tylls family Citt
[WRITTEN FOR OUR COLUMNS.I
DIVINE FAITHFULNESS,
BY PIIINEAS ROBINSON
Raving loved Ills own, Ile loved thhu unto the
end.—JOHN xiii. 1.
God abandons not His own ;
After sighing, after weeping,
Light, from His eternal throne,
On the face that tears are steeping,
Kindles smiles, and sighs are flown;
God abandons not His own !
God abandons not His own ;
What though earthly hopes should perish,
Earthly plans be overthrown,
Still this truth they fondly cherish,
To their faith by Heaven made known—
God abandons not His own !
God abandons not His own ;
When their state seems most distressing,
When sense deems them left alone,
God converts into a blessing
Rich and sweet, their every groan;
God abandons not His own I
God abandons not His own;
When they on their death-couch lying,
Breathe to Him their feeble moan,
- - - - - -
Angels, to their succor flying,
Take and bear them to His throne;
God abandons not His own !
God abandons not His own;
In that world of fadeless splendor,
Whence all sin and pain are flown,
Gratetul, joyful, they remember
This sweet truth, now fully known:
God abandons not His own !
A FATHER'S LESSON.
A STORY FROM ACTUAL LIFE.
"What do you mean by such care
lessness !" exclaimed John Doring to
his son William, a fine lad of twelve
years. " Take that !" he added, strik
ing the boy a heavy blow on the side
of the head ; " and that! and that!" re
peating the blows as he spoke, the last
of which knocked the boy" over a
plough that was standing by his side.
"Get up now and go into the house,"
continued the father, " and see if you.
can't keep out of mischief for a while ;
and. stop that crying, or I'll give you
something to cry for."
The boy started for the house,
struggling to suppress his' sobs as he
went.
"It is astonishing," said Doring, ad-
V0L113./lig ....._..nai fs hhc,r_named Tin n ford_
who was near in the barn, and of
course had seen and heard what had
passed, "how troublesome boys are.
Just see these oats now, that I've got
to pick up, just for that boy's careless
ness," and he pointed to a measure of
oats which William had accidentally
overturned.
" And it was for that trifle that you
assaulted your child and knocked, him
down ?" replied Mr. Hanford, in a sor
rowful tone.
Doririg looked up from the oats in
surprise and repeated :--
" Assaulted my child and knocked
him doWn Why. what do you mean,
neighbor Handford ?"
<' Just what I said., Did you not
knock the child over that plough ?"
" Why--well—no. He kind a stum
bled and fell over it," doggedly replied
Doring . "Do you go against parental
authority? Haven't I a right to punish
my own children ?"
" Certainly, you have," responded
Mr. Hanford, "in .a proper manner
and in a proper spirit ; but not.other
wise. Do you, think that a father has
a right to revenge himself upon his
child ?"
"Of course not; but who's talking
about revenge ?"
"Well, friend Doring, let me ask
you another question : For what pur
pose should a child be punished ?"
" Why, to make it better, and to do
it good, of course," quickly answered
poring.
"For any other purpose ? 1, quietly
asked Mr. Hanford.
" Well, no, not that I can think of
just now," replied Daring, thought-
And now, my friend," kindly .
eon s ,
tinned Mr. Hanford, " do you suppOse
that your treatment to, your son. a few.
moments ago did him any good, or has'
made him any better, or has increased
his respect and affection for you? The
boy, I venture to say, is utterly un-.
conscious of having done any wrong,
and yet you suddenly assaulted him
with anger and violence, and gave
him a beating which no Penitentiary
convict can be subjected to without
having the outrage inquired into by a.
legislative committe. But let me tell
you a story.. You know my son
Charles ?"
- -
" The one that is preaching in
Charlestown ?"
"Yes. You have probably noticed
that is lame ?" _
"I have noticed it," said Doring,
"and once asked him how it happened,
and he told me he got hurt when he
was a boy."
Yes," responded Mr. Hanford, with
emotion ;. " the dear boy never could,
be made, to say that it was occasioned
by his father's brutality. But listen,"
he continued, as he saw that Boring
was about to speak. •
." When Charles was just about the
age of your son William, he was one
of the most active and intelligent boys
I had ever seen. I was fond of him,
and especially of his physical beauty
and prowess. But, unfortunately, I
was.cursed with an irritable and violent
temper ; and was in the habit of pun
ishing my children under the impulse
of passion and vengeance,: instead of
frein,the dictates of reason, duty and
enlightened affection. _
-" One day Charley offended. me
'by some boyish and trifling miscid.,
ineanor, and I treated him almost
exactly as you treated your son a
few minutes ago. I struck him vio
lently, and he fell upon a pile of stones
at his side, and injured his left hip so
badly that the result was—he was
crippled for life," said Mr. Hanford in
tones of deepeSt sorrow and remorse,
and covering his face with his hands.
A period of oppressive silence fol
lowed, which was at last broken -by
Mr. Hanford's saying :
" When I found that my poor boy
did not rise from the stones on which
he had fallen, I seized him by the arm
and rudely pulled him to his feet, and
was about to strike him again, when
something that I saw in his face—his
look—arrested my arm, and I asked
if he was hurt.
"`I am afraid that I am, Pa,' he
mildly answered, clinging to- my arm
for support.
" Where?" I asked, in great alarm,
for notwithstanding my brutality I
fairly idolized the boy.
" Here,' he replied, laying his hand
upon his hip.
- In silence I took him in. my arms
and carried him to his bed, from which
he never rose the same bright, active,
glorious boy that I had so cruelly
struck down upon that pile of stones.
But after many months he came forth
a pale, saddened little fellow, hobbling
on a crutch—"
Here Mr. Hanford broke down and
wept like a child, and the tears also
rolled down Doring's cheeks. When
he resumed, Mr. Hanford said:— .. •
"This is a humiliating narrative,
neighbor "Boring, and I would not
have related it to you, had I not sup
posed that you needed the lesson which
it contains. It is impossible for me to
give you any adequate notion of the
suffering which I have undergone on
account of my brutal rashness to my
boy. But, fortunately, it has been over
ruled to my own good, and, to that of
my family also. The remedy, though
terrible, was complete, and no other_
child of mine has ever been punished by
me except when I was in the full posses
sion and exercise of my best faculties,
and when my sense of duty has been
chastened and softened by reason and
"I devoted myself to my poor
Charley-, from the time he left his bed,
and we came to understand one another
as I think but few fathers and sons
ever do. The poor boy never blamed
me for blighting so much happiness
for him '
• and I have sometimes tried
to think that his life has been happier
on the whole, than it would have been
had I not been taught my duty
through, his , sacrifice. Still, neighbor
Doring, I should be sorry to have you
and your son William pass through a
similar ordeal."
"I trust that We shall not " ernphati
,
nay and gravely responded Doring.
"I thank you for your story, friend
Hanford, and I shall try to profit by
it."
And he did profit by , it; and we
hope that every parent who is capable
of striking his child in anger or petu
lance, that reads this sketch from life,
will profit by it also.
BALLAST.
" What is ballast, father ?" said
Joseph, as he was reading a book about
ships and shipping.
"Ballast, my boy," replied his father,
"is that which they put into a ship,
when she is empty, in order to weigh
her, and make her sail steadily.
Without ballast she would be turned
over by the high winds or heavy sea."
" And what do they use for ballast,
papa ?"
"In whatever port the ship may
happen to be, the captain tries to get a
cargo of goods which may be likely to
sell well in the port the Ship is going
to, and in: that case the. cargo itself is
the ballast ; but when the captain can
not get a cargo of, goods, he is obliged
to fill the hold or bottom part of the
ship, with stones or gravel, or any
thing else that.he can get that may be
heavy enough for the purpose. While
you are speaking on the subject, Joseph,
my thoughts go another way, and I
am ready to say that I hope, as you
go on your voyage, you will take care
to carry ballast, and that of the right
kind." •
"Carry ballast, father ? Why, I am
not a ship, nor yet am I going on a.
voyage that I know of."
"No ; but did you never hear of the
voyage of life,' Joseph ?"
" 0 yes. I suppose you mean that
this life is like a sea, and men and
women are as the ships sailing on it."
"Yes, Joseph, and boys and girls
I hope you have got ballast on 1 1
board.
" Well, fathei, I can understand how
I am like a , ship on the sea of life ; but
what do you mean by- my - having
ballast . ?"
" Knowledge, my boy. Knowledge
is, the ballast of the soul. Do you
think you can get through , the world
without knowledge ?",
" I suppose :not,. :father, any better
than a ship can cross the sea without .
ballast."
" Just so. But take, care that you
take the right sort of ballast. Suppose,
now, a ship should be laden with noth
ing heavier than bundle,s of straw.
Do you think it would sail with :
safety ?" '
Well, , ; I suppose that straw, being
so light, the ship would not be much
,safer, than. if it had. ,nothing at, all on,
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, MARCH 23, 1865.
board. But just tell me what you call
a good cargo."
"Well, then, suppose you were to
read nothing but story-books ; suppose
you were to store your mind with no
other knowledge than what you could
gain from such books, would that be
a good cargo for your-ship ?"
"I suppose, father, that would be
like the cargo of straw. I should think
that a - good -knowledge of English
grammar, arithmetic, geography, and
history would be the best sort of cargo
to load my ship with."
" A very good cargo, Joseph ; but
not all that would be wanted." '
" Well, then, father, I suppose I may
add geometry, natural history, and
other sciences; also Greek, Latin, and
French."
" Very. good. But, Joseph, your
cargo would be wanting unless you
had something that you have not yet
mentioned. Where is your voyage
'on the sea of life to end ?"
"In eternity; father,"
" Yes, Joseph, we- are all journeying
to eternity. Now take your Bible, and
read the third verse of the seventeenth
chapter of John."
(Joseph reads)—" And this is life
eternal, that they might know Thee the
only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom
thou bast sent."
"Now, Joseph, you can tell me what
knowledge will make your car4O cola=
plete. What is it ?"
"The knowledge of Jesus Christ,
father."
"Yes, my boy. Grammar and
arithmetic, science and language are
more or less necessary for your own
comfort and usefulness on the voyage
of life ; but you will not have a suc
cessful voyage unless you have as bal
last the knowledge of Jesus Christ.
Where will you get it ?"
From the Bible, father."
"Quite right, Joseph. lam glad,
.indeed, that you are doing your best
to take in a good store of knowledge,
that shall help you to be useful on your
voyage:; but, above all things, study
your Bible, and pray for the grace of
the Holy Spirit to help you to gain
more and more, each day that you live,
of thatkuowledge which is able to
faith which is in Christ Jesue
[WRITTEN FOR OUR COLUMNS.]
DEAD THREE MONTHS.
BY "M. B. M."
"He's been dead three months, and
I never knew it till last week." The
speaker gave a sob that had a kind of
a heart-break in it and hid her face in
her blue-checked apron. " But never
mind, honey," she went on, " he's dead
in a good cause ; I know what's come
of him."
It was an old. colored woman. Her
age it would be quite impossible to
guess at, for these people have a way
of keeping. " their looks" years after
they ought, in the natural course of
events, to look quite wrinkled and
bent. It is certain, however, that there
are in New York men and women of
color who must be sixty or severity
years old, who look and act as if in
vigorous middle life. The old aunty
had doubtless lost her son, one of the
dear ones, perhaps the only one, that
cruel slavery had left her, in some bat
tle for -the flag, and her greatest grief
seemed to be that he had been " dead .
three months and she never knew it."
But oh! hoi'v hard for the poor mother
to think of the little ones she once
folded to her breast, the nurslings who
were snatched from her embrace and'
sold, she knew not where. " When
my young missy was married," said
one to me, " master came along, and
seeing my little Jim, so bright and
piert, he said, There's a nigger that'll
bring a good price,' and a' few days,
after he took him from me. I'Ve never
seen him, and he wouldn't - know me'
now, and I wouldn't' know him." -
Thank God that the day of these
bitter things >is over now—that the
plague spot of our country's history is
washed out forever ! Alas:! that it
took so many drops of heroic blood to
efface the crimson stain.
"I'M. GOING—I DON'T KNOW WHERE."
Some time ago there lived a man in
a Lrge town in one of the . midland
counties of England, a watchmaker
by trade, a steady, skilful, sober-man,
doing well in his business, and re
spected because of his moral, orderly
behaviour ; but he was an infidel. He
considered the Bible to be a book
only fit for women and children. He
was too wise to be frightened at
stories about hell. He was too upright
a man, in his own estimation, to need
a Saviour. Thus his life passed away,
till he reached the period of middle
age, when suddenly he was smitten
with a stroke of paralysis, which de
prived him of power to walk, or to
discern persons or things around him ;
and he was laid upon his bed, uttering
one mournful cry : "I'm going—l'M
goin g ,a I don't know where." For
forty-eight hours, incessantly, this one
dreadful sentence proceeded from his
lips—at first with frightful rapidity,
so as to scare his friends away from
his bedside; but gradually, as his
strength declined, tye same sad words
were uttered in, slower tones. Hour
after hour, for two nights, and days,,
nothing else was heard in his chamber,
till at length the words, "I'm going
going I =don't_
were slowly and with difficulty ejaculat
ed; and with them he breathed his last.
OVER THE RIVER.
Over the River they beckon to me,
Loved ones' who've passed to the other side;
The gleam of their snowy robes I see,
But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,
And eyes the reflection of heavens own blue,
Re crossed in the twilight gray and c,old,
And the pale mist hid him from mortal view:
We saw not the angels who met him there,
The gates of The City we could not see ;
Over the River, over the River,
14-Brother-stands waiting to welcome-me.
Over the River the Boatman pale
Carried another—the household pet;
Her bright curls waved in the gentle gale—
Darling Minnie I see , her yet!
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ;
We watched it glide from the silver sands
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark
We know she is safe on the other side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be;
Over the River, the mystie . River,
My childhood's idol is waiting for me.
For none return from those quiet shores
Who cross with the Boatman cold and pale :
We hear the dip of the golden oars,
We catch a gleam ofthe snowy 7 sail,
And 10, they have passed from our heart—
They cross the stream and are gone for aye I
We cannot Sunder the veil apart,
That hides from our_vision the gates of day
We only know that their barks no more
Shall sail with ours on life's stormy sea,
Yet somehow I hope on the unseen shore,
They watch and beckon and wait for me.
And I sit and think when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river and hill and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold
And list for the sound of The Boatman's oar :
I shall watch - . for the gleam of the flapping sail,
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,
I shall pass from sight with the Boatman pale,
To the better shore of the Spirit Land.!
I shall know ge loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the River, the peaceful River,
The Angel of Death shall carry me !
.ses-41...--.
BOY 'LOST.
He hal black eyes with long lashes,
red cheeks, and hair almost black and
curly. He wore a crimson plaid jacket,
with full trousers buttoned on ; had a
habit of whistling, and liked to ask
questions ; was accompanied by a small
black dog. It is a long while now since
he disappeared. I have a very pleasant
house and. much company. Every
thing has such an orderly, put-away
look- , —nothing about under foot—no
dirt. But my eyes are aching for the
sight of whittlings and cut paper on the
floor; of tumbled-down card houses ;
wooden-sheep and cattle; of pop
_guie',lsaws, whips, tops, go
carts, blocks and
to
-see. boats a rigging and kites a
making. I want to see crumbs on the
carpet, and paste spilt on the - kitchen
table. I want to see the chairs and
tables turned the wrong way about. I
want to see candy-making and corn
popping, and to find jack-knives and
fish-hooks among my muslin. Yet
these things used to fret me once.' They
say, " How quiet you are here ! Ah 1
onelere may settle hislorsins, and be
at peace." But my ears are aching for
the pattering of little feet ; ; fora hearty
shout, a shrill whistle, a- gay tra la la ;
for the crack oflittle whips; for the noise
ofdrums, fifes, and tin trunifas. Yet
these things made me nervous once..
They say, "Ah 1 you have leisure,
nothing to disturb you. What heaps
of sewing you have time for !" But I
long to be disturbed. I want' to be
asked for a bit of string or an old news
paper ; for a cent to buy a slate pencil
or peanuts. I want to be coaxed fora
piece of new cloth for jibs and main
sails, and then to hem the same. I
want to make little Rags, and bags, to
hold marbles. I want to be foll Owed
.by little feet all over the house; teased
for a bit of dough for a little cake, or
to bake a, pie in a saucer. Yet these
things used to fidget me once. They
say, "Ah 1 you. are not- tied at home.:
How delightful to be always at liberty,
for concerts, lectures, and. parties ! No
confinement for you." But I want.
confinement. I want to listen for the
school-bell morning; to give the last
hasty - wash and brush, and then to
waleh from the win.dow, nimble feet
bounding away to school. I want fre
quent rents to. mend, and. to replace -
lost buttons. I want to obliterate mud-,
stains, fruit-stains, molasses-stains, and .
paints of all, colors. I want, to be sit
ting by a little crib, of evenings, when
weary little feet are, at rest, and prat
; tling voices are hnshed, that mother's
may sing their lullabys, and tell over,
the: oft-repeated Stories. They don't
know their happinesS then, those
mothers. I didn't All these . things
I called confinement once.
A manly figure stands before me
now. He is taller than I, has thick
whiskers, wears a frock coat, a bosomed
shirt, and a cravat. He has just come
from college. He brings Latin and
Greek in his countenance, and dnsts
off the old philosophers from the sitting
room. He calls me mother, but 'I am
rather unwilling to own him. He
avers that he is m3r , boy, and says that
he can prove it. He brings his little
boat to show the red stripe, on the sail
.(it was the end of the pieCe) and the
name on the stern—Lucy Lowe, a lit
tle girl of our neighborhoOd who, be
cause of her long curls and Pretty
round face, was the chosen favorite of
my boy. The curls were long since
cut off, and she has grown to a tall,
handsome girl. How his face reddens
as he. shows me. the face on the boat!
Oh I I see it all as plain as•if it were
written in a book: My little boy is
lost, and my big boy will soon be.
Oh, I wish he were a little tired boy
in. a long, white nightgown, lying in
his crib, with me sitting by, holding
his hand in mine, pushing the curls
back - from his forehead, watching his
eyelids- droop, and listening to
deep breathing.
If I only had my little boy again,
how patient I would be! How much
I would bear, and how little I would
fret and scold ! I can never have him
back again,; but there are still many
mothers who have not yet lost their
little boys. I wonder if they know
they are living their very best days ;
that now is the time to really enjoy
their children. I think if I had been
more to •my little boy, I might now be
more to my grown up one.
[WRITTEN ITOR OUR COLUMNS.]
OUT OF TUNE.
BY "M. E. M
Somebody is practising next door
on an instrument that is out of tune.
What discords the jarring strings make,
of what ought to be sweet and delicate
harmony. How we long to shut up
the old music-box and give ourselves
the pleasant relief of silence, while the
patient performer goes on, hour after
hour, over scales, and exercises, aid
tunes, what must seem interminable to
her, and are, to use a mild expression,
insufferable to us.
It is bad to have a piano out of tune;
but, dear reader, it is worse to have a
temper out of tune. Oh these fretful
people, who are always finding some
thing wrong about the house, some
thing neglected or forgotten, or some
intentional slight or omission of res
pect which jars upon their nerves, and.
makes them a terror to their friends
and a burden to themselves. The
presence of one such, in a family circle,
is like a spark of fire near a powder:
magazine or a petroleum cask. The
tuneless temper is caught with electric
speed by those who come in contacti
with it, unless there be, in the hearts'
around, much of the sweet leaven of
God's grace. Sad indeed is it when
" mother 'is out of tune. The little
ones feel depressed, and " contrary)?
The boys, rushing in from school, with
happy faces and glad spirits, throw
down books and slates ; and go away.
as fast as possible if mother's face wears
a cloud, and the growing daughter,
just standing on the threshold of
womanhood, keeps back her confi
dences from her best friend if_that
friend is "cross."- - Lirtle trObbleS
that, if left alone, would soon thaw in
the genial shine of household love,
roll from one to another, and presently
assume th - 6 - fo - rm: - o'f - immense snow
balls, with a core of ice. Home is
home no longer, but a plague spot over
which. Satan rejoices, and from which
angels of light turn sadly away. The
secret of a heart in tune is a heart at
peace with God. They that hold corn
munion by the way with the Master
may well bring to the ministries of
every day life the smiling face, the
gentle word, the glance of sympathy,
the merry song. Can one, who has
feasted with' the Lord of the mansion,
bring other than a joyful heart to, the
festival of life ? Oh Christian friend,
wherever you are this day, in your.
prayers to the Blessed One on high,
seek l,s grace to keep your hearts in
tune.
BEAUTIFUL ILLUSTRATION.
The maidens of India have a strange
custom, which Mrs. Browning has
beautifully poetized in the "Romance
of the Ganges." In the darkness of
night they. go down to the banks of
their sacred river, each carrying a tiny
boat which they are to set adrift upon
the stream.
" Each carries a lamp, and carries a flower,
And carries a hope unsaid."
If the lamp continues to burn until
it is lost in the distance, good fortune
is betokened ; but woe to the hapless
maiden whose light goes out at once.
"And when the boat bath carried the lamp
Unquenched, till out of sight,
The maidenis sure that love will endure,
But love will fail with light."
Now life is our sacred river. We
have launched our -little bark upon it.
It bears a light, and it bears a soul, and
it bears a hope unsaid. But we have
not even the poor privilege of seeing
it bear its freight'even a hand's breadth'
forward into the future. Oar light,
our hopes,. and - ourselves, are all em
barked together. We drift on into the
darkness. The next moment our little
taper may expire. But God grant
that life and hope may not depart
together !—Pacific.
THE APPRENTICE.
A young man whose father was in
easy circumstances, was desirous of
learning the printing business. His,
father consented, on condition that the
son should board at home, and weekly,
pay for his board, out of the avails of
his special perquisites during,his ap
.
prenticeship. The young manthought
this rather hard, but when he was of
age, and master of his trade, his father
'said:-- •
“Here, my son, is• the money paid
me for board during your apprentice
ship. I never intended to keep it but
have retained:it for your use, and with
it I give you as much more as will
enable you to commence your busi
-ness.”
The wisdom of the old man was ap-
parently the making of the son, for
while his fellows had contracted bad
habits in the expenditure of similar
perquisites, and were now penniless
and in vice, he was enabled to com
mence business respectably; and he
now stands at the head of, the publish
ers in this country, while most of hig
former companions are poor, vicious
and degraded.
THE UNSEEN ARMY.
To his courtiers spake the monarch with trouble
in his eye :
" Will ye tell us who among us is a traitor and
a spy ?
My strategem .is baffled, my ambush set at
naught—
Who tells the King of Israel the secret of my
thought ?" •
Then answered back a courtier: '"Tis none of
us, 0 king ;
But a prophet, dwells in Israel .who maketh
known -the thing;
Conferrings in thy council with choSen friends
apart,
Thy words within the chamber and thy thoughts
within thy heart.' -
CHILDREN ATTENDING CHURCH,
It is no unusual thing to bear Chris
tian parents regrettin,g that the child
ren will not attend church., A stranger
cannot readily answer the question:—
"Shall I compel grown sons and
daughters to religious ,observances?"
But this sad issue would have been
avoided, if from infancy the little feet
had been trained to regular 'attendance
at- regular services. The force of habit
was designed by our Maker for our
good. It has been terribly perverted
to purposes of evil; but surely pious
parents should avail themselves of it
in the forming period of life. Let it
be early and forever settled that every
member of our household, as a matter
of course, attends public „service when
practicable, and the question, "Shall I
go or not ?" will be as exceptional as,.
"Shall I go to breakfast?"
"AFTER MANY DAYS."
"Cast thy bread upon the waters and thou
shalt find it after many days."
Dr. H. is a physician of considerable
ability,, and of extensive practice in the
eastern part of Connecticut; a man of
large benevolence, and. deep Christian
sympathy, using his skill in his pro
fession, not for personal advantages
alone, but for the benefit of his suffer
ing fellow men. Cheerfully were his
services rendered to - the poor and des
titute without thought of remuneration.
Yet, as will be seen from the following
incident, this labor of love returns with
tenfold interest into the doctor's )Dosom.
A son of the doctor. a lieutenant in
70 - irte - 6fOur Isformzet - rciit regiments, being
severely wounded in battle, was taken
to the hospital. When word reached
the father, he immediately started for
Washington, where he found - hig son
still alive, but rapidly failing, although
everything possible was done for him
by hospital surgeons, stewards, and
nurses, yet soon after the arrival of his
father the young man died—willing to
give up his life for his country.
In examining his clothes, the father
found in his pocket book a small sum
of money. This he took, and turning
to the faithful nurse, a comrade in
arms, who had been by his side in all
his sufferings, and done everything he
could to alleviate them, he said: "this
justly belongs to you for your kind
ness to my son."
"No," said the nurse, " I shall not
take it."
"Well," said the doctor, "take five
dollars of it at least." But the nurse
replied persistently, "I shall take
nothing."
"Dr. IV said he, "you do, not know
me, but I know you.'
"No," said the doctor, - "I do not
recogMze you."
"I piesuine not," the nurse con
tinued, "but do
.you not remember
visiting and taking - cait of a sick
woman at , and that when she re
covered and asked for the bill, you de
clined receiving anything?"
e, yes.),
"That sick woman was my mother,
and ever since then I have felt that ii
God ever permitted 'me, I would in
some way repay your kindness to her.
When your son fell wounded on the
field, I had him taken to the hospital,
and have stood by him ever since, and
have done everything that I could for
him, and I am thankful that I have
been able to do it."
The doctor's heart was filled with
gratitude and thanksgiving to God.
that by "casting his bread• upon the
waters," it had been permitted "to re
turn to him" in so signal a manner, even
" after many days."— Congregationalisi.
RUM ;THE ARMY.
I ought before to have noticed that,
from the time of this force enterino-
Jellabad, our British soldiers have had
no spirit rations, a great part of the
not very ample supply of our commis
sariat having been lost. Without fear
of contradiction, it may be asserted
that not only has the amount of labor
ious work they have completed without
this factitious aid been surprising,
but the state - and, the garrison have
gained full one-third in manual exer
tion by their entire sobriety. "Every
hand has been constantly employed
with the shovel and pickaxe. If there
had been a spirit ration one-third of
the labor would'have been diminished,
in consequence of soldiers becoming
the inmates of the hospital and guard
house, on , coming to their work wit'
fevered brain and trembling hand, 0 ,
sulky and disaffected, after the pr.
tracted debauch. Now all is healt,
cheerfulness, industry, and resolutio
---lfzr.shmanis .Memoirs of Gen Hay.
THE creatures of God's ha.d declare h
goodness, all their enjoyments speak h
praise. He clotheth them with beauty, d
mipporteth them with food, he .preserve
them with pleasure from generation iv
generation.