Of Snag girds.
THOUGHTS OF ,HOM&
in" miss MARY F. 1.7./RBY
I've been thinking of borne ! Of my Father's
house
Where the many mansions be ;" •
Of the city whose streets are paved with gold,
Of its jasper walls, so fair to behold,
Which the righteous alone shall see.
I've been thinking of home, where they need
not the light
Of the sun, nor moon, nor star;
Where the gates of pearl " are not shut by day.
For no night is there," . but the weary may
Find rest from the world afar.
I've been thinking of home, of the river of life
That flows through the city, so pure;
Of the tree that stands by the side of the stream
Whose leaves in mercy with blessings teem,
The sin-wounded soul to cure.
I've been thinking of home; of the loved ones
there,
Dear friends,who have gone before,
With whom we alked to the death-river side,
And sadly thought, as we watched the tide,
Of the happy days of y0re.....
I've been thinking of home, and my heart is
full
Of love for the Lamb of God,
Who His precious life, as a ransom gave,
For a sinful race, e'en our souls to save,
From Justice' avenging rod.
I've been thinking of home ; and I'm homesick
now,
My spirit doth long to be,
In "the better land," where the ransomed sing
Of the love of Christ, their Redeemer, King,
Of mercy, so costly, so free.
I've been thinking of hornO 1 yea, "home,
sweet home •"
Oh 1 there may we all unite
With the white-robed throng, and forever raise
To the Triune God, sweetest songs of praise,
With glory, and honor, and might.
P. Observer.
DISOBEDIENCE-AND WHAT CAME
OF IT.
"Mother ! mother !" called up Ho
race from the yard, "can't. Benny and
I go out in the alley a little while to
play ?"
"Out in the alley, in all this mud!"
cried my sister Lou from the chamber,
where we sat sewing ; "my dear boy,
you're crazy !" ,
"No I aint, mother ; let - us go, just
for a little while—please do !"
"No, indeed—not for a moment"
The mother's voice was clear and de
cisive, and Horace argued the matter
no farther.
" The crazy child!" said my sister,
turning to me. What attraction can
there be in that thick, black mud!
But I do believe boys are something
like pigs, the dirtier they get the bet
ter they like it!"
"He must be insane on that one
point," said I. And indeed it was a
matter of much marvel to me, that a
boy, with a nice garden to play in,
could still look longingly at the mud
beyond; but so it was. Horace had
taken his stand at the open back gate,
putting the garden, with its pleasures,
resolutely behind him.
Little Benny, whom some kind fairy
had metamorphosed into a horse, for
his own especial benefit, was cantering,
running, trotting and galloping, by
turns, every now and then administer
ing to himself smart blows with his
whip.
"Dear little Benny," said I, " he's
always happy."
"Yes, bless his heart," said my sifter,
fondly. "Horace," she called, "you'd
better shut the gate now, and don't stay
out much longer. Remember, Cousin
Robert comes, this afternoon, and we
must have clean faces and hands before
he gets here."
Louise sat back in her rocking-chair,
and 1,, busy with sewing, thought no
more of the boys, until I heard the
gate creak. Then I looked out. Could
I belieye my eyes ? There was itorace,
sneaking out, the gate on tiptoe, and
worse yet, dear little Benny following
in the same disgraceful 'style. Once
fairly out of the yard, a high fence hid
them from - my view.
I was amazed—for the children
though often naughty, were seldom
wilfully disobedient; but I was also
amused, and could not help laughing
a little to myself. Their little figures
had such a comically mein and unnat
ural look.
Louise was nodding in her chair;
my first impulse was to wake her, but
I finally concluded to let her sleep.'
_I
,
was curious to know what the boys
would say for themselves when they
tame back ;'whether they would con
fess their wrong-doing, or, thinking
that no one knew, say nothing about it.
So, for half en hour, Lou slept and
I sewed. Once I . caught a glimpse of
Benny's straw hat up in the air, then
came a few sharp words of caution
from Horace, reminding him that they
'were upon forbidden ground.
Another quarter passed. Lou start
ed up. " Maw still thoie children ire!
Do you see them, Caddie?"
"No, I dont" Itnneeted demurely,
an,d was folding up my work to leave
the room, when—
What was it? A screech, a shriek,
a seream, a • yell, a howl! All these
mixed, and mingled, and multiplied
by two, might perhaps crive one a
faint idea of the noise we heard. More
than all, it came from the alley. Lou
rushed to the windirw, her cheek
- blanched; we both stood transfixed.
Into the yard crept two little woe
begone figures, one hardly to be re
logrardad for mud, the other for pas-
o`; What on earth 1" ejaculated Louise.
"Can these be my children _ ?"
It really seemed a matter , of doubt.
Benny (or what we took for Benny)
was covered with mud, from cap to
shoes ; not a white place to be seen,
from the crown of his head to the sole
of his foot; yet he was walking com
posedly along, while Horace (on whom
the only traces of mud seemed to be a
few streaks on his face) was screeching,
shrieking, screaming, yelling and
howling, as I have said.
It wig really unaccountable; Benny
had all the mud, yet Horace was mak
ing all the outcry.
The mother flew down to the kitch
en. "HOrace, for mexcy's sake, what
is the matter ? Are you killed ? Are
you hurt ? What is the matter ? Not
another step till you get off those
shoes." •
This last was addressed to Benny,
who was making for the kitchen as
fast as he could, considering the weight
of his armor.
Benny, thus brought to a stand,
looked up dolefully at me out of
the corner of his eye. It was too
much; my gravity was completely
upset. I laughed loud and loi:kg, and
Louise was at last compelled to join,
though Horace's screams still resound
ed through the kitchen.
"Benny," said I, as soon as I was
able to speak, " what is the matter
with Horace ? Is he killed ?"
"No !" answered Benny, solemnly.
"Is he hurt ?"
" No I" answered Benny as solemnly
as before.
`"Well, what is it then ?"
"Why, you see," said Benny, "we
were playing out in the"—here he
stopped and looked doubtfully at his
mother, but she said not a word, so he
went on. "We were playing out in
the alley, and Horace wanted me to be
his horse, and I was his horse, and he
whipped me; and I fell down, and
there was a dead cat there, and she
went into my face, and I got up, and
Horace laughed, and I just gave him a
little slap in the face, and my hand was
all mud, and"--
" That will do, Benny," said his mo
ther. "Horace, stop I Now- tell me
how you happened out there at all,
when 1 told you not ?"
Little Benny said nothing, and Ho
race, who at his mother's command
had "stopped," hung his head , .
"Whose fault was it ?" asked their
mother.
Still Benny was silent, and Horace
hung his head.
"Come, Horace," said Louise, "be
a man ! Weren't you the one to blame ?"
Horace looked up. "Yes, mother;
I was," said he. " I made Benny go ;
he said he'd rather play in the yard."
" But I needn't have gone,' said
honest little Benny ; " 'twasn't an his
fault."
" Well, we'll talk about that another
time," said Louise. . " Come in, Benny,
if your shoes are off, before that mud
gets baked on your face. Jane', 'lWe.
she, as the girl made her appearance,
" wont you bring me the largest tub
from the cellar ?"
"0, mother, what for.?" asked Ho
race, anxiously, "Do let us go up to
the bathing-room."
The mother made no reply, but
looked resolute—so the tub came.
"Now, boys, off with your clothes."
"Why, mother, I don't need it,"
said poor Horace. A ,
" I, think you need washing, HoraTe,
quite as much as Benny, though we
don't see as much dirt on your said
Louise; with a queer puckering of her
lips. Come, Aunt Caddie and. Jane
will step out; off with your clothes."
Obedient to this very broad hint,
I went up stairs, and in about half an
hour heard -Louise calling, 'Aunt
Caddie, please bring thOse old jackets
and pants of the boys' from the nur
sery.'
I seized the garments and rushed
down stairs ; both boys looked up rue
fully: •
"0, mother, you don't mean those
old things ? We haven't worn them
for a long time."
"It is very fortunate," said Louise,
with the same queer pucker, "that I
didn't give them to Jimrni.e Lane last
week, as I intended; they will be just
the things for my litoys to put on when
they play in the alley." ,
"We wont go there again, mother,
never 1" said Benny ; but mother was
firm, and the old clothes went on.
Cousin Robert, too cried Horace,
as the door-bell-rang,. -" What will he
think ?"
Cousin Robert did:think it very
strange, when the boys came slowly
out to welcome him, instead of rush
ing., tumbling, heels over head,' as was
their usual custom. It was so strange,
that he couldn't account for it. Such
looking clothes, too. The boys at last,
seeing his perplexity, thought they
might as well tell him the whole story,
which they did—Lou and I listening,
unobserved, until they came to that
act in the tragedy, where the dead cat
and Horace's shrieks came in ; then we
betrayed ourselves by laughing, and
all threeboys joined.
" Come, boys," said Robert, when he
was about going, "come up home
with me, and see my new rabbits."
The boys looied first at their
clothes, then at their mother. "0, mo
ther' can't we put on our other jackets
now?"
"Not to-night," answered Louise.
Robert looked disappointed, and Ho
race was almost inclined to pout, but
his *other said quietly, "You know
you deserve it, Horace," which made
him. feel a little aikamed; and little
Emmy restored good humor all round
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY. DECEMBER 6, 1866.
More than ten years had passed
away. Mr. was married and
established in a prosperous business,
and by degrees the incidents of his part
ing with Emma were almost.forgotten.
One day a man with whom he was
slightly acquainted came into his store
and asked for employment.
"I am afraid I can't give it to you,'
NorriS," was the answer. "I make it
a rule never to have any one in my
employ who is intemperate."
"But I mean to stop all that, Mr.
B—," said the man earnestly. "I
have made up mind to quit drinking
entirely. It's rather hard not to give
a man a chance when he wants to
reform."
" Well," said Mr. B—, partially
relenting, "I will try you. Come into
the back part of the store, and I will
give you some work."
A bundle was soon made up, with
which Norris departed. Several days
elapsed, and the work not being re
turned, Mr. B— sent to his resi
dence to ask the reason.
by shouting to Robert, as he left the
house, " Bob, if the neighbors think
we've had a great railroad accident
in here, and ask you how many were
killed, you'll relieve their anxious
minds wont you ?"
"Yes," said Robert, "I'll tell them
nobody killed, but two boys seriously
wounded."
The two boys never forgot that af
ternoon's adventure; ever after that,
they preferred their nice, clean, pretty
garden, to the dirty alley. Occasion
ally, when the subject is mentioned,
Benny, with a sly glance at Horace,
will exclain, "Didn't somebody make a
noise, though."—Little
THE TWO PARTINGS.
[ln the National Baptist, in which
the following story appears as origin
al, it is supplemented by a note saying
that it is drawn from real life, and
saying that any one wishing to verify
the facts of the case can obtain the
name and residence of the gentleman
referred to oby calling at its office, No.
530 Arch street, Philadelphia.]
One winter evening, imaßy years
ago, a fair young girl stood before the
glass in her own pleasant little room,
giving the last touches to her toilet.
That night was the first party of the,
season, and perhaps Emma might be
excused if she lingered a little longer
than usual, smoothing once , again her
dark-brown hair, and adjusting the
soft•folds of her beautiful dress.
`Come, Emma," called her mother
at length ; "I am afraid you forget
that Mr. B— is waiting for you."
No ; Emma had not forgotten, as
the rosy blush that stole across her
cheek testified. Her last thought, as
she stood smiling at her reflection in
the glass, had been, "This is the color
which he likes; I am sure he will be
pleased."
Quickly she hurried down stairs,
and after playfully excusing her delay,
while the flush deepened at Mr. B—'s
evident admiration, turned to her
milker, saying, " I believe I am ready
at t."
Take good. care of yourself, dar
ling,', said the mother, as she wrapped
a warm shawl around the slender
form, " and. don't stay very late."
Their destination was soon reached,
and as the young man moved through
the brilliantly-lighted room, many a
glance of admiration was cast at his
companion, and more than one of his
friends whispered, "James . is a lucky
fellow; I'd give a good deal to be able
to monopolize Miss Emma as he does."
The evening sped joyously on; and
at length, toward its close refresh
meats were handed around. Mr.
was standing a little apart from Emma,
who was the centre of a laughing
• up--of young_ girls,- when the lady
of the house with a'smile offered him
a glass of wine.
"No, thank you; I do not drink
it," was his reply.
"Pshaw ! what nonsense," she re-.
turned. "No one has refused it this
evening, and I don't,intend to allow
you to be the first. Come, just one
glass; it• can't hurt any one."
"I cannot do it," he answered
gravely, "for I have determined never
to taste a drop."
" Come- here, Emma," called the
lady. "I want you to coax this ob
stinate young man to take a little
wine. I know he will not refuse you."
Emma took the glass in her little
white hand, and :with a smile which
few could have resisted, said, "Come,
James, you will take just this one'
glass 2" ,
"No, Emma," he answered, with a
powerful effort. "I have made up my
mind, and
• you
•must not ask me to
change it."
Then you shallnot accompany me
home to-night, Mr. B—," said Em
ma, with an angry flash of her dark
eye; "now take your choice."
"I must bid you good-bye -then,
Emma, if it comes to that, he said
sorrowfully. " I would gladly do any
thing else for you, but that I cannot
do." So saying, he bowed and turned
away.
"Never mind, Emma, I'll see you
home," said a young man standing
near, whose flushed face, betokened
that he had taken more than one glass.
" Let him go, the ill-mannered fellow ;
who cares ?"
So saying, he offered his arm, which
Emma accepted, and they moved off
together.
Alas! it was the same old tale of
sorrow. The husband and father had
gone on a drinking frolic, leaving a
sick wife and three starving children.
Mr. B—'s generous heart prompt
ed him to go to their relief at once.
He entered the miserable dwelling,
and found the sick woman lying in a
room almost bare of furniture • while
then phildren, sitting on the floor by
the= bedside, were -crying for bread.
A few kind words and a promiie of
something to eat, soon dried their
tears; and hastening to the grocery,
he returned with an ample supply,
which he broke among the, famishing
children.
While he stood smiling at their de
light, the mother burst into tears, and
exclaimed, "0, Mr. B—, can you
forgive me ?"
" What do you mean ?" he asked in
astonishment.
"Don't you remember Emma F—?
Don't you remember my offering you
the wine at the party, and your refus
ing it? God knows I wish I could
forget it; but it seems as if it were
branded on my heart in.letters of fire."
It was some moments before Mr.
B-- could realize that the miserable
creature before him was indeed the
bright, fascinating girl' from whom he
had parted so many years before.
"Poor' Emma, how you must have
suffered," he said fibmpassionately.
"But do you forgive me ?" she
asked anxiously.
" Certainly ; 'say no more about Op.
You must not stay in this wretched
place. Is your mother living?"
"Yes, sir; in the country.
"Would you not like to go back to
her with the children ?"
" Yes, sir," she answered sadly
"but I have no means."
"Do not trouble yourself," said Mr.
B---; "as soon as you are siifet
ciently recovered, I will take care of
that part of the undertaking. Let me
know if there is anything else I can
do for you. No thanks," he added has
tily, as the poor woman commenced a
grat4ul acknowledment ; "good-bye."
This was the second parting.
Young ladies, you.who are accus
tomed to press'your aentlemen friends
to partake of wine, pause now and
ask yourselves the question, whether
you are prepared for the miserable
fate of a,drunkgrd's wife? C. C.
BENEDICT ARNOLD AS A MAN AND
BOY.
"The boy is father of the man," and
the germs of bad character may al
most Uniformly be found in the boy
hood of men who become great crimi
nals or troublers of society. In Mrs.
Sigourney's " Letters of Life" is the
following allusion to Benedict Arnold,
who limed, when a boy, in the family
of Dr. Lathroja,
She says :--
. In the course of his extensive busi
ness be employed a variety , of clerks,
whom it was his choice to domesticate
under his own roof. Their moral and
intellectual habits were to him and his
estimable lady objects of interest. In
deed, to their conscientious minds they
were in some measure as children, for
whose right principles and good con
duct they felt responsible, both to the
world and to God. Perhapi they were
in no instance more signally baffled in
these philanthropic efforts as by Bene
dict Arnold, known in his country's
history as the traitor. Being the son
of a widow, they received himat rath
er an early age, and cherished for him
added sympathy. Strong capacities
and strong faults were soon revealed.
Among the latter was barbarity to
every 'form •of animal life. Dogs avoid
ed him for good reasons; cats never
flourished where he dwelt ; it was
thought :that horses were none the
better for his ministrations, unless it
might ?e for habits of breakneck speed
and marvelous kicking and prancing.
Dismembered birds were found lying
about the . premises, of whose state no
satisfactory solution could be obtained.
The blue eggs of the robin were crush
ed and strewn upon the turf, and the
voice of the mourning mother resound
ed ; through the branches.
Methinks," said the kind lady in
whose house he was fostered, " her
cry is, cruel Benedict Arnold! cruel
Benedict Arnold!" at which the boy
secretly laughed.
In the summer of 1781, the inhabi
tants of Norwich beheld their whole
southern horizon wrapped :in the
strange, flickering redness of a distant
flame. Thundering sounds were on
the air, like the cannon's death peal.
There was a quick mustering of the
men of war. With hot haste, and
with, as much of military order. as the
occasion would admit, horse and foot
sped on - to °the point of danger.
'The fleetest leader of the cavalry,
-gaining a commanding ascent, an
nounced that New London was in
-flames. .The soldiers hurried to meet
the foe. The fourteen miles that di
vided Norwich from New London was
achieved on eagles' wings. But they
came too late for defense; too late for
vengeance.
Smoking ruins and hvmeless people
were on evet side. The helpless sick
had been removed to fields and gar
dens, and sobbing children , clung to
their bewildered mothers. Their holy
and beautiful temple where they had
worshipped God, was in ashes=and
Benedict Arnold had done it.
Returning from a Predatory excur
sion on the shores of Virginia, he had ,
made this visit to his native State.
Here were old friends, with ilom he
had held early intercourse. By them
he was recognized, seated on his horse
giving orders. 'He even ventured to
take some refreshment in the house of
a former acquaintance, but bade the
flames inwrap the roof as he rose from
the table. He expressed a wish that
it were possible to reach Norwich, that
he might burn at least the abode in
which he was born. Instinct, how
ever, protected him from this exposure,
doubtless assuring him that the beau
tiful region which gave him birth
would feel it a duty, to provide him a
grave.
FLOWER-DE-LUCE.
Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers,
Or solitary mere,
Or where the sluggish meadow-brook delivers
Its waters to the weir I
',Thou laug,hest at the mill, the whirr and worry
Of spindle and of loom,
And the great wheel that toils amid the hurry
And rushing of the flume.
Born to the pnrple, born to joy and pleasance,
- Thou dost not toil nor spin,
Bat makest glad and radiant with thy presence
The meadow and the lin.
The wind blows, and uplifts thy drooping ban
ner,
And rolnd thee throng and run
The rushes, the green yeomen of thy manor,
The outlaws of the sun.
The burnished dragon-fly is thine attendant,
And tilts against the field,
And down the listed sunbtam rides resplendent
With steel-blue mail and'shield.
Thou art the Iris, fair among the fairest,
Who, armed with golden rod
And winged with the celestial azure, bearest
The message of some God.
Thou art the Muse, who far from crowded
cities
, Hanntest the sylvan streams,
Playingon pipes of reed the artles's ditties
That come to Inas dreanis.
0 flower-de-lace, bloom on, and let the river
Linger to kiss thy feet!
0 flower of song, bloom on, and malo lll Lrever
The world more fair and sweeir
—Prof. Longfellow.
DISCONTENTED ROBERT.
There's some fun in working in a
place like that," thought Robert, as he
peeped through the hawthorne hedge
into Mr. Lyman's beautiful grounds,
and saw Christie, the old gardener, at
his work. "1 love to cultivate flow
ers, but there isn't much pleasure in
hoeing cabbages and onions all the
time."
Just then Conscience whispered in
his ear, "There's pleasure in duty,
Robert;" and then the word " duty"—
"duty"—"duty," seemed to murmur
all around him. Robert was in no
mood to stop and talk with his con
science, and so his face wore - a not
very pleasant look as he turned his
step toward home.
In a few years the sunset gates
wide unfolded their gold and purple
-bare, and the weary old_ gardener
passed to his rest in the sweet fields
beyond. Robert was called to fill his
place, and for a while he seemed con
tented.
One morning Robert was busy
among, the flowers. It. was a bright,
warm day—a day to be glad—but
Robert was not happy. "I declare,
how fast these weeds do grow 1" he
exclaimed, giving his hoe an angry
jerk ; it takes all my time ; and with
the walks to roll, and the borders to
trim, and the hedges to clip, I don't
see how in the world—"
" What pretty flowers ! lim't Mr.
Lyman kind to let me ride in this
beautiful garden ?" and "0, how hap
ply it makes me to hear the birds sing."
Robert looked, and. saw a lame
girl--people called her "lame Lucy"—
whose brother watdrawing her slowly
down the walk, in a rough, clumsy,
unpainted wagon. As Robert was
standing behind a little clump of
bushes, Lucy did. not see him until
she was just , opposite. Then she
smiled and ,bade him good-morning;
and as she did so, she looked so happy
and contented, that Robert paused
from his work, saying : " Why does , it
make you so happy to hear the birds
sing ?"
"0, I think God is so good and
kind to make such beautiful things,
just to please us, when he might as
easily have made everything disagree
able. 'His tender mercies are over all
his works," repeated pale-faced Lucy,
"and it makes me so glad and, happy."
Robert glanced at her poor, wasted,
helpless form, and then at'her face, so
bright with cheerful gratitude, and
said, as he thought of his own strong
limbs and unthankful heart: "I wish
,I could feel contented always, as you
do, Lucy."
"I cannot help. feeling contented
when I think of my blessingf3—l have
so many things toq make me grateful;;'
- and then the little Wagon passed on
out of sight.
Robert took up his hoe, and, for the
first time,- he seemed to notice that
there was ..everything abbitt 'him to
delight the eye and ear. The roses,
lilies and laburnums 'wore their gay
est robes. The bees, as they darted
here and there through the flowers,
made music with their humming. The
birds sang joyously in the trees over
head. Every tuft of grass, shrub,
twig and leaf, as it bore up its twink
ling dew-drops, seemed to say, "Godis
love." The gentle- breeze mingled
with its freshnessthe perfume of briar
and clover and n3ignonette, and
pered in q. low, sweet tone, "Pra ise ye
the Lord." And to Robert's murmur
ing heart a voice said, "Peace! ;be
Sower.
FIBBING.
" Why, Neddie, where have you
been ?" inquired Mrs. Stepney of her
son Edward, a boy .of ten, as he en
tered the parlor a little flushed with
running. "It is six o'clock, and your
school closes at four. What have
you been doing since school, my son ?"
"0, ma," replied the boy, "when
we play base-ball we have such fun
we don't think at all about the clock,
or tea-time r or anything else. Is tea
ready now ?"
This answer led Edward's mother to
conclude that he had been playing
base-ball. What else could she think?
But had he been playing that game
with his schoolmates ? Not at all. He
had been "kept in" by his teacher for
bad lessons, and was ashamed to con
fess his disgrace. So he made his
mother believe , that he had been play
ing.
" What a shame and a sin it is for
you to deceive your good mother so I"
said Neddie's conscience, as he sat
eating his nice supper..
"I don't care," replied the boy to
this faithful but troublesome voice
"I don't care. I didn't tell her a lie.
I didn't say I had been playing base
ball." .
"But you said words which made
your mother think you had, and which
you meant should make her think so,"
replied consciencd.
But Edward was subborn. He had
entered the wrong path, and so he
went to bed leaving the false impres
sion on his mother's mind.
Children, did Edward lie or not ?
Of course he did, sir, I hear you reply.
You are right, my children. Edward
did not plainly lie, because he did not
say he had been playing base-ball; but
he used words which deceived her, just
as he meant they should. He intend
ed to deceive her, and that intention
made his words a lie. Indeed,• it was
a very bad sort of a lie, because it
was dressed up in the livery of truth.
Some children would call Eddie's
lie a fib. Nonsense 1 A. fib is a lie.
Every word you utter, my child, with
an intention to produce a false impres
sion on some person's mind, is a lie.
So be careful of your words. Always
tell the exact truth, for no character
is more hateful, either to God or man,
than -that of the bar.
A TALK WITH THE CHILDREN 0
PRAYER.
Dear children, have you learned how
graciously Jesus answers the prayers
of even the little ones ?If he has
taught you this 'himself, 'there is no
need that I should, give you proofs of
it ; but some of us larger children go
on and on, making endless mistakes,
and suffering bitter losses, from not
haVing learned the easy remedy.
The other day, a Christian mother,
whose heart rejoices at every sign that
her flock of little ones is led by the
Good Shepherd, told me that one of
her little girls had learned a lesson in
a prayer that she would never forget.
She came in from school greatly irri
tated, saying that she never wanted
teachers to disappoint and tease her.
After her first excited feeling had
spent itself, her father said to her
quietly, " Nelly, did you ever try
praying for your teacher, to see if God
would not make her more gentle?"
" Why, no, father;" said the little
girl. " Well," said he, "try that, and
see how things get on to-morrow." He
said no more, but watched the end,
and the next day Nelly came bound
ing into the house, as she had not
done for many a day,. saying, "0, fa
ther, your way was right; you don't
know how good Miss K—was to
me to-day. I have had such a 'happy
day 1" " Well, my little girl," said the
father, "God has many ways of an
swering our prayers;
and I suspect
that one way he , took to answer you
was to make you more obedient and
studious." She had not thought of
'this before, but now began looking
back over the day, and then in sweet
simplicity said, " Yes, father ; I think
that was so. I loved to study to-day,
my heart was so happy." Many days
after, she said to him, as he came in at
night-fall, " Dear father, I never shall
forget again to 'ask God for every
thing I wait; for ever since that day
my teacher has begat so changed."
" Yes," said the
,glad father, "and my
little girl is changed too."
Christ knew when he was teaching
that lesson, that it would bear its fruits;
that every day some want would coate
up that he could satisfy ; and in his
generous love he longed to - have that.
young heart come to him and be e,om
forted.—The Witness. -
BOYS USING TOBACCO.
• A strong and sensible writer says a
good, sharp thing, and a true one, too,
for boys who use tobacco. It tends to
softening and weakening of the bones,
and it greatly injures the brain, the
spinal marrow and the whole. nervous
fluid.
A boy who smokes early and fre
quently, or in any way uses large
quantities of tobacco, is never known
to make a man of much energy, and
generally lacks muscular and physi
cal as well as mental power. We
would particularly warn boys Who
want to be anything in the world, to
shun tobacco as a most baneful poison-
I - It injures the teeth. It produces an
unhealthy state of the throat and
I lungs, hurts the stomach, and blast's
the brain and nerves..