Potosi journal. (Potosi, Mo.) 1894-1929, 1897-08-11
India Starving.

''We had passed the Chats, as the
mountain range north OF Bombay
is called, and were running through
an endless plain. This plain, di-
vcr>iiicd only by here and there Il
string of low hills or small buttcs.
is India: it extends for thousands
upon thousands Of square miles.
Except during the spring and
autumn crop seasons and monsoonS,
it presents Il limitIcss cSpansc of
dry, naked mud, of Il pale, yellow
ish- brown hue, baked hard aud
dusty. There is not 4 blade of
grass on it from one meridian to
another: not only not Il blade, but
not a root: for those cattle you see
wandering or standin" about, with
the bones sticking through their
hides, have long since grubbed up
the roots and eaten them: they are
all the fodder they have. After Il
few hours this persistence of dry
mud flats begins to affect you: sure
Iy. YOU think, YOU must come to
erccnncss before long. The train
rattlcs over Il long bridge, and
looking from the window. YOU see
Il river below. n river: Was there
indeed ever Il river there! The
bed Of it is wide and deep, bat there
are no grassy margins. no scd 10y
shores, no ripple and sparkle and
pleasant nlurmur. There is the
broad, naked bed, with not a drop
of water in it: the footprints of
people and cattle completely cover
it, and the wheel of bullock
carts have worn deep ruts; you
would say that Il generation must
have passed since the stream flowed
above the arid surface. The gray
sands quivcr in the heat: the stones
and boulders are so hot that you
could not bear your hand on them.
The white sun blaZcs down on
them. And this was Il river rs big
us the Connecticut or the Merrimac
or the Susquehanna. From one
end of it to the other, you would
not find enough water to fill Il half
pint glass.
"S,ill those endless mud flats, bak-
inc under the sun, stretching out
to the horizon on all sides. Little
clouds Of dust eddy over them once
in awhile. In some of these regions
scarcely drop of rain has fallen,
not for the past season only, but
for three years; in one district not
for four years. And yet rain
means life to these people, and the
lack of it, starvation. And this
parchcd desert Of yellow brown
mud is the home of three hundred
million human beings. 1t is the
only world they ever see. 1t is
strewn with their dry bones. You
may traverse hundred miles of it
at stretch without seeing food
enough, even of the most primitive
kind, to keep Il child alive for a
day. But you cannot 90 4 hundred
miles, away from the railways,
without seeing skeletons enough to
have furnished many meal for
the jackals and birds and wild dogs.
There they lie, under the dry bush
c>, on the shady side of the rocks,
crouchcd against the trunks Of the
mango trees, just where they sat
themselves down to die. The wild
beasts have pulled their bones about
a little; but otherwise there they
rest as they died, glistening and
cracking in the sun; and no one
knows who they were, and the
record of their death will never ap-
pear i'll any mortal blue-book. A
little tuft of black hair blows in
the wind, as you ride by. from the
white skull; or a woman's long
braid hangs down through tho
empty ribs. And notice that tiny
skeleton, lying across the bone:
that were her legs. SO they died, i
part of the eight'millions. Julian
Hawthorne. in August Number OF
Cosmopolitan"