402
family eirtts.
THE HARVEST HOME.
"That both he that soweth. and he that reapeth. may
rejoice together."—Jons iv. 36.
From the far-off fields of earthly toil
A goodly host they come,
And sounds of music are on the air,—
'Tis the song of the Harvesi-home.
The weariness and the weeping—
The darkness has all pass'd by,
And a glorious sun has risen—
The Sun of Eternity l
We've seen those faces in days of yore,
When the dust was on their brow,
And the scalding tear upon their cheek
Let us look at the laborers now!
We think of the life-long sorrow,
And the wilderness daYs of care;
We try to trace the tear-drops,
But no scars of grief are there.
There's a myster, of soul-chasten'd joy
Lit up with sun-light hues
Like morning flowers most beautiful,
When wet with midnight dews.
There are depths of earnest meaning
In each true and trustful gaze,
Telling of wondrous lessons
Learnt in their,pilgrim days.
And a conscious confidence ofbliss,
That shall never again remove,—
All the faith and hope of journeying years,
Oather'd up in that look of love.
The long waiting days are over ;
'They've received their wages now ;
For they've gazed upon their Master,
And His name is on their brow.
They've seen the safely garner' d sheaves,
And the song has been passing sweet,
Which welcomed the last in-commg one
Laid down at their Saviour's feet.
Oh ! well does His heart remember,
As those notes of .praise sweep by,
The yearning, plaitttivelfusic
Of earth's sadderikelsy.
And well does He kno* each chequer'd tale,
As He looks on the joyous band—
All the lights and shad ows t hat cross' dtheirpath,
In the distant pilgrim land;—
The heart's unspoken anguish—
The bitter sighs and tears—
The long, long hours of watching—
The changeful hopes and fears !
One had £limb'd the rugged mountainside;
'Twas a bleak and wintry day;
The tempest had scatter'd his precious seed,
And he wept as he turn'd away. -
But a stranger-hand had water'd
That seed on a distant shore,
And the laborers now are meeting,
Who never had met be . -•
And one—he had toil . 7; bailing sands,
When the scorching
1 U. was high;
c
•
He had grasp'd the p ough with a fever'd hand,
And then laid him down to die ;
But another, and yet another,
Had fill'd that deserted field, ,
Nor vainly the seed they scatter'd,
Where a brother's care had till'd.
Some with eager step went boldly forth,
Broad casting o'er the land ;
Some water'd the scarcely budding blade,
With atender, gentle hand.
There's one—her young life was blighted,
By the withering touch of woe;
Her days were sad and weary,
And she never went forth to sow;
But there rose from her lonely couch of pain,
The fervent, pleadincprayer ;
She looks on many a radiant brow,
And she reads the Answers there!
Yes! sowers and reapers are meeting;
A rejoicing host they come I
Will you join the echoing'chorus?
'Tis the song of the Harvest-homel
THE GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY.
A STORY TOLD TO A CHILD
,„4 BY JEAN INGELOW
(CONCLUDED.)
When he ceased to speak, I said
with a sorrowful sigh, " And now,
papa, there is only one penny left of
all my opportunities ?"
"Well, my darling," he replied, "it
is possible that you may do acceptable
good even with that. Remember
what our Saviour said about the cup
of cold water."
"Yes," I said,"‘but the person who
gave the cold water, had nothing
better to give ; he bad not a cup of
milk, or a cup of wine, which he first
wasted and threw away."
"My clear, you need not inquire
into that; you might have done better;
- but as there is still something to be
done, 'Do it with might."
When I was quite calm again, and
almost happy, he sent me into the
house to play at ball. As I passed
the kitchen door, a poor old woman
Nqioni. my mother used sometimes to
help, turned from it, and I heard the
housemaid say, " Mistress has just
walked out, and I cannot say when she
will be at home."
She was hobbling away, when I be
thctught me of my penny; took it out
of its bag, and pulling her by the
cloak, Offered it to her.
At first she did not seem to under
stand me, but when she saw my copper
opportunity, which was as bright as
sand-paper could render it, she gave
me just the shadow of a smile, and
taking it in her skinny hand, Laid, "I
thank you kindly, my pretty."
" Poor old creature," said the
housemaid, "that will buy her a trifle,
mayhap ; she and her husband are
going into the workhouse to-morrow."
I passed into the house penniless,
but in a subdued and humble state of
mind. The lessons I had had were
not without good effect ; but it cannot
be, expected that I can remember
mph of the working of my mind. I
miry know that time did pass, that I
went to bed, got up, said my lessons,
and had my play for a long time, per
haps a fortnight, At the end of about
that time, my little sister, Sophy, and
I went one day for a long walk, with
'Matilda, our nurse, and took a little
basket with us to put flowers in, and
blackberries, if we should be so fortu
nate as to find any.
We walked a long way, till Sophy
was tired, and became clamorous to
sit down• i
so Matilda led us to the en
trance of a little wood, and there we
sat, ; and rested on the steps of a stile.
There was a cottage year at kiand:
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1865.
presently an old woman came out of it
with a kettle in her hand, and I recog
nized her as the woman to whom I
had given my penny. She hobbled to
the edge of a little stream which flowed
close to our seat, and dipped her
kettle in, but did not notice us till
Matilda called to her.
"How are you, Mrs. Grattan, and
how's your old gentleman ?"
" Thank you kindly, girl, we be
pretty moderate," was the reply. "He"
—and sheipointed with a stick to a
field opposite, where several men were
at work—"He be amo* them, pick
ing up stones—Ha! ha 14te be as blithe
as a boy I"
" We was all very glad up at the
Grange, to hear of your good luck,"
said Matilda, in the loudest tones of
her cheerful voice, for the old woman,
was rather deaf. "Our mistress was
main glad, I'll assure you."
" Ah, very kind on you all. How
be the old gentleman ?"
naQuite hearty."
y this time she had reached us, set
down her kettle,_ancl taken, her place
beside Matilda. I was busily plaiting
Ara*, but listened carelessly-to'
conversation.
" And so you got your rent paid
and all," said Matilda, turning her
eager black eyes on the old woman.,
" What a good son Joe is to you."
" Ah, that he be, dear," was the
reply,; "that he be; wrote he did, so
pretty, dear mother,' he says,
I don't you'go for to think shall ever
forget how good you was to me always
—for I shall not,' he says—"
Matilda's eyes flashed and glistened:
she took a particular interest in this
young man, though I did not know
that till long afterwards.
"Tell us how it all was," she said,
quickly.
"Why you see , dear , he was not it.y
own :- but I did. as well as I could by
him; and he be as fond of me like, ay
fonder, than he be of his father."
" Yes I know," said Matilda.,
"Well, dear—l went to Mr. T.'s
house," (my father's) " and I was very
down at. heart—very, I was; for Mr.
Ball, he'd been that morning, and says
he, It signifies nothing that you've
lived here so long,' he says—' if you
can't pay the rent' I says, Mr. Ball,
will you please to consider these
weeks and weeks tli.at my , xbor old
man has been laid up wi' rheumatize ?'
'But,' he says, I can put in younger
and stronger than him ; and besides
that,' he says, know you owe money
at the shop, over all you owe to my
employer."
" He was always a hard man," said
Matilda.
1,
" Well dear; he ;(-, It ain't no_use
my deceiving t o , Mrs. Grattan,
but I must sell yob. up, for,' says he,
' the money I must have, and you
must go into the workhouse; it's the
best place by half for such as you;'
and, dear, it seemed hard, for, I'll
assure you,
we hadn't a half-ounce of
tea, nor a lump of coal . in the house,
for we was willing, my old man and
me, to strive to the last to pay our
owings, and we was living very hard."
"How much did. you owe ?" asked
Matilda.
" Over three pounds, dear; and then
the rent was four. I hadn't one-half
penny in the house; I paid the baker,
Thursday was a week ; t'other, four
was for the doctor, and we was hungry
and cold, we was; but,, the Lord -be
praised, we aint now."
I Joe's a good son."
=lags good as ever breathed, dear;
bii;l7.we hadn't heard from him of a
loft while, by reason his regiment
was up the country, but you'll under
stand I didn't know that till I got his
letter. And so we was to be sold up,
and go into the house. I fretted a
deal,, and ?hen I thought I'd go and
tellyoUr missis : she be a good friend ;
—but' deary me I I owed such a lot o'
money ;—only, thinks I, she'll be main
sorry to hear we must go; and - a body
likes somebody to be sorry."
" Ah, to be sure they do," said Ma
tilda.
"But she was out, and so I got
nothing—only this child, bless her !
she runs up and gives me a penny ;
but, deary me thinks I, what's a
penny to them as owes £7 2s. ? But,
thinks I, my old man and me, we
won't cry together in the dark this
last night. So I walked on to the
town with it, to buy a half-penny
candle of Mr. Sims, at the post-office.
I was half way there from my place,
and when I got into the shop, Sit
you down, Mrs. Grattan,' says he, for
'he saw I was main tired • I haven't
seen you of a long time.
" And that's true, Mr. Sims,' says
I, 'for it's little enough I have to lay
out, and the shop t'other side of the
turnpike be nigher.'
" Well, I sat' me down ; maybe a
quarter of an hour after I'd my candle,
and just as I was a going, in comes
Mrs. Sims, and, says she,. 'ls that
Grattan's wife ?'
" Ay,' says he.
" Well,' says she, reckon you
remembered to give her that letter'
" A good thing you spoke, my
dear,' says he, should have forgot
it—that I should.'
"If you'll believe me, I trembled
like a leaf, to think I should so near
have missed it. 'Be it a letter from
the Indies ?' says I.
" 'Ay,' says, he, that it is, and
nothing to pay on it; and it's - marked
"to be left at the post-office till called
for."'
"Well, dear, I took it home, and
waited for my old man to come home,
by reason I can't read, and about
dusk he comes in, and we lights the
candle, and my old man he read it right
out, for he's a fine scholar. And
there was two five pound notes inside,
bless him ; and, says he, ' Mother, I've
got made sergeant, and now I shall
send to you regular."
" Well, I've heard no better news
this many a day !" said Matilda.
"It was -good, dear. Well, I paid
the doctor, and when., Mr. Ball came
next day, says I, ' There's the money,
sir,' and he stared. 'lndeed,' he says,
`I am surprised, but them that pay can
stay.' So, you see,, there's money to
spend, more money, dear, when we be
laid up with the theumatize." Upon
this she laughed with a' genuine joy,
and, taking up her kettle, wished Ma
tilda good afternoon, and hobbled
away. ,
And I knew, though it had i never
occurred to the old woman, that all
4 ))
this happiness was owina ° my
penny ! If she had not had it to
spend, she would not have "wal ed, to
the post-office • if she had not 1 aikea
to the post-office, she would n _have
got her son's letter—that ' p ecious
letter which had -saved her: fry
sere and the workhouse.
How happy I wasp as we, valked
home ; I seemed to tread on a,r, and
.Yet I knew of holv * little value the
penny really was, it was only my hay
*
ing been permit 1 `to give it underli
such peculiar c . . msfances t 4, had
made it such a worthy and imps, taut
coin.
The lesson taught me by these little
events I did not easily forget; :nd I
think their moral is too obvi ~ s to.
need elaborately enforcing. It may,
ho v •ver, be summed up in . few
~.. , i
St, Do not expect tnat n our
.
- k strength you can make use of • ven
best opportunity for doing ,;ood.
t
Sedond, Do not put off till 'a 'other
day any good which it is in the over
of your hand to do at once.
And thirdly, Do not despo be
cause your means of - I:ibing goo ap
pear'triflinga4 yl insignificant, for
though one A th and another reap
eth, yet it is'lGdd - ithat • giveth the in
crease ; and whei"can tell whether He
will not cause that which is sown to
bear fruit an hundredfold ; who can
tell whether to have even , a penny to
give under certain circumstances may
be to havt, not a,Copper, but a Golden
Opportunity 1 ' • •
VELUM HOWITT'S FOUR DOCTORS.
I am temperate because I have seen
and-felt the good .policy of It Ap' a
literary man ; if I had - falleil - in- 'W•1;1.
ordinary literary habits, I should not
have been sitting here to write about
the advantages of temperance. If. I
had lived as . the majority of literary
men of this age, as. ",,,a• man about
town;" if I had- lived, in fawn, and
kept tusual late hotrs, and passed
al ki t
- yen' after evelaingVn hot,' crowded
roomk breathing the ae,adly poison of
physical effluvia, gas, and air-deprived
of its ozone ; ',if I had sat over the bot
tle at late suppers, foolishly called . din
ners ; and ; i* short, " jollified"----as my
literary ootemporaries call it, I should
have been gone thirty years ago:
As it is, I have seen numbers of
literary men, much younger than my
self, dying off like rotten sheep—some
of them in their very early youtlajew
of them becoming old. • They have
acquired great reputations ; for if you
take notice, they who collect about the
press, and jollity with one another, and
cry up one another as prodigies, are
the men who become most 'popular;
and "verily , they have their reward."
They reap much money, and much
'tempc i .rary fame; but at what price do
they purchase it_? At the cost of ,
bodily as well as mental comfort ; at
the cost of life itself. For my part,
seeing the victims to " fast life' daily
falling around me, I have willingly
abandoned the temporary advantages
of such a life, and preferred less popu
larity;less gain); the enjoyment of a,
sound mind in a sound : body ; the bles
sings of a quiet domestic life, and a
more restricted, but not less enjoyable,
circle of society.
I-am now fast approaching my sev
entieth year. I cannot;` indeed, say
that I have reached this period, active,
and vigorous as I am, without the
asOistance of doctors. I have had the
co taut attendance of these four
fa4us ones: Temperance, gxercise,
GOOd Air, and Good Hours.
And now a word on work. Those
who imagine that I only wag a goose
, quill, mistake a' little. lii that depart
ment, indeed, I have done as much
work as any' man living. Often, in
early years, I labored assidiously six
teen hours a day. I never omit walk
ing three or four miles, or more, in all,
weather. I work hard in my garden,
and could tire down a tolerable man
at that sort of thing. During_rdy two
years' travel in Australia, when about
sixty, I walked often, under a burfting
sun of one hundred and twenty or one
hundred and thirty degrees at noon
my twenty miles a day for days and
weeks together; worked at digging
gold, in great heat, and against young,
active men, my twelve hours a day,
sometimes standing in a brook. I
waded through rivers,—for neither
man nor nature had made iwy
bridges,i ; and let my clothes dry u 'on
my back= s washed my own linen, d
Made andtbaked my own bread be ore
I ate it ; slept occasionally under the
forest tree ; and went through it all as
hearty as a roach
And how did I manage all this, not
only with ease, but with enjoyment?
Simply because I avoided spirituous
liquors as I would avoid the poison of
an asp. The horrors which I saw
there from the drinking of spirits, were
enough to make a man of the least
sense sober. The extent to which
spirit-drinking was carried, may be
judged of by the unexampled fact, that
one year during my stay, nine hundred
thousand pounds were paid for duty
on spirits alone, and that for a popula
tion of only two hundred and fifty
thousand souls I Well, then, I think
I have a claim to recommend to my
fellow-workmen ebstinence from beer,`
spirits, tobacco. They are all
poisoners of the blood ; they are all
burnt-offerings unto death ; they are
all destroyers of the bottom of our
pocket; and what is worse, destroyers
of the peace of families, the constitu
tions of men, the domestic comfort , and
virtue of women, the physical stamina
and the very life of children. They
slay the morals of society, the intel
lects and the souls of men. As I read
daily the
! police reports and the pro
ceedings of our criminal courts, I trace
the wide-spread pestilence of spirits,
beer, and tobacco in 'almost every .out
rage and misery. All these inflame
the passions or beclond the intellect';
they originate robbery of masters, and
robbery of all kinds. They strip their
practicers of health, clothes, morals,
and sanity ; they convert them into
madmen and devils. They fire the
brain, with frenzy, and arm the hand
with bludgeons and knives against
their own wives and children. The
great bulk of the crimes and calamities
of society flow from the tap and the
spigot. •
m mi-
By this indulgence,—surely the most
marvelous of infatiations,—and ab
surd appetite "set on fire of hell," the
people encourage the government to
plunder them most cruelly, in the
shape of excise duties. To furnish
the government with this duty, our
working millions abandon every diity
of their own. They set up over them
selves a most terrible tyranny. They
keep open gin-shops at every corner,
even , on Sabbath-evenings, when book
shops and simple refreshment rooms
are,not allowed to be open.
BUILDING ON THE SAND.
'Tie well to woo, 'tis good to wed,
For so the world hath done
Since myrtles grew, and, roses blew,
And morning brought the sun.,
But have a care, ye young and fair;
Be sure you ledge with truth ;
• Be certain that your love'willovear
Beyond the days of youthl
_Farif-ve-sive_not heart-tbrAwart,---
As well as hand for hand, .
You'll find you've played the unwise part
And built upon the sand.
'Tie well to save, 'tie well to have
A goodly store of gold,
And hold enough of shining stuff,
For charity is cold.
But plane not all your hope and trust
In what the deep mine brings;
We cannot live on yellow dust
Unmixed with purer things.
And he who piles up wealth alone:
Will often have to stand
Beside his coffer chest, and own
'Tis built upon the sand.
'Tis good A, speak in kindly guise,
And soothe where'er we can ;
Fair speech should bind the human mind,
And love link man to man.
Butotay not at the gentle words ;
Let deeds with language dwell,;
The one who pities starving birds
Should scatter crumbs as well.
The mercy that is warm and true,
Must lend a, helping hand,
' For those who talk, yet fail to do,
I But build upon the sand.
TIIE ELDER BROTHER.
In a family there were two boys.
One was named Harry, and the other
Fred. Harry was a good boy, and
t
every one f who knew him expected
that he would grow up a holy and
useful man. Fred was very wild and
wicked, often disobeying his father,
and did things that grieved all- his
friends. One day he had been very
naughty, and had been sent to his
room. His father would neither see
bim nor, speak to him, and Harry,
sorry t o o _see him in, such disgrace,
went into his room. Tears of pity
were, in his eyes as he said to his
brother.--
''" Oh, Fred, Fred 1 why, will you be
so Wry : foolish?"
Tiktd;lpoked at him with a sullen,
kroki , up.on his, face, and said, d•• 1 ,, ••t
care!" • .
Marry talked kindly,
ever, and'after a little while Fred d,
"It is no use; father - will' sieve or
give me"
Ask him," said Harry.
"I dare not," was the reply.
"Do, now; go and tell him you are
sorry for what you have done, and
beg his forgiveness," said Harry. ,
"No," said Fred, in a sad, hopeless
tone. "I amsorry, but I could not
'find words to say so to. father; and
besides I do not think he would forgive
me now, whatever I might say.",
" Well, then let me ask him," said
Harry.
"Ah! if you would! Father will
-listen to you.l" he exclaimed.
So the two boys went together to
their father's room, Harry stepping in
first, boldly and happily.
Fred was afraid and. hung back.
"I dare not go in," said he, -as- the
door opened.
" Oh, come along !" said his brother,
sin an enconraging.„-tone of voice: and
stepped up to his father .and said,
" Father, I am come to tell you that
Fred is very sorry for what he has
done, and ask you to forgive him."
Übe father looked up and said,
" Could you not come yourself, Fred ?"
"Oh no," s a id Harry : "he was so
sorry and ashamed that he could not
—he dared • not, and I persuaded him
to let me ask you to forgive him for
my sake."
Then the father opened his loving
arms, and the guilty boy fell sobbing
upon his breast.
" Now, for your brother's sake, I
have forgiven you. For your brother's
sake be a good boy - in- time to come."
Dear children,—Jesus is called our
" elder brother," you know- '
and if we
go to Him in sincerity he-will go with
us and intercede for us, as this boy did
for his brother. Jesus is called the
"Intercessor," which means that when
we do, rong he pleads with his Father
for us."—"Food for the Lambs."
During one of Napoleon's remark
able campaigns, a detachment of a
corps commanded by Davoust occupied
the Isle of Rugen, which they were
ordered to evacuate. They embarked
with such precipitation that they for
got one of their sentinels posted in a
retired spot, and who was so deeply
absorbed in theperusal of a newspaper
containing an account of one of the
emperor's splendid victories, as to be
totally unconscious of their departure.
After pacing to, and fro for many
hours upon his post, he lost patience,
and returned to the guard-room, which
he found empty. On inquiry he learzed
with despair what had happened„and
" Alas! alas! I shall be looked upon
as a deserter—dishonored ; lost, un
happy wretch that I am !"
His lamentations excited the com
passion of a worthy tradesman, who
took him to his house, did all in his
power to console him, taught him to
make bread, for he was a baker, and
after some months gave him his only
daughter, Justine, in marriage.
Five years afterwards, a strange sail
was seen to approach the Island. The
inhabitants flocked to the beach, and
- soon discovered in the advancing ship
a number of soldiers wearing the um
form of the French army.
" I'm done for now!" cried the dis
mayed husband of Justine. "My
bread is baked."
An idea, however, suddenly occurred
to him, and revived his courage. He
ran to the house, slipped-into his uni
form, and, seizing his faithful fire-lock,
returned to the beach, and posted him
self on sentry at the moment the
French were landing.
-cf-Who goes there ?" be shouted in
a voice thxnattr--
" Who goeS there, yourself ?" replied
one in a boat "Who are you?"
"A sentinel."
"How long have you been on
guard?"
"Five years.
Davoust, for he it was, laughed at
the quaint repl and gave a discharge
in. dile form tolitifOrdliiiitiEttsgarker
fa tip gitilte tato.
FAMILIAR TALKS WITH''THE CHIL
DREN.
(SECOND SP.II,X3F.S.
BY REV. EDWARD PAYSON HAMMOND.*
"THE IDEA OF MY BEING A 'CHRIS
TIAN 1"
—Eliza Cook
These were the words of a boy, thir
teen years old, who lives in Brooklyn.
It was a year and a' half ago when
said this so scornfully. But, striVie
as it may seem; he has been aghns
tian ever since. His pastor thinks he
is a Christian, and has taken I* into
the Church / . I saw him onl3it*, few
weeks ago, and he says the more he
learns of Jesus, the more he loves
What a wicked boy he must have
been, for he says, "I laughed at my
companions." He means those who
were asking their ministers and Sab
bath-sChool teachers how they could
- find peace in Jesus. Oh, how wonder
ful that God' can make such a wicked
boy a good boy and a Christian, all ih.
a minute! Ye% and He can do this
for you now, if you will ask. him.
The first time I came to the children's
meeting was on Sunday. When it was over,"
I went outside of the door saying to myself,
The idea of me being a aristian Why, I
was even ashamed to hear the naule of Jesus
spoken to me. OcCasionally I would peep in
the. door and"laugh at my compinions who
were,in the church. After meeting was over,
I went home,and came to the meeting in the
evening. After the meeting was over, a good,
earnest, working Christian came to me. and
asked me,if I loved Jesus. I told him
. I was
afraid I did not. After talking with me a
little while, he asked me if I would kneel
down, and he would pray for me, which I
did. I thank him 'sincerely for it now, but I
did not then. He was pleased to explain
to me the love of God giving his Son
Jesus Christ to bleed and die for sinners.
He told me the way of salvation by faith,
the nature of the new birth, and the great
necessity of holiness of heart and life: He
instructed me greatly ; and, under God, to
him I owe all the good I am acquainted with.
Soon after; by asking God to help me and
my companions, we found peace in God.
.Oh, the joy that I now feel through the
blood of the Lamb ! How I long to tell all
the world what Jesus has done for me ! And
now I love to , pray and road my . Bible,more
than I ever did before - . I rejoice in the Lord
Jesus Christ as a rwasom paid for my soul.
Oh, pray for me, that 'may love Him more
Copyright secured.
A FRENCH SENTINEL.
TILE SCORNFUL BOY
and more. Pray for me, that I may thank
Him for delivring my soul from, bondage
and setting me on that heavenly tr ack that
ieadb - th to glory; and may many plead for
mercy till they find that they have been
lifted up from a world of sorrow and placed
upon that heavenly track. May we all get
hold of the last link of the golden chain, and
meet together in that world of bliss.
Your young friend, ***
Aged thirteen years.
" I FOUND JESUS THEN AND' THERE."
Thus writes a girl from the Bay
State. She was just about the age, of
this boy. She too had, as you will
see, no thought of being a Christian..
She did not believe that - little. children
could -turn to Jesus. She was;:vary
earnest, and asked God for a new
heart, and prayed so late at night,
that she couldn't keep her eyes open
any longer.
Why didn't she find peace? She
will tell you. She had some darling
sins she would not give up. Jesus
was ready an the time to save her;
yes, more anxious -to make her a
Christian than sh e was to become one.
What a deeene u l heart she must
have had! And ycm,lny dear young
reader, have just such heart—one
which the Bible say ; i s gi deceitful
above all things and desi , erately wick
ed." You will never get tt "heaven
till you get rid of it.
When this girl saw the sin th a t he
loved * more than her own soul. and
said, "I give it all up," she say-. "I
was a new creature from that mo.
ment." And so you will be, if you
will but come in the same way to
Jesus. And then, instead of being
ashamed of Jesus, you will, before
you know it, be pleading, like this
girl, with your little friends to love
Jesus.
*DEAR MR. HamtroND :—The first time I
went,to the children's meeting, I went out or
curiositg, just to see what you would say and
how thb children would act, for I did not be- ,
lieve in the conversion of children ; but when
you asked us to stop at the inquiry-meeting,
my heart beat very loud, but 1 succeeded in
getting out of the church. But before I got
half way home, there was a stilt, small voice
said, "Better go back ; it is your last
chance!" But 1 did not heed the voice of
conscience, and I went home. The next day
I went again, and did the same. When I
got home, I prayed to God to give me a new
heart, but He didn't seem tc. hear my prayer;
and then I said, I have been so wicked that
God wont hear my prayers. The next day
went, and stayed to the inquiry-meeting.
When you came and spoke to me, you asked
me if I was willing t6give up all to Jesus.
I told you I was. Then you knelt and
prayed with me, but I did not feel any
better. I went home and prayed myself to
sleep ; and still I found no relief. I awoke
before light the next morning, and began ,
praying as before; but this time I asked Him
if there was anything that I was not willing
to• give up, to tell me, and I would give it
up. And *He did tell me. Then I said,
"Dear Lord, I give it all up; take me just
as I am; it is all that I can do. I give paf.
self to Thee." A 1 ,,,1 I
wr~
Led
:nt
th
HAD."
"Annie," who lives in a large Watt
ern city more than a thousand •miles
from New York, found that she had
lived thirteen-" yeails without know
'rig what a "wicked" heart she had.
I hope you have not lived so long
without feeling your need of Jesus.
Her "wicked" heart, you will see,
made her get up some excuse to stay
away from a meeting where many
were seeking the pardon of their sins.
But as soon as she found out what a
sinner she had been, she says, "I de
termined to come the next day." AM
yes, then she felt she must find the
.Saviour, or be lost forever. You need
Jesus just as much as she did. Will
you seek "him now, before.,it is too
late? "To-day the Saviour calls."
I wrote a short letter to you.on Saturday,
in which I only told you that I loved Jesus.
I did not tell how I found him. A week ago
last Sunday, when I came honie from Sun
day-school, my mother told me about the
meetings to be held at Dr. Patton's church,
which she wished me to attend. I did not
want to go, because it would interfere with
my school, as I thought they commenced at
three o'clock, or some time thereabouts; but
Ma told me that I ought not to think of that
in comparison with my salvation. Still I did
not, want to go. But the next day at noon ist
received a programme, and I found that they
did not commence till a quarter to four
o'clock. I then did not have any excuse; so
I went. I stayed to the inguury-meeting,
and a kind lady came and spoke to me. I
t then found what a wicked heart I had. I
was determ i ned to g o the next day, and I
`took one of my companions with" me. I was
,more, interested than, the timl4ore, and
hope that I was enable e
d' to give my heart 'to
my Saviour. I was happier than I ever was
before. I have - been feeling happier 'ever
since. from your affectionate friend,
ANNIE -***
Thirteen years dd.
I was a wandering sheep, :, •
I did not love the fold: .
did - not love my Shepherinivoice,
I would not be controlled;
I was a , wayward child,
I did not love my home,
I did not love my Father's voice,
I loved afar to roam.
The Shepherd sought His sheep;
The Father sought His child ;
They followed me o'er vale and hill,
O'er deserts r waste and wild:
They found me nigh to death,
Famish' d, and taint, and lone ;
They bound me with the ban& of kive,
They saved the wandering. one.
Jesus my Shepherd is,
'T was he that loved my -soul'T was he that washed me in his blood,
'T'was he that made me;whole:
'Twas he that sought the Testi
That found the wanderings cep;
'T was he that brought Ina to the fold--
"ris he that still doth keep