'6lje gamily eirrif.
BE STILL.
BY ALICE CABBY
Come, bring me wild pinks from the valleys,
Ablaze with the fire of the sun—
No poor little pitiful lilies
That speak of a life that is done!
And open the windows to lighten
This wearisome chamber of pain—
The eyes of my darling will brighten
To see the green hill-tops again.
Choose tunes with a lullaby flowing,
And sing through the watches you keep;
Be soft• with your coming and going—
Be soft! she is falling asleep.
Ah. what would my life be without her!
Pray God that I never may know!
Dear friends, as you gather about her,
Be low with your weeping—be low.
Be low, 0 be low with your weeping!
Your sobs would be sorrow to her,
I tremble lest while she is sleeping
A rose on her pillow should stir.
Sing slower, sing softer and lower!
Her sweet cheek is losing its red—
Sing lower, ay, sing lower and lower—
Be still, obe still! She is dead.
THE WREATH OF MALLOW.
An English picture of the fifteenth centu
ry; a village green, three-sided; around the
green, three rows of uneven cottages ; in its
midst, a pool where ducks were taking an
evening swim; beside the pool, a great shady
oak with a seat and a well beneath it. On
the rustic seat were two old men, chattingin
old cracked voices, and at the well agirl in a
red kirtle was drawing water. The sun, be
ginning to sink, threw flakes of bright rose
color on the girl's head, the ducks' backs, the
shiny side of the oak leaves. At one side of the
village rose a soft hill dotted with juniper
bushes and fringed atop with oaks and
beeches, among which a proud castle hid
all but its topmost towers from the lower
world. On the other side stood a church
on a tree-strewn, grave-sown bank. It was
a small church ; the chancel walls were new
and,as yet ut.Bnished ; the fresh clean stone
wore a rosy flush in the evening sunlight;
there was a hum of voices around the build
ing; masons were packing up their tools
and leaving work . for the night. Presently
they came, laughing and chattering into
the village; some came to rest on the seat
beneath the oak and hailed the old men—
" Well, gaffer, how goes the world with
you ?"
One or two began to help the girl with
her bucket; a couple, who had walked to
gether talking as far as the well, parted
there, and one went straight to a cot
tage facing the church. At an open window
of that house a poor thin little face was
looking out at the sweet country scene; a
white thee, sadly old, yet sadly young, with
hollow thoughtful eyes, and two thinThandz
to prop _ Wlacw. -tho -vrarkman came to
that window (which was nothing more than
a square hole with shutters) a smile came
over his hard countenance as ho nodded his
head cheerily to the owner of the pale
face, who smiled back in his turn very
sweetly. Inside the cottage, one could see
that this face, which was as delicate as a
girl's, belonged to a boy, perhaps fourteen
years old, but crooked and stunted in growth,
who was half lying, half kneeling on a
wooden bench, with both elbows propped
on the window-sill. One could see this, in
deed, though but faintly, on coining out of
the pure outdoor air, for chimneys were as
yet only luxuries for monasteries and great
men's houses; and the smoke from the cot
tage fire over which the mason's wife was
cooking the supper in an iron pot, came
wreathing and curling about the room, all
slow and graceful and gray, before it found
its way out at the window, or at the hole
in the roof intended for its accommodation.
The workman set down his basket of tools
with a long breath, which told that he thus
laid aside, not only the burden of their
weight, but also the burden of his day's la
bor. Then he came up to the boy, and laid
his hand tenderly on the high deformed
shoulder.
" Well Martin," he said. No more, for
words were hard things to him; but
the boy understood his father and put
up one hand to clasp the strong rough one
which lay on his neck. The two hands
made a great contrast, and were a little his
tory in themselves. Father and son looked
out together at the green, the pool, the
chattering people ; but Martin's eyes rested
most fondly on the church.
" How happy you must be, father," ,he
said, at last.
The mason gave a loud " ha-ha!"
" Do you hear what the lad says,
wife ?"
" But are you not very happy ?" asked
Martir, raising his look wonderingly to his
father's face.
"I don't know, boy; one doesn't think of
such things as being happy when one has
to work for bread."
" But the happiness is that you can do
such beautiful work for bread, and serve the
Lord, too, at the same time," replied Martin
eagerly.
Here the mother, who had poured from
the pot on to a great wooden dish a piece of
beef garnished with cabbage, and swimming
in the broth which it had been boiled in,
came up to her little son, and, saying that
supper was ready, took him in her arms as
easily as if he had been still a baby, and
propped him up on an oaken settle, with a
black sheepskin, soft and thick, rolled into
a bolster to support him. The father asked
a blessing on the food, and then they began
to eat.
"A supper fit for a prince," said the ma
son.
"It is a good piece of meat," answered
the wife. They have had guests at the
castle, and there was much flesh and good
white bread also given away at the gates
to-day."
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1867.
"The Dame Mildred passed through the
village to-day, and she smiled kindly on
me," said Martin. "She bad a queer thing
on her head, like the church steeple for
shape, made all of fine blue silk, and a veil
of lawn hung down her back from the top
of it."
"People bring back such follies when they
go to London," said the wife. " I like the
old ways best; but it is fit for the nobles to
have new and fine things, and the Lady
Mildred is a good woman." •
"Sir Simon is a thrifty man and a gener
ous," added her husband, "to spend his mo
ney on the church-building."
"It will cost a great sum, . beyond a
doubt."
"A great sum I It will cost a good thou
sand pound, the master tells me."
"A thousand pound !" cried both mother
and son; for a pound was of more value at,
the close of the fifteenth century than it is
now.
"And yet Sir Simon de Harcourt is not
BO rich as some of his neighbors," added the
wife.
"His Lands are not broad, but be is none of
your rash nobles, like one I have heard tell of,
who had fifty suits of golden tissue; and in
stead of building one of these new-fashioned
mansions of wood, all carved and plastered,
he is content to live in stone, as his fathers
did."
After a little pause Martin heaved a deep
sigh.
" What is it, child ?" asked the mother,
tenderly. "Are you in pain ?"
" No; but I do so wish I could work in
the church, like father," he answered in a
low voice.
The mason laughed.
" You'll never do that, boy," he said.
But the mother understood her son bet
ter, and laid her hand softly on his thin fin
gers.
"Now we must show father something;
shall we?" she said.
Martin nodded : and goina ° to an oaken
locker, she opened it and brought out
fresh tone crocket or finial, delicately carved
in the shape of three young fern fronds;
two tightly curled up, and nodding towards
each other; the third just opened enough to
bend like a graceful feather over its little
sisters. The mason took it and turned it
over and over, while Martin looked on with
anxious oyes and panting breast.
" That's a good bit of work," said the
father. "That's the master's doing. Who
gave it you ?"
Martin's cheeks flushed red with joy and
his eyes gleamed mischievously, but the
mother was too proud to keep the secret.
" It's our Martin's," she said.
" What do you mean ? Who did it ?"
" Our Martin himself; be did it."
"Martin ! you !" The mason looked with
a puzzled air from his son to his wife and
back again.
"He has been working day by day when
you were out, with his -grandfather's' old
itax.a.ve_him,' said the *Omani
"but he would not let me speak a word till
he had done something fit to show you. Isn't it
pretty, now ? Look at the leaves, for all the
world like a bit of fern."
The mason .turning the finial over and
over between his finger and thumb, mutter
ing an occasional " hum, hum !" of admira
tion and pleasure.
"How did you get the fancy of it, boy?"
" One day when you carried me to the
foot of the church bank, I waited there all
the morning. I played with some little
ferns, and thought how pretty they tvould
be in stone, and resolved to try if I could not
make them."
"Good strokes; fair strokes; hum, hum t"
murmured the•mason.
Vex timidly Martin edged himself along
the settle to his father's elbow, and looking
in his face with wistful eagerness said :
" There is a thing I have so longed to ask
of you, father."
"What is it, boy?" asked the mason, still
holding the bit of stone in one hand while
he laid the other round his son's neck.
"I long so to do some work, if ever so little,
in the church. I think I should so dearly
like a piece of my own handiwork, that is,
a piece of myself', to be always in the dear
church, long .after I am gone where I can
not see it."
The workman looked puzzled. -
" But building-up is hard to do, child.
One must run up ladders and carry mortar,
and go from place to place."
Yes, father, in building, but not in
carving. Oh, if.you would . but show those
little ferns to the master, and, ask him
whether a poorThttle boy, who longs to do,
it very much, might carve a wreath in the
church ! This is what I have thought, fa
ther. The heads of the pillars are'all rough
and plain. Might I not cut a wreath of
flowers on one of them ? Then I should
think that a little bit of me would be there
always when the good fathers are preaching
about Christ; and it would be a tiny offer
ing, also, and something to show that there
was such a boy as Martin once in Awburg
village, who did all he could for God."
"Well, lad, it might be, in time," replied
the mason. "But you are, too weak now;
you could not stand to , the work. Wait a
while till you are stronger ; and then I will
ask."
Martin fixed two grave eyes on his father.
" Father, dear," he said, " I don't think I
shall ever be stronger. I don't think I shall
ever see the fine pictures in the church.
But oh l I do so long to do some little, little
work for God before I die. I have heard
such beautiful things of heaven and of the
Lord Jesus, that I cannot rest nor sleep for
longing to leave behind me some sign of my
thankfulness."
"Tusk, tush, boy 1" stammered the mason;
but his eyes were red, and the mother wiped
hers with her apron.
On the next day the mason spoke to the
master builder of the wish of his little son,
and at sunset, when work was over, the
master Caine to see Martin. He was dressed
in better clothes than the rest, and looked to
the boy almost as grand and great a gentle
man as Sir Simon himself. He was very
kind, and praised Martin's fern leaves high
ly. He promised to grant him leave, if pos
sible, to do some work in the church, but he
must first speak to Sir Simon de Harcourt
on the subject. At parting he put his fin
ger under the lad's chin, and turning, the
pale thin face to him, looked at it with pity.
"You must make haste to get strong," he
said, "and then you can come and join my
band and b , 3 a free mason, going about from
place to place to build churches and fine
halls."
Martin's eyes glistened at the thought, but
he shook his head and answered:
"I thank you sir, but that will never be."
Two days later the master came again, to
tell the boy that-his wish might be granted
if be could design a wreath fit to adorn the
church. The Lady Mildred came also, on
her palfrey, with her blue steeple towering
above her head and the lawn veil floating
around her sweet young face. She alighted
at the cottage door, and came with a gentle
grace towards the hard settle where the
boy lay, first courteously greeting his mo
ther. Martin blushed with pride and pleas
ure to see the lady of the place come walk
ing up to him in that kind, queenly way.
She laid her hand on his curls and sat down
beside him on the settle.
" So you too wish to make an offering to
the Lord," she said, smiling, as sweetly,
thought Martin, as angels must smile. He
murmured something, he hardly knew what.
"May He bless and accept your work,"
she continued reverently. "It is a good
thought which He has given you."
"But his father .cannot see how he may
reach the top of the pillar, which is ten feet
high, nor how he may stand there to carve
the wreath when mounted, my lady,"
said the mother.
' Martin looked up eagerly.
" Oh, mother! I can stand," he began.
"I and the mister builder will contrive
that you shall have your wish," said Dame
Mildred; and her manner gave security to
the boy, it said so clearly, "What I will is
done."
Now she had willed and the matter was
accomplished. In a few days more Martin
heard through his father that it had been
arranged for him to sit at his work in a
chair, which should be slung from the cle
restory windows with ropes, and with other
ropes fixed firmly to the pillar. All that
remained was for him to design a
wreath worthy to adorn the church. This
took now all his time and thoughts, and
morning and evening, as he knelt beside the
straw . pallet which was his bed, with a wood
en bolster for a pillow, he prayed: "0 Lord,
I pray Thee grant me power to do this little
work, to be forever a sign that Thou bast
been so good and loving to me." God an
swered the child's prayer and gave him
strength, in part through the means of the
sweet Dame Mildred, who often thought of
the lame boy, and_ __sent him dainties
f.,,-rn her own table, and even a flock mat
trass and bolster; luxuries which made his
mother say that they were as rich as if they
lived in a palace, for no king could lie softer
or eat better fare.
People in the village, hearing of Martin's
great desire, used to gather and bring to
him the largest flowers and brightest leaves
they could find, to help him in forming his
wreath, but none quite satisfied him. One
day as he sat propped up by his sheepskin,
with a heap of leaves spread out upon the
table before him,
and with an eager yet
hopeless look in his eyes, for all these vain
efforts were tiring him, and causing him to
fear that he could not please, the master, a
little child, so tiny that it could scarcely
toddle, came rolling in at the cottage door
with its lap full of common mallow, the
great, red flowers and massy leaves making
up a clumsy bunch as the baby held them.
She had gathered them for Martin off the
church bank, and brought them in the kind
wish of her generous little heart to give him
pleasure. She held the flowers up to him
with some baby prattle, and when he had
taken them from her she toddled out again
to he mother's cottage. The clusters looked
ugly and hopeless enough at first to Martin,
but as he placed them idly this way and
that, an idea struck him suddenly and his
face brightened. When his mother returned
with her bucket of water, from a gossip at
the well, she found her boy crouching on
the floor before the hearthstone, on which
with a cinder, he had drawn a bit of a
wreath of mallow, the heavy leaves lapping
one over the other, and a flower peeping out
here and there.
"What a brave wreath !" cried the mo
ther.
0 mother C if the master builder would
but think so !"exclaimed Martin, flushing.
The master builder did think so.
" Why, my boy, you have designed as
brave a wreath as I have seen this year,"
he said. So Martin's cup of joy was full,
and in three days more the chair was swung
up to the pillar, and the little lame boy,
with his wan cheeks and happy eyes, was
carried in tenderly by his father and seated
in his airy throne. The workmen called it
his throne laughingly, and he thought that no
king was ever prouder or happier than he. Be
fore be drew a line upon the stone he sent up
again his simple prayer: "Lord, strengthen
my weak hands, and accept my work, I
pray Thee." The priest came in and bless
ed him in God's name, and then he felt
strong indeed.
So, day by day, the sick boy was carried
to his place, and his thin hands, daily grow
ing thinner, wielded- the chisel well. The
flowers opened, the leaves twined on one
another lovingly in graceful clusters as the
time went on. He placed the despised weed,
which had done its peor best to adorn the
graves, where it could be a beauty to the
eyes forever.
"I too am a weed," he thought, sometimes.
‘,‘lt is a great honer for me to be able to add
one grace to God's house:"
In spite of Lady Mildred's dainties and of
his warm soft bed, he grew paler - and thin
ner, and it was seen by all that God would
soon take him. As the garland grew its
maker faded. • The work went on slowly
towards the last, for his hands were feeble
and he would let no one but himself add a
stroke to the wreath. Besides, there were
many days on which he could not leave the
cottage. At last the other masonry was
done; the chancel was roofed and finished,
The glass was in the window;
the walls, in
deed, were as yet Unpainted, but that was
a work of time. A clay was fixed for the
reopening of the newly-decorated church.
The day came. It was autumn now, and
chilly, but people thronged. from far and
near to see the fair new chancel which Sir
Simon de Harcourt had built. The choris
ters sang their sweet hymn ; the early sun
gleamed in through the dainty fretwork of
the windows; the Lady Mildred and her
husband knelt band in hand beside the cha
pel where one day their bodies would lie
side by side, when their souls were gone to
rest ; and a boy with a face which seemed
but a shadow of a face, carried in the arms
of a strong man, raised two great bright eyes
to a wreath of mallow carved upon the
capital of a column in the nave, and thought:
"Sir Simon and the dame will have their
figures on their tombs when they die, and I
shall have the little weed for my monument,
to hear the sweet hymns,
and offer up -my
soul upon its leaves to the Saviour day by
day."
' Within fourteen days the Wreath of Mal
low was the only visible sign left of little
Martin on this earth.
There it twines yet, his monument for
ever. The leaves are graceful still and per
fect, and the flowers peep out modestly from
the foliage. One of the band of free masons
carved on two other columns wreaths of
leafage—hops on one, and on the other, vine;
but there is something of a tender living
grace in the mallow garland which the
others miss, fora soul and a flickering life
were bound up with it—People's Magazine.
THE LITTLE ORPHAN BO.Y'S ESCAPE.
"Fire! fire! fire!"
Little orphan G-eorgie was fast asleep.
"Fire! fire!"
Georgie jumped up in bed, and sat a se
cond or two rubbing his eyes. He was wide
awake .now, quaking and shivering, for he
was all alone, up-stairs in his little room.
The room was all one blaze.of light; he
was dazzled by it, and before be could get
to the door the smoke was choking him.
The door was locked! Yes, Georgie re
membered now! He had been naughty be
fore tea, and.his grandmother sent him up
stairs,.and then came up herself and locked
the door. He pulled and, pulled at the door;
then kicked at it, striking frantically, for he
w.as. fain t .wi th heat, and al most suffocating
with the thick smoke. The house was filled
with the tramp of feet and the sound of
voices, so that poor little Georgie's despair
ing cries and shrieks for help were lost.
"'O ,grand Mother! grandmother! Send
somebody !" cried orphan Georgie. "Dear
Jesus, do send somebody !"
Georgie gasped and fell backward in the
smoke. Two strong arms lifted him up.
Those two strong arms held him close to a
brave and kind heart, and two strong feet
went quickly down over the burning stairs;
flying .with him through the light and heat
and smoke, till Georgie and his strong de
liverer were. safe outside among the crowd.
Yes, grandmother was also safe, and so
was Georgie.
" Oh," said the little orphan boy, after
ward, putting both arms round the strong
man's neck,. and pressing his lips to his
rough bearded cheek—" oh, I'll always love
you so ! I'll always work for you."
" Poor child !" said the strong man, fold
ing him in his arms. "I couldn't let a little
boy burn to death while my own little
Jimmy was lying safe in his bed."
Georgie was a very little boy, but he was
old enough to know that Jesus Christ had
loved him and died for him; and he was
soon afterwards able to say in his heart,
"Now I'll always love Jesus!" for be thought
this fireman's love was nothing to God's
love; . and I hope orphan Georgie did love
Jesus, and he might well praise God if his
escape from a burning room was the means
of turning his heart to the Saviour.
Perhaps the fireman did not think that
Jesus died to save him and all of us from
death:---a far worse death than that of the
body. For this is what is. taught by, the
kind. Saviour himself: "And fear not them
which kill the body, but are notable to kill
the soul; but rather fear Him which is able
to destroy both soul and body in hell." To
save us from this death of the soul, the holy
and blessed Son of God gave His life for us,
that we might have eternal life through
Him. Can we love Him too much ?—Child's
Own Magazine.
THE COMPASS IN THE FOG.
Did you ever hear the Bible compared to
the mariner's compass? You have heard it
called a guide , to direct those who are jour
neying through this world; a counsellor, to
give advice to those who lack. wisdom ; a
lamp, to give light to those who are in dark
ness ; and you have readily understood why
such names have been given to that blessed
Book. But how can it be said to be like a
mariner's compass?
You probably know that a compass tells
the shipmaster how to shape the course of
his vessel across the pathless sea, in order
to gain some desired point in another part of
the world. He consults it many times every
day, and would consider it a great misfor
tune to be deprived of that instrument at
sea.
One beautiful summer evening I was on
board a steamer. Eierything went on
smoothly, during the first part of the night
the stars were out and shining brightly ; the
sea was calm, the vessel sped swiftly on her
way, and all was pleasant when the passen
gers retired to rest. But toward-morning a
fog began to gether about us ; and the nearer
the hour approached for the sun to rise,
the denser it became. I was up betimes, and
noticed that, as the fog thickened, the en
gines were checked, and the speed of the
steamer lessened, till at last she seemed
scarcely to move through the water. We
could not see more than her length in any
direction. Before the headlands of the shore
were in sight ; now, our only guide was the
compass.
I soon found that the officers did not con
sider our position without peril. We were
lost in the fog, and they felt that we were
too near the rock-bound coast to be groping
along in that dark, misty shroud.
The captain, pilot, and another officer held
a consultation. When they separated, the
signal was immediately given to start the
engines ; and, at the same time, a turn or
two of the wheel brought our steamer to point
seaward, as the compass told us, and away
we went, for some time, directly off shore.
Then there was another consultation, and the
steamer's course was again changed, this
time towards the shore.
In about an hour we suddenly heard a
fog-bell, and within a few minutes after
wards we discovered just before us a rocky
point, on which was a lighthouse, and the
bell which had warned us of our danger.
We passed so near the outer ledge of rocks
that you might have thrown an apple upon
it from the steamer's deck ! But when we
reached this dangerous point our pilot knew
where we were. Taking his course accord
ingly, he soon brought the vessel to our
"desired haven."
What the compass is to the mariner,—a
guide, but for which the ocean would be a
trackless and perilous waste is the Bible
to us all; it reveals future life, and guides
us step by step till we enter heaven.
THE MIDNIGHT SUN IN NORWAY.
. A letter on Norway, written by W. W.
Thomas, late U. S. Consul at Gothenburg,
Sweden, describes that far northern country
and one of its peculiar phenomena:
Imagine a huge table-land, rising 3,000 to
-6,000 feet sheer above the sea—one vast
rock, in fact, bleak and barren, covered with
snow, swept with rain, frozen in winter, sod
den in summer—the home of a few reindeer
and Lapps, and you have Norway proper,
nine-tenths of the Norway that is shown on
the map.
But the rock is not whole ; it is cracked
apart here and there, and the fissures show
like slender veins over the country. The
sides of these ravines are steep as the cleft
left by an axe, and their depths are always
filled by a foaming brook or river tumbling
along from the drenched table-land above
the sea. I have looked from the bottom of
one of these valleys, and seen the perpendic
ular rock rise 5,000 feet on either side, and
heaven show like a strip of blue ribbon.
Wherever in these dales there lies a bit of
earth 'twixt rock and river there the Nor
wegian peasant has built his cot • and it is
on such bits of earth that inhabited Norway
is situated, and here lives its 1,200,000 peo
ple. The land just round his door, gives the
Norwegian potatoes, rye, barley and oats;
his cattle climb the steeps above for every
stray blade ; for the rest he depends upon
the sea and river. Were it not for the ex
cellent fisheries along this northern shore.
Norway would be uninhabitable.
One night in July, 1865, Hon. J. H.
Campbell, late Minister at Stockholm, the
two Messrs. Buckley, of Birmingham, and
myself, landed on the shore of a northern
fiord, in latitude 60 degrees north. We as
cended a cliff which rose about 1,000 feet
above the sea. It was late, but still sun
light. The Arctic ocean stretched away in
silent vastness at our feet. The sound of its
waves scarcely reached our airy look-out.
Away in the north the huge old sun swung
low along the horizon, like the slow beat of
the pendulum in the tall clock in our grand
father's parlor corner. We all stood silent,
looking at our watches. When both hands
came together at 12, midnight, the full round
orb hung triumphantly above the wave—a
bridge of gold running due north spanned the
waters between us and him. There he shone
in silent majesty which knew no setting. We
involuntarily took off our hats ; no word was
said. Combine, if you can, the most brilliant
sunset and sunrise You ever saw, and its
beauties- will pale before the most gorgeous
coloring which no lit up ocean, heaven and
mountain. In her an hour the sun had
swung up perceptibly on its beat, the colors
changed to those of morning, a fresh breeze
rippled over the fiord, one songster after an
other piped up in the grove behind us—we
had slid into another day.
A GROWING CAUSE OF INSANITY.
Intemperance destroys body, mind and
soul. The Superintendent of the Maclean
Insane Asyluni,.in Boston, makes the follow
ing deplorable statement:
" The excessive drinking of wines and ar
dent spirits; has brought insanity upon many
persons during the past year. This indul
gence seems to be increasing very gr eatly,
and its consequences are indeed alarming•
More persons, and chiefly young men, either
positively insane, Or who have been seriously
damaged, mentally and physically by this
cause, have come under our professional ob
servation, or have applied here for advice
and relief during the last year, than we can
remember before, in the same length of
time."