Ejrc family ©ittle.
V,' if ITTEN FOR OUR COLUMIffe.J
SPRING AT PETERSBURG, 18GG.
There's a golden tide of sunshine,
Flooding all beneath my feet;
And "the air around is thrilling,
With a thousand murmurs sweet;
For the spring-time, like a mother,
Nurseth with a lullaby,
And a rippling, low-voiced laughter,
At her children, passing by.
All the fields are starred with daisies,j
All the monnds are flushed with bloom,
And the winds that stir the branches
Waft a subtle, soft perfume.
All the furrowed earth is hearing,
Pulsing with awakened lire ;
Nature’s kindly hand retrieving,
What she lost in days of strife.
Ah 1 the Spring; when last Bhe faltered,
On the Appomattox shore,
Hid her face, and stayed her footsteps,
From the bruised and blackened floor,
Scarred and crushed, and torn and trampled,
By the iron foot of war;
Till the sad earth moaned and shivered,
’Neath the weight of graves she bore 1
Then, these silent meadows echoed
Bugle call> and beat of drum ;
And the distant cannons’ thunder,
Where to-day the wild bees hum;
All along the line, the rattle
Of the deadly Minie ball,
And the eddying waves of battle,
Surging round yon low earth wall.
Here, where springs-the scented clover,
Stood the ranks of loyal blue;
Each bis country’s fearless lover,
Hero-hearted, brave and true 1
See, where these white bones are bleaching,
’Neath the sifted yellow clay ;
Patriot soub of patriot mothers
Nobly gave their lives away I
.It is over 1 Flag of freedom,
With thy stars thine own once more;
Hath thy red a rosier tinting
For the brave baptism o’er?
Hath the white a purer lustre,
For the saints ascended high ?
Hath thy field of star-gemmed azure,
Lovelier halo of the Bky ?
Croon, young mother, croon thy sweetest
Lullabieß o’er timid flowers;
In thy balmy wind-rocked cradle,
Nurse the laughing April honrs!
Softly weave thy pall of beauty,
O’er the soldier’s nameless grave;
Coax the frightened birds to duty 1
Seas of music, wave on wave.
Thanks for those,' whom baby fingers,
Waketo-dayat reveille!
Brave, broad-chested, sunburnt heroes,
Glad once more at home to be I
Glad that low good-nights and kisses,
Beat for them the eve’s tatto-l
While oar grateful hearts still utter,
11 Blessings on the boys in blue!”
, M.J2. M.
THE CHILD OF THE HAMLET.
As Arthur pursued the path across
the common, his eye was attracted by
the picturesque effect of a little scarlet
cloak, contrasting with the green of a
clump of gorse and fern. The cloak,
which on nearer approach was seen to
be both soiled and tattered, was wrap
ped round a bare-headed child, whom
Arthur judged by her size to be about
six years of age, though she was pro
bably older. He looked at the little
slender creature, with her dark hair
hanging in elf-lockß over her shoul
ders, and her large, gazelle-like eyes
fixed on the stranger with a shy, half
frightened expression, and wished that
he had brought his. sketch-bopk with
him. Arthur expected that the child
would ask alms, for her dress denoted
poverty, and he intuitively, put his
hand’to his waistcoat pocket; but the
little girl slunk away at his. approach
to a short distance from the path, where
she stopped, watching him as he pass
ed. Then, at the distance of about
twenty yards, she timidly followed in
his footsteps, holding close to her little
bosom a covered basket which she
carried. Arthur stopped, to give the
child an opportunity of coming uj
with him; but seeing this, she stoppe .
also: when he walked on, she followed,
preserving still the same distance be
tween them. Curious to see if the lit
tle girl’s movements were really con
nected with his own, Arthur diverged
to the right, still, t however, going
somewhat in the direction of the ham
let. He stopped and glanced hack ;
the child, though with a look of un
certainty and hesitation, was following
him still.
“ This little fawn seems to be afraid
to come near me, and yet to wish to
keep me in sight,” said Arthur to him
self. The young man was fond of
children, and resolved to overcome the
shyness of this lonely little peasant.
He turned >owards her, smiled, and
beckoned to her to advance. She
hung hack with evident reluctance.
Arthur stooped and gathered from a
bramble by the path a spray richly
hung with blackberries, and held if
out to the child. The timid girl slowly
approached, like the wild fawn to
which Arthur had likened her, keep
ing her black eyes fixed on the stranger.
But there ’was that in Arthur’s smile
which no child could look on and fear.
As the little one put out her brown
hand for the berries, she glanced up
with more confidence through her long
dark lashes at the tall form before her.
"Why did you follow me, my little
maiden ?’’ asked Arthur.
“ ’Cause I was afeerd of the boys,"
said the child. “If you was by, they'd
not beat me, and take away my white
hen.” The girl glanced down at her
covered basket, and a little fluttering
sound from within showed the nature
of its contents. .
« Who arS these boys that you fear?”
“ The big bad boys as hunt Gideon,”
replied the child, glancing timidly
round, as if afraid that some one might
be within hearing,
“Hunt Gideon I” repeated Arthur,
amused to hear a boy spoken of as if
he were a hare. “ Does Gideon always
run away, does he never turn round
and face them ?’’
" He has the fits, you know,” said
the little girl sadly; “ the boys hunt
him, and fright him, and then he falls
down, and it makes mother so savage
—it do!”
“It would make any one feel
savage,” observed Arthur; “these
boys must be a sad, lawless set.”
“ They catched me the first time I
Was a cornin’ from Mrs. ’Oldit, and
took away the cake she gave me, and
ate it, and tore the pretty picture book
into bits, and laughed, and when I
cried they beat me I” The little girl
completed the list of her wrongs by
drawing up her ragged sleeve, and
showing the mark of a black bruise
beneath.
“ Here’s a case of, Red Ridinghood
and the wolf,” thought Arthur; "I
should-like to give these young ruffians
a taste of my switch ! Well, my little
friend," he said aloud, “ keep close
beside me, and we’ll go together to
your home, and none of the boys shall
touch you. Tell me what is your
name ?”
“Lottie. Stone, sir,” answered the
child,, her little face brightening as she
trotted on in full confidence under the
irotection of the tall stranger, whose
•ich-toned voice and gentle courtesy
iad a winning charm for one accus
tomed to.witness only the brutal man
ners of some of the most lawless men
in the country.
“Do you ever go to church, Lottie
Stone?”
The girl looked as if she did not
understand the question, so Arthur
changed it. “ Where does your father
go to on Sundays ?” he asked.
“He goes to the ‘ Jolly Gardener,’ ”
said thdtchild, sadly ; “he goes there
on other days—every day—but on
Sunday be’s there all day long, and
when be comes home he beats mother,
and sometimes beats Gideon and me."
“ Poor little Red Ridinghood!”
murmured Arthur to himself, “ the
wolf is at home as well as abroad.
Does your mother teach you to read ?’’
le inquired
“Ho; mother don’t teach me no
thing,” naively answered the child.
“ What-not to speak the truth, and
fear God?"
The girl fumbled with her blackber
ries, and Arthur at first thought that
she had either not heard or not under
stood his question; but she presently
raised, her head and replied, “it’s
Mrs. ’Oldit as teach me that.”
“And db yob often see Mrs
Holdich ?” *
“ I goes there pretty often,” prattled
the child; “I likes to go there, for she
gives me milk, and bread, and shows
me a deal, and she gave me this pretty,
hen. I’d be there every day, only I
don’t like a-going ’cross the common,
’cause of the bad boys, yer know.”
“ And what does kind Mrs. Holdich
teach you ?”
“Big A, and O, and B; and she
tells me pretty stories put of the Bible
; —I loves Mrs. ’Oldit, I does. She was
a-going to show me how to mend up
them holes,” Red Ridinghood glanced
down at her ragged dress, “ but mother
said it warn’t no use, they’d be torn
again directly.”
“And does she ever tail you-—”
Arthur was interrupted by Lottie’s
drawing closer to him in evident fear,
and murmuring, “ There’s some of ’em!
—big Davy, and Jack Thomson, and
Tommy Higgs.”
“ Don’t mind them, you’ve nothing
to be afraid of,” said Arthur, encour
aging his little companion. I
“ They may kill my hen, as they
killed our poor kitten I” faltered Lottie
as they approached the spot where
three dirty ragged boys, stretched on
the turf, were amusing themselves in
tearing-off the legs and wings of some
wretched butterflies that they had
caught.
“I say, my lads,” cried Arthur
Madden, “ how many butterflies could
the smallest of you kill in five min
utes?”
The authoritative tone, and the
commanding presence of the speaker,
arrested the attention of the young
ragamuffins. Davy’s mouth expanded
in a broad grin as he answered, “ Bush
els of ’em if we could get’em.”
“ Yes, one child could take the life
of thousands of butterflies,” saic.
Arthur, “ but how many men would
it require to give back life to a. single
insect ?”
The boys all started at a question
so strange and unexpected; then
Thomson muttered, •“ There’s no one
could do it.”
“ No, life is God’s gift alone, and no
one should wantonly take it away from
one of the -beautiful creatures that He
has made to enjoy it,” said Arthur.
This was evidently a very new
doctrine to the ragged audience. Had
not the speaker been “a tall, grand
gentleman," he would probably have
been answered'by a roar of laughter;
as it was, Davy relaxed his hold on the
wings of a struggling captive, and the
insect made its escape, no one attempt
ing to catch it again.
“It always appears to me to be a
cowardly think to hurt anything just
because it is feeble and weak, and
cannot resist,” said Arthur, who had
an object in speaking beyond that of
saving butterflies. ■ “It is the office of
the strong to protect the weak, of the
bold to take care of the timid. I knew
a man, an officer, who when in India
went hunting on foot a lion that had
carried off a poor child.”
"He was a bold chap, he was,"
muttered Davy.
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, MARCH 22, 1866.
“ Did the lion kill him ?” asked Tom.
“ No, he killed the lion," said
Arthur, “ and I’ve seen the head stuffed,
and the great white fangs that could
have torn a horse in pieces. Now,
that officer was a true-hearted, brave
Englishman; he dared attack a lion,
but he would not have trodden on a
worm. He was not afraid to ride np to
the enemy’s cannon;'but as for tortur
ing an insect or frightening a girl, he
would have blushed to do such a cow-
ardly thing.” . ,
Whether Arthur had convinced the
reason of thefooys may be doubted,
but he had certainly gained their atten
tion he felt his advantage and went
on. “ Now I should be sorry to think
that there was not a fine brave fellow
amongst you. Here’s a little girl who
is afraid to cross the common alone;
would not one of you go with her,
and take care of her, and if any big
blustering coward tried tp frighten or
hurt her, knock down the bully at
once?”' -/ * - 1
“ Yes, I would—l would,” cried tbe
boys, one after the other.
“There, you hear them,” said
Arthur to Lottie, scarcely able to k&ep
his countenance as he spoke; “there
you have three protectors to choose
from whenever you chance to want one,
who will protect you as brave boys
should. Good day to you, my lads,”
he continued, turning courteously ib.
the three boys, “ may you grow up to
be as gallant fellows as my friend the
officer, and kill your lion, as he did, if
ever you come across one.”
Arthur strode rapidly on to hide
lis mirth, followed by the wondering
Lottie, who could not comprehend how
the gentleman had suddenly turned her
tormentors into her champions.
“I say, he’s a fine, tall chap,”
observed Davy; “ I daresay he’s been
and killed a lion himself.”
“ He’s a-stoopin’ and talkin’ to Lottie
Stone l” observed Tommy with
surprise; “ he’d be a whacking any
one as hurt her !”—“ Rescued from
Egypt." T. Nelson & Sons, N. Y.
“0, there he is, there’s the cur!”
shotted three great boys who wgfia
walking in- front of me. As they
spoke, a poor white dog ran panting
out of a yard near by, pursued by a
iarty of children. The boys seized
some stones and aimed them with
cruel care at the friendless creature,
who ran this way and that to escape
lis persecutors. How silent and pa
tient he was in his distress! No use
less howl of complaint, no angry bark
was heard, as stone after stone fell
around him. Even when they hit
him a severe blow be uttered not a
moan, but went limping painfully off
on three legs.
Now, said I to myself, looking
tbe boys, now they will be sorry and 5
ashamed. Not at all.
“ Wretched cur!” cried one of them
with a laugh. And the three saun
tered carelessly on. Which is the
brute, thought I—this great, strong
boy, who is not ashamed to abuse a
helpless animal, or the brave and pa
tient dog, who bears the torture with
out complaint ? I think I know which
pleases God best j ust now.
Perhaps this common occurrence
made me more indignant than usual,
because I was on my way home from
Mrs. Reynolds’, where I had been
hearing about the noble behavior qf (
their dear old Rover. The day befbre
Mrs. R. had been sitting in her sunny
porch, with little "Maggie playing on
the grass plat at her feet. Some house
hold matter suddenly called her into
the kitchen, and, expecting to come
back directly, she left Maggie at her
play. An accident detained her a
little while, and when she returned
there was ho Maggie to be seen. She
had scarcely time to, call Maggie!
Maggie ! when she heard Rover bark
ing fiiriously, and in another moment
he came running up the garden path.
Her heart sank within her as she saw
that his coat was dripping with water,
for she thought of the little pond.
Perhaps Maggie had gone there! She
flew down the steps after him, and in
another minute he had guided her to
the pond. There on the bank lay
little Maggie, perfectly still, her eyes
shut, her clothes drenched “and torn,
and the water streaming from her
sunny curls. Evidently Rover had
pulled her out of the pond. Her mo
ther snatched her np with a cry of
terror, and hurried back to the house,
where everything was done to restore
her. Rover stood by, anxiously watch
ing their and they said that
when, by and by, she opened her eyes,
he jumped up into the air with a bark
of joy. Then, as if he could not keep
still, and yet knew that Maggie must
not be disturbed, he- rushed out into
the yard and capered about as if he
were crazy with delight.
In a tew hours, as Maggie grew
better, and the doctor said she would
soon get over it, Mrs. Reynolds began
to think of Rover, to whom, under
God, she owed her darling’s life. Such
tears and caresses as were lavished
upon him, and such a. Thanksgiving
dinner as he got that day I They will
1 never cease to loves and cherish that
dear, good, faithful dog. Next morn
ing, when I went into the chamber
where Mf ggie was lying on the lounge,
quite comfortable, though pale and
weak, there sat Rover on the floor by
her side, with the air of one who has
a care on his mind. It was pretty to
THE TWO DOGS.
see him lay his black head upon the
pillow beside the- child’s fair face, and
to watch her white little hand stroking
his shaggy coat with a loving touch.
“He’s my own dear dog, Miss Wil
mot,” said she. “ I should have been
drowned to death if it wasn’t for him.”
“ How did you fall in, dear?” said I.
“Well, I was frowing little stones
into the water for Rover to catch, the
same as papa does, and I runned a
little mite, so as to frow it a great long
ways, and I fell right in.”
“ What did you think, Maggie, when
you felt the water ?”
“ 0,1 was so scared ! I cried mam
ma! but I knew she could not hear,
so I just fought, ‘O, Lord Jesus, do
! catch me.’ You know He’s always
here, Miss Wilmot,” explained Maggie.
“Yes, my darling, and ho doubt He
heard you.”
“ 0, yes, ma’am, I s’pose He showed
Rover how to get me out.”
Rover looked at me with his great
gentle eyes, exactly as if he knew
what we were saying. He walked
towards me and laid his big paw
gravely on my lap, as much as to say
that he would like to shake hands over
it. Then he went back to his post
beside the little one whose life he had
saved. He understood it as well as I
did.
Does any boy wonder that it grieved
me, on my way home from this morn
ing call, to see a dog abused ? lam
sure it was a sin against God’s law of
love.— CongregationaUst.
STARTED TO DEATH.
The boy was starved—yes, starved
to death!
' Where?—who?” you earnestly
ask.
Listen. Do you see that little brown,
low-roofed cottage close under the
hill? It is all alone. How sad every
thing around it looks! The once beau
tiful garden now full of noxious weeds;
the gate hangs by one hinge; tbe
blinds shake and shake, thi» way and
that, in the wind; the windows are
stuffed with rags and old torn hats ;
while the wind is moaning drearily
through the pine trees, sobbing weird
Ttnd'ghostly.
We approach the door—then enter.
Ah!' you shrink back from that
beastly, besotted wretch, but half cov
ered with filthy rags, cowering and
shivering in a mass of straw ; for there
is no fire. There is no warm bed,
no comfortable chairs—there is nothing
but that horrid object on the floor.
No wonder that you shrink back.
Youth, with fair, soft hair, bright
‘eyes, ruddy cheeks, Ted lips, elastic,
buoyant step, aud free, pure hearts,
are hardly fit companions to yonder
scowling wretch.
u And yet he was-once like youJ
it-“Her'
Yes. He was as fair, as well fed
and clothed as free-hearted as you are
msm>.
“ How came he so, then ?” you ask
with a shuddering glance.
' I will tell you. When a child, he
lived in a large, pleasant house in the
country. His parents were as kind
and loving as yours. As he grew up,
.every one said, “ What a noble man
he will make!
: At the age of twenty he went from
home to learn a trade in town. He
got among vile companions. But he
knew it not. He thought them good
; and pure as they at first seemed. They
Sank wine; he drank with them. His
appetite for drink grew upon him.
H\s cpurse was downward!
But he became acquainted with a
pure, noble young woman. He signed
the pledge, and they were married.
For awhile he was happy. But the
appetite was not dead, it only slept.
In a moment of temptation he broke
his pledge. From that time hope died
out of him; The earnest appeal of his
■wife—the pale, supplicating face of his
babe—the entreaties of friends were
of no avail. Down — down — down!
O, how fast did the demon hurry him !
—the demon that destroys both soul
and body— lntemperance.
His wife died broken-hearted. But
he paused not. Long ago friends had'
ceased to trust him, and to satisfy his
burning thirst he had sold everything
—even- his wife’s Bible! That worst
Of all earthly fiends, the rumseller,
t6ok his all greedily, forgetting' the
reckoning time.
And yesterday he had told his boy
to steal for him, that he might gratify
his insatiable thirst. The pale-faced,
wan boy of nine years remembered his
mother’s teaching and the lessons from
the sacrificed Bible, and refused. Cru
elly did his father beat him, and then
thrust him into the cold, dark, damp
cellar, with a fiendish laugh.
Many days had passed since the
neighbors had seen poor “drunken
Jake” or his little “Willie.” And so
one day they entered the dismal abode.
There lay the poor wretch with his
throat cut — chad. Hurried from this
world by his own hand!
“ Dreadful!” you exclaim.
Ay, terrible I But who of the two
•BhalLfare the worst on that Great Day
when the Book shall be opened—the
wretch that died by his own hand, or
the man who sold him the poison?
And in the cellar, cold and hfeles s >
they took up the form of h ttle Wdhe,
and laid it by the side of his mother in
the green churchyard; while hispure
spirit, free from paiu, was with the
angel mother resting in heaven _
Dear children, many foes have ye
to meet; many battles for the right
to fight. Many victories shall crown
your endeavors. But remember, the
bitterest, most deadly foe of all, will
be the Demos' Intemperance, whose
allies sre strong and mighty. The
rumsellers are their officers.
In the fear of the Lord go forth to
meet them, remembering that the
“ race is-not to the swift nor the battle
to the strong.” —Little Corporal,
“ WHAT WE SHALL BE.”
• “ I shall bo satisfied when I awake with thy like
ness.
“When He shall appear, we shall he like Him.”
When life’s long pilgrimage shall cease,
When days of sin and toil have Bet,
Our souls shall gain their blest release;
But shall they know their perfect peace?
Not yet! dear Lord, not yet!
Asleep in Thee, no harms molest.
In calm repose we wait Thy word;
But Heaven’s complete eternal rest
Comes to the armies of the blest
Not yet! not yet* dear Lord I
In peaceful bliss, to earth unknown,
Life’s weary cares we shall forget;
But palm and harp and glorious crown
From Heaven’s treasury we take down
Not yet! dear Lord, not yet!
The saints pass on in endless stream
Across mysterious Jordan’s ford;
Their souls catch Heaven's dawning beam,
But bathe on its refulgent beam
Not yet! not yet, dear Lord!
By those who long have gone before,
The coming saints with joy are met;
But entering through th’ Eternal door,
They range the boundless golden shore
Not yet! dear Lord, not yet!
At rest from pain, from harm secure,
The warrior sheathes his well-worn sword,
From every stain forever pure ;
But reaps his full-ripe harvest sure
Not yet! not yet, dear Lord !
There comes the day! When all the throng
Of thy redeemed have paid the debt
Of fallen Nature —Lord, now long?
And shall we wait to hear that song?
Not yet! dear Lord, not yet!
There comes the day!—when we shall wake,
To thv blest likeness all restored ;
When ‘‘clothed upon,” our palms we take —
When shall that blessed morning break ?
Not yet! not yet, dear Lord!
It comes I—when1 —when fully satisfied,
Our crowns npon onr brows are set,
And round thy Throne the living tide
Of Christ-iike Baints shall circle wide..
Dear Lord! why tarry yet?
Epis. Recorder.
1 GIFT TO JESUS.
A little girl standing in the doorway
of a house in the city of Montreal, in
the early days ot summer, when the
gardens were all in blossom, saw an
other about her own age, passing by
on the sidewalk, with a bouquet ol
flowers in her hand.' As the little girl
lingered a moment by the door, little
Mary, as we will call her, asked her
“ where she was carrying her flowers ?”
“To place them before the picture
of the Virgin and her Son,” she quickly
answered.
Mary knew that she meant by this,
that she would place them in the
church before a painting of the infant
Jesus and his mother Mary. It seemed
a pleasant thing to her to place flowers
before even the picture of the Saviour.
Running back into the house, Mary
told what she had seen and heard, and
asked if she might gather flowers and
place them before the picture.
Mary’s mother asked her which she
would rather do, place flowers before
a picture of Jesus, or place them in his
hand give them directly to him.
“ I should rather give them to him,
if I could see him, and was not afraid
to do it,” little Mary answered.
The mother told Mary she would
show her how to do it, and assured her
that she would not be afraid.
In the afternoon, as her mother di
rected her, Mary gathered as beautiful
a bouquet of flowers as she could col
lect in the garden, and she and her
mother went out for ,a walk together.
Mary wondered where her mother
was going, and was thinking about
the talk she had with her in the morn
ing, but she hardly knew how to speak
of it again.
They walked some distance, and
finally her mother stopped before an
humble-looking house. An old lady
answered the knock, and whispered in
return to her mother’s question about
her daughter, that “Jane was very
low, and could not remain with them
a great while.”
The room into which the entered
was very plainly furnished, but every
thing was neat Sitting up in the bed,
supported by pillows, was a young
woman looking very pale and feeble.
A pleasant smile lit up her face as
Mary’s mother drew,near her bed arfi
took her thin hand. Then she sat
down and talked with her about her
sickness, and about the heavenly land
where the inhabitants are never sick,
and the weary are at rest. Tears fell
down the cheeks of the sufferer; not
from pain or grief, but tears of love
and joy; and she said, “it was a great
comfort to her to hear these blessed
words.” Her mother then led Mary
up and placed her little band in tile
hot, white hand of the sick young wo
man. She leaned over and kissed the
little girl, and told her it did her good
to see her bright young face. The
mother said nothing, but she was
pleased when she saw Mary hand to
the sick girl her bouquet of flowers.
What a beautiful smile they brought
upon that pale face 1 “It has been so
long,” she said, "since she had seen
the flowers growing; it was like a
walk m the garden to have this fceau
tiful bouquet.” After she had breathed
its fragrance a few moments, she asked
her mother to place' it in water and let
it stand where she could see it as she
sat in the bed. “ She should think of
little Mary,” she said, “ every time she
looked upon it.”
This made Mary feel as she never
felt before. She could hardly help
crying, and yet she was certain she
never felt so happy before.
As they walked home she told her
mother that she was glad they had
carried the flowers to the sick woman,
but she timidly added, that she had
not seen Jesus.
When they reached the house, the
mother took the Bible, and, drawing
her little girl,to her lap,she read, “In
asmuch as ye have done it unto one of
the least of these, * * * ye have done
it unto me.”' Then little:Mary saw,
that in placing her flowers 1 in the hand
of this sick disciple of Jesus, she had
reaUy given them to himself; and that
whenever her heart was warm towards
the dear Saviour that loved her and
died for her, and she desired to bestow
some gift upon him, expressing her
love to him, she could do so by offer
ing it to any one that was suffering
around her. No act of gentleness or
kindness; no kind word to a suffering
or unfortunate person; no gift to send
the Bible to those that have it not, is
unnoticed. It is like placing the bou
quet before him. He loves to breathe
its fragrance, and his blessing always
follows it, making the heart happy.
In this way Mary’s mother taught
her how she could offer her gifts to
Jesus; and then they sang together
the beautiful hymn of Montgomery, of
which this is one of the verses
Then, in a moment to my view ’
The Stranger started from disguise —
The tokens in his hands I knew;
My Saviour'stood before my eyes! '
He spake, and my poor name he named,
“-Of me thou hast not been ashamed;
These deeds shall thy memorials he;
Fear not; thou didst it unto me.”
— Zion's Herald. B. K. P.
A LITTLE AT A TIME.
Dr. Johnson used to say, "He who
waits to do a great deal of good at
once, will never do any.” Grand oc
casions ot life seldom come, are soon
gone, and when present, it is only one
among thousands who is adequate to
the great actions they demand. But
there are opportunities at our doors
every day, in which the " smaU, sweet
charities of life” may occupy ns ftflly.
What account can we give of these as
they pass by and on to eternity, to lay
their record before the great throne ?
He who flatters himself with air-castles,
constructed out of magnificent schemes
he would accomplish, were he endow-"
ed with great wealth or exalted to high,
stations, will soon find them dissolving
into thin air, whenever he calls bin
heart to an honest account for the
right use of that which God has al
ready entrusted to his care. “He that
is unfaithful in that which is least, is
also unfaithful in.much.!’
Human life is made up of a succes
sion of little things, or such as are
commonly, though mistakenly, so con
sidered. They mould our character
and give complexion to our eternity j
can they be insignificant ? How slow
are we in learning to do " whatsoever
our hand findeth,” and to leave the
results, great or small, at the disposal
of Him who has declared— “whoso
ever shall give to drink unto one of
these little ones a cup of cold water
only, in the name of a disciple, verily
I say unto you he shallinno wise lose
his reward.”
Then, Christian disciple, "In the
morning sow thy seed, and in the even
ing withhold not thy hand.” “Blessed
are they that sow beside all waters.”
Look around in your neighborhood,
in your Church, and you can be at no
loss for important work to do. Be
content to attend to duties as they
arise; take them as they are sent by
providence. Every moment brings
its own responsibilities, and man’s
wisdom in this world of sin, of sorrow,
and of death, consists in cheerfully
using present comforts, and diligently
attending to present duties. Let the
crumbs, the fragments of time, be gath
ered up, that nothing be lost. Forget
not that, all the world over, great
things are made up of a vast multitude
of those which are little. Eternity Hs
composed' cf moments of writer "
ceasing. Nothing will more certainly
find the slothful at last, or bring them
to a dreadful reckoning, than wasted
time.
“ Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers
Lest these lost years should haunt thee in the
night,
When death is waiting for thyimmbered hours
To take their swift; and everlasting flight - ’
Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee
quite,
And be thy thoughts to work divine ad
dressed ;
Do something— do it soon—do it with all thv
might;
An angel’s wing would droop, if long at rest,
And Cod himself, inactive, were no loneer
blest.” •
— Central, Presbyterian.
THE END OF A QUARREL?
"We could soon finish you up,”
said some lemons to a bottle of car-'
bonate of soda.
“ I could soon take the taste out of
you," answered the soda.
" Let us try our strength,” said the
lemons.
“ With all my heart,” said the soda;
and to work they went, trying with till
their might to extinguish each other;
fizz— went the lemons; fizz—went the
soda; and they went on fizzing, till
there was nothing of either of them
left, and only a nauseous puddle
showed where the fight had been,—
Fable*