ibig famityc eirdt. THE CHILD OF THE LIGHT-HOUSE. The light-house keeper said to his child, " Izaust go to the mainland, dear Can you stay alone till afternoon? Quite early I hope to be here " She tossed back her hair with a girlish grace, As she lifted to his a brightening face; " Yes, father; I've nothing to fear. " a,good.play When I've seen your boat glide by; Then I'll gather shells and sea-weed bright, And watch the cloud-fleetsin the sky. 0 I the time will merrily glide away, And when you come, ere the close of day, To get a good supper I'll try." "God keep you, daughter l" the father said As he drew her close to his side, His sun-browned hand on her golden head, While the light skiff waited her guide. Then in he sprang and with arrowy flight The little boat sped, like a seabird .bright,. O'er the sparkling, shimmering tide. The child stood stillitm the wave-washed sand, Baptized in the sunliglit,clear; And the father thought, as he waved his hand, Of another yet more dear, Who had watched him, erst, from that gleam ing strand, Whose life-bark had sped to the better land, But leaving her image here. Quietly, cheerily flew the hours Of the long, bright suidider day— ' hen lo I in the west a storm-cloud lowers, Its shadow is on the bay ! 0 I father, I hope, will not set sail, In the rash attempt to weather the gale," Thought the child, and knelt to pray. "But what if a ship should pass to-night?" Then Ellie anxiously said. " But can I—yes—l must strike the light!" She climbed with a cautious tread, Up, and still up, through the circling tower, And full and clear, till the dawning hour, The lantern's radiance spread. "The mist is thick—the bell must be rung!" Though the girlish arm was slight, The woman's heart to to the effort sprung; And out on the dreary night The bell pealed forth, again and again, While an anxious crew, on that raging main, Were toiling with all their might. The morning breaks, and the storm is past! The.keeper sets sail for home— His heart throbs deep, as his boat flies fast Through the dashing spray and foam. It toaches land, and'the chamber stairs Echo his footfalls, as hearts echo prayers--r He turns to his daughter's room. No shaate.to his manhood that tears ; all fast, As be bends o'er the little bed ; And Wild kieies bedew the tiny hands, Thrown wearily over her head ; For those hands have wrought a mightier deed Than were blazoned in story or song; And the ship, with its wealth of human life, To-day .ridei safe o'er the billoWs' strife, Because-the child's heart was strong I —Home Magazine, , , IT WAS THE LITTLE SHOES THAT DID IT, The writer once lived opposite a beer-shop called the "Fox and. Geese," and with pained attention often watched the doings and beard the sayings of the customers. One winter's evening a shoemaker's boy came into the shop with an assortment of children's shoes, and the landlady of the "Fox and Geese," who bad a most marvellous shrill voice, began calling to a little, dirty slave of a nurse-girl to brin g "Ad dlehead"—as she pronounced Ade laid—to have her new shoes tried on. I could see the little creature, who was at once fine and healthy, sitting under the gaslight in the bar, and kicking and screaming as the shoes were coaxed on her feet. At last a pair fitted, and the spoiled pet was lifted up triumphantly in her mother's arms. " Here, do look at her ! The darling has let me get a pair of the very best ones on. Look, papa, do !" , Just then a tall man, very thinly clad, came out of the taproom, passed the bar, and saw the child stretching out her feet for her father'to see. Now, a poor woman had been hovering about at the corner, peeping now an then timidly into the bar window, and then creeping to the door ; she had a child in her arms, and looked ready to drop with cold and weariness. I had seen that woman on many a Saturday night, waiting and watching for her husband to come out. Ah ! there he is, rivetted for a moment, looking at the child showing her shoes. With a start he rouses himself, and rushes out. ".What, Bill, going so soon?" bawls the. landlady. Bill pulled his hat down over his eyes with one hand, clutched his old jacket tighter over his chest, and an swered the words with a sort of grunt. He is outside ; there is his wife and little one. For a moment the woman looks at him timorously ; and half swerves aside, as if she feared—what I will not write, lest the manhood of my readers might, be wounded. Some thing in Bill's look reassures her, and. she goes close to him, feebly but yet coaxingly. He took the child from her tired arm ' • the little creature gave a short, quick cry of fright, and, as he, lifted it, I• saw its little feet were bare. It drew them swiftly under its poor frock, but not before the father saw them. I wish his hat had been off, so that I might have seen his face as those two little, blue, chilled feet met his eyes. I noticed that he put them in his bosom, and buttoned his jacket over them, and held his child close, and went on his way with a heavy stamp, as if he beat his thoughts on the ground. His wife, slipshod and tottering, had hard work to keep up with him. I had a faint suspicion of what was passing in the man's mind. From that night. I WAS glad that I saw him no more among the frequenters of thii "Fox and Geese." He and his wife and child, for weal or woe had dropped out of my ken and almost out of my mind: Some months after, there was a meet ing at the temperance hall of the dis trict, and many working men were present and gave their testimony to the good effects of sobriety; now and then they told little bits about their history—about the reasons that led them to give up the public-house. One tall, well-dressed, respectable looking man listened earnestly, till one that sat near him said, " Say a word, William Turner; you've known as much about the mischief as any one here or anywhere. Come, tell us, for I never heard how it was that you turned right-about face fzpm the mouth of hell to the field of hope. Come, man, out with it ; it will, maybe, do good." The young man, thus urged, rose at the first word, and looked for a moment very confused. All he could say was, "The little shoes, they did it." , With a thick voice, as if his heart was in his throat, he kept re peating this. There was a stare of perplexity on every face, and at length some thoughtless young people began to titter. The man, in"all his embar rassment, heard this sound, and rallied at once. The light came into his eyes with a flash, he drew himself up, and addressed the audience; the choking went from his throat. f' Yes, friends," he said, in a voice that cut its way clear as a deep-toned bell, "whatever you think of it, I have told you the truth—the little shoes did it. I was a brute and a fool; strong drink had made me both, and starved me into the bargain. I suffered ; I deserved to suffer ; but I didn't suffer alone— no man does who has a wife and a child, for the woman gets the worst share. But I am no speaker to en large on that ; I'll stick to the little shoes. I saw, one night, when I was all but done for, the,publican's child holding out her feet for her father to look at her fine new shoes. It was a simple thing ; but, friends, no fists ever struck me such a blow as those little shoes. They kicked reason into me. What business have Ito clothe others and let my own go bare?' said I; and there outside was my wife and child, on a bitter night. I took hold of my little one with a., grip, and I saw her ,e,hilled. feet—men I fathers! if the shoes smote me, what must the feet do ? I put them cold as ice to my breast; they pierced me through and through. Yes, the little feet walked right into my heart, and washed away my selfishness. I had 'a trifle of money left; I bought a loaf of bread and a pair of little shoes. I never tasted anything but a bit of that bread all the Sabbath, and went to work like mad on Monday; and from that time I have spent no more money at the public-house. That's all I have to say—it was the little shoes that did it." THE PRAYING BOY. There was a gentleman in New York who was an infidel. He never went to church. He had no Bible in the house. He did not believe that Jesus was a Divine being, or that he died to save sinners. Yet when this gentleman was a child he had a pious mother. She made him read the Bible. She filled the store-room of his memory with its precious promises. We shall see pre sently of what use these were to him. This gentleman was married. His wife was:not a Christian. They had one child, a bright, intelligent little boy. The nurse of this child was a pious woman. She used often to talk to him about Jesus. She taught him the beautiful hymn— " There is `a 'happy land, Far, far away,"? &c. His parents, though they were not Christians, taught him to say his prayers at night, and often he would ask them questions about God and the happy land," which they had found it very hard to answer. One evenina, the little fellow was laying on the . bed, partly undressed; his father and mother were seated by the fire. Tommy, as he, was called, had not been a good boy that day. His mother had been telling,his father what he had done, and how she had to punish him for it. All was quiet for awhile, when suddenly the child broke out in a loud sobbing and cry ing, which surprised his .parents. His father went to him and asked what was ‘the matter. ''‘l don't , want, it, father—l don't want it there," said he. " What is it, my child? what is it?" he asked. ‘` Why, father, I don't want the angels to write downin God's book all the bad things I have done to-day. I don't want it there. I wish it would be wiped out." Then he cried again bitterly, and his father was almost ready to cry with him. What could he do ? I said his father was an infi del. But now he put aside his infi delity. He remembered the truths of the Bible which his mother had taught him when he was a child. He turned to them now, and tried to comfort his distressed child with them. " Don't cry, my dear child," he said, " you can have it all wiped out in a minute, if you want." " How, father, how ?" asked Tommy, eagerly. " Why, get down on your knees, and ask God for Christ's sake to wipe it out, and he will do it." He did not have to speak twice. In an instant Tommy jumped out of bed, and kneeled down by the bedside. THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY. AUGUST 16, 1866. He put up his little hands, and was just about beginning, when he looked up and said, "0, father, won't you come and help me ?" This was a hard thing to ask. His father had never really prayed in his life. But he saw the great distress of his child, and how could he refuse ? So the proud infidel man got down on his knees by the side of his dear boy, and asked God to wipe away his, sins. Then they got up, and Tommy went into bed again. In a few moments be looked up and said, "Father, are you sure it's all wiped out ?" What a question was this to ask an infidel! But he felt that he must give up his infidelity, as he answered, " Why, yes ; the Bible says, if you ask God from your heart for Christ's sake to do it, and if you are really sorry for what you have done, it shall be blotted all out." A sweet smile passed over the face of the child as he lay his little head upon the . pillow. But presently he sat up again in bed and said, " Fath er, what did the angel wipe it out with ?—with a sponge ?" This was another question which almost staggered his father. He had been in the habit' of saying that it was not necessary for Christ to shed His blood that men might be pardoned. But now he felt in a moment that it was necessary. He could not answer the child's question unless this was true. So he said— " No, my child, not with a sponge, but with the blood of Christ. The Bible says, The blood of Jesus Christ deans eth from all sin.' " Then Tommy was satisfied, and soon fell asleep. From that hour his father gave up his infidelity, and became a Christian. Here you see how useful to him were those gathered fragments of Bible knowledge which he had stowed away in his memory. Now, my dear young friends, re member about these two kinds of frp,g ments you are to gather. Begin at once to gather up the fragments of time, and the fragments of knowledge. Form the habit now while you are young, and it will be of more value to you than you can tell. One evening the children in Falk's Reformatory at Weimer sat down to supper. When one of the boys had 'said the pious grace, " Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest, and bless what Thou. hast provided," a little fellow looked up and said : "Do tell me why the Lord Jesus never comes? We ask Him every day to sit with us, and He never comes." " Dear child, only believe, and you may be sure He will come, for He does not despise our invitation." "I shall set Him a seat," said. the little fellow ; and just then there,wts a knock at the door. A poor, fiozen apprentice entered, begging a night's lodging. He was made welcome ; the chair stood ready for him ; every child wanted him to have his plate ; and one was lamenting that his bed was too small for the stranger, who was quite touched by such uncommon attentions. The little one had been thinking hard all this time : "Jesus could not come, and so He sent this poor man in His place—is that it ?" " Yes, dear child, that is just it. Every piece of bread and every drink of water that we give to the poor, of the sick, or the prisoner, for Jesus' sake, we give to Him." " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye hwve done it unto me." The children sang a hymn of the love of God to their guest before they parted for the night, and neither he nor they were likely to forget the sim ple Bible comment—Praying and Working. The vengeance of the Almighty was visited on a boy named Richards, on Sunday week, says an English paper, in the most awful and sudden manner. It appeared that the lad, who is thirteen years, of age, and the son of parents in the most humble circum stances, was playing in the street with four or five other lads about his own age, at "cat and dog." Richards and his companions had been playing for some time, when a dispute arose between them as to the " notches" (or jumps) Richards had scored. He de clared that he had made more than twenty, and his opponents protested that he had not scored so many. High words and bad language were freely used on both sides. Each boy accused the other of falsehood, and at length Richards, failing to convince his com panions of the truthfulness of his state ment, flew into a violent rage, and em phatically shouted, "May God strike me blind if I haven't made more than twenty." He had scarcely uttered the adjuration before he let the "dog" drop out of his hands, and throwing up his arms, exclaimed, " 0 dear ! I cannot see. His companions ran to him, and finding what he - said was true, at his request led him home, where, on examination, it was found that a thick film had overspread each of his eyes. In this miserable condi tion the unhappy youth has remained ever since, and we are informed that there is little or no prospect of his sight being restored. HOW JESUS COMES. A BOY STRUCK BLIND FOR BLASI PEIEMY. GETHSE4iNE. This hymn of Bishop Kingootranslated by Rev. J. Jeffrey, with the noble melodY to which it is linked, is a popular favorite in Denmark. Over Kedron Jesus treadeth To his passion for us all ; Ever human eye be weeping, Tears of blood for Him let fall ; Round his spirit flock the foes, Place their shafts and bend their bows, Aiming at the Saviour solely, While the world forsake Him wholly David on ce, .with heart affiicted,, Crossed the Kedron's narrow strand, Clouds of gloom and grief about him, When an eine frcim his land; But, 0 Jesus 1 blacker now Bends the cloud above Thy brow, Hastening to death's dreary portals For the shame and sin of mortals. See how, anguish-struck, He falletb Prostrate and with struggling breath, Three times on his God he calleth, Praying that the bitter death And the cup of doom may go, Till, replacing inward woe, Angel comforts round him gather— " Not my will, but Thine, 0 Father 1" See now, in that hour of darkness, Battling with the evil power, Agonies untold assail Him, On his soul their arrows shower ; All the garden flowers are wet With the dropi of bloody sweat, From his anguished frame distilling— World's redemption thus fulfilling 1 But, 0 flowers so sadly watered By this pure and precious dew, In some blessed hour your blossoms 'Neath the olive shadows grew I Paradise's gardens bear Naught th 4 can with you compare, For the blood thus sprinkled o'er ye Makes my soul the heir of glory. When as flowers themselves I wither, When k droop and fade like grass, When the life streams through my pulses Dull and evenentLeK.pass, When at last thAtpease to roll, Then, to cheer mY sinking soul, Grace of Jesus be, thou given— gource of triumph! Pledge of heaven! WHY BOB'S MOTHER SAID "DON'T." "Dear me !" said Bob Wild, as he sat fishing by the Big Brook, one lovely August afternoon, "I wish everybody was always pleasant, don't you, Uncle Ned ?" It was seldom Bob stopped playing and racing about long enough to think of anything else, so that Uncle Ned was rather surprised at this speech. But if one is going to fish, he must keep still a little while ; and Bob had actually been quiet for some minutes. So beautiful was the green bank where he sat, so mellow the sunlight where it shone through the tree-tops and across the rippling water, so pretty the ferns and flowers that fringed the brook-side, that Bob, who never no ticed such things-much, felt their plea sant influence. He was happy, too, to have his uncle near by, for Uncle Ned was his oracle. He went to college, and knew everything, as Bob supposed. He could shoot a bird on the wing, and 'couldoateh quantities of fish. He was not old and tired out either ; he liked to fly a kite for Bob, and would play blind man's buff in the evening. Be sides, he had been a soldier in the war, and could tell capital stories about the battles and the camps. " Why, Bob," asked this delightful Uncle Ned, " who is not always plea sant ?" " Well," said Bob, "-I'm having a good time now, but it isn't so at home. I wish mother wouldn't always be talking to me, and stopping everything I do. Ever since I can remember, it's been, Bob, don't do this, and Bob, don't do that.' I'm tired of it. Now, if father and mother would always be good-natured and easy like you, Uncle Ned, what fun it would be ! Why, mother would not have let me go a fishing this afternoon, if you had not been here; and you see yourself., it's just as safe as anything." " 0, Bob ! I did not know you were such an ungrateful little fellow,''' an swered Uncle Ned, though he spoke with a kindly laugh. " What do you suppose is the reason that your mother takes the trouble to say don't' so much Isn't it because you're such a heedless little chap that you would spoil everything and kill yourself, if she was not kind enough to keep watch of you ? I'm very fond of you, Bob, and I hope you are going to grow up into a fine man some day ; but I do think your mother has her hands full. Why, you ought to be thankful you've got her to look after you, and keep you out of mischief." "Well, of course she takes care of me," said Bob, reluctantly. " But why can't she be different 2" "Just because you are not different, my boy. When you will think for yourself, she won't have to think for you. You would be in hot water every day of your life,if itwasn't for her." Here was a disappointment for poor Bob. Even Uncle Ned was not plea sant, after all. It seemed he had al ways got to be talked to, and correct ed. He did not like his uncle so well as before, and felt rather sulky. Seeing this, Capt. Wild did not go on with the subject, and began talking about the bait. 4. When the sun was getting low, they had caught enough of the pretty little " shiners" to make a nice breakfast ; and putting up their fishing-tackle, they set out for home. As they walked along beside the brook, Bob suddenly spied on the opposite bank a beautiful cluster of lady's slippers, hanging over the water's edge. Down went his Ashing-basket, as he cried out, "0, what splendid flowers 1 You wait a minute, Unide Ned." Before his uncle had fairly tuped_ round, the careless boy had jumed , down the bank, and was leaping,rom :Stone to stone, acrosi the bed of the brook. The water' was not deep, but the stones - were slippery . , and as Bob jumped boldly on from one to another, his foot slipped, and he fell down headlong into the water. Capt. Wild was after him in a mo ment, greatly alarmed because he made no outcry. He lifted him up, and-bore him quickly back to the bank, but Bob was quite senseless. His uncle was used .to Accidents and dangers, and did everything to restore him. By God's blessing he succeeded. The poor little fellow's forehead had struck upon a stone, but the blow was, providentially, just one side of that spot upon the temple where it would' have been death. His forehead was badly cut and swollen, but he was alive. After a while, when he began to feel better, his uncle took him in his arms, and carried him gently along till he was able to.walk himself. It was growing dark as they came in sight of home, and Bob saw his mother looking out of the windoW, as if watching for their return. He leaned closer and heavier upon his uncle's arm, and a low sob escaped his lips. He had not cried at'all before. " Well, Bob, my man," said Uncle Ned, kindly, 't after all, mother would not have, been so far wrong not to let you go ftshinv b alone, would she?" "I might have died in the water," said Bob, brushing away the tears: "I have been a bad boy, and mother is good, and so are you, Uncle Ned." 1 We'll talk about that to-morrow," replied his uncle. " You are too tired now; but you must thank God to night, Bob, that He has saved your life, and that he gave you a faithful mother."---- Congregationalist. FOREVER. It is related of a late eminent ser want of God, who resided in the north of Scotland, that in his youth he was often employed in tending a flock of sheep., The pasture to which lie led them, from day to day, was in a field pleasantly situated near a river. Once, as he lay on the bank of the stream admiring the ceaseless flow of the wa ters, he suddenly recollected having heard somewhere in a sermon "that a river was like eternity." He felt now, As he had never before, the force of the illustration. Still gazing on the constant torrent, he said to himself : " When I die, I must go either to heaven or hell. If Igo to heaven, my happi ness will be like this river—always, always flowing ; and if I go to hell, my misery shall be like this river— always, always flowing." The thought clung to his mind, as hour after hour the stream flowed calmly by. It was the crisis of his life. No loud call from heaven, no alarming providence, no pathetic' appeal stirred his soul; nothing but the still, small voice from the bosom of the tranquil river. At length he returned home, but he could not shake off the impression. The Holy Spirit awoke him to the con sciousness of his immortality, and constrained him to ponder whether that immortality should be an endless river of pleasure at God's right hand, or a ceaseless stream of anguish from the lake of fire. Day after day he returned with his flock to the pasture, but every fresh glance at the river recalled to his mind that one towering thought—ETERNITY! At last he could endure it no longer. He fled for refuge to the Saviour, re ceived the sense of forgiveness through a believing apprehension of His cross, and thenceforward found the thought of future . end less existence a soitce of comfort rather than alarm. Subsequently, he was called to the ministry of the Gospel, and became a distinguished blessing to the Church. The circumstances which, under Di vine guidance, originated his career, gave the tone to all its subsequent course. He habitually dwelt, not upon the seen and the temporal, but upon the unseen and. eternal. The contrast of sentimentflity and spirituality upon this momentous theme cannot be better expressed than by quoting one of Tennyson's earlier minor poems, entitled "A Fare well:" The poet writes :-- Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea— Thy tribute-wave deliver ; No more by thee my steps shall be Forever and forever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet, then a river; Nowhere by thee my steps shall be Forever and forever. But here will sigh thine alder-tree, And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hinn the bee Forever and forever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be Forever and forever. No one can fail to feel the exquisite charm of these verses—the tender, pa thetic contrast between the constancy of nature and the fugitive, vanishing existence of nature's lord. But here the reflection ends. The poet tells us where his steps shall not be forever and forever, but he fails to say or hint where they shall be. After the last sun has quivered on the flowing stream —nay, long after the river itself has dis appeared—those steps will be some where, and that forever and forever. They will have taken hold on the life eternal, or have sudden down into the abyss, in either case never to return. Ah 1 forever and forever is a thought which contains something more than poetry for a responsible being.-- Visitor. THE BLARNEY STONE. Who has not heard of the Blarney Stone ? Irish blarney is quite as fami liar a term as Irish wit. Yet there are not many who know where and what is the Blarney Stone, that gives to the Irish who kiss it the persuasive power of the tongne, the all-prevailing flattery, that is said to distinguish them as a Tam* Five -miles from-the City of Cork stands the Dojnon Keep and the ruins of the ancient Blarney - Castle, where, in olden time, dwelt the Mc- Carthys, Barons of Blarney. It was built in the fifteenth century, and the majestic strength and proportions of the work show that in its day,, before our modern Mania of war were in use, it must have been a mighty affair. In the midst of the'ivall on the north side, and supported by two timbers, several feet below the highest outlook of the castle, was a stone, which could not be reached unless you were held by the heels and so let down till you could touch it with your lips. This stone fell from its place a long time ago, and now another is pointed out on another side of the castle, to be reached in the same way. I confess that I assisted in thus suspending two or three young Americans from Phila delphia, who were ambitious of adding to their other accomplishments this Irish endowment; and a lady of the party, who - had no need of it, was con tent to reach it with her hand, and take the charm on her lips from the ends of her fingers. And that none may be unable to kiss it, with true Irish liberality, a third stone is provid ed, warranted to be the original one that fell from its place; and this is placed on the ground, at the door of the castle ; and you have only, to stoop and touch it with your lips, : and the virtue is precisely the same as that imparted by the one which is one hundred and twenty feet in the air. Whence this silly tradition arose, no body knows. Father Front's Beliques gives the best account Of its miracu lous power : "There is a stone there, That whoever kisses, 01 he never misses To grow eloquent. " 'Tis he may clamber To a lady's chamber, Or become a. , meMber Of Parliament. "A clever spouter, He'll sure turn out, Zir An out and outer To be let alone I "Don't hope to hinder him, Or to bewilder him, Sure he's a pilgrim From the Blarney Stone." Around the old castle are the lawns, yet beautiful, though the ancient dwel lers here are gone, and the halls are deserted and in wretched ruin. A smart old Irish woman, who had ap parently lived on Blarney stones, keeps the key of the ricketty door, and shows the ruins, of which the glory has departed forever. The enchanted lake, close by, is sp.id to have the family silver in the bottom of it, and the oldest son, from generation to generation, receives the secret of its hiding-place front his father, and when the castle is restored to the lieCarthys, he will fish it out. The "Groves of Blarney" are still flourishing, growing from year to year, for they are God's works; while towers and palaces and temples, made with hands, perish with those who made them.—S. J. Prime in N. Y . Observer. THE MEASURELESS LOVE. I can measure parental love—how broad, how long, and strong, and deep it is ; it is a sea—a deep sea which mothers can only fathom. But the love displayed on yonder hill and bloody cross, where God's own Son is perishing for us, nor man nor angel has a line to measure. The circumfer ence of the earth, -the altitude of the sun, the distance of the planets—these have been determined; but the height, depth, breadth and length of the love of God passeth knowledge. Such is the Father against whom all of us have sinned a thousand times. Walk the shore where the ocean sleeps in the summer calm, or, lashed into firy by the winter's tempest, is thundering on her sands; and when you have num bered the drops of her waves, the sand on her sounding beach, you have num bered God's mercies and your sins. Well, therefore, may we go to Him with the Contrition of the prodigal in our ears and his confession on our lips—" Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight." The Spirit of God helping us thus to go to God, be assured , that the father, who seeing his son afar off ran to meet him, fell on his neck and kissed him, was but an image of Him who, not sparing The own Son, but giving Him up to death that we might live, invites and now awaits your coming.—Dr. Guthrie. LABOR. IS GENIUS.—When a lady once asked Turner, the celebrated English painter, what his secret was, he replied : " I have no secret, madam, but hard work. This is a secret that many never learned, and don't succeed because they don't learn it. Labor is the genius that changes the world from ugliness to beauty, and the great curse to a great blessing."
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