The hens also knew the men were gone and resumed their standing-up strike. Betty was busy with some of the visiting Indians when Jimmie called: “Mother.” “Mother’s busy just now, darling.” “But, Mother, we’re going to kill a spider.” “All right!” Mother was busy and not paying much attention. “It’s a real big spider, Mother.” Mother looked around, “What do you want, dear?” “Tata wants some alcohol. We’re going to pour it on a great big spider and throw a match on the spider, and burn the spider up, and he’s going to die.” “Did Tata tell you to come and get alcohol?” “Yes, he did. He said, ‘Hurry up so we can kill the spider so it won’t bite us. It’s a big, black one.’” “All right, I’ll get the bottle of alcohol.” “Tata said to send a piece of cotton, too, for him to put the alcohol on.’’ Betty gave the alcohol and cotton, but decided she had better go along to oversee the procedure. Tata was a black man, not very bright in the head, whom the missionaries had allowed to live on the compound to help with the manual work. His little wife had her own tragic story. When Tata saw Lila, she was a beautiful child with flashing black eyes and a
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