61y family eliirttr.
IMMORTAL LONGING.
Christ, let me come to Thee !
My heart is weary, and I long for rest;
Is not my earthly mission well nigh done?
I cannot bear this burden on my breast—
It weighs my spirit downward like a stone,
My saddened life is ever vailed in clouds,
And midnight darkness hath come o'er my
soul,
My once bright hopes are wrapped away in
shrouds,
And sorrow's heavy surges round me roll.
Sweet Christ, 0, may I come?
Christ, let me come to Thee
Life hath a dark Sahara been to me I •
The few bright flowers that bloomed along my
way
Were soon transplanted—each beloved tree
To bloom perenoial in the "perfect day;"
My dear loved ones sit round thy golden throne,
And wait—a broken circle—till I come.;
Let me not linger here on earth alone
0, let me join them in their heavenly home I
Sweet Christ, 0, may I come?
Christ, let me come to Thee !
Behind me roars the angry ocean tide;
Each crested wave comes nearer, nearer still ;
The muttering thunders in the billows hide;
I shudder at their hoarse ? loud voice so chill ;
I cannot meet the fierce, wild storm of life 1
I have no strength to battle with it more
Too long I've wrestled in the painful strife—
I must lay down the burden that I bore.
Sweet Christ, 0, may I come?
Christ, let me come to Thee
In dreams I hear Thy white robed angels sing
The golden glories of their beauteous land;
I hear the rustle of each snowy wing,
And feel their touch upon my fevered hand.
Colder than ever seems the earth to me,
When I awake and see them flit away;
I strain my eyes the last bright glimpse to see ;
And watch them vanish through the gates of
day.
Sweet Christ, 0, may I come?
Christ, let me come to Thee I
I watch my toiling breath grow faint and slow;
I note the hectic deepening day by day,
And feel my life is like a wreath of snow,
Which one kind breath of heaven would melt
away.
A. little longer in this world of vice—
The
wished-for boundary is almost passed ;
I see the shining shore of Paradise,
I know my pain is almost o'er at last.
Sweet Christ, 0, let me come I
Christ, let me come to Thee I
I've seen the gates that guard Thy holy clime,
And often caught a hopeful gleam within ;
I know they'll open in Thine own good time.
And let Thy weary, wandering child come in,
I've had, all through this weary care and pain,
One blessed hope, that ne'er has known de
spair,
It cheers me like the sunshine after rain
I know Thou'lt hear my deep and heart-felt
prayer,
And let me come to Thee
—Christian Era.
THE GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY.
A STORY TOLD TO A CHILD
BY JEAN INGELOW
(CONTINUED.)
My birth-day had been gone by a
week, and still the shilling and penny
lay folded in their silken shrines.
I had quite recovered my spirits,
and was beginning to think how I
should spend them, particularly the
shilling, for I scarcely thought any
good could be done with such a small'
sum as a penny. Now there was a
poor Irish boy in our neighborhood,
who had come with the reapers, and
been left behind with a hurt in his leg.
'My mother had often been to see
him ; while he was confined to his
bed, she went regularly to read with
him, and sometimes she sent me with
our nurse-maid to take him a dinner.
He was now much better, and could
get about a little. To my mother's
surprise, she found that he could read
perfectly well. One day, when she
met him, he " thanked her honor for
all favors," and said he should soon
be well enough to return to old Ire:
land.
As we walked home one day, my
mother said to me—" Orris, if you like,
I will tell you of a good way to spend
your shilling. You may buy poor
Tim a Testament."
I' was delighted, and gave my im
mediate assent. " Well then," said my
mother, " that is settled. I should
have given one myself to Tim, if you
had wished to spend your shilling in
something else. And now, remember,
you must not change your mind ; papa
is going to the town to-morrow, you
may go with him and get one then.'
To-morrow came,- and with it a note
to me from my two cousins, saying
that they were coming over to spend
the afternoon with me, and see my In
dian corn, and my tobacco plants,
which I had planted myself.
I was very proud of my corn, and
still more proud that my cousins
should think it worth while to come
and see it, for they were three or four
years older than myself, and did not
often take part in my amusements.
By dint of great industry I finished
my lessons an hour earlier than usual,
and ran into the garden to see how
my corn looked. Old gardener him
self admitted that it looked very beau
tiful; the glossy green leaves fell back
like silken streamers, and displayed
the grain with its many shades of
green, gold, and brown.
I thought how delightful it would
be if I could build a kind of bower
over against it, in which my cousins
could sit and admire it at their leisure.
There were some hop plants growing
just in the right place; I had only to
untwist them; and there was a clema
tis that could be easily pressed into
the service.
I set to work, and with a little help
from him, soon made two or three low
arches, over which I carefully trained
the flowering hops, and mingled them
with festoons of clematis. The bower
seemed to be worthy of a queen at the
least ; and no doubt it was really
pretty.
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN/ THURSDAY. DECEMBER 14, 1865.
I was just carrying some pots of
balsams in flower to set at the entrance,
when my father came up. " Well,
Orris," he said, " mamma tells me you
want to go to the town. Be quick, if
you. do, for I am,just ready to start."
" Just ready! 0 papa, surely it is
not one o'clock? If Igo this bower
will never be finished by three."
" Certainly not, we shall scarcely be
home by three: but why need. it be
finished?".
" Don't you remember, papa, that
Elsie and Anne are coming :"
" Oh, I had forgotten that important
fact. Well, then, if they are to sit in
this bower, I think you must stay at
home and finish it ; you can go with
me some other day."
Now my father knew nothing about
the Testament, or he would doubtless
have given different advice. While I
hesitated, anxious to stay, and yet
afraid not to go, my mother drew near,
and. I thought I would leave it to her
to decide. •
" The child wants to finish her
bower, my dear," said my father ;
"therefore, as it is not particularly
convenient to me to have her to-day,
she may stay at home if she likes, for,
I presume, her errand is of no great
consequence."
My mother made no answer ; in an
other moment he was gone, and I was
left with a long hop tendril in my
hand, and a face flushed with heat and.
agitation.
I thought my mother would speak,
and advise me to run after my father,
but she did not ; and I went on with
my work, conscious that her eyes
were upon me.
Presently, to my great relief, gar
dener came itp, and asked her some
questions about flower-beds. She went
away with him, and I breathed more
freely, comforting myself with the
thought that I could easily buy the
Testament another day.
I worked faster than ever, partly to
drive away reproachful thoughts. The
little bower was lovely, it was scarcely
high enough for me to stand upright
in, but it would be deliglrtful, I knew,
for us to sit under. Gardener had been
mowing, and when I had brought a
quantity of sun-dried grass, and spread
it thickly over the floor, I thought my
bower an eighth wonder of the world.
My cousins came shortly, and confirm
ed me in this opinion; they spent a
very happy afternoon, seated under it,
and, but for remembering the Irish
boy, I might have been happy also.
We were very quiet till after tea, and
then I am sorry to say that our high
spirits quite carried us away : we got
into mischief, and my share of it was
throwing an apple into the greenhouse,
and breaking two panes of glass. This
was on a Saturday.
On Sunday no one mentioned .this .
or the Irish boy ; but on Monday, just
as I had finished my lessons, I saw my
father pass the window, and ventured
to ask mamma if he was going to the
town, and whether I might walk with
him.
" Why do you wish to go, Orris ?"
she inquired. ,
'f To buy the Testament, mamma,
for poor Tim."
• "He is gone." said my mother ;
went away early this morning."
I put on my garden bonnet, and
went out, with a curious sensation, as
if, when I did wrong, all circumstances
conspired to punish me. I turned the
corner of the greenhouse, and there
stood my father, looking at the broken
panes.
" Orris," he said, " did you do this
mischief ?"
Yes, papa."
" This is the third time it has hap
pened. I have repeatedly forbidden
you to play in this part of the gar
den."
"I am very sorry papa."
" Your sorrow will not mend the
glass, and I am afraid it will not make
you more obedient another time."
He spoke so gravely that I knew he
really was displeased. After a pause,
he said:—
" Have you got any money ?"
"I have a shilling and a penny."
"It will cost more than that to re
pair this damage;. I shall be obliged
to claim forfeit of the shilling."
I wiped away two or three tears, and
produced my little silk bag, he turned
it over, and bit his lips ; perhaps its
elaborate workmanship made him un
derstand that a shilling was much more
for me to give than for him to receive.
" Is this all you have got ?" he in
quired.
" Excepting the penny, papa," I re
plied; and, child as I was, I perfectly
understood his vexation at having to
take it from. me. He remained so long
looking at it as it lay in his palm, that
I even hoped he would return it, and
say that he would excuse me that once.
But no, he was too wise; he put it at
last into his waistcoat pocket, and
walked away, saying ;
"I hope this will make ,you more
careful another time."
He went towards the house, and I
watched him till he entered. Then I
ran to my bower ' sat down upon the
dried grass, and began to cry as if my
heart would break.
Repentance and regret, though they
may be keenly felt by a child, are not
reasoned on very distinctly. I had
often been very sorry before, but
whether for the fault, as distinct from
the punishment, I had scarcely inquir
ed. I was heartily sorry now, not
only for my disobedience and because
my father had forfeited the shilling,
but because I saw it had vexed and
hurt him to do it,—not only because I
had preferred pleasure to duty, neg
lected the opportunity for doing good,
and lost it,—but because the feeling,
if not the words, of St. Paul pressed
heavily upon my heart. "When I
would do good, evil is present with
me."
I was stll crying, when on a sudden,
looking up, I saw my father standing
before me, and watching me with evi
dent regret. My first impulse was to
say,—" 0, papa, I was not crying
about the shilling."
He beckoned me to rise out of my
bower, and said, " Then what were
you crying about, my little darling ?"
I tried not to sob ; he led me to a
garden seat, and took me on his knee.
Then, with a great many tears, I told
him all that I have now, dear reader,
been telling you, and ended with a
passion of crying.
" 0, papa, do teach me to be differ.
ent, and to wish the same thing when
I am tempted that I do , when no plea
sure tempts me. Pray teach me to do
good." i
"My dear child, God is teaching
you now."
" What, papa! when my &Aden op
portunity is gone, and my silver op
portunity has come to nothing."
" Quite true; but then you are
doubly sure now—you know by
ample experience, do you no i t ?—that
of yourself you can do nothin&"
I was so convinced of it, th'it, I was
verging on an opposite fault to self
confidence. I was almost übting
whether any assistance that could
hope to have would make n proof
1
against temptation.
But now was my father's ' 'golden
4rpportunity," and he availed himself
of it. Although I cannot remember
his words, their influence remaius to
this day. Certain sensations and im
pressions connected with that wipe and
fatherly conversation return upn me
often, even now. It conveyeto my
mind the idea that this weaka ssjtself
was to be m.yAtrength, if it nAde me
depend upo*estronger than myielf—
that this cliatgeable disposition would
make more precious to me the ..ow
ledge that " with God is no variable
ness, neither shadow of changing."
(To BE CONCLUDED.)
FILIAL PIETY.
Catharine Lopolow accompaniad her
parents in their exile to Siberia. She
was then seven years of age. After
two years she took the resolution of
going alone to St. Petersburg t to im
plore mercy for her parents at 'he em
peroi's feet. All the efforts iiide by
her parents do divert her fr , m this
difficult project were in vain. 't seem
ed • .. • . der-
age to accomplish it. The onl , reply.
II
the noble-hearted child m - was :
" Have no anxiety about e. God
will aid and protect me."
After taking an affections farewell
of her parents, Catharine set ton her
perilous journey, without y other
resources to rely upon than e charity
of Christian people: She alva y'S trav
eled on foot, was badly clola t ed and
worse fed ; ; and in this mamir a child
of nine years traversed the treat dis
tance of eight hundred leagas, across
mountains and deserts.
Arrived happily at St. Peersburg,
this young girl, animated an sustain
ed by the holy feeling of fill piety,
sought a lodging at the houseltf a lady
. i
who was pointed out to h s as the
guardian angel and support the un
fortunate. This lady, wort of all
the praise bestowed upon he received
Catharine with much kinqess, and
when she learned the objet of her
perilous journey, made every i effort to
secure the success of her eterprise.
After diligent inquiry, she Aertamed
that Lopolow had been unjitly con
demned to exile; and the Omperor
Alexander, upon being in •med of
what had occurred, pardone the un
fortunate exile, and also de the
young and virtuous Cathari a con
siderable recompense.
CHRIST OUR GUES
When one of the boys in a
Rouseu had said the grace, "C.
Jesus, be our guest, and b
Thou hast provided," a li
looked up and said :
"Do tell me why the L
never comes ? We ask
day to sit with us, and
comes."
"Dear child, only believe,
may be sure he will come ; fir
not despise your invitation." I
"I shall set him a seat,'
little fellow ; and just then
a knock at the door. Ap.
apprentice entered, begging
lodging. He was made welcl
chair stood empty for h.' HI
child wanted him to have , 1
and was lamenting that his
too small for the stranger,
quite touched by such unco
tentions. The little one
thinking all the time :
" Jesus could not come,
this poor boy in his place ; it
," Yes, dear child, that i-
Every piece of bread and
of ovate~ that we give to the
the sick, or the prisoners,
sake, we give to him. 'ln,
ye have done it unto one o
of these my breathren, ye h
it unto me."'
THE STRAYED LAMB.
A giddy lamb one afternoon
Had from the fold departed;
The tender shepherd missed it soon,
And sought it broken-hearted.
Not all the flock that shared his love,
Could from the search delay him ;
Nor clouds of midnight darkness move,
Nor fear of suffering stay him.
But night and day he went his way,
In sorrow till he found it ;
And when he saw it fainting lie,
He clasped his arms around it.
And closely sheltered in his breast,
From every ill to save it;
He brought it to his home of rest,
And pitied and forgave it.
And so the Saviour will forgive
The little ones that fear Him ;
Their pains remove, their sins forgive,
And draw them gently near Him;
Bless while they live, and when they die,
When soul and body sever,
Conduct them to his home on high,
To dwell with Him for ever.
LITTLE FEET.
Little feet, so glad and gay,
Making music all the day;
Tripping merrily along,
Filling all my heart with song;
Well I love your music sweet;
Patter, patter, little feet.
Sometimes anxious, I would know
Just what way these feet must go ;
Praying oft that all be fair,
No thorns, no roughness anywhere;
That flow'rs may spring their steps to greet;
Patter, patter, little feet.
But then I think that some have trod
Through thorns and briars the nearer God;
Though weak in faith, still I would dare
To offer up the earnest prayer,
That Christ would choose whate' er is meet ;
Patter, patter, little feet.
I press them in my hands to-night, '
And kiss them with a new delight,
Believing that where'er they go,
My tender Lord will lead them so,
They'll walk, at length, the golden street;
Patter, patter, little feet.
—Rural Hew- Yorker
THE LITTLE TAILOR-BIRD.
" Well, I never would . build my
nest on such a tree as that," said little
Blue-jay, tossing her top-knot with an
air of great wisdom: " Those great
round limbs will give you no sort of
foundation. You nest will slip off any
way you can fix it. I always choose
a tree with plenty of fine twigs and
little branches ; I twine grass around,
and make my nest as strong as the
tree itself. The wind would blow you
away, little Red Poll."
"Never fear for me, my dear," said
the placid little builder ; "just call
when my work is done, and you shall
see how I succeed. I choose this tree
because its leaves just suit me."
"Well, every one to her own taste,"
said the ".fop of the forest," flitting
away to a tree-top, and singing the
prettiest note she knew But the in
dustrious worker was not ruffled so
much as a feather by'the scornful air
her little friend put on. No
,one ex
. ected - anything else - froth — Blue-jay,
who was always a little coquettish, in
consequence of being so much ad
mired.
The little house carpenter selected
her site with great deliberation, and
what spot do you think she chose? A
cluster of broad swaying leaves which
hung quiet at the extremity of a
bough, far out of reach of any med
dlesome boy. Then she brought a
Jong thread of grass, and, piercing one
hole at a time in the thick leaves, she
drew the thread through as nicely and
evenly as ever a tailor could. Up and
down her long seams she patiently
wrought until she had made the outer
walls of her hexagon castle as secure
as could be wished. The remaining
work was comparatively light, and, in
a few short days, she had a fine, soft
carpet spread, and her little house was
furnished as cony and luxurious as a
bird's could be. She had fairly won
her title of " tailor bird," and a won
derful piece of work she had wrought,
considering that she had never served
an apprenticesmp.
But there was a Great Teacher who
took notice of all she did, and guided
her always from any mistakes such as
human builders often make. The lit-
tle bird's nest was His especial scare
from its commencement to its end, and
He even took care of it after the little
fledglings had flown away. He di
rected to the spot a thoughtful, studi
ous lad, who manged to secure it and
bear it away to his little cabinet, where
it hangs now on a mossy spray, as a
monument of the wisdom God gave to
a little bird.— Chronicle.
rphans'
e, Lord
s what
fellow
Jesus
every
never
PONTIUS PILATE.
Of one who represented for eleven
years the horrible might of Rome to
the prostrate Jewish people, it may be
said that almost nothing is now known,
except that he put to death One whom
the Jews spoke of as the Carpenter's
Son. In ten thousand congregations
every Sabbath this crime is commemo
rated. There is something strange
and awful in this unsought pre-emi
nence in infamy. There is something
awful in the fact that a •crime which
he sought to disavow was really per
petrated through hiin ; that it proved
to be the greatest wickedness which
the world has ever seen, although
Pilate knew it not ; and that this un
happy man, after he had ended his
earthly troubles by the death of a
suicide, should never be allowed to
sink into the dark oblivion that he
courted for himself when he ended his
spoilt and frustrated life. Down all
the ages echo the world's condemna
tion--" Crucified under I"ontius Pilate,
crucified under Pontius Pilate."—Arch
bishop of York.
d you
redoes
id the
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frozen
night's
the
every
plate;
ed was
o was
.• on at
been
e sent
at it?"
ust it.
drink
e Or ; or
Jesus'
uch as
e least
• done
DREAM OF A QUAKER LADY.
There is a beautiful story told of a
pious old Quaker lady who was much
addicted to smoking tobacco. She
had indulged in the habit until it had
increased so much upon her that she
not only smoked her pipe a large por
tion of the day, but frequently sat up
for this purpose in the night. After
one of these nocturnal entertainments,
she fell asleep, and dreamed that she
died and approached heaven. Meet
ing an angel, she asked him if her
name was in the book'of life. Etc dis
appeared; and replied, upon returning,
that he could not find it. "Oh !" sa id
she, "do look again ; it must be
there." He examined again, but re
turned with a sorrowful face, saying,
"It is not there !" "0," she said in
agony, "it must be there! I have the
assurance it is there ! Do look again !"
The angel was moved to tears by her
entreaties, and again left her to renew
his search. After a long absence he
came back, his face radiant with joy,
and exclaimed, "We have found it;
but it was so clouded with tobacco
smoke that we could hardly see it !"
The woman, upon waking, immedi
ately threw her pipe away, and never
indulged in smoking again.
has fig gittit talk
FAMILIAR TALKS WITH THE CHIL
DREN.
SECOND SERIES.
BY REV. EDWARD PAYSON HAMMOND.*
"I OFTEN „TRIED TO BE GOOD, BUT IT
SEEMED OF NO ESE."
Thus writes a child of eleven years
from Canada. The trouble was, she
did not come to the Saviour and trust
in Him, and have all her sins forgiven,
and a new heart given to her. She
began at the wrong end. But when
she did that, she could say, " Now I
HAVE FOUND WHAT I LOOKED SO LONG
FOR."
Oh, how many, just like this girl,
wish to be so good, and get their Sab
bath-school lessons, and obey their
parents so well, that God will, as they
think, have to save them without their
trusting in Jesus, who " did it all, long,
long ago."
Now, if you want to be good and
love to be good, you must first, with
Eliza, be able to say, "I think I have
really found the dear Saviour;" and
then, like her, you will love him, and
say, as she does, " I am going to work
for Him." Now for the child's expe
rience.
I did not think how often I bad broken
God's commands, until last Tuesday, at the
children's meeting, I felt what a great sinner
I was. I never thought I would like to go to
the meetings, but only went to see what it
was like; but after I had- been there once, I
was anxious to go all the time. I feel very
different ever since. I feel very happy
now, which I did not two weeks ago.
always seemed in trouble, but now I feel
much Changed. I think I have really found
the dear Saviour. lam going to work for
him, and try if I cannot bring some of my
friends to Jesus. I often tried to be good
before, but it seemed of no use, so 1 gaveAt up
as I thought forever, but now I have found
what I have looked so long for. I think I
can see Jesus through the clouds, surrounded
by angels singing around the throne of God in
heaven. I used to think it of no use reading the
holy Bible ; I would rather be doing anything
else ; but it is the greatest pleasure I can
have now, and I think it will always continue
to be the same. And I used to seldom read
it, unless at the Sabbath-school. where I was
obliged . to read it. And I intend to pray for
all my friends, and I hope you will pray for
me, and I will do the same for you.
Your affectionate friend,
ELIZA.
Perhaps you say, if I do come to
Jesus, I am afraid I have such a bad
temper, and so many wicked play
mates, and so many temptations, that
I can never hold out. lam afraid in
a little time I shall be as bad as ever.
You would, without God's help. But
has not Jesus said to those who trust
in Him, "I will never leave thee nor
forsake thee ?" (Heb. xiii. 5.) Sup
posing Frankie's father had let him
start for California with him, do you
think he would have thrown him
overboard when half way there? But
the father himself might never have
reached there, yet Jesus will surely
reach heaven, and he will take all
with Him who are willing to trust in
Him.
Here is a letter from a little girl in
Newark, N. J., which will lead you. to
feel the truth of what I say. You
will see it was written a year after the
time she first felt she had a heart to
love the Saviour, and that she loves
Him more and more.
She says, " I WANTED TO FIND
JESUS." Yes, for a long time she had
been wanting to be a little Christian,
but she didn't know how ready Christ
was to make her one, and so she lived
unhappy all the time.
Though she wanted to make sure of
heaven, what a proud heart she must
have had, for she says, "I was almost
ashamed of 'myself for crying." You
see she was ashamed to have it known
that she Was troubled about her sins,
and asktng to know how they could
be pardoned.
But God was able to take away all
her pride, and to help her to cling to
the loving Saviour, who bled for
wicked children and died on the cross.
And he is able to do that for you.
Will you let him ? Oh, if you only
knew how He loves you, you would
not wait.
NEWARK, March 3rd, 1865.
It was a year last Sunday since you came
into our Sunday-school. J shall never forget
* Copyright seemed
the day. You said you would not talk to us
that morning, but invited us to come to the
meeting in the afternoon. But you told us
that story about the gardvn of a wondrous
height, and sang that beautiful hymn "Come
to Jesus just now." When school was dis
missed, you commenced to talk with sonic of
the children. As I sat quite far back, I was
afraid you would not come to me. because
you did not ask us to remain; but I wanted
to find Jesus, and I asked my teacher whe
ther you would come and talk with me. She
asked me if I wanted to find Jesus. I could
not answer her. I sat right down again
and cried. I was almost ashamed of myself
for crying ; but God's Holy Spirit was there.
All the children were passing out, while I sat
there almost alone but it was not long before
you were by my side, talking to me so kindly
about Jesus, how he died for me, and then
you prayed for me. You were the first min
ister that ever talked to me. It does seem so
bad that I did not love that dear Jesus before.
Oh, what a happy year this has been! Some,
said I would turn again, "but they all have'
been deceived in the 'way I still remain."
The children are all happy as ever.. We are
praying for you dear, Mr. Hammond. We
have been prayi ng
for the children in Newton
and Hacketstow n ,
where you have been hold
ing meetings. Please
pray for us, that we may
keep on in
_the Enied way. 'I
joined Dr. P.'s
church. Now . I aie so happy. Now I can
say. with that litde "I f ee l lik e s i ng i ng
t,ar, ar e wiped away, for
all the time. My
Jesus is a friend of inlivc, I'll serve him
every day." "a T I understand what
our minister says, and all those beautiful
hymns and my Bible I love to read. which I
never used to read. There are a go . od many
finding Jesus. Some of thoc.e that you
prayed for, when you were here, have come
out of the world and confessed Chri-q. Our
prayer-meetings are crowded. \Vs s h a ll
have to build another chapel soon, if the
work goes on as it does now. Will you
please come here soon again?
Yours affectionately,
MARY.
You see the precious Jesus has
helped this child all this time to trust
in Him, and so He will always be
ready to help her.
There was once a little girl in Swit
zerland, who used to go across a gla
cier often to see her afrit. A glacier,
you know, is a stream of ice miles in
length, and often several hundreds of
feet thick. As these solid glaciers
thaw off down in the valley, fresh
snow and ice from above press the ice
and snow down inch by inch, and that
is why they call them streams of ice.
They move very slow, but they do
move a little. Sometimes they crack
open, and you can look down hun
dreds of feet. I remember once, in
crossing the Grindenwald glacier, I
came near falling into one of these
deep fissures. Many have fallen into
them and never got out.
Well, when this little girl came
home from her aunt's one night, she
came to one of these deep fissures. It
had been snowing, and she was afraid
to cross; so there she stood, and began
to cry aloud, for she feared she might
be lost, and never see her mother
again. Just then her brother, a great
stout man, came along,
and he called
out, " Who's there ?" And the timid
little child at first was afraid of him.
But soon he knew it was his own little
sister, and said to her, " Oh, don't cry,
for I will take you safe over." And.
soon his strong arms were fast around
her, and she was safely landed on the
other side and beside a warm fire with
her mother. She could not thank her
brother enough, and said to him often,
"I will never be afraid to trust you
again."
- Now, my little friend, the dear Jesus,
our "Elder Brother," will take you
over all the dangerous places between
here and heaven, if you will but go
to His arms. He is beside you. now.
The way home to heaven may seem
dark to you, but He knows the way.
He loves you far more than that
brother in Switzerland loved his little
sister. Jesus says to you, " Him that
cometh to me I will in no wise cast
out." • You know that Paul has the
word JESUS five hundred times in thb
letters which he has written in the
Bible. He never tired in talking
about JESUS. And so you never will,
when you come to know Him. You
will find Him, as thousands of chil
dren have, "the ehiefest among ten
thousand, and the One altogetlier
lovely." Will you, then, come to
Him with this little
CHILD'S PRAYER?
Oh, Lord, show me by thine Holy
Spirit that I can never get home to
heaven without the help of Jesus. And
Oh, teach me how willing and able He is
to receive me, and how wicked I have
been not to love and trust Him. Oh,
what a hard heart is mines! Jesus has
died to save me, and yet I have never
loved Him ! Oh, Lord, forgive me
this and all my sins, and make me
thine obedient, trusting child, for
Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.
When I read of little ones,
`Peeping o'er their sinful ways;
Sad to think they left undone,
That which should begin their days;
When I see them in such cr owds,
Flocking to the Saviour's arms,
Like the little " doves" in " clouds,"
Gathering safe from all alarms:
When I hear the Saviour say,
" Suffer little ones to come,"
Oh, how can I stay away?
Now at once to Him I'll run:
He will make me happy too,
He will wipe away my tears,
Lead me all my journey through,
Drive away my doubts and fears.
He who bled and died for me,
Sure will give me all I need,
From my sins He'll set me free,
Every prayer of mine He'll heed.
Of His wondrous hive I'll sing,
Thus my faith shall grow more strong,
Till at last heaven's arches ring,
With our glad triumphant song.
Run not after blessings; only walk
in the commandments of God, and
blessings shall run after you, pursue
and overtake you.