6trs famitg C'4rit.
OOMPLAINT,
River, sparkling river, I have fault to find with thee ;
River, thou dost, never give a word of peace to me
Dimpling to each touch of sunshine, wimpling to each
air that blows.
Thou dost make no sweet replying to my sighing for
repose.
Flowers of mount and meadow, I have fault to find
with you;
So the breezes cross and toss you, so your cups are
filled with dew,
Matters not though sighs give motion to the ocean of
your breath;
Matters not though yoti are filling with the chilling
drops of death!
Birds of song and beauty, lo.! I. charge you all wits
blame:—
Though all hopeless passioas thrill and fill me, you are
still the same.
I can borrow for my sorrow nothing that avails .
From your lonely note, that only .speaks of
,joy that
never fails.
0! indifference of Nature to the fact of human pain!
Every grief that seeks relief entreats it it her hand in
, .
vain;
Not a bird speaks forth its passion, not a river seeks
the sea,
Nor a flower from wreathe of Summer breathes in
sympathy with me.
0! 'the rigid rook is frigid, though its bed be'summer
mould,
And the diamond glitters ever in the grasp of change
less gold;.
And the laws that bring the seasons swing their cy
cles as they must,
Though the ample , road they trample blind. the eyes
with human dust.
Moons will wax in argent glory, though man wane to
hopeless gloom;
Stars will sparkle in their splendor, though he.darkle
to his doom; . •
Winds of heaven he calls to fan him ban lifrit Oriih an
icy chill,.
And the shifting crowds of clouds go drifting o'er him
as they will.
Yet within my inmost spirit I can hear an undertone,
That by law of prime relation holds these voices as its
own,— ,
The full tonio whose harmonic grandeurs rise through
'Nature's words,
From' the ocean's thundrous rolling to the trolling of
the birds.
Spirit, 0 my spirit! Is it thou art out,of tun 9 ?
Art thou clinging to December while the earth'is in
its June?..
Hest thou dropped thy part in, nature? Host thou
touched another key ?
Art thou angry that the anthemwill not, cannot, wait
for thee ? . . ,
•
Spirit, thou.art left filone—ulone'en waters wild;
For God is gone, and Love is dead,•.ancl Nature spurns
her child.
Thou art drifting in a deluge, waves below and clouds
above,
And with weary wings come baek to' thee, thy raven
and thy dove.
—Prom Dr. Holland's Kathrina,
[From the Little Corporal.]
MY STEPMOTHER..,
[ConliuDED.]
When the carriage stopped, I forgot all
about the grace and repose of manner. I had
been practising the last .- half 'hour, Mid
sprang to• my feet, and stood, holding Willie
fast by the hand, in the middle of the room.
Louis gave a . little start, and, the color
flashed up in his sensitive face,
and his eyes,
with an anxious, wistful look, turned to the
door. But-rto .the credit of the family I
say it—our eldest brother had become firmly
fossilized in his attitude. Ile did not wink
an eyelash, but muttered, with the slightest
possible motion of his half-parted lips.
" Sit down, Pattie ! Don't spoil it all."
Alas with my usual promptness and effi
ciency, I had already spoiled it, all, for just
at that moment the door opened, and they
entered—my. father and the lady.
"Ah I Pattie," said father, putting hitifirm
around me and stooping to kiss me.
At that I flung my arms passionately
around his neck, with . a great, choking sob.
"Hush, child! don't," be said,:,soothjng
ly. Then leading me forward, hepreSent,ed
me. .
. . .
"Alice," he said,
," this „is my dppx girl,
or whom I have talked so; inueh.,
The lady raised her veil, took my hand in
both of hers, in a caressing kind of way, and
kissed me. I stood quite passive, and did
not return the salutation. _
Then she stooPed doWn and spoke to Wil
lie in such a. winning way, that the little
fellow, although he crung tightly to me with
one hand, lifted the other traitorous little
digit and stroked" her soft cheek, saying,
"Nice girl;" then, frightened and shy, he
hid his face in my dress.
The lady was well pleased at this compli
ment. It was the only one she received
during the evening, for Louis did not talk
much, and the chief part of Joe's energy
had gone to the getting up (perhaps I should
also include the getting down) of a tremen
dous bow, with which he graced the cere
mony of introduction. He was somewhat
exhausted by this effort, but all through the
evening clung to etiquette very much as a
drowning man to a straw, and With 'very
much the same practical advantage.
Well, she did brighten up the house that
very evening. I can't tell how it was done,
but, someway, the fire burned brightly, and
the sofa was rolled up before it,.,and there
she sat, with some sort of. a scarlet shawl
about her, that made a fine bit of coloring,
and Willie, (the traitor,) with his head on
her lap and his heels in the air, a beautiful
picture of rollicking childhood.
But, someway, the refinement and , grace
of.this lady made me, for the first time in
my life, painfully conscious that I was a
rough, uncouth little girl. All my pride rose
up against the discovery. A storm of pas
sion was raging in my heart. I hated her
for her pleasant looks and winning ways.
She was stealing the love that had been
mine. Willie had fallen asleep upon her lap,
Louis was eagerly listening to her talk, Joe
picked up her handkerchiefand brought the
sofa pillow, and father—oh ! there was no
doubt abont u father's deyotion.
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1867.
I hated her. I wanted to do some des
perate thing—to scream, or to go up and
strike her. Perhaps you can't understand
this feeling, but it is the truth; I felt as if
I should die, unless I gave some expression
to my passion. I said " good night" long
before any one else was ready to retire, and
went off alone to my room. I did not pray.
The pure, calm words my mother had,
taught me, were as far off as heaven. My
heart was raging with wounded pride, and
envy and anger. I threw myself on the bed,
and buried .My burning-cheeks - in the pil
lows. ",.o.mother I mother! I. wish I was
dead, and-A . ollg still • and cold beside you.
0 my own, own mother !". > Then I sobbed
and screamed-until my stretigth had spent
itself,, and .I fell asleep. • -
It is not good to sleep with, unrepented
anger, or sin of any kind in yOur heart, for
you have to wake up to it in the 'morning,
and take up the burden anew.- Ohl 'it; is
hard burden to carry. But I bore it about
with me, for. many days. I dp : not know,
what evil spirit Possessed me, but hpersisted
a long time in my , undutiful conduct 'to the
new '4l4:her, She was Certainjyi one of •he
kindest, and' most lovable, as well as the
wisest of women'; for I found no occasion
for open rebellion,Aliough
gently. But T. k 9 t .up . a.,sort fof guerilla
warfare, taxing my ingenuity the, utmost
to be annoying "and althouglk`eminently
successful 'in the accompli , hinent of my
noble (?) aim, it did' not 'dfOrd -much
pleasure, and I have no reasoUtO t supposeit
gratified any, one else- .
Matters bad gone on in this way for three
weeks, when one day, at dinner 'lwas guilty
of some flagrant act of iiiipertinence, and fa
ther sternly sent mq from,theipoin. I fold
ed my napkin ;very deliberately, taking as
much time as possible, and then, putting on
an air that 'fondly supposed Jinade me look
like Madam Boland going 'to execution, I
strutted from the room, overturning a willow
chair, and jogging Joe's elbow, as I made
my graceful exit. Then I sat down at the
piano, which was in the' adjoining room,
and played " Sweet Home." This ekquisite
bit /if satire not being appreciated "by the
audience, although I had left the door slight•
ly ajar, I . proceeded to sing the sweet, old
melody—even tried some impromptu varia
tions in the words ; but no notice was taken
of it.
Two days, after,,l received an invitation
to visit my Aunt Fanny, who lived in a city
fifty miles away. I have-found out, since,
that this unexpected invitation was the di
rect result of my extraordinary musical dis
play; init I did not 'suspect this at thestime,
and was delighted with Aunt Fanny's 'cor
dial note ofinvitation.
A lees heroic soul 'than - Mine would have
had some
the new
coaseie,ne'e, upon
seeing the new mother so interested about
my mew dresses, even braiding and trimming
them herself, and -consulting my taste, just
as if 'I had any to consult. • -
I had a nice time at, Aunt Fanny's. The
weeks went by like bfrds'on the wing; there
were always, so many things to see, so many
plces to ao, so many things, to do, at her
house. I had letters from every one at
home—nice letters; but they gave me a sort
of jealous pang; they roused the old, ugly
feeling that lay sleeping in my heart, and
awakened the old controversy. I would
not give up. If I did, it must-be-an uncon
ditional surrender. I must give up my old,
wild, lawless life, that Lloved BO' well, and
be Aystema,tized and trained. 'No, 'I never,
never would. I would not even„ go hoine,
thOugh sometimes My heart yearned terri.
bly for the old place, , and dear. Willie and
Louis ; but I put • down these feelings, and
many other good and loving• impulaes that
would have led ine in the right way.
One day, when. Aunt Fanny was . absent,
I went to her work-box for some silk, to
mend a tear in my dress. I had taken the
thread, and turning to go, my sleeve caught
in the box and capsized the contents. And
there, among the spools and buttons and
hooks and eyes, lay a wide-open letter. I
did not mean to read it, but the words were
right before my eyes, in ,father's handwri
ting : ” better. :We have -given up
hope of Louis. Do not tell Pattie, she;must not
come." I read no more. I was dizzy; the
room turned dark; I felt numb a: d cold; ,
but with a kind of mechanical 'motion I rose,
tied on my bonnet and cloak,
,and walked
straight out of the house to the railroad
depot. I hardly knew what I did. I felt
like walking in a dream: A' train had just
come in as I entered the depot.
"Is that train going to Marion?" basked.
The man nodded, .carelessly.
"Are you very sure about it?-""
" Not very. It may run off."
" Can you tell me?" I asked of an old gen
tleman. "Won't anybody tell me if that
train is going to Marion ?"
" Yes; child," he said kindly; and helped
me aboard, and found me a seat, and was
very good.
But I told him nothing about,my trouble.
No one but GOd, who knew my sir, could
know that.
0 that terrible -ride ! 0 that terrible
coming home The going forth had been
in 'anger and pride, the return was with sor
row and' fear unutterable. Eve6rthkig
seemed solemn and- still.. I, passed on tip
toe up the walk, entered softly at the side
door, and went to the kitchen. Dorothea,
the old servant, turned sharply around,
" Well, miss, I do declare; why have you
come? You was - not to know."'
" Bat I will know !" I cried 'fiercely!' " Is
he—is be—dead.?"
" Bless the child I how white she is. Here,
take a drink of water."
I thrust the dipper from me. "O Doro
thea l" I wailed forth, "I shall die if yon
don't tell me !"
" Why, there is nothing, to tell-Lno bet=
ter, and no worse."
"And he is alive ?"
"Yes, he is. But what sent you .here ?
Yon will take the fever, and maybe you will
die."
"I am not afraid. I would not die, if I
should have it."
How do you know, miss ?"
I am not the kind. They don't want
in heaven."
Well, no, perhaps not," said Dorothea,
gravely. "'Don't go up stairs."
I wandered through the house. The rooms
had no sign of life. A strange fascination
drew me to the , sick room. I went softly
up the,stairs, alockg :the ball, and crouched
at the door of the room. I strained every
sense to catch some sign of life. At long in
tervals there was sound of slight movements
Or of' murmured words,.then silence reig,ned.
Hours Went by, and, night, came on. The
shadows stood in the Par corners of the long
hall, and then slowly and stilly they crept
forth, like spirits, till, theyrifilled the „place,
and, wrapped me close, in their ,black
,and
mY§te,riousf 411
bia,, : in4,4§,. 4, il4,sile'nee aid
tho, terror .of deathelwere 'abAut;n3 0. Great,
vague, terrible fears came throbbing,in upon
my soul; m life seemed to go from me.
Ido not k e no*hiki - }dig 1...1ay there. At'
lass .the doon - opMindca - ridi Inyf .Bgeppaol•!Ter
came out. - ~- ,AI , 1
, " What's,
~t 1) is?", sh,e i sayl, rear y stumbling
oVe,r me. Til.n . stre
. st 0,6 p,e d do'w n "..:, '!" Why ,
my child, poor child,!' .qhe Said 3 ,,;ralslpg, my
head, and putting her arms close around.me
and kissing me. , - ----
0; Inever heard words sweeteiith an those;
I never was human voice So Weleome;.•neVeT
was light so Cheering 'B.S'f,he'dihilit,m'p 'that
flickered in the, l horrAilF. darkness ; never
was life , more warm. and real than that
loving clas'p', t:hat'edfd6kme ' eloSe and dis
pelled MylviAierti'dclifeath. 'l. ',,,,. , ,
"`0 mdther'l 'lnalier l" I' Sebbed; With
I
both arms , ciingiii ' mound he'i l ndcP,,''''
;' 0
mother.l „mother I" ~ ,, , ,
~,,,,.. . ,
That was my r al:Lorne corning • that
was my entering tiintotth o heart of mytiovinr,
genial, mother. ,
~ 1 , _',170,, ~ ~ ,' . t_ ~ , -,;. ,
„ There followed /many. daps .of anxious
watching, when theta: . .w.ere'llow voices , and
hushed footsteps in the house. And many
a leisbh' ofigentlene{ssl aiiduSW - eef, 'Patimiice 'I
learned,..during those rquiet days: Intia'not
forget them in ' , the joyous days of-health
that followed; for; thanks' to 'the wisVand
loVing w eare of
,our mother, ; Lonia;iiici -4et
well,, and we.rqjoiced t:Piottibi':PiNc!llli}h,t , P°
glad days of our youth.. . , ~ , c , [ ,,, z , I,
And mother,—Weil, igho as qv dead , no*-
ther still; and her lOVing sympathy has
brightened every joy and leSsen i er cver±
sorrow that the long years have hrought to
me.
TRUE BEAUTY. • -
y'eryloody wanted_ to, see the baby, the
little wee blossom which had so recently
opened its eyes
,to earth4o, ;pal ,e i [ataleast
one home brighter and happier` hylts coming.
By'everybody-tlm'eau'"-all.offit rnitinr9aeh
So'cna*armsPiing morning, gi•and
pa, grandma, "Yind aunf Susie left Ihe,,old
homestead np aialo-reg the 'mountains, and in
their Comfortable carriage drove to the_, city
to see the new baby. Mrs. tient sat in the
pleasant room which henceforth was ,to be
called the'rn-sery, and Watched 'Al] proud,
loving eyes the little form sleeping in the
crib heside her. Her solitude was broken by
the above named,arrivah and 'she, was clasped
in her , parents'carms. The impulsive seven
teen,'Year' Old sister Sisi9cried
There,. you have ki.4sed .Laura :guile
enough, I watt to see ''my niece:—come,
Laura, show us baby." "I am afraid you
will be disappointed inher," said. Mrs.e. : „Dent,
as she threw the coverlid fro're the"aribNhere
her first-born lay sleeping. It was a very
small babe, with a, very sallow complexion,
and - its tiny round head 'lee thicisly:„beyetecl
with very red hair.
" It is a very small child," said grandma,
gently. But the young aunt exclaimed ;
‘,;..11 , 1er,cy, LaulW,lhe has age heath', Wliv
she' friuh be :'Affect fright!'"
" She is not very pretty; but she is a
good baby." The young mother's lips quiv
ered. u . ..sheAc.titaorpr Ithe: or.uile the
babe, whom the noise had awakened. It open
ed a pair of large dark eyes which seemed
entirely, out, of , place on that little .pinched
face, and certainly they did , not tend .to en
hance-its beauty. •"' ' ' •
Grandpa: requested to have it laid' on his
knee, and after.looking at it: a moment he
said, "Laura, my child, your little girl is not
handsome, but you say she is good. That to
me speaks all. You mean that she is quiet,
and his as yet given you but little trouble.'
May it ever be thus, may she grow in grace
in preference to beauty, and may her, mind
a„rtd soul be a shining light' to. radiate a plain
countenance. This, baby, is grandpa's bles
ing
" Thank you,•desr • father, • thank you,"
said Mrs. Dent, as with tearful eyes she re
ceived back her b i aby• from her fither's
arms.
" Of course you have decided on a name,
INA Yon didliot Mention `it in 'your leiter,"
said grandma.
~If‘ Mr., Dent wishes her mailed ~.Ruth, after
the only sister he' ever had; whis died when
only sixteen."
" Oh, the horrid man - .) oriediSusie. "I
would not give her such" an old-6,shioned
name:'; • k
Just at this moment Mrs. Fielding, another
married` daughtC4sartived‘. - Withilier:.Baby girl
to:0)e seen for the first time. ! The little Edith
was diseneninbered Of her wrappings, and
given totrindnia.. She-was a childlarge of
her age, a fair rosy complexion, dimpled chin,
bright blue 'eyes, and little rings of light
brown" hair over its head': There, certainly
was a great contrast between the two infants,
and Mrs. Dent could not help feeling it as
she watched &fere - paying, with the bright
rosy Edith, while her own poor little Ruth
laymmoticed in heT crb. „, .
The minister came, as it had previously
been arranged, and the two infants received
their names and under the rite of holy bap
tism Were consecrated to Him who says,
" Suffer little children to come unto me."
Little Miss Edith Fielding did not like the
proceedings and evinced her displeasure in
loud angry screams, much to the annoyance
of the company. But the little Ruth smiled
up:in the minister's face, and then lay upon
her mother's lap contentedly sucking her
tine` little - thumbs. Thus was,the diferetide,
in, t'ileit.:d,iiposVtioris, early . evinC4
Time passed, and the J-wo .babies grew
rapidly' out of babyhood. , Edith' Fielding
Was as beantiful a child as one could
,wish to
see.l,l,T4ef'ri,eh peach boom complexion' was
unrivaled, Land the- rVassive 1 ringlets of her,
golden , brown hairiwere the admiration ,of
every one. ll'ere es - Were as blue and clear
i'
as, the `summer , jr, and 110 ‘ l OP g Culling
lashes ,gave *lit, a particularly pretty ex
pression,. ,-,- Shg, was a ,sprightly intelligent
girt,b.,ho u S 9 hold idol; for although other lit
.* 0 0,h,ad 'taken tier place in the nursery
she we4.the 041 y ilegghter• ...'.,1, - , .: ;
-Very slight: had been,• the , improvement
made' in''Ruth Dent 'by Ill'e passingyears.
Iler'cora,ple:xibn sallow - When an' Infant was
IV coPVerd', with large 'black freckles and
her'brightted :hair was without s ‘.waye , or
ripple. It-lay straight:and stiff about heti.° w,
br4dforeheaq, • while her nose deeicle4,
pUg.1.,1-I'er eyes Were unqueStionablY fine;
even now ratherlarge, :for: the small pinched
face, 'butane could never weary gazing into
their 'rich . 13i-o`iin 'dep'tbs here centered Such
world'of lhouo:ht adid feeling: I Rulti. ,
was
her, motber,a ,all, the .undisputed sovereign
of 64 boneihearts:;.their only child: Aunt
pitY little Ruth' WAS so
ugly,` as ,she . . Nias alnaura had
audit, must, be ,a great. cross-,to • r
Ruth was:eight years old 'before• her 'mo
ther sent her to'school. Tiitiowing heir
Sens,itive No.. Dept had tried to
shield her as long as she could from contact
with the rude,. rough world. beyond her home,
and in so doing she had committed a great
error. It would...have,i)e_en.lar better for her
to have grown up from infancy in company
etherSTASlEdilli Tieliiinglaik, I Now the
tender home-plant was all unprepared for the
rude , shockst it was destined continually:. to
receive.
" ~I\4 l amr,na, 4 wrong i tp i lyjsb
et,9°Willf ,a,Pke.d. BOIL Pxte ever
ning„.Jas ,she;was ,si i t,ting in .tbk pariet , ,witb;
her. rents.. ,}.
"Yes, and no, will both ans*er, yourques ,
thou' darling," 'said - ILA IV is liot
wi'm ' ig 'to (feel. that you wouß rtitliet be beau
tiful, forhtnnan nature nit - Ili-AV letes"the
biautiful ii - i'' all things; should: not
covet that beauty ` to a - degree That makes us
nrihappY,. atid - 741e,h i is sinful in„ tie *eyes of
Etira who made .all things good, and forsa
wise purpose.' ,
• "I dp not. think I do titatp but. I 'cannot
help wishing I waa like Edith when persons ad
mire her, and thin I hear them 'sor
relktop,'. and a little monkey;.= eyes and
freckles.' ” •
BIZENE
indeed it was, for a tender-hearted
child' to—liatercto - Stich things, - and it tooka
large amount of grace td. 'enable little Ruth
to keep down very ugly feelings
'Edith'and Ruth were coming from, scl3ol
on a winter afternoon, when a poor woman,
holding by the hand a beautifurchild appar
ently almost frar.en, stoppedthem,and begged
for a crust ifialei4was one.reniabirtig in their
lunch baskets. A.` few crusts i 'Ruth had.
These she gave`saying, "I wish I had more.
hf you will conie home 'me: I 0,11. get you
some, and' a pair of shoes for your little
girl."
"Mercy, Ruth, you would not take these
Creatures home with you r surely!" cried
Edith. '"`G-n aiva#, l 4voman, letus Alone."
The woman looked at her and' said with 'a,
"Ahoniss, you are too pretty to have
so bad a heart. This other little lady has the
right kind of beauty. I will go 'with you,
pretty one, and your charitY will not ,be pais
Edith would not walk with Ruth followed
by the beggars,' but 'turned another way.
This little =incident was the beginning of is
new era in the life of Ruth. She now had
an example of what her mother had so often
talked about. She learned to think less and
less about her loniely face, and' ceased alto
gether to wish tole beautiful. She met the
coarse jests and ill-natured remarks of her
school-mates with a sweet, patient meekness,
that was remarkable. She was ever ready to
assist any one of them, friend or foe, and
the dull and careless alike`knew where to go
for help. The needy ever found her with
open hand, and the timid sough) : shelter
,fat
her side. Her life seenied changed etititelr.
As, she was the sunbeam of honie, the angel
at the fainily hearth -stone, even so was she
a bright star without. Those who clustered
so lovingly around her, saw nothing homely in
her dear 'face. The heauty of .tl a soul, mix , :
rored in those large, dark eyes, „radiated her
whole conntenance. In school she was first
and best.. The girls'. soon tired ,of Edith's
caprices,iand domineering airs. Her beau
tifur face could not make up' for all, her other
deficiencies, •and instead, of reigning queen,
she had the mortification of seeing her
homely cousin preferred before her. She
once remarked `to' her mother, tharshe liked
to be intimate with her cousin Ruth ; for her
extreme 'homeliness ser've'd to 'set, off, her
beauty,to greater adVantage: But as ,they
grew to womanhood , together. Edith found
out her 'mistake,- as 'did' all the niembers of
the family, who had been `so disgusted with
Laura's, homely i child.
Ruth Doit's beauty was that true beauty
which pas4eth not away. It was born of the
Spirit, &graven upon the soul, which liveth
foreve:. The young mother who shed tears
over the infant whom her sister ridiculed,
levrned to-see an itigel light overshadow that
dear face, and every hour in the day might
she have thanked , God • for. giving her such a
treasure.
Mrs. Fielding knew nought of such flea
sure with her daughter. Proud, domineering,
ill-tempered, self-willed, it was nought but
contention where she was. Even her brothers
said they wished cousin Ruth was their sis
ter, Edith was so hateful. Everywhere her
mother heard the same thing: "How fault
lessly. beautiful , Miss Fielding is, but how
very proud and disagreeable; her plain un
pretending little e i onsin, Miss Dent, is far
more beautiful to me; for she is so good and
- I
Never 'turn • away, from a plain face, and
calling it 'Ugly,or laughing at its defects,
seek for 'a beauty,to praise u,,nd pet Se e k
for that true beauty which, lies deeper than
the surface', that, soul loveliness which can
throw a charm over the most boinely counte
nance. 'Little girls with .I?ctit , '-gltifts '
and sun
ny hair '; , ': much not make' too of your
beauty, it , is but' the charm of a moment, a
vanity , that passeth away; very pleasant it
is when properly nsed;' but a great curse
when:it leads ay,i r 'y front the good and holy.
And you, who' like Ituth Dent, have more
than an . , ordi t uary. sham, 9 1,.i11-looks, rise
above them as sb.e elicl, and T show to the world
around you whatitnie 'beauty really' is.— Va
ra Montrosvin Ger:Llief. Mss.
A bitiLD'S' 1474U8.
In the .winter of ig,—there was a general
awakening on the snhjeet, of religion in the
village of S---. 'The bhurch,,.in espe(ial
manner was'affected; and b,eern
ae very hum
ble and active'. The :difficUlties, which had
before distracted it,,,suddenly i sunk into in
significance, and, a general concern for the
welfare of sinners seemed to take , possession
of tho minds and hearts of Christians. As
a resnit'of-thiS'ltkening,'on tbepart of the
church,, sinners,h* A esalie,anilous,' l and many,
both old and young, fonn i d:hoPe m believing
in Christ,. . , „ ,
During' the progress, of an evening meet
ing,. characterised; by -more. than. usual so
lemnity, an aged man,' for many years an
eider in 'the 'church`arOse;and with choked
Utterance proceeded to relate his, Christian
experienee.
• He said he was somewhat advanced in
years before,h,e, serimly thong-121 . k0f seeking
the salvation Of this soul.. Ody, wife was
hOpefully vigils', and a revival like
ray daughter, alienbut tWkive years of
afe, bame,reconekd ,to God, through the
blood. of our .Sitviour. —Still was indiffer
ent. I .was willing, and indeed glad• to see
my family religionslY disposed; but religion
was no personal 'concerti of Mink
One evening cOMing,horyie from_ busi
ness rather later thnn usnar mywife took
me by the
.urns and gently led me to the
door of Maryle room. and bade, me
Never can. I; to my 'dying day, forget the
emotions w'hieh rushed'itpon 'my mind, as I
stood and listened tb• this, earnest prayer
which was there ascending from the lips of
my little dau,,,cr . hter. She was ,praying for the
conversion of , her , father .As the trembling
accents ,upon ear,,a burden of guilt
was rolled upon my - soul, till I seemed to be
utterly overwhelmed. That I 'Should have
lived on in sin, without uttering a single
prayer in 'MY fainily, or even 'in my closet,
till my own child should . become so
tressed_as to plead. my ease before her God
with streaming eyes, and still uncon
cerned, seemed to me to-be an accumulation
of guiltvih,ich Jnothing could remove, nor
did I obtain any' peace Of . mind till I had
sought my child's forgiveness and found ac
ceptance of my Saviour."
".Mary," he,continued, the big tears coin
ing down his cheeks, and his whole frame
trembling with emotion, "Mary is in hearen!
and I thank God, that through the instru
mentality of her child's prayer, , l now have
a cheerful hope of meeting her pure spirit
among' the blood-washed throng, who are
treading the golden streets of the new Je
rusalem." ,
Little Folks, pray for your parents.
CONDI:10T OF A SABBATH KEEPING PONY.
”BA.LAAiNr. was rebuked for his iniquity;
they * dumb ass, speaking with man's voice,
forbade the madness of the prophet." In 3
little village in Berkshire, there lived a
family, the' members of which were in the
habit of disregarding the' command of God
to remeniber to keep holy the Sabbath -day .
Forgetting that God careth even for the
beasts of burden, and has:set apart 'a seventh
portion of time as a day of rest for them a;
well as for man, they used to harness their
pony in order to convey them -and their
friends to the nearest railway-station on the
Lord's 'day. A new pony, however, which
they pitrehased, from some instinct which
we shall not attempt to explain,•but which
has often been noticed to exist in dogs, was
able to distinguish as' acenratelras his ma
ter between Sunday arid the other days of
the week and. prObablY from remembering
the habits of .some previous owner, who wa.i.
more careful to obe,y,the •commands of God,
was fully resolved to enjoy that day quietly
at home in his stable, or his paddock.
When he was fastened to the' ig on Sunday.
and his owner or his friends had ascende d
the . giggrand 'wished
• to proceed, the po n y'
though obedient at other times, would 0 0 ' 1
his feet firmly on, the ground, and neither
blows, nor words nor caresses, could induce.
him to stir from thei spot. All the efforts of
his masterproved powerless to induce him
to move on the Sabbath-da and at last, as
a matter of neceSsity he has been left tc,
rest,---Rev.thc quiet enjoyment of his, weekly dayr
s rest,---Rev.. W. Allan, •Secretary of Lord
. Day Observance Society.