive.
I think I would die happy if somewhere could be found a kind benefactor who would invest something in my cost of dying. 1 can only promise two things in return. Firstly, a speedy intercession for my kind benefactor in Heaven when I get there. Secondly, in the event of my being still alive when any donation is made, I would write a personal note of gratitude, The Editor of this paper has my name and the facilities of checking up on my missionary career and subsequent illness. He also has instructions regarding any donation he may receive. Meanwhile I prefer to remain anonymous-it's the obvious and natural prelude to oblivion. •