Captain Brassbound's Conversion

On the heights overlooking the harbor of Mogador, a seaport on the west / coast of Morocco, the missionary, in the coolness of the late afternoon, / is following the precept of Voltaire by cultivating his garden. He is / an elderly Scotchman, spiritually a little weatherbeaten, as having to / navigate his creed in strange waters crowded with other craft but still / a convinced son of the Free Church and the North African Mission, with / a faithful brown eye, and a peaceful soul. Physically a wiry small-knit / man, well tanned, clean shaven, with delicate resolute features and / a twinkle of mild humor. He wears the sun helmet and pagri, the / neutral-tinted spectacles, and the white canvas Spanish sand shoes of / the modern Scotch missionary: but instead of a cheap tourist's suit from / Glasgow, a grey flannel shirt with white collar, a green sailor knot tie / with a cheap pin in it, he wears a suit of clean white linen, acceptable / in color, if not in cut, to the Moorish mind.

The view from the garden includes much Atlantic Ocean and a long stretch / of sandy coast to the south, swept by the north east trade wind, / and scantily nourishing a few stunted pepper trees, mangy palms, and / tamarisks. The prospect ends, as far as the land is concerned, in / little hills that come nearly to the sea: rudiments, these, of the Atlas / Mountains. The missionary, having had daily opportunities of looking at / this seascape for thirty years or so, pays no heed to it, being absorbed / in trimming a huge red geranium bush, to English eyes unnaturally / big, which, with a dusty smilax or two, is the sole product of his pet / flower-bed. He is sitting to his work on a Moorish stool. In the middle / of the garden there is a pleasant seat in the shade of a tamarisk tree. / The house is in the south west corner of the garden, and the geranium / bush in the north east corner.