erg famitg (guts.
" MORE THAN CONQUERORS."
o poor disciple I sinking, fainting, almost
dying,
Because the unwilling shoulder feels a heavier
cross
Than thou didst choose ; and just beyond a
path is lying
Whose pleasant gains thou cravest, heeding
not the loss.
A little rest! dost cry; a little ease of
In place of all this constant pain of disci
pline 1 • .
Wilt thou refuse to know the joy that pain is
giving
To every struggling soul : in pilgrimage like
thine ?
The table-lands will not be reached while thou
art wasting
Thy trial-time and strength; thy feet will
not be set
Where conquerors walk, until thy soul the love
is tasting
Which never questions when the Father's
will is met.
For 0, I know that only tender love is bring
ing
Thy feet through all this seething and tem
pestuous flood,
I know, I know that only love thy heart is fling
ing
Upon the cruel rack which wringeth out thy
blood.
Fax, far beyond the anguish which thy brow is
paling,
I see the silver, tried by thy Refiner's hand,
Borne up above the clouds majestic which are
sailing
On oceanic splendors toward the sunset
land •*,
Beyond, I see that this fair gem, which God is
cutting,
By such a close keen, process here ; the
while to obtain
Upon the surface its concentred lays ; is putting
Before the Throne, celestial luster on again.
Beyond, I see the King in all his beauty wait
ing
To make his jewels up upon his glorious
crown I
Each one beside its fellow-gem, his hand is
mating,
With that divinest touch which knoweth all
His own I
ELSIE FRASIER'S WORK.
FROM HOURS AT BONI.
(Concluded.)
Two years from the time that Elsie
had visited Christie at Mrs. Cameron's
found the family living in a little cot
tage very near that beautiful garden,
into which she had now permission to
come whenever she chose. It was
for her sake that the family had moved
from Shoemaker's Close—for Christie's
dread had grown into a terrible cer
tainty—the fall had injured her spine,
and the doctor thought that purer air
might help her growth. She was not
an inch taller than she was:two years
before, and her back had grown out,
and. one shoulder was higher than the
other. The poor child's life was full
of pain, and fun and frolic were ban
ished from the house, where the rough
sailor father had learned to go softly,
and the wild brothers to speak low be
cause of her terrible headaches. Bet
ty Frasier was growing very gray, and
her fine color had faded as she watched
the blighting of her hope and pride in
her beautiful child; but she was great
ly softer and more thoughtful, and she
and Christie had drawn together in
their trouble, and perhaps mutually
improved each other. Christie's face
was not only less sour, but less - sad, for
the daily sight of Elsie's patience, re
signation, and perfect trust in the God
who chasteneth his beloved, was
awakening a kindred spirit in her.
All the Frasiers, too, had learned
economy at last. They had nothing
to spare, though all the boys earned
money now, and each did what he
could to help defray the heavy ex
penses of Elsie's illness, and supply the
delicate viands to tempt - her sickly ap
petite, and furnish her with books and
simple amusements. Elsie- was less
saddened than anv of the others by
her affliction. When not in actual
pain, the old bright, glad spirit shone
out unconquered, and the disposition,
so sweet and amiable by nature, was
growing heavenly in the furnace of af
fliction. To cheer and and amuse the
others, to make up to them in some
degree for the sacrifices they made for
her, and to show her sense" of their un
wearied tendernegs, was Elsie's con
stant thought, and it kept her busy
and- cheerful in spite of suffering.
Her uncle, Sandy Mackill, came to
see her every Sabbath afternoon, and
on one of these visits asked Charlie 'to
take a walk with him, as he had
something to talk with him about.
"Sandy, man," said he, "I hae just
cum' frae the north, and while I "was
stopping there I was made acquainted
wi' lame lassie that taught the parish
bairns man infant-school, andrkept her
auld‘mitber and hersel' very ',comfort
able, 'and very much respected she is
by a' body. , Sae it cam' in my mind
at once that this would be a fine thing
for Elsie. Ye ken she's quick at her
books„and if she. get an education
she'll be just independent, for the doc
tor, says if she, Outlive the time o'
growth, she may be an auld woman
yet for a' that's past and g one." ,
" Hoot, inanio said ChaYlie, "do you
no , think we'll aye provide for pair
wee Elsie among us without fashing
her about her bite, and sup ? She
shall never need to keep hersel' as lang
so I live." • •
" That may be," replied Sandy
Airily, "audits nolikely she'll outlive
ye a', though mair unlikely things
have happened; but onyway, the mair
Elsie kens, the better company she'll
be for herser and the mair looked up
to by ither folk. Now I ken o' a stu
dent in the High street, a clever lad,
but puir, who'll come here every night
an hour and teach Elsie, for half a
crown a week. He says he'd as soon
teach three o' ye as ain, and learning's
a fine thing, Charlie ; ye'd be nain the
war yersel o' a little. If ye and Sandy
make up half the fee, I'll pay the rest."
"It'll may be take up Elsie's time
and keep her frae thinkin' lang," said
Charlie,. " We'll ask herseP."
Elsie's delight at the proposal was
so evident, that Charlie walked into
town with' his uncle that night to see
the student and conclude the bargain
—Sandy {ackill advancing the money
to buy the necessary books.
John Frasier returning home some
months after, was much astonished at
his family's studious habits. Charlie
and Sandy had begun the pursuit of
knowledge simply on Elsie's account,
and with very little will for the work;
but both had good abilities, and the
teacher proving clever and conscien
tious, they were soon deeply interested
in their studies. Her father happened
to come home at the close of one of
Elsie's " bad days." She was unable
to join the class, but lay in her father's
arms listening to the boys, and seeming
interested in the lessons. Next morn
ing she told him all about the fine
plans Sandy gackill had started for
her, and infornied him that she had
begun her work already by teaching
Dan " whiles."
ELsie's beginning had been st.ffi
eiently discouraging, Dan being neither
apt nor willing ; nevertheless she had
done something with that sulky lad,
into whom no schoolmaster had been
able, to thrash so much as the rudi
ments, and she persuaded him to say
the multiplication table for his father.
Poor Dan was the dunce of the
family, and both father and brothers
were accustomed to speak in very dis
paraging terms of his natural gifts ;
but Elsie seemed so proud and pleased
with his performance, that John Fra
sier expressed the surprise she so evi
dently expected at her pupil's pro
gress ; and Dan, to whose ears the lan
guage of praise was a strange sound,
took to his books more kindly from
that day. John Frasier went to Leith
about the middle of the next day, and
before going he kissed Elsie, and asked
her what he shou,ld bring her from
town. Elsie put her arm around his
neck and stroked his weather-beaten
face with ker soft little hand, as she
whispered, " Dinna tak' over mony
drams, but come hame early and PA
sing ye The Flowers of the Forest.'
I would like ye to talk to me. I'm
aye feared, ye ken," she, said with a
weary little sigh, " that yell cum'
hams frae some voyage and find me
awa, and sae I'm fain to look at ye,
and talk to ye as much as I can."
" Lord bless and keep ye, my - puir
wee lassie," replied John piously . ,
though he was a reeklesix..manut titaes-;-
" dinna think o' sic dismal things."
" It's no dismal," she replied softly.
" It would be a fine thing for an ob
ject like me to be done wi' suffering
and sighing, and go in at the golden
gate where Christ shall wipe the tears
from all eyes, if ye were na a' sae guid
and kind to me that I Whiles think I'd
no be happy in heaven until I got yer
faces a' about me again. Come hame
and nurse me this evening, if ye can."
John came home sober, and his
little daughter sang and. smiled and
coaxed him; and. though he may, have,
been a little " disguised in drink"
'during his stay on shore, he came home
regularly every evening; the change
in his habits being so great as to ex
cite the astonishment of his compan
ions. The home was not an unpleas
ant' place after all, though he often
wiped his brown face as he sat with
Elsie in his arms. She seemed so
happy and contented herself; that he
felt more sad in thinking of than in
looking at her.
MARIE MASON.
Three years 'more. There was no
longer a doubt of Elsie's fate; she
could not survive the period of growth.
Her deformity had. increased terri
bly, and a speedy termination of her
sufferings was certain. John Frasier
came home from one of his long voy
ages and found his child entering that
cold, dark river which sweeps away
the outward-bound far into the un-'
known, but buoys up no returning
bark. All thai money or skill could
do had been done, for the pecuniary
affairs of the family were in a most
flourishing condition. Charlie's time
was out, his talents acknowledged, and
his success in business beyond his
wildest hopes Mr. Cameron pro
nouncing him likely to be one of the
first engineers of the day. The other
boys were doing well, and Christie
lived at home with her mother, who
needed her assistance. Elsie was at
tacked by spasms, impossible to relieve
and terrible for those who loved her
to witness, and every one of which
seemed likely to, end her life.
She had suffered more than usual
one summer day, and lay in Christie's
arms, faint and exhausted, while her
father stood at the foot of the 'bed, his
face hidden in the curtains, and her
mother and brothers stood around her
weeping silently, and waiting for the
end; when Betty Frasier's self-control,
never very great, failed her utterly,
and she broke out into a wild, bitter
cry, ' ; 0, nay bairn l my bonny bairn!
what hae I done, my innocent lamb,
that ye should be acted sae, and
molly a worthless hizzie strong and
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 1866,
straight and tall. Dinna bid me hold
my peace, Christie, I canna bear it;
there's neither justice nor nte,rey in it,
say what ye will. 0 ! John, man,
mind her tenth birthday in the, auld
land, 4 tvhen she danced like a fairy,
and sang her bit hymn, and a' tellt me
what a bonny woman she would mak'
and a proud. mother I would be. And
after her trouble came, how she bore
it like a saint and no like ony mortal
bairn, and. strove at her books till a'
body wondered mair at her wisdom
than they had at her beauty ;And now
it's- a' at an end.— and the beauty
blasted, and the goodness and wisdom
going down to the cauld grave. I
canna bear it, I canna be still and
watch my hope and pride gasping oat
her blameless life in agony. . Would
God I could dee for her, my bairn, my
dear bairn !"—and she sobbed aloud
in her wild grief.
John Frasier hurried out of the
room, and eve Christie joined in the
burst'of weeping around Elsie's bed;
for what Betty had spoken was more
or less in the hearts of all. Why had
this .child been made so beautiful and
lovable and saintly, only that.the frail,
fairy-like form might be racked with
torture, and the hearts of those who
loved her be filled with anguish ?
This child's life seemed a cruel mis
take:to many besides hennother, who
thought She had better never have
been born, .or have died in infancy,
than live as she had. lived.
But Fisie opened 'her eyes and said:
" Gie, me the restorative, Christie, and
call my fether back; I hae something
to say to ye a' before I am past saying
it." And when he had. returned, she
laid her hand. in his and said: "
want to tell ye that there was a time
when I thought something like my,
mither has said, and I used to lie
awake through the lang nights, think
ing what I could do for ye each and
a' if God would gie me health and ,
strength, and prayed with tears that
my back might be straightened and
my life spared. When I saw that this
could never be, I was grieved, and
thought myself hardly dealt with, that
I muss be a :burden-a' - -myAlife; and
need never hope to be a help to ye
that 'I. wa.s-sae fain to serve; but that
is over now, and I see my work is
done,• thongh not in my ain way.
Through mony a wakeful night I hae
thought o' that night in the auld land,
and in thinking it over I came to un
derstand some things I did not see at
the time. Nain o' us were in a guid
way that night, pleasant- as it was.
Mrs. Macintosh and her friends were na
guid company for my mither, and
the lads and lasses were bad com
panions for my brothers and raper.
It was well for us a' to come , out o'
that place, and I doubt if we would
ever have come, but fOr Elsie's ill
health, which mad:e my dear mither',
gie up dancing and visiting and sit in'
the house, that - she might nurse inte
and save money to supply my many
wants. And Charlie and. Sandy, what
drew ye, frae the play-house and frolics
ye were ,sae fond of, and kept ye in
our ain house, but that ye might save
money to pay my doctoring ? Then
ye began the night-school for my
amusement, and it has made scholars
o' ye both. Pettier, were ye not drawn
frae the bottle and the dram-shop by
your wish to please your puir crippled
bairn ? DO ye, no see, mither dear,
•
that I might, hae grown up tall and
straight and bonny, and no hae been
half the use to, ony o' ye, though I hae
cost ye sae mony tears ? It was for
love o' me that ye gave up your own
pleasures, and worked and saved that
I might want nothing, and ye owe
much o' ye're present fair fortune to
the sacrifices ye made for puir
sake; so I did not suffer in vain. To
be the means o' drawing ye on thus
far has been my work; and call ye
this nothing ?"
Her face was lit with something of
the old, brilliant, joyful look which
had been her natural expression in
happy childhood, as she cried : "0 !
praise the Lord wi' me, and let us
magnify his name together, for he has
led us by paths we knew not; from off
the broad road that leadeth to destruc
tion into the strait and narrow way
that leadeth unto life. As for me,"
she, continued solemnly, " the time of
my departure is at hand. Henceforth
there is laid up for me a crown of
righteousness, which the Lord, the
righteous Judge, shall give me in, that
day. Bury me in a pleasant place,
father; and after I am gone, when
God has been good to ye' and ye're
proud 9f your well-doing sons, come*
where I lie and ask yourself if mine
has been a wasted life, and if Wee
ELsie was no an instrument of guid in.
the-hand o' the Lord, who will reward
your'kindness to his suffering creature.
Blueing, he has blessed ye; and in
your sorrow he will comfort ye.
" .liere is Uncle Sandy," she added,
" and he will gie us a prayer; not for
me, uncle, but for my puir father and
mother, for I am nearly home, but
they have grief still waiting them
when it shall be well with their child."
"Are ye then sae happy, Elsie?"
asted her uncle; " hae ye nae fears ?"
"No doubts, no fears," smiled El
sie, who was now so much exhausted;
and closing her eyes, she murmured
slowly :
"Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood,
Stand dressed in living green.",
Betty Frasier wept in Christie's
arms, but she wept softly, and her
brother's prayer, that strength and
patience might be granted her, seemed
answered in the offering.
A few more hours, and. Elsie was
gone ; no more pain, no more anguish
seemed to visit her, btit 'she passed
away without a struggle and with
scarce a sigh—and. was buried as she
directed, in a . pleasant_ place, where
the children of Charlie Frasier (a
wealthy and respectable man now) are
brought, from time to time, and told
of their Aunt -Elsie, whof lived in this
world for' fifteen yew's,' and then re
turned to.God,,by , whomlgie had been
lent to do a good work; for the well
doing sons of whom the father is so
justly proud, deiight to call their re
spectability and prosperity " Puir Wee
Elsie's Work."
DAVID'S WISH FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
" That our sons may be as T plants
grown up in their youth ; that our
daughters may be as corner-stones, pol
ished after the similitude of a palace;"
How beautiful a vigorous plant
looks, welcoming the morning light,
no -weeds choking its growth, but full
of healthy sap,, from the tiny rootlet to
the blossom ; greeting. c' each „returning
year with some new form . of beauty,
and bringing forth its fruit inseason I
Boys, the Psalmist prays ;that "you
may be like that. Like a plant, too,
" grown up in its youth." • The grice
of youth with the strength - Of manhood.
There are some plants weak - and sickly,
whose life the slightest, thing will take
away ; but others grow up so vigor
ous and strong, that storms beat upon
them, the snow clothes them with its
white, cold pall, and the frost pierces
the ground around them, yet they live
and thrive.
My dear boys, that is just the
strength and life you. need. God gives
to you. in life, rough, strong work ;
you will have to go alto its business
and tdangers like the woodman who
carries his axe into the unfelled forest.
A thousand things will threaten your
life, as the cold winds or, the hot sun
threaten the young plant. But God
will give you. strength. There is one
little sentence our Saviour littered that
you may read together with the wish
of the Psalmist :—" I am the vine, ye
are the branches ; he that abideth in me
and in I him, the same bringeth forth
much fruit." Ah, that is the secret—
drawing our life and strength from
Christ, for without him we must droop
and die.
But, we must - not forget the Psalm
ist's wish for girls. " That our daugh
ters may be as corner-stones, polished
after the similitude of a palace." How
pleasing to see these corner-stones in
Eastern buildings, their rich, deep
coloring, polished so brilliantly, that,
like, a mirror, they reflected each pass
ing: object, not with a showy, gaudy
glare, but with the quiet beauty of
'ffcniarfirig doing dtig - own quiet wOfk,*
yet shining brightly all the while.
Dear girls, picture to yourselves and
try:if you cannot understand the. Psalm
ist's prayer on your behalf.
- The work that God has given to the
boys in the world, fits them. to exhibit
a manly strength in encountering life's
dangers ; but God has given you
another place to exhibit the " beauties
ofholiness." In all the charms which
can make beautiful a sister's gentle
service, a daughter's loving obedience,
or the sweet counsels of womanly
friendship, the religion of the Saviour
can be commended and honored.
'Ah, happy homes, where the sons
are as the'grown-up plants, strong and
vigorous, and the daughters in the
living graces of piety as "polished
corner-stones."
A NEW IDEA.
A corresPondent relates a story told
by a Cunard steamer captain con
cerning LOrd Robert Grosvenor, who
was among,his passengers some days
sine,e. This nobleman is the oldest
son; heir of the Marquis of Westmin
ster, whose fortune is enormous, and
said to firodnee the immense income
of L 350,000 per annum. He, is highly
intelligent, and the variety and depth
of his information would be considered
great even for a commoner. He has
travelled extensively in all parts of
the world, and it is not long since he
returned from a long tour in the United
States. While at the West, he was
one day waiting at a country station
for a tardy train, when ones of the faim
ers, of the neighborhood entered into
conversation with him.
" Bin about these parts considerable,
etrtu?ger ?"
" Yes, for some: length of time."
feike i 'CM putty well, eh ?"
" Yes, pretty well."
" How long lieu yer ben item ?"
"-A few weeks."
What's yer bizness.?"
" I haVe no business?'
" What are yer travelin' for, then ?"
" Only for my pleasure."
"Don't yer do any bizness ? How
do yer get yer livin , then 7"
"It isn't necessary for me to work
for my support. , My father is a man
of property, and gives me allowance
sufficient for my wants."
"But 'spore the old man should
die r
"`ln that case, I dare say, he'd leaire
me enough to live upon."
" But 'spose he should bust up 7"
Here the conversation ended and
Lord Grosvenor walked away, evident
ly struck by a new idea, and one which
had never been forcibly presented to
him until then.
" THE WORDS OF OR GOD SHALL
STAND FOREVER,"
Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Deceitfully goes forth the morn ;
Not seldom evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn.
The smoothest seas will sometimes prove
To the confiding bark untrue ;
And, if she trust the stars above,
They can be treacherous too.
The umbrageous oak, in pomp arid spread
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend,
Draws lightning down upon the head
Ityromised to defend.
But Thou art trne, incarnate Lord,
Who didst vouchsafe for man to die,
Thy smile is sure, Thy plighted.word
No change can falsify.
I bent before Thy gracions.throne,
And asked for peace on suppliant knee ;
And peace was given, nor peace alone,
But faith sublimed to ecstacy 1
—William Wordsworth.
A WELL-SPOKEN ADMONITION.
It was about thirty years ago or
more, when stage-coaches still ran,
that an excellent old clergyman, who
had a keen observation of the world,
was travelling on the top of the coach
from Norwich to London. It was a
cold winter night, and the coachman,
as he drove his..horse,s over Newmar
ket heath, poured forth such a volley
of oaths and foul language, as to
shock all the passengers. The old
clergyman, who was sitting close to
hirn, said nothing, but fixed his pierc
ing blue eyes Upon him with a look of
extreme wonder and astonishment. At
last tithe coachman became uneasy, and
turning round, to him, said, " What
makes you loOk at me, sir, in that
way ?"
The clergyman said, still with his
eye fixed upon him, "I cannot imagine
what you will do in heaven. There
are no horses, or coaches, or sadfiles,
or bridles, or public-houses in heaven.
There will be no one to swear at, or
to whom you can use bad language.
I cannot think what you will do when
you get to heaven."
The coachman said nothing, the
clergyman said, nothing more, and
they parted at the end of the journey.
Some years afterward the clergyman
was detained at an inn on the same
road, and was told that a dying man
wished to see him. He was taken up
into a bedroom in a loft, hung round
with saddles, bits and whips, and on
the. bed, amongst them, lay the sick
man.
" Sir," said the man, "do yon re
member speaking , to the coachman
who swore so much as he drove over
Newmarket heath ?"
"Yes," replied the clergyman.
"I am that qoachman, said he,
"and I could - 'not dieliappy without
telling you host .havd remembered
your words, cannot think what you
will.do in heaven.' Often and often, as
I have driven over the heath, I have
heard these words ringing my ears,
and I have flogged the horses to make
them get over that ground ; faster but
always the words have come back to
me, '1 cannot think what you will do in
heaven.' "
"We can all suppose what the good
minister said to the dying man. But
the words apply to every, human
being whose chief interest lies in other
things than doing good, and who de
lights in doing and saying what is
evil. " There is no making money in
heaven; there is no .promotion; there
is no gossip ; there is no idleness ;
there is no controversy ; there is no
detraction in heaven. I cannot think
what you Will do when you get to heaven."
FAR OUT UPON THE PRAIRIE.
B. T., in the Chicago Journal,
gives the following graphic sketch of
the dissolvin:g views to be seen from a
flying> railroad train on a Western
prairie :
When the train strikes out from the
wooded -bluffs and ravines of the Des
Moines upon, the, bread prairie, .and
you see the grass rank and strong, now
ripening- " with the flowers that grow
between ;" grass not very long ago
trampled, by the Lord's great herds,
and never burdened with any sem
blance of harvest but the swaths of red
fire, you feel that even by railroad you
have escaped from , the artifice of soci
ety, and begin to think about "leather
stockings" and a saddle of venison.
You have got out of the realm of
white clover, that Christian grass of hu
man homesteads, for, though one of
Cooper's novels has set a clover-field a
blossoming in an utter wilderness, yet
it a phenomenon never witnessed
anywhere else. The prairie is not as
rough as you find if farther West.
There ie lesa of a heavy sea on. YOu
keep in.,the centre of a flying horizon
of - about twenty miles in dianieter.
The sun shines, but there is a golden
blaze in the air. The light reflected
from distant points, gives you illusive
lakes that you never near but that all s.t
once vanish-"sparkled, exhaled and
gone to heaven." The ripening grasses
of various species growing harmoni
ously together, gives you the russets
that brighten into yellow and deepen
into red, presenting a scene as gay as
a painted atlas.
Little hillocks covered with tall, yel
low flowers dot the prairie like the
knobbed door of a money vault. ,They
are the Work of those fellows in striped
jackets—the gophers. The sky line
foy miles is unbroken, and the tall
grass seems to rustle against the blue
around the edges of the world, At
last a small object is discerned, far out
at your right. It has four slim legs,
and is backed like a camel. Beside
it is a small cigar box about the color
of a wasp's nest. The one is a desert
ed stage-station, and the other a wild
barn, to wit; a small haystack on four
stilts, Clover, is'nt it ? - When the
the horses eat up the roof it is spring.
But the old route is abandoned, and
the lonely objects look as dismal as the
fragments of a wreck at sea.
You think how wild this landscape,
by and by, when, at the sound of the
trumpets of March, the gay old storms
croon along these plains, tossing the
air full of shrouds that never were
woven, blotting out the trails, and
making a clean white world in a night.
Looking about you in the car, at last
you discover that the people have
changed as much as the landscape.
The finer evidences of a high civiliza
tion have vanished ; the lady with the
tilting hoop that passed along the aisle
yesterday, fairly flattened into an in
terjection, and resembling a quaint
letter 0, with the back of a woman's
head and neck curiously sketched at
the top of it, has gone. The man who
donned a new silk hat to travel in has
given out. The boy that stood up and
pulled a, screaming aceordeon by the
tail till everybody thought the law
against " cruelty to animals" was a
dead letter, is missing.
The couple that came on board this
morning hand-in-hand, like the "Babes
in the woods," he peppermintish and
conscious, she red and ribbonish,
slipped off together when nobody saw
them. The fragrance of " Nightßloom
ing Cereus" and Patchouly has faded
away. The women are fewer, the men
franker and rougher. Yonder sits a
young lawyer and his family, bound
for Dacotah. It is not present ease he
considers, but the far future—the day
when that small, fat fellow, in short
breeches, clambering about his knee
like a young bear cub, shall face him
even-eyed and be a man. The young
father is wise; he will grow- with the
young State. Here are men bound
for mines of silver and gold, for moun
tain peaks and. distant forts, for all
wild and far away-regions.
A "DRESSING" FOR THE LADIES.
Men say knowledge is power;
women think dress is power. Look at
a woman who is certain that she is
well dressed—" the correct thing"—
how she walks along with stately steps,
head well up, parasol held with two
fingers at the present, and skirts ex
panding luxuriantly behind her—
proud, self-satisfied, conscious of being
stared at and admired. She feels like
a just man madelperfect—who knows
that he has done his duty, and that the
by-standers also know it and respect
him for it. Dress overgrows and
smothers_ every other feeling in p
woman's heart. Love, marriage, chil
dren, religion, the death of 'friends, are
regarded as affording new and various
opportunities for dress. The becoming
is the greatest good. For 'finery and
fashion, women risk comfort, health,
life, even reputation. What matter ig
norance, ill-breeding, ill-nature, if she
dress well ? A camel's-hair shawl,
like charity, will cover a multitude of
sins. On the other hand, though she
speak French and German, anti under
stand all onomies and ologies, and the
mysteries of housekeeping, and is
treasurer of Dorcas societies, creches,
and dispensaries, and have not style,
it profiteth her nothing. On this great
question women never have a misgiv
ing. You may find creatures so lost
as to be cast-aways from fashion, but
they believe in it. The sceptism of the
age has left this subject untouched,—
Atlantic Monthly.
I CHILD'S IDEA OF A CHILD'S PRETE,
Little Nellie, who was only foul*
years old, no sooner saw work laid
aside, than ,she ran to her mamma's
knee and claimed a seat there. Mrs.
Lee lifted her to her lap, and went cat
busily thinking of her duties' and
cares, while she rocked herself and
Nellie to and fro.
For a time,
Nellie amused herself
very quietly by winding a string in
and out through her fingers; but
presently, she began talking to herself
in a low tone. " When I say my
prayers, God says, 'Hark! angels,
while I hear a little noise.'" Her
mamma asked her what noise she
meant.
"A little girl's noise. Then the
angels will do dust so (shutting her
mouthvery
tight and keeping very
still for a moment) till I say Amen."
• Isn't this a sweet thought ? I
wonder if the children who read this
story of little Nellie have ever thought
how wonderfUl it is that God always
hears their prayers. He is surrounded
by thousands and thousands of angels,
all singing and praising him with their
golden harps.; and yet, through all
the music and, all the praises, he hears
the softest prayer of a little child
kneeling by the. bedside. He must be
very loving and very kind to children.
We should think he would sometimes
forget, and be listening to the beauti
ful sounds in heaven, instead of to the
prayer of a little child. But he -never
does. There is never too much sing
ing or too many praises there for Him
to' hear a little girl's noise. Do you
not wonder that children do not, pray
to Him much more and much oftener
than they do ?—Child at Hom.e