fig family (Irak
THE ANSWERED PRAYER.
BY MISS S. C. EDGARTON,
I prayed for Beauty—for the magic spell
That binds the wisest with its potent thrall,
That I within fond human hearts might dwell,
And shine the fairest in the festive hall.
X would have seen the lordliest bend the knee,
The loveliest bow, o’erdazzlcd by my charms;
While he I long had vainly loved— ah, he,
Subdued, should clasp me fondly in his arms!
- But Beauty o’er my spirit wared her wing,
Yet shed no brightness on my form or face:
And passing years but darker shadows fling
Upon the cheek where care hath left its trace.
My prayer, if heard in heaven, hath been denied;
No heart bows humbly ’neath my beauty’s sway;
And he I loved now seeks ft fairer bride,
With brighter blushes and a smile more gay.
I prayed for RicnES. Oh! for lavish wealth,
To pour in golden showers on those I loved:
I would have gladly spent my youth and health,
Could I, by gifts like these, my love have proved.
I prayed for riches, that before God’s shrine
I might with gifts and costly tributes kneel;
And thought the treasures of Golconda’s mine
Too poor to show the fervor of my zeal.
Alas! wealth came not; and the liberal deeds
My heart devised, my hand must fail to do;
And though o’er prostrate truth my spirit bleeds,
In vain the aid of magic gold I woo.
The poor.may plead to me for daily food,
And those I love in daily want may pine;
X will pour out for them my heart’s warm blood,
But other gifts than this can ne’er be mine.
I prayed for Gexius —for the power to move
Hard hearts, and reckless minds, and stubborn
To execute the deeds of holy love, [wills.
And light Truth’s fire upon a thousand hills,
I prayed for Eloquence to plead the cause
Of human rights and God’s eternal grace;
To cry aloud o’er Mercy’s outraged laws,
And speed the great redemption of my race.
But all in vain. My feeble tongue can breathe
No portion of the fire that burns within;
In vain my fancy vivid thoughts may wreathe
In scorching flames to vanquish human sin.
Powerless my words upon the air float by,
And wrong and crime disdain the weak crusade;
While vice gleams on me its exultant eye,
And bids me show the conquests I have made.
I prayed for Peace —for strength to bear
The keen privations of my humble fate;
For patient faith to struggle with despair,
And shed a brightness o'er my low estate,
I prayed to be content with humble deeds,
With “widow’s mites," and humble charities,
To follow meekly where my duty leads.
Though through the lowliest vale of life it lies.
This prayer was answered; for a peace divine
Spread through the inmost depths of all my heart;
I felt that that same blessed lpt was mine
Which fell on her who chose the better part.
What though the world abroad ne’er hears my name?
What though no chains upon weak hearts I bind?
It is a happier lot than wealth or fame
To do my duty with a willing mind!
BETSY’S CHILDREN.
“ I want a good girl, one I can rely upon,
:uid one who will not teach the children all
■iorts of vile practices,” said Mrs. Lane, “ but
[ almost despair. Of course, I don’t expect
perfection: I am willing to put up with
faults, but vices I will not tolerate.”-
“ Why don’t you try to get one of Betsy’s
children ?” asked the lady with whom she
was talking.
“ Betsy’s children ? Who, pray, is Betsy ? ’
“An old lady —I don’t know whether she’s
Scotch or Irish, though I remember now
she's a north of Ireland woman. She lives
in a place called Bird’s Alley.”
‘"Why, what is there about her or her
children that I should go there? How
many has she ?”
“ The number varies at different times,
.some days she, has five or six; others as
many as ten or eleven.”
“What can you mean, my dear woman?”
“ Just what I say. She adopts every poor,
homeless, motherless child she considers will
pay for the training, and keeps her a certain
time. Strangely enough, she gets most of
ihese children under such control,, whatever
their previous habits have been, that she
can generally find good places for them,
and I believe they have never disappointed
her.”
“ That is very singular. The woman
must be a curiosity. I'd like to see her for
that reason alone. I believe I’ll go there.”
The following day found Mrs. Lane stand
ing upon the threshold of a large, tidy-room,
the floor of which was as white as hands
could make it, overlooking a curious sight.
Some eight or nine girls, from three years
old to fifteen, apparently, were busy in vari
ous parts of the room. Even the fingers of
the smallest were at work tearing paper into
small shreds. Three —the three eldest, stood
ironing, heaped-up baskets at their side —
four were knitting or sewing, and all were
clean and tidy, smiling and apparently
happy. .
“ Did you want to see mammy ?” asked
one of the eldest, coming forward, flat in
hand.
“ Yes, I should like to see her,” said Mrs.
Lane.
“Won’t you sit down, ma’am? she’ll be
here in a minute,” and the lady accepted the
chair and seated herself.
Presently, a large, kindly-faced woman en
tered. She wore a dress of Scotch gingham,
scant but neat, a wide, white apron, and a
large, broad-frilled-cap, the frill neatly
plaited. Courtesying to her visitor, her
broad face became radiant with a smile of
such peculiar beauty that, in gazing upon
it, Mrs. Lane almost forgot herself.
Harper’s Weekly.
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, JANUARY 17, 1867.
“I’m looking for a little girl.” she said,
11 and heard this place recommended. These
are not your children.”
“O, 110’in, I’m not so rich as that. Let
me see,” instantly assuming a business air—
“ there’s Lizzie—she’s been here long enough
for a recommend. She’s a hearty, strong
girl, ma’m, an’ never’ll trouble you with
any mean, low ways. Come here, Lizzie.
Now look in her face, ma’m. That’s how
I chooses my children.”
“ Then are none of these yours ?”
“Never had one in my life, ma’m,” was
the smiling response.
“You are paid, then, for taking care of
and providing these children with homes.”
“Not a stiver, ma’m; who’s to pay me?
They’re all poor orphans —not one of ’em
has a father or mother—except me—and
I’m both to them, they think,” she added,
looking round her, affectionately. “To he
sure, I suppose I’ll he half sorry I took the
wee things—hut what could Ido ? They’d
honest parents as was taken off with heavy
sickness, and I couldn’t she them abused.
True, it’s hut little I can do, for there’s
thousands of such poor creeters in the world,
but I’ll do all I can. I’ve put thirty-one
into good homes.”
“What!” cried Mrs. Lane, in astonish
ment, “take care of and provide for thirty
one children, besides these.”
“ Yes’m, an’ the Lord’s enabled me to do
it with my own hands for more than fifteen
years hack. I’ve never Wanted, neither
have they, an’ whether it’s knack in me, or
goodness in them, I don’t know, but they’ll
all mind me, that they will, ma’m, with lift
ing up a finger.”
Here then was an unexampled case of
Christian heroism. Here was this poor
woman working for Christ, alone, unaided
either by church, state or private charity.
“ I am sure, ’ said Mrs. Lane, afterward,
“ I felt my cheeks burn with a sense of my
own unworthiness before this noble woman.
Without husband, children or means, she
had rescued thirty-one helpless young crea
tures from the streets; taught them to be
cleanly, virtuous and truthful; fed them,
clothed them, cherished them. I took Liz
zie, and have never regretted it, but I have
regretted ever since, and do now, that never
tilLthen did I really see what it was to be a
follower of Christ. The world has no honors
for such women as Betsy; Heaven only can
adequately crown their holy deeds as befits
them.”— Alma in Watchman and Reflector.
A MONOMANIAC.
I have an intimate friend who, alas, is a
monomaniac!
As the word implies, her mania is confined
to one subject—she is extra-sensible other
wise—but that “one subject” is the all
important one of dress and fashion. She don’t
regard the subject as of primary importance,
but labors under the hallucination that the
culture of the mind and heart should take
the precedence. She acts as if decency and
comfort were actually the main purposes of
firefes, and as if, those ends accomplished,
all were right.
She has a lucid interval now and then, to
be sure, when she devotes herself with great
zeal to her wardrobe, and has dresses, &c.,
made very much like other folks,- but it is
soon over, and she again relapses, giving her
first care to something else, and just wearing
the new garments on and on, regardless of
the changing fashions, till, sometimes, they
actually begin to wear out.
It is just so in regard to her children ; she
is forever attending to their studies, or work,
or. play, while she makes warm flannels, and
knits lamb’s wool stockings for them; but
as to a real stylish rig-out, they never have
it. It actually gives me the heart-ache to
see them so wronged by their own mother,
and they such dear, bright, good, pretty
children, too.
The fact is, she gives no more time or
thought to the momentous matter of dress,
than is really' necessary.
You would not believe how oblivious she
is to new fashions.
“ How do you like waterfalls ?” said I to
her last spring.
“I like them very much,” she replied.
“ Do you ? ’ said I, surprised, “ what kind ?”
“ Of every kind,” she replied, “ I never
saw one I did not like:”
“ Why in the world, then, don’.t you wear
one?” cried I, “you have just the head and
hair for it, and I will show you” —
I was cut short by her look of utter Bewilder
ment, and remembering her mania, realized
she did not know what a waterfall was, but
actually thought I was talking of —of (what
shall I call them,) water tumbles, Niagara,
and such 1
When, as sometimes does happen, thanks
to the dress-maker,she gets areal downright
fashionable dress, and you go to church all
agog to see it, she is about sure to come in
very quietly, in some plain, decent thing,
she’s worn at least a dozen times before.
“Why in the name of common sense did
you not wear your new silk yesterday?”
asked I, one Monday.
“ Oh, I never thought of it,” she replied,
“but now that you remind me of it, I don’t
think I shall ever wear it to church; it’s
uncomfortably long, and is so made as to re
quire much time and thought in dressing.
A church is no place for finery.”
“ What do you want with the dress, then?”
cried I, quite vexed.
“ Oh, to wear to some places where I should
be singular without something of the kind,”
she replied.
“ Just as if you were not always singular
in your dress,’’ cried I, my patience quite
gone.
She blushed, with tears in her eyes, as
she said, “I don’t want to be singular, but
neat and comfortable, and enough in style
not to attract attention to'myself; but the
fashions change often, and time flies'so swiftly
on the wings of duty, I suppose I do’ often
get too far behind the times in dress.” •
Poor dear ! how I pity her! You see the
very heart of her mania is, that she don’t
care for dress per se, and, so don’t make it
her chief end.
There might be a gleam of reason in it, if
she wore old-fashioned things from necessity;
but it’s no such thing. She has plenty' of
money; her husband is rich, and so devoted
he would leave no stone unturned to get the
moon down for her, if she asked him for it.
The insanity is that she might and yet does
not dress fashionably!
Furthermore, it’s “across” to her that
she has to dress at all. One evening she said
to me, with a sigh, “I have a dress-maker
coming to-morrow; isn’t it a trial?”
Now, (though I wouldn't for the world
have any body know it) I am pinched for
means; sol answered with an inward groan.
“ I shouldn’t think it- a trial if I had all these
nice goods to be made up.”
“Shouldn't you?” answered she in inno
cent surprise, “but I do. I have just been
seeking patience by reading the third chap
ter of Genesis, and reflecting that- it is for
our sins we have to dress at all. lam sure
I repent of Adam’s sin every time I have to
get up a new dress.” Did you ever!
One cold snowy Sabbath in December, she
wore a hood to church ! I thought myself pre
pared for any development, but it was too
much to see her sit there, listening to every
word of the sermon, just as unconscious of
her hood as if the proverb, “ out of sight
out of mind ” were true of ladies’ head-gear.
“ See if I don’t give her a shaking up for
this,” thought I.
So I seized upon her, going home, and
whispered in her ear, “What upon- earth
possessed you to wear that thing to church?’
She glanced down in a dazed way at her
cloak, dress over-shoes, then up into my-face
with an innocent “ What is amiss ?”-
“ That hood!" hissed I.
“Oh, yes, I forgot I had it on.” said she
with a quiet smile, “I was threatened with
tooth-ache, and couldn’t go out without it ?”
“ Then stay' at home,” growled I; “ you
wouldn’t catch me out such a day', spoiling
my new hat and feathers, if I was not obliged
to be there to sing.”
“ There is a divine law against our forsak
ing the worshipping assembly,” replied my
friend, solemnly, “ but is there any' law,
humaq or divine, against wearing a hood
inside a church ?”
“Yes,” snapt I, “ the law of fashion, which
break at your peril.”
She only smiled, and asked me very coolly
if I had been instructed by Dr. B ’s ex
cellent sermon, just as if I had been attend
ing to that!
I have about given up arguing with her;
it is only folly to argue with a maniac; but I
thought her husband must feel dreadfully;
so one day I went to condole with him about
it. And what do you think he up and said?
“ When I wanted a wife,” said he, “ I
searched the city through for a young lady
who had -not a monomania for dress and
fashion, and she was the only one I hit upon ;
so I married her, and she stjpts me first-rate.”
,* Only of it!— Congr'egationalist.
- —•»——
TH-E SUN’S WORK.
“What a master the sun is, to be sure!”
How he does keep things a moving! He
makes the wind blow; he. makes the water
flow ; he makes the grass grow ; and —but I
haven’t told yon how' I found out about the
grass.
One evening I went down cellar to get a
slice of bread and a piece of meat for a “ cold
snack,” as we call it. I had thin slippers on
my feet, and as I walked across the floor in
the dark, I trod on something long and round
and slender; it crushed under my foot with
a juicy sort of squirm, so that I thought I
must have trodden on a .nice, crisp little
snake. Having eaten my bread and meat I
went to bed. When morning came, I went
down cellar, -where my bath-room is, to take,
a cold plunge, and then I sgw what I had
trodden on—a long, white potato sprout. It
had got out of the bin, and stretched out to
ward the window, long, pale, thin and sickly.
It had got half way to the light When I trod
on it, and smashed its hopes;
I pitied the poor struggler, and took up
its bruised body, and laid it b,ack tenderly in
the bin.
As I did so, I noticed that the potatoes
were holding a meeting, and consulting what
to do. They were gathered 'up together in
a pile, and- every eye wa,s turned anxiously
towards the light.
“ How plainly I can see it,” said one. “Ifj
I could only get there, I know I should
grow.”
“ But we cannot get there, is the trouble,”
said a fat potato, who was on top of the
Leap, “no good comes of stretching out to
get to the light.” ;
“Well; I am sure I can’t help trying;
something in me makes me feel as if I should
burst, every time I look over yonder toward
the window. At any rate, I’m going to try
it to-morrow. I’m going to open my eyes
wide, and send out a feeler, aijd see what the
chance is, any how.” ,
“Chance!” said a feeble v|>ice, “’chance!
I felt so once; but look at me now.” And
all the potatoes turned their eyes to look at
the speaker, who was too feeble to come to
meeting, but lay off at the edge of the bin,
all shrivelled up, with a bruised and bleed
ing sprout coiled around her. She continued
—“Yes, look at me. I am nearer to the
light than any of you. I always have been.
I have more eyes than any of you. I was
the plumpest potato in all the bin. I slept
soundly, and lay still. I was fat and con
tented till, one day, I saw that light you are
talking-about. After that I couldn’t shut
my eyes. I felt as if every thing inside of
me wanted to get out. I tried to roll over,
but I couldn’t, and so one day I let one of
my eyes stretch wide open, and stuck it out
a little ways, to see plainly.., But when it
got started it couldn't stop. It kept pulling
and sucking, stretching and growing, till it
sucked out all my blood and used up all my
flesh; but nothing came of it. This very
morning it all came back to me. long, pale,
blind and bleeding, and I am a tired-out,
used-up potato. Better shut your eyes, for
no good comes from looking over yonder. I
wish I could have found out what that light
is, though, and where it comes from; but I
can’t, I’m too weak!” and the old lady
closed her eyes tightly, but there was a little
wet round every eye. My cook said, “ Them
’taters is all a rottin’.” But I knew they
were only weeping because they wanted to
grow and couldn’t.
“ There,” said the big potato on top of the
heap, “ that is just what I told you. Better
be contented. My eyes don’t trouble me.
Keep together in a heap, and you won’t see
anything.”
“Hear! hear! hear!” called out a hun
dred thick voices down in the dark, and all
the stupid potatoes thumped on the bottom
of the bin till it shook again.
“ Keep in the dark, and you won’t have
any trouble; this meeting is adjourned.”
Then the big old potato settled down into
the dark among the rest, whose eyes never
troubled them. But a§ many as sixty or
seventy rolled down on the outside of the
heap, and began staring at the window till
their eyes stuck out an inch,' and they said,
“What is it? What makes me feel so?
What shall we do ?”
The next day I took a basket and went
down cellar and picked over the potatoes;
All the other ones, who had their eyes
screwed up tight, I tucked away in the
dark. And eveiy day my cook goes down
and gets a dozen of them to roast or boil.
But all the watchful ones, which I put in the
basket, I have brought up and planted in my
garden.
And every still moonlight night n0w,.1
hear the green vines whispering to each
other aboaktheir pretty purple blossoms with
orange centres. “ How different it is here!”
“ What fun it is to grow.” “ I’m big enough
to cover a hen’s nest with six eggs.” And
when I went to the hill where I planted the
poor old lady who sprouted so in the cellar,
I found the leaves soberly talking together
about thirteen little potatoes that were hang
ing on their roots, and they were growing
every day.
“ Who feeds them ?” asked I.
“ We do,” said the leaves.
“How do you get you own living?”
asked I.
“ When the sun shines the air feeds us,
and we grow, and when it is night we keep
a saying, The light is better than the dark.
We love to grow in the sunshine; and, sir,
do you know what has become of those other
potatoes who kept their eyes shut ?”
“They are all wasted,” said I. “But
what has made you grow so ?” And every
vine in the field, and every blade of grass,
and all the corn, and the great hickory trees
around the garden, sang out together:—
We are children of the light,
And the sun in its might .
Thrills us through with delight.
And the wind came along to listen, saying
And the sun sent me here,
To join j our good cheer. .*■
Then a gentle rain came down patter,
patter, patter.
Go up, go down, go here, go there,
The bun ia working every where.
—Little Corporal.
THE CONCEIT OF IGNOEANOE.
11 What are you staring at the fence for ?”
asked a conceited pullet of a hedgehog, who
was minutely inspecting the boundary fence
of the poultry-yard.
“I was trying to see, miss, if there was
any way through it,” the hedgehog humbly
replied.
“ What for?” demanded the pullet, pertly.
“ I should like to see what’s to be seen on
the other side, if I could get there,” said the
hedgehog. .
“ 0, there’s nothing worth seeing, take my
word for it,” said the pullet with great as
surance.
“ Yes, miss, certainly; no doubt then, you
know all about it,” said the hedgehog, defer
entially.
“O, yes, you may be sure my opinion is
worth having,” said the pullet, evading the
hedgehog’s inquiry, and turning away.
“ Your opinion, miss 1 It is based on know
ledge, of course ?” asked the hedgehog, anx
ious to learn her value as an authority.
“I don’t know what you mean, exactly;
but I can’t waste time in talking now, while
my friends yonder are eating up the barley,”
said the pullet, moving off.
. “ I mean, miss, you’ve been on the top of
the fence and seen all over it?” inquired the
hedgehog, earnestly.'
“Hot I; I wouldn’t take the trouble,” said
the pullet, much confused.
“ Ah 1 then you have scratched your way
under it, and have seen it from below,” cried
the hedgehog, determined to know the truth.
“ Hot I; I wouldn’t take so much trouble;
but I know very good judges who have, and
they told me all about it,” said the pullet,
running away from any more questions.
“Well, well,” cried the hedgehog; “was
there ever, such conceit ? her wings are not
long enough, I see now, to fly over the fence,
nor her feet strong enough to scratch under
it, and yet she talks confidently about the
other side, as-if she knew it all by heart.
How true it is that ignorance and conceit go
together l” m ■
TELL ME A STOEY.
The peril in which the tender hoy or girl
is, rests to a very large extent on ignorance •
and there is really no solid safety till know
ledge be acquired. On this account the little
being is imbued by the all-wise Parent with
the most remarkable thirst for information.
Gentle reader, have you not almost invaria
bly found in your wanderings, that the little
boys and girls you met allowed only a fijrief
space of time to elapse before making the
request, “Please tell me a story?” If these
simple words be paraphrased, they will run
th “ I have only recently come into the world,
and find it on* the whole a right gladsome
place. But I begin to see that there are
laws to be obeyed, and dangers to be avoided.
You have been much longer on the earth
than I, and must know much more about it.
Give me some of your valuable experience,
which I shall highly prize. I have no silver
or gold to reward you with, but you shall at
least have the extravagant gratitude natural
to my years.”
There are persons existing who, in thought
lessness, perpetuate the enormity of replying
to such a touching request in the words :
“You are a most troublesome child;” or,
“ O I am sick and tired of yonr questions;”
or “ Your tongue never rests;” which might
be’ paraphrased: “Navigate your way, as
best you can, over the troubled ocean of
life; you shall have no pilotage of mine.”
SOME DIPPEEENOE.
A few short years ago, a little fellow
Eddy, not slow in roguery, complained that
James had been throwing stones at him.
The teacher inquired into the matter, and
found the charge correct. She said to Eddy:
“ What do you think you should do if you
were teaching, and had such a boy as that?”
“I think I should flog him,” was-the re
ply.
Upon this, James began to fear the result,
and so he filed in his complaint.
“ Eddy throwed a stone at me t’other day,”
said he.
“Ah,” said the teacher, “I must know
about this matter. Is it true, Eddy, that
you have been throwing stones at James?”
Eddy hung his head, and confessed it.
After a little thumbling of the strings, she
says:—
“ Well, Eddy, what do you think you
should do with two such boys as you and
James?”-
“ I think,” said he, sobbing, “Ishould try
em again !”— ft. I. Schoolmaster.
A PEEOIOUS HYMN.
Sometime in theyear 1836, Edward,the child
of many prayers —now a youth of 18—had been
brought by divine grace to feel his sinfulness, and
was led to trust in Christ. The examination of
his conversation had been made by the pastor and
elders of the church* who were all satisfied. The
Sabbath was drawing nigh when this youth was
to stand before a large congregation and avow his
faith in Christ, His soul was much agitated, and
Satan was busy with suggestions. The young
man betook himself to earnest prayer, that the
God of Jacob would strengthen him, that he might
manfully bear his testimony for that dear Friend
who had bought him with his blood.
Just before the services began, while the pastor
was looking for a hymn, an aged servant of Christ
arose and gave out that well known hymn of Dr.
Watts:
“What sinners vague I resign;
\ Lord, ’ti£ enough that thou art mine.
I shall behold thy blissful face,
And stand complete in righteousness.”
This was sung by the whole congregation; the
young man’s fears alt left him; he was filled with
unutterable joy, and felt that he could bear his
testimony for Christ before all the world.
That hymn has been precious to him during
the past 30 years, during which time he has been
constantly bearing his testimony for Jesus'. Has
been all the time, and is now, a warm-hearted la
borer in the Sunday-school. During the late war
he consecrated money, time and labor in the work
of the Christian Commission.
A text of Scripture, verse of a hymn, or a sweet
song of Zion, often proves to the weary and timid
Christian, like the sprig of moss in the desert
which animated and inspired Mungo Park. Let
Christians often speak iii?psalms and hymns, and
spiritual songs, on the pilgrimage/<rf life
: ——
“ ONLY A LITTLE BBOO&i”
A simple, but very touching incident has been
related to us, says the Maine Press, in connection
with the, last moments of* beautiful girl in Bath
who lately died at the age of nine. A little while
before she died, as the sorrowing friends stood
around her, w'atching the last movings of the gen
tle breath, the last faint flutterings of the little
pulse, they became aware, from broken words
that she shrank with natural dread from the un
known way that was opening for her.
She had come to the borders of the mysterious
river, which separates us from the dim hereafter
and her tiny feet seemed to hesitate and fear to
stein the flood. But after a time her fears sub
sided, she grew calm, and ceased to talk about
the long, dark way, till at the very last she bri°bt
ened very suddenly, a smile of confidence and
courage lighted up her sweet face, “ Oh, it is only
a little brook. she said, and so passed over to the
heavenly snore.
THE FOUNDEBS OF SUNDAY-SCHOOLS/
Seated on a throne which was already shaking
beneath him, with a cloud darkening his roviS
brow and remorse, like a worm gnawing at his
Heart, Aing Solomon gave utterance to this me
lancholy soliloquy: “I made me great works—
whatever nune eyes desired I kept not from them—
-1 withheld not my heart from any joy. Then I
looked on all the works that my hands had wrought,
and on the labor that I had labored to do, and
behold all was vanity and vexation of spirit.
There was no profit under the son!” With other
? °r der ® 0f Sunday-schools bend from
?w^ri° 0k ° n Re work of their hands. As
of Tirdf fr ° m tl i elr thro “ ea on the millions
of little children gathered, bright and happy
to IDt ° theSC Bchools > a nd as they listin’
to catch the hymns of their young voices floating
SS"** the B , kles > to “ingle with the songs of
‘bathed»itl>“f, see an opening flower,
Planted^' «>% grace, and trans
to bSt/nT- ““-series, ol : a . stormy world
h ® P?*? d,se God, Pow, were it
7 aD 7u’ ,nlgllt the West of earth’s
great ojps envy them. # j