362
i tarailtv
FAITH.
Rev. J. C. Ryle lately prepared a
collection of hymns. After the selection
was completed and all in type, he re
ceived, from au unknown source, a
hymn which he thougnt so desirable that
he cancelled one of his selections to
make room for it. Since the publication
of the volume, it is said he has received a
large number of letters from various par
ties, acknowledging the pleasure and profit
they have derived from this particular
hymn, and especially from the clearness
with which it expresses doctrinal truth.
Faith is a very slender thing,
Though little understood ;
It frees the soul from death's dread sting
By resting in4lte Blood.
It looks not on the things around,
Nor on the things within :
It takes its flight to scenes above,
Beyond the sphere of sin.
It sees, upon the throne of God,
A.. victim that was slain.
It rests its all on his shed blood,
And says, " I'm born again."
Faith is not what we feel or see;
. It is a simple trust
In what the God of love has said
Of Jesus, as " the Just."
The perfect One that died for me,
Upon his Father's throne
Presents our names before our God,
And pleads Himself alone.
What Jesus is, and that alone,
Is faith's delightful plea,
It never deals with sinful self,
Nor righteous self, in mo.
It tells me I am counted "dead,"
By God in his own Word ;
It tells me I am " born again,"
In Christ my risen Lord.
In that ho died, he died to sin ;
In that ho lives—to God ;
Then I am dead to nature's hopes,
And justified through blood.
If ke is free, then I am free,
From all unrighteousness ;
If he is just, then I am just ;
He is my righteousness.
What want I more to perfect bliss ?
A body like his own
Will perfect me for greater joys
Than angels' round the throne.
MATCHES.
By Miss Warner, Author of the "Wide, Wide
World," "Old Helmet," &c.
[WRITTEN FOR OOR COLUMNS.]
Chanter VI
Children, you must imagine that it is
a fair spring day in New. York, two yea>t!
ago, and the streets are full of people.
Not hurrying to and fro on business, not
making gay purchases and going on
bright errands ; not even (though it is
Sunday) on the way to church. They
stand thronged on the side-walk,—some
weeping, some pressing their hands
tight together, some respectfully taking
off their hats and remaining uncovered.
For slowly through the crowded streets
comes a long funeral procession ; with
intiffied drums and solemn music breaking
the dead hush. All through the city
the flags are at half mast; and the sol
diers' walk with arms reversed, and the
coffin is wrapped in the Stars and Stripes,
and strewn with flowers. Women weep
as it goes by, and men's faces gather
stern purpose ; for in that coffin lies the
first martyr of the rebellion.
In Brooklyn this very day another
funeral is taking place ; the funeral of
one who has fallen in the battle of life.
But oh there is no remembrance of re
bellion here, but only of reconciliation
to God, through our Lord Jesus Christ !
Little Johnny had no home where
the funeral service could be held, and so
one of the churches was offered for that
purpose. There is a crowd here too,—
of young privates in life's great army :
little children, and poor newsboys and
mateh-sellers,—the church is full. And
they are the chief mourners. No father
or mother claims the right to stand next
to Johnny's coffin; no sisters are there
to weep for him. But from the eyes of
many a newsboy, and down many a dirty,
little face, come drops which are true
and warm and heartfelt, if not crystal
clear. A few kind ladies are there too,
who lay delicate white flowers on the
coffin,—then the hymn is given out—
and through the great audience there is
a low echo of sobs ' as the hoarse, tear
fraught voices of the newsboys sing :
,‘ In the Christian's home in glory
There remains a land of rest,
There my Saviour's gone before me,
To fulfil my soul's request.
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary, ••
There is rest for you.
On the other side of Jordan,
In the sweet fields of Eden,
Where the tree of life is blooming,
There is rest for you.
He is fitting up my mansion,
Whieb eternally 0101 stand;
For my stay shall not bo transient
In that holy happy land.
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you.
Pain nor sickness ne'er shall enter,
Grief nor woe my lot shall share ;
But in that celestial centre
I a crown of life shall wear.
On the other side of Jordan.
In the eweet fields of Edan.
Where the tree of life is blooming,
There is rest for the weary .
There is rest for me !"
Then services went on ; and by and by
one after another of those who had
known Johnny, rose up and told what
they knew of him. "And .then,"
said
Ow, who was there ; " we who had known
him; best, felt that we had. not half
valued him."
Here stood up one friend and told of
his patient Wcirk and study in the Semi
ary ; his blarrreles life, ; his bright face•
and steady progress. Another told of
-and last
his heroic patient endurance, his noble
efforts to help others as well as himself,
—another of his never failing trust in
the Lord Jesus ; the one light by which
his frail little bark had found its way ;
coming with joy at the end of the short
voyage, to the haven where he would be-.
Then rose up the doctor,—and with
words broken and checked with tears,
said : " That was the noblest little soul
I ever saw in a human body !"
He went on to tell, of Johnny's suffer
ings,—of his wonderful - courage and
fortitude ; of his bright hope and patient
trust : until those who heard scarcely
knew whether to weep for the short,
painful life on earth, or to cry Glory !
at the thought of Johnny's, inheritance
in heaven.
The few children of rich people who
were there, looked pitifully at Johnny's
pale, worn, little face ; the eyes of the
rough newsboys grew soft and tender
as they gazed. But to those whose
hearts were warm with the love -of
Christ, the sight was joyful, with only
a shadow of grief.
Like those rough boys he was once
—more uneared for, more ignorant, than
many of them ; and the pain-marked
though peaceful face, told what his late
life had been. But now !—" There shall'
be no more sickness, nor sorrow, nor
crying ; neither shall here be any more
pain : for the former things are passed
away, and, behold, all things are become
new."
"In thy presence is fulness of joy :
at thy right hand there are pleasures
for evermore."
That is the sort of life in which John
ny's spirit is home now, children. This
weary, deformed little body only is in
the grave waiting for the day when it
shall be raised in glory, and made like
unto Christ forever.
" Cry aloud and shout, thou inhabi
tant of Zion ; for great is the Holy One
of Israel in the midst of thee !"
CONTRASTS
[WArTTEN POR OIIIt COLUMIIB.I
It is strange that in this life of ours
extremes of life and death, of joy and
sorrow, so often meet. None but an In
finite Father could watch each scene,
and meet each want going up from so
many stricken and so many rejoicing
hearts.
To:night the lamp lights with its cheer
ful glow the pictures, and the parlor
comforts of my pleasant home ; a loved
face bends opposite to me over an en
grossing book, and I sit with worsteds
idly in my lap, and dream over two
scenes that even with my limited view I
know are transpiring now.
In an elegant mansion there is festivity
to-night. For weeks, nay months, the
pleasant preparations have been going
on. Nothing has marred the fulness of
delight and anticipation ; and to-night
in the rich newly furnished parrors,
amid glitter and music, costly entertain
ment and gay congratulations stands the
dark eyed daughter of the house. Her
hand is on a bearded stranger's arm,
and her regal form dazzling with lustrous
white and fair adornments, radiant with
youth and confidence and, happiness,
looks queenly, almost haughty beside
that graver, elder one that stands beside
her henceforth to possess and protect
her. The vows are spoken, there is
heartfelt joy among those who love her,
there are gifts and blessings. The tall
brother shakes hands shyly, but with
beaming eyes, with the newly married
pair, while the younger, petted one has
his choice token of love to offer, in a
half-maze of pleasure and admiration,
and fair haired Baby May,with shrinking
three year old grace, presents her happy
wondering kiss.
Prayer hallows the rejoicing, and on
to a new and waiting home reach the
golden anticipations of the hridegroom
and the bride.
Another scene and another home not
many steps from where I write, a strong
man lies \crushed and broken with ,his
weeping family about hiin. Nine chil
dren to-night are orphan's, who thiS*day
were sheltered and happy in a father's
heart. At morning he went forth,laden
with cares and love, to the , day's toil for
the support of these beloved ones. The
darkness was no gloom to him as he
plunged into the recesses of the 'mine
and with'sturdy blows, lighted by his
starlike, lamp struck off in fragments the
woild-old coal. For years he has
wrought here, and when his work was
done, sought, with cheerful content, the
daylight and his home again. This day
there was a low rumble of parting rock,
a sudden fall, and beneath the mass the
man's last breath has fled. Never will
the strong right arm be lifted again,
—never the eyes unclose—and in the
home his presence made glad are loss
and desolation evermore. Neighbors
and friends surround the corpse, and
mingle their wail with the distracted
family. I can almost hear the cries, so
wild and bitter the moans and lamenta
tions. Alas ! alas, there is no light, for
it is Purgatery and not 'Heaven that
holds their agonized thought. And this
is grief!
Between the two we sit in quiet and
peace. Hope and Fear truly . lie before
us, but harmonized to one calm trust.
The preser,t, with no ecstasy ; and no
gloom, is filled with daily precious bless
ing.
My Father, in joy andworrow when
thou shalt send them me,:forsake me
never—and let those who rejoice, A - rid
those whof weep to-night alike find in
Thee their All in All. L.
PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1864.
There was a little new scholar at the
district school that winter. His life had
come up to its eighth year, though he
did not look so old ; his face was so
pinched and thin, and his car fully
patched garments hung loosely tupon
his small limbs. He kept aloof !from
all the scholars, and they seemed also
to shun him. He took his•place quietly
in the morning, and did not once leave
it, except for recitation till school was
over. All through the long nooning he
sat watching the sports of his school
fellows, and Charlie Harper had often
noticed that he never replied, only by a
little quiver of his small mouth, when
the boys would taunt him with being a
drunkard's child, and a little Paddy.
Charlie's mother told him one morning,
as he was starting for school, to keep
his eyes open that day, and see if he
could not do some good, kind act, that
would leave an influence upon some of
his mates, as well as himself; and
Charles kept in mind as he walked on,
with his satchel on his arm, and along
with the thought flashed the remem
brance of the child, Mikey O'Connel.
He looked off at the end of the long
lane, where. there were few foot-prints,
except the little ones that Mikey's feet
had made, to the small, low house, that
had stood tenantless for a long time.
It was so old and ruinous, `and he knew
the people who lived there must be very
poor, and he felt grieved in his childish
heart that
. he had neglected the forlorn
little scholar so long. He was already
in his place when Charles entered the
school-room, sitting by himself, as he
always did, and Charles went up to him
a little timidly, hardly knowing what to
say to open an acquaintance.
"Won't you come out at noon upon
the ice? I have a pair of new skates,
and a sled all painted green; you may
use them both, if you like."
A pleased, happy look, came into
those great, sad eyes, and the thin face
lighted up alt over.
" Thank you!" he whispered softly,'
but very heartily. " I would love to
ride on your sled. I never learned to
skate. But maybe if I come out, the,
boys will plague me," the old look
getting back into his face. •
"No, they shall not !" exclaimed
Charles, manfully—" I wont let them.
And say, Mikey, don't you want me to
come over and set with you!"
"Oh, if you only would!" with an
eager, wishful look in his face. " The
other boys just take their books and set
away over, and it makes me feel as if I
couldn't come any more. But mother
wants me to learn so bad, and cheers
me up; so I tries to forget it."
Just then the teacher came, and
Charles went to his seat. It was at
the other end of the long row. He
picked up his books, and went up to
the teacher's desk a. little reluctantly,
and as the tall man bent to hear what
his pupil had to say, Charles whispered,
" Please sir, may I' sit in the end of
the seat, near Mikey O'Connel? I will
be very quiet. The other boys do not
like to sit near him, and it makes him
feel bad."
The teacher glanced towards Mikey.
He was looking at him with wishful eyes,
that told how much interested he was
in the answer to Charles' request. He
was a kind hearted man; so he patted
Charles' ,Bead, called him a thoughtful
boy, and granted his desire. Charles
felt the eyes of the, whole school were
.ipon him, and he saw the scornful smile
upon the lips of many of his mates ; but
Mikey's happy face repaid him for all
he had lost in their friendship. When
school was over for the morning, he
drew the satchel from underneath his
bench, and taking from it the nice cold
biscuit and ham, the piece of cake and
pie that his mother had placed .there for
him ,-,he moved a little nearer, Mikey,
•
and said—
"Let's eat' our dinner in a hurry,
and tken go out and slide. Where is
your satchel?" • • '
A crimson flush shot up into Mikey's
forehead,' but he did not speak. Charles
looked at him wonderingly a moment,
and then with childish, eagerness, re
minded him of his dinner. Alikey
turned his head away, and drew from
his pOcket a small Crust of corn bread,
which he tried to conceal from Charles.
"Is that all:the dinner' you've got ?"
almost escapea . Oharles' lips; but he, saw
how hard he was trying to hide the mea
gre lunch from him; so he leaned back
in his seat, and said nothing ; only his
little brain was planning—planning how
he could give Mikey 4. part of his din
ner, without making him feel humbled.
" Oh, mother gives me so much din
ner !" he said; at length, taking a long
breath—" I cannot .begin to eat it.
Here, Mikey, see if this isn't good,"
and he placed a liberal supply upon the
child's end of the bench.
'Don't, you want it ?" asked Mikey,
looking pleased.
"No, indeed;' you eat it, if vou cam'
" Oh, isn't it good ?" be said, devour,
lug it eagerly. Are you willing I
should carry this little piece-to mother?"
"Yes; if you wish•to; but doesn't she
have cake ?"' asked Charles, bluntly.
"No, not now,"
sighed the boy.
am all ready: to go and slide," .
changing the subject hastily.
Charles put his satchel back in its
arig . draWing on his warm mittens,
and fying_his cap over his ears, stood :
waiting -for Mikey.
SELECTIONS.
LITTLE MIKEY
BY MINNIE VV, WAY
"Haven't you got any mittens ?" he
asked, looking at the little bare hands,
that were placing the odd cap upon the
top of his head.
"No, I haven't," he answered quick
ly ; " but I don't need them; I am
tough."
" Why, I should think your hands
would ache dreadfully these cold morn
ings."
" They do, sometimes," was the quiet
reply.
"Well, you take mine, and I'll get my
sister Susan's. She is two •years older
than. I, and her hand is just as big ;"
and before Mikey could say a word,
Charlds was gone. He talked to his
sister in a whisper, telling her about
poor little Mikey's crust of bread, his
bare hands and ears, and Susan's kind
heart was touched.
"I was going out with the girls to slide,"
she said, without a shadow of disappoint
ment in her tones, "but I had rather
you should take Mikey, and have my
mittens." She plunged her hand into
her pocket, and took out a pair of nice
white mittens, which she put in Charles'
hand.
"And stop, Charlie, Mikey's ears
must be almost froze.. There's my lit
tle woolen scarf. hanging on the peg
under the 'shelf; you go and get it,
and tie it over his ears. He might have
it to keep for I do not need it, and
mother wouldn't care, I am quite sure.
Charles was delighted with his sis
ter's generosity, and it was amusing to
watch the kindness with which he tied
the short, warm scarf beneath Mikey's
peaked chin, and pulled his cap down
hard, to keep it on.
" There, isn't that nice, Mikey ?" he
asked, viewing his companion quite
proudly.
"Why, I should _think it was sum
mer !" was the pleased reply; and Mikey
rubbed his hands over his bandaged
ears with great satisfaction.
Charles was very attentive to his new
friend that day, and tried to shield
him from the thoughtless remarks of
his companions, who, in a mischief-lov
ing spirit, would call after him as he
dashed down the hill upon the pretty
green sled—
"Go it, Paddy I See Pat, now, how
he goes ! Look out, little O'Connel, or
you'll lose your breath!"
But Mikey did not mind it much.
He was enjoying his nooning vastly,
and it seemed as if he had never learned
his lessons so easily as he did that after
noon. His step was light and his face
bright, as he bade Charles good-night,
and started to run down the lane, fast
as he could make his way through the
deep, untrodden snow, and in a few
minutes he -was lifting the worn latch of
the old tumble-down house.
The room was darlt and dingy, just a
glimmer of fire upon the broken hearth,
and by its side his mother was sewing
busily, while upon a low bed in the
corner his father was lying in a deep
sleep. Mikey'B face clouded as he
glanced at the speaker, and he crept
softly to his mother's side.
" Etas he been off again ? Did he
find , ,the money V'.
Mrs. O'Connel replied by a sad nod
of assent.
" 011, isn't that too bad ! Did he
take the whole ?"
Another mournful nod was the an
swer. •
Mikey had brought home fifty cents
the evening before ' the pay for some
work his mother had been doing, nd
they had carefully hidden it away, lest
the intemperate father should spend it
for drink. He had searched diligently
for it after Mikey had gone to school,
and by fierce threats had forced his
wife to make known the hiding place.
She tried to retain a part of it, for
they had little fuel or food, but he had
taken the Ivhole, gone off to the village
tavern, and an hour before Mikey, had
come staggering home.
"I have had a good time to-day,
mother," he whispered. "See here,"
and he pulled the scarf from his neck,
." Charlie Harper gave, me this, and I've
got a piece of cake for you. He gave
lots of good dinner, and came over
and sat with me; then he let me slide
on his sled all between schools. Oh, I
did have such nice rides. He is the
best boy I ever did see ! Why, mother,
you 'r crying ! Aren't you -g l ad ?"
The poor mother only put her arm
about her little'boy, and drew him close
to her and kissed him very tenderly,
while the tears dropped upon his curly
head.
" Yes, mother is very glad for her
little boy, It is nice cake, but you e
"No, mother, I brought it for you,"
and the mother saw how much it would
please her generous son, and, she ate it
all.
" Did the boys call you names to-'
day ?" she asked, sadly, though she
was glad to see her boy happy.
" Not much, and I did not mind it if
they did, cause Charlie took my part."
Charles went home and told his good,
kind mother all about little Mikey, and
what he had done for him, and she
kissed him and called him her darling
boy, and Charles felt very happy that
night,. and as if he, had not kept his
eyes open in vain. He went to his nice
warm bed after eating' his good supper,
but Mikey only had a little Indian por
ridge ; his mother stirred upon the coals,
and he crept off to his hard pallet, hun
gry and cold. Bathe did not complain.
Visions of smooth, slippery hills, and
sleds all painted green, and merry,
laughing school boys, went dancin
through his dreams, and the great round
moon came up and looked . through the
Windows of the old brown house and fell
directly across Mikey's face, and his
mother saw as she stood looking=at him,
he was smiling in his sleep.
Charles proved a true friend to Mikey,
and gradually his mates came to take
an interest in the forlorn little scholar,
and through his influence Mikey was
made a happy boy. Charlie did not
realize the amount of good he had ac
complished, something to outlast his life
even, and go on -widening in influence
through successive
.generations. He
had helped and encouraged Mikey.
Perhaps if he had not, the child might
haver become weary of trying and sunk
down, making just. such a man as his
father had been, and caused more evil
than good to spring frog his influence.
So, little children, do not be discour
aged because you, do not seem to be
doing much good, and earning a great
name ; perhaps, after all, you are like
Charlie, casting an influence in the right
that will last long after you are dead.—
Arthur's Rome Mageseine.
THE DOVE OF POMPEII
You have all heard, I daresay, of the
unwearied faithfulness with - which a
bird takes care of her nest : how when
the tiny eggs are laid in it, she sits on
them patiently, day after day, and week'
after week, until the young birds are
hatched ; and then guards them like her
very life. Scarcely will she leave her
nest to get food, and neither wind nor
tempest can drive her away: love for her
home and her young ones is stronger
than all.
A great many years ago—nearly
eighteen hundred, for it was in the year
seventy-nine----the afternoon sun shone
warm and bright upon a little town on
the shore of the Bay of Naples. The
town was built on the slope of Mt. Vesu
vius ; but although this mountain was
a volcano, yet the people of the town
did not fear it.. For- years and years
Vesuvius had been so quiet and peaceful,
that they almost forgot it could be any
thing else; and the little town had spread,
its houses and vineyards and gardens
upon the sunny slopes of the hill, as if
it had been the most peaceful of moun
tains. Everybody was busy—either with
work or play—this August afternoon.
The shops were open and full, the fisher
men were manning their boats ; and
those people who were too rich to bear
the heat of the sun, were resting and
idling in their beautiful houses on the
hill. How beautiful some of the houses
were ! with floors of wonderful mosaic,
where bits of different colored stones
were inlaid so as to make the,whole floor
one great picture ; while *behind were
flower gardens and fountains. In a
little niche in the portico that surrounded
one of these gardens, a dove had built
her nest ; and now in the warm sunshine
she sat brooding 'a single egg, remem
bering doubtless (as birds remember)
that it was almost time for the young
dove within the egg to break his prison
walls and come forth into the world.
She dare not leave her place for a single
minute, lest the egg, missing the warmth
of her soft breast, should be chilled.
Suddenly there came a dark shadow
over the brightness. From the top of
Vesuvius, so' quiet, so peaceful-looking,
'a great, thick column of smoke broke
forth ; mounting up and up into the sky,
until it shadowed sea and land. The
sun was hid, the gleamin g lights on.the
Bay died out, and the brilliant summer
day changed to the blackness of night.
Then blue lightning flashes darted from
the cloud ; and then there came down
showers, not of rain but of ashes, upon
the town. The showers fell light and
soft at first, like snow, but were quickly
followed by showers of small hot stones,
thrown up from the mountain. I ma
llet, tell you how thick they fell,--cover
log the streets, blocking up the' door
ways and windows, until the whole town
of pompeii lay under a great blanket of
cinders and stones that was: twelve feet
thick. Meanwhile, some of the people
tried to , flee away through the volcanic
storm, but many kept within the shelter
of their house, until there came a
ne,w enemy. For now the mountain
began to . send forth torrents of water ;
and this, mingling with the ashes, flowed
don in broad, deep streams' of mud;
covering everything, finding its way
everywhere. Through the crevices of
doors and windows, down cellarways,
into every space not filled with the dry
ashes and stones, crept the mud. People
ivho were in the houses were speedily
blocked in ; or if they tried to flee, were
caught fast and swallowed up in the
black torrent. In three days, the town
was completely buried out of sight,. The
mountain came back to its quiet, peace
able look after a while, , but the town of
Pompeii had disappeared.
Seventeen hundred years passed away.
The upper surface of the hardened mud
grew soft and fertile beneath the influ
ences of sun and rain ; and fruitful fields
were cultivated year after year, over the
top of the buried town. People had
-even forgotten its old history, and no one
remembered, that there was a town
there.
In some chance way, when men were
making excavations for ,
some other pur
pose, part of a house was discovered,
far down under ground: This was in
. 1748; and when still other discoveries
were, made, of statues and coins and
other things, people began to remember
what they had heard of, towns - buried
,
long years before,.by VesuVius. SoOn
the king of Naples consented 'to hai;iii
further search made ; and so the work
has, gone on, little by little, ever since - .
The workmen find many wonderful and
fearful things. There are the old streets
of Pompeii, and the houses : and some
times in the houses, sometimes in the
streets, lie many skeletons of those
who lived there seventeen centuries
ago. Scattered around them are jewels
and money and keys, just those
things which they caught up in their
hurried !light, on that dreadful August
day. One house of special beauty,
seemed to have been quite deserted by
its owners, perhaps when the shower of
ashes first began to fall ; for as th e
workmen uncovered room after room
each one was empty, until down in the
kitchen they found the skeletons of an
old man and a girl. Hid away in the
kitchen oven, they had tried to keep out
the deadly torrents of mud, only to meet
death in another way. The masters of
the house had fled, and the servants had
sought what refuge they could. But the
dove on her nest in the garden had never
stirred. Doubtless her heart fluttered
with fear as the darkness closed in around
her and hot stones began to fall; but
the soft wings were not unfolded : it
was not the part of a dove to forsake
her nest. And when the workmen
slowly cleared away the stones and hard
mud from the garden, and uncovered the
pretty porch, there in her nest was the
skeleton of the dove, and beneath it the
tiny_
- bones of the yet unhatched young
one for which she had given her life.—
Little American.
MAKING FUN OF PEOPLE
Once when traveling in a stage coach,
says a writer, I met a young lady who
seemed to be on the constant lookout for
something laughable. Every old barn
was made the subject of a passing
joke, while the cows and sheep looked
demurely atus, little dreaming that folks
would be merry at their expense.
All this was perhaps harmless enough.
Animals - are not sensitive in that re
spect. They are not likely to have their
leelings injured because people make fun
of them ; but when we come to human
beings, that is quite another thing.
So it seemed to me ; for, after a while.
an aged woman came running across the
fields, lifting up her hands to the coach
man, and in a shrill voice begging him
to stop. The good natured coachman
drew up his horses, and the old lady
coming to the fence by the road-side
squeezed herself between two posts.
which were very near together.
The young lady in the stage coach made
some ludicrous remark, and the passen
gers laughed. It seemed very excusa
ble, for, in getting through the fence, the
poor woman made sad work with her
old black bonnet ; and now taking a seat
beside a well dressed woman really look.
ed as if she had been blown there by 3
whirlwind.
This was a new piece of fun, and the
girl made the most of it. She caricatured
the old lady upon a card; pretended to
take the pattern of her bonnet, and in
various other ways sought to raise 3
laugh at her.
At length the poor woman turned ;.
pale face toward her and said :
" My dear girl, you are young awl
healthy. I have been so too, but that
time is past. lam now old and forlorn.
The coach is now taking me to the
death-bed of my only child, and then, rig
dear, I shall be a poor old woman, at
alone in the world, where merry girl
will think me a very amusing object.
They will laugh at my old-fashioned
clothes and sad appearance, forgettin:
that the old woman has loved and suf
fered and -will not live forever."
The coach now stopped before a poor
looking house, and the old lady feehl
descended the steps.
" How is she 7" was the first tremblin ,
inquiry of the mother.
"Just alive," said the man who iv
leading her ibto the house.
The driver mounted his box, and w
were on the road again. Our mere;
young friend hart placed the card in he
pocket. She was leaning her head upOl
her hand, and you may be sure that
was not sorry to see a tear upon be
fair young cheek, and one which I gm
ly hoped would do her good.
DON'T COMPLAIN
Don't complain of your birth, you
training, your employment, your hard
ships' never never fancy you could be some
;thing if you only had a different lot o:
sphere assigned to you. God under.
stands his own plans, and knows mita
you want a great deal better than you
do. The very things that. you moss
deprecate as fatal limitations and ob
structions, are probably what you moss
want. What yon'call hindrances an
discouragements, are probably God'
opportunities, and it is nothing new tha
the patient should dislike his medicines
or any certain proof that they art
poisons. _No! a truce to all such me
patience. Choke that devilish env.'
which gnaws at your heart because yo'
,
are
. not in the , same lot with other;
bring &wit your soul, or rather brie.,
it up to - receive God's will, and do 111-
work, in your lot, in your sphere, uudc
your cloud of obscurity, against
temptations ; and then you shall fa,
that your condition is' never opposed
your.own good, but really consists::
with it. - -
NOTHING makes us so indifferent
the pin and mttsket thrusts of life as tl.
'consciousness of'growing better.