The old man's dress was
covered with patches--an eyewitness counted thirty-seven patches--all
of different colours on one side of his cloak and loose baggy
trousers.
"My field in my village I cannot plough," he said, "for we have no ox.
The Kurds have taken our possessions, you are our father. Grant us an
ox to plough and draw for us."
Dr. Shedd saw that the old man spoke truth; he scribbled a few words
on a slip of paper and the old man went out satisfied.
So for hour after hour, men and women from all the country round
came to this strange missionary who had been asked by the American
Government to administer relief, yes, and to be the Consul
representing America itself in that great territory.
They came to him from the villages where, around the fire in the
Khans at night, men still tell stories of him as one of the great
hero-leaders of their race. These are the kind of stories that they
tell of the courage and the gentleness of this man who--while he was a
fine American scholar--yet knew the very heart of the Eastern peoples
in northwestern Persia as no American has ever done in all our
history.
"One day," says one old village Assyrian greybeard, "Dr. Shedd was
sitting at meat in his house when his servant, Meshadi, ran into the
room crying, 'The Kurds have been among our people.
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