Slje jfamilg; ®mb. "HE GIVETH»HIB BELOVED SLEEP.” BV LILLIAN HOPE. Leave her to sleep. Fold the pale hands<ebove the pulseless breast; — Leave the dear maiden to her quiet rest; — Why do you weep? We, LOVED HER SO ! Her smile the brightest of the smiling throng, Her step the lightest, hera the sweetest song. A month ago! A week ago, Her fair cheek flushed like roses after rain, It ne’er had known the withering touch of pain A week ago ! But yesterday, She brightly smiled as I stood trembling near. And whispered, “Love hath power to banish fear, I know the way.” The flight, camei down, •; r i j} A starless night, a night without a moon ; And on our'brt>ws‘as rayless And as Seen, '' 11 A thorny crown. We tried to pray, " But in the gloom we faltered one by one, , We could not say, ‘iThy wiU alone .be done,” We could nqt| pray.. .1 - ■ : . j i Till one whose faith, Tho’ often tried was stronger then our own; Bade us remember He who heard each moan. . Had conquered death. • We breathed her name, But angel.wings, were rustling o’er her—hark! Lo! thro' the solemn silence and the dark, 1 • • The summons came. '■ i Beloved, sleep;— Fold the pale hands'above the'pulseless breast; — Leave the dear maiden to her dreamless rest; — ' But let me weep. Marquette, Mich. ' DUHIE ASB WEE lOE. I belieye only six of the Pardoe children went to oburob that day,—though,it may have been seven.. , But, if I amnotacourate asto numbers, the story of their advdntiire is perfectly true. They lived on* an island iirthbmiddle bf the river, ‘in a little World by themselves. It was early springtime. The earth appeared to be covered .with 'a ,patohwx>rk /quilt.of whitey-broWn and grayish-green. Under .this ragged old quilt the forces of na > tuife,.w|i4!|fiard at work. The dry grass was undergoing thorough repairs, and the “ sod” would “turn to violets” one of these days. All in due time; .but just now things looked dismal enough. The trees were only sketched in outline, and even the willows showed as yet no little vapory touches of green. The roads were full of holes, gnii, as Grandpa Pardoe said, it ■ was “ dreadful travelling • r underfoot ” Overhead it was scarcely l better. It seemed as if the “upper deep” had tipped over, and was pouring itself into the lap of the .earth. . But on this particular Sunday the dripping clouds were ready for a day of rest; The wee bit girlie of the bouse; Dnnie Pardoe, looked out of the window, and said with intense surprise, “ Why, mamma, mamma, ’tißn ’t yain in’! There’s a little bit o’ sun ou’ doors. I sawed it!” , “She’s a precious; baby to tell thenews,” cried Brother Phil, smothering her with kisses: I’ve a great mind to take her' to Sabbath-school. May 1, mother ? She wants to see things as much as anybody else.” “Well, if you take her, Philip, you must be responsible for her,” replied the ,b,usy Mrs. Par doe, who was at that moment tying the shoestrings of the next to the ‘youngest. so much to do, her mind qad“ slipped Into ahard knot; it seems to hM sion of her faculties, she would, never, have, con- {Jo} go; out Vfhenl® £roads were scarcely navigable except for boys’ boots. Dunie clapped her hands. ‘“'o, s will- they let' me-iti?* 1 ' she’eske'd';• “ for, when I go to the school, then somebody comes that,’s ft teacher,., and tells, me,,‘(}o home,' and says I must n’t stay.” Dunie was three years old, and the “ commit tee-men,” overlooking her peouilar merits, had not considered her a scholar. But this was only a Sabbath-school; nobody would object to her go ing, just for one day. Then there was a scramble to get her ready; but when she was fairly enveloped in her Rob Roy cloak and red quilted hood a inurmiir of ad miration ran round the room. Who so beautiful as our, Dunie? Such a splendid, “ adust com plexion,” such wonderful “ Indian-red ” eyes, shaded by the blaokest of lashes! She was a litt|e: sister "to, be. prOud of.;' Not one of’ the other ten had ever been so cunning or so fat. Well, they took her to' ehurob, and, in order to get there, they had to cross a bridge. They looked over the railing, and saw around the piers a fev? logsfloatipgin the high water, though they could not move far, being looked in with ice. ■ ■ ' - “ I shouldn’t think,” said Mary, with mock gravity, “’twas proper for logs to go swimming n Sunday-.” , i , “Nor I either,” said Phil; “they ought to be ‘taken up’ for.it. But come let’s hurry; we’re late 5 ”' v “ Hurry!” echoed four childish voices,—“hur ry With Dunie!” • “ My shoes loon’.t walk,” said the littfe one, by way of apology. It wsb her feet which were at fault. They were not large enough to carry her plump little body; and though she had now en larged them with mud, that did hot seem to help the matter at all. There was no wayfor it but to carry her in arms, “ for fear they might lose her in one of the holes ” _ They reached the main-land at last, and the church,; and I believe Dunie only spoke in meet ing ‘ohce;‘and then she said *I so tired.” Phil observed that afterward the clergyman preached faster,—from sheer pity, he presumed. Dunie practised gymnastics just a little, and uov and then opened her rosy mouth, inlaid with pearl, and Very gently yawned. But soon the “ spirit of .deep sleep ” fell upon her, and she lost the .Sabbath school exercises which followed the sermon. This would hereafter be a subject of regret to“ Dunie ; but, it wfis just now a real r.-hei to her five “responsible” brothers and si»v ters., ... -. s 1; * - ■■ THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN THURSDAY, JANUARY 28, 1869. After their lessons had been repeated, and school was out, the six Pardoes started for home. But a change had come over the weather. The wind had started up from a sound sleep, and was blowing as if all the people in the world were deaf, and must ho made to hear. “Never mind,” said the eldest sister, cheerily, “It will blow us home. Dunie, what made you talk in church ?” “ I never,” replied the young culprit, rubbing her eyes. “ But,” added she, indignantly, “ that man up in the box, lie kep’ a talkin’ all the time.” .• “But what made jou go to sleep, dear, and lose the Sabbath-school ?” said Moses, who was pext younger than Phil, and, though kipdly dis posed, had a peculiar talent for making little ones cry. “I went asleep in Sabber-school ?” sobbed Dunie, completely discouraged,—“ in Sabber school ? Where’d they put it? ~/never sawed “ There, don’t' you tease her, Moses,” said the youngest but two. “ We’ve got'ks 1 much-as’we can do, to get her home, —for I begin to believe -she’s chip-footed,—l do.” •The next'to the oldest was to '"'correct his brother, andsay“ c?ii6 footed,” when l a fright ful noise was heard',—not thunder, it • was too prolonged, for that. It was 8' deep sullen- .roar, heard above the wail of .the wind like -thp, boom of a cataract. , . . . . . The ice was going out, . There is always more or less excitement; to New England children in such an event This ■Was‘an unusually imposing spectacle, for the ice was very strong, and 1 the, freshet was hilriing it down stream with grcflt force. ' . ' The white blocks; incrusted* with snow, wete as blue at heart as turquoise, and they trembled and crowded one anotherlike an immense com pany of living things. The powerful tide was crushing them Between - . Vast "’masses of logs, or heaving them upward to fall headlong and side ways, andr'Crumble themselvesinKTismalier frag- ’/ v 1 . . i * ' ..., The sun came out of clbud, and shone on the creamy, frozen waves in their n#?d -dance. Then they sparkled-and quivered as if the river had jbhrown up from its unquiqt bed a mine of diamonds. 1 ; i; 4 ’: . " ,1 ' v “ Howsplendid !” exclaimed the.childten, lost in rdpture. . “But it-makes.rafe scared,”.said little Dunie, falling, face downward; into a mud puddle. “ Why, what are you afraid of?” said Moses, picking her; dp,. And partially'cleansing JEer with his pocket handkerchief. “ The ipe can’t touch us.” . . . . ; ■ “Hullo there !” screamed the toll-gatherer, ap pearing at the door of his small house with both arms raised above his head.. “ Children, child ren, stop!. Don’t go near the bridge for your lives!” “0, it’s going off, it’s going off!” screamed the five Pardoes in concert, joined bythe terrified Dunie, who did notknow what was “ going off,” but thought likely it was the whole world and part.of the sky. ~ . , ■ The children forgot to admire any longer the magnificent white.fiood.;TKe iceihight be glorious in ; 'beahty, but, alas ! it was terrible iuetrength. How could they,get home ? What wouldjfoeoome |KM;?} "They house&ipihe distance; but when and bow were they to reach it? It might as well hate Then leagues away. • bfe ‘days’ahd 'days';" 'ciiCd Maryj il be fore ever we’ll, be able to cross this river iu boats; What ,will be done with us ? for, we,.can’t sleep on the ground.” • “And nothing toeat/’.wailejl hungry Moses; tortured with a fleeting vision of apple-pie and doughnuts, • “It is a hard case,” said the toll-gatherer, compassionately, “but you -.donlt want to risk lives. Look at them blocks, crowding ~up ag’inst the piers; hear what a thunder they makes; and the logs coming down m booms. You step'into our house, children; and my wife and the neigh bors, we’Jl tcu^jq,w«you,a.W^|Somewhere.” Crowds df people were on the bank, watching the ice “go out.” The Pardoes stood irresoluteyyfob'n ffie other end of ’the bridge, as loud and shrill as a fog-bell, “ Children, eome —homk I” ; ■lfjyrdqelsydice.f:;; r ii , r i “"What shall we do ? what shall we do ?” said Philip, running round and round. , “”T won't do to risk it, Neighbor Pardpe,” screamed the toll-keeper. “ Children —run—there’s—time!” answered the father horsely. It was Mary who replied, “ Yes, father, we’ll come.” . - ‘i He knows,” thought she. “If he tells us to do it, it’s right. ■. Firm in obedience and faith, she stepped upon the shaking bridge. For an instant Philip hesi tated, looked up stream and down stream, then followed cautiously with Dunie. After him the three other children in all stages of fright, with white lips, trembling limbs, and eyes dilated with fear. fi '“:Quick ! quick!” screamed Mr.'Pardoe. “Run for" your lives!” shouted the people on the .Theroaringtorrentand the'high wind together were rocking ttie bridge like a cradle. If it had not been.for Dunie;! AH the rest*eould. rnns-j It seemed as if there was lead in the child’s dhoes. She hung a dead weight, between Philip, and Mary, who pulled her forward without letting her little toddling feet touch the ground. ’ "The small procession of six! How eagerly everybody watched “ what speed they made, with their graves so pigh.” Only a few brittle planks between them and destruction ! More than one man was on the point of rushing after the little pedestrians, and drawing them back from their doorp.. Yet all the anxiety'pf the ; multitude could not have equalled the agonizing suspense in that one father’s heart. He thought he knew the strength of the piers, and the length of time they could resist the attack of the ice.- But what if he had made a mistake? What if his precious children were /about to fall a sacrifice to their obedience?. Every moment seemed an age to the frantic father, while the little ■ creatures ran for their lives: Blit it was over at last; the bridge was crossed, the children were sale 1 Tho people on the opposite bank -set up a shout; but Mr. Pardoe was speechless. He caught Dunie, and held .her close to his heart, as if, i-n her little person, he embraced the whelp six. “ Q, father 1” criediPhilip,-.” if J°u oould know how we trembled 1 ’T was like walking over an earthquake 1” ° “With Dunie to drag every step!” added Moses. “ I’ll tell you what I thought,” said Mary, catching her breath, —“I thought my father was a stone-mason, and ought to know more than a toll-keeper about bridges. But anyway, if he’d been nothing but a lawyer or a doctor, I’d have don# what he said.” “ Bravo for my Mary!” said Mr. Pardoe, wip ing his eyes. Five minutes after, this the bridge was snapped asunder. The main body of it went reeling down stream, the sport of the ice. Mr. Pardoe closed his eyes, shuddering at the fancy of what might have been. Everybody fell to kissing Dunie, for this had long been, afamily habit whenever there arose any feeling which was beyond Re poorer, of ex pression. “ I'm glad we got all home/’ gasped Dunie, her eyes expanding. With a perfectly new idea, as she watched the ruins from the “That bldge is a goih’ way off! The ice catched it! 'How'l did yiin On that b’idge, so the ice would’pt catch nie / But.” added the little innocent, with a sudden play of; fancy; “ I, wasn’t nia, for I’ looked up to the,sky, apd "then* Grod Bended some ; bob,ftil clouds;'and I fought I saw two'littfe&tage)S'‘?i&Q’ on '’em/'.-RS'oii/ti'e 'Mcigliu Oui-Young / 1 : 1 ' (jliMi ANp/THE'RAGE'E. ; / 1 . A child, was papfured by; an, eagle; near Meiga yille, Tenn,,.on Christmas Eve, an,d. caerjed,about two miles before it was fesqued, Hewß.a bright little Yellow, just old enough,,t,o be learning to Walk. When no one was in the ,hbuse^’,he man aged to roll outof his trundle bed and crawliuto the front yard. A great gray eagle came swoop ing dAwh; apd' festdnett’-nslmmebs'e talons in the cjothingof the“little boy, then rdse'Up with much difficulty, ab’d'/sailed' off'''across - the- adjacent woods, just skibiining the tops of the trees! Its course lay toward the GUniberland. Biiver. A servant'girl sawtfche'eagle/and gavei chase. She dashed into thd tangled wood, and tried to keep a Straight line; thinking the bird would do'the sam£. The patch of wood was’fully ainileahd a 1 half through ; h’ut the'girPmhde the rub to'the , other edge of r ip .without Reeling, fatigue. Beyon d jthie wooiiy and : bettyeen -it and Re Cumberland .River, Jay ft,-patch;. pf,< cleared,,ground, : partly marshy, and partly. qorn^field,.full ; of old stumps.' .When ‘the girl jefßthe wood, and Rad a clear viewyshe saw the leaglefiitße ajr; Re, seemed'jin clined to alight with his;,burdensomewhere in the neighborhood ,of; the , river. gave her new courage. ‘ It happened that .there was aman , hunting,in the neighboring marsbes, and, just at the moment when Re eagle reached the ground With his burden;, a shot w e e.t.pff so .djtn'gerbusjy near him that Re rnouuted into Re akmgain, but this .time, without^the boy, ; The pursuing',girl began a vigorous as she ran, which .at tracted the hunger’s' attention, who, seeing the eagle quite nearßim, and a dadyrushing down the slope with] streaming hair ■US 1 garments, and wildly shputing,iOOncludedat once that there was something rstrange., and.nperhaps, i dreadful in his • immediate "vicinity;, he also, set .up a .vigorous hallooing, and proceeded Jo reload : his gun. T.he eagle soon became-aware; of, Rs formidable oppo sition he would meet if he! attempted to recapture hjsprey, hovered,over, the spotja moment, and then wheeled •arpund .in one grand sweep across Re river,. and disappeared, behind,Re,shelving ifoek whicßforniß.Re ,opposite-bank.[ • W.hen the .girl .came Rowft to ( .the„ hunter, .she feihstiff/and was not.able (even ;tp .indicate .what, was the,mat ter,, The; rough, gallant then. heard the .scream of a child, and soon found a fine, healthy, rosy, hoy, with. torn plothes, but otherwise uninjured, endeavoring R rise up.oa, his, little feet. The, streamed dowPjßis and his jface wore,, a most* ,took the huby. in/Kis arms and:,carriedß?to, the girl,.who was now rpcoyered. * Sfee..clasped ;it ,R herhosorn, it with hisses, and wpjit.with joy, pChe.parenß in the'; mean tiipe the,, little; p.be,’a.id r had.' become/very uneßy. There vras laughing and crying, enough when the wanderers R.turhed/ab'd, the wonderful voyage pf the little fellow was explained. MRS., VIQEr PRESIDENT DOLE AX. Harper's Bazar has a very excellent pic ture of the wife of theVice-Ef esident elect. It does greater justice lo her beauty than the fair portrait of her in the a’oeompanyipg textj-whichls’pll we can .copy: , j } Nellie Wade, as she is familiarly styled by her friends, is the daughter of Theodore D. Wade, the eldest bpoth’er of Benjamin F. ; Wade, nqw; Prevident of the Sen ate atid Yiee- President of thle jttnited ,' Her step mother is aunt.' the sister of hpr own mother. Her father who died some five years ago, wag an Ohio farmer, and.she has spent .her whole life when' not .at school (she whs educated at ; the-Cleveland and the Willoh^bby 1 (Ohio) female 1 seminaries,) in thefarm-housdVhere she was borhyengaged in domestic and home duties, wh'ibh werb varied .oiilj'j by occasional visitsyto, her* rela-; tives in difforent parts: of the/country. It was on oiie of these visits to her aunt in Washington,.threeyears ago, that Hr. Colfax formed the acquaintance which ripened.into an engagement last summer, during a trip to. the/Rboky Mountpins.- The picture shows a sensible, earnest abd, thoughtful face, owner of which would be likely to give none but goodscounßel to hep Husband in, his res r ponsible'position. But still more striking is the graphic portrait, kindly drawn for us by a friend who knows .her well.; “She is just thirty-two,” He says, “and-not ashamed of her age.” She is not tall, not short, nor stout, but will average one hundred and forty pounds. She is not handsome,-, but good-lodking; She is quiet, reserved, re r pressed, self-poised and self-controlled to a remarkable degree But you think of her that still waters run deep. .She seems. ,to have had a :lifo,T-a quiet, epuntny to wn, vil lage, and farm -life,—that has nftt been .con genial, hr rather; has’,not drawn .her . out at all; and har. repressed: manner .and nature are due possibly ito. this.TaThore*iff,nO;g!Wh, no brilliancy, no show, no exuberance in manner, appearance and style. Her new life will bring her out; but she has nothing of what is called “society manners,” and will make bo impression upon the multitude. Fastidious and feminine to a very high and rare degree in one of such experience, she is a most admirable selection for a wife for Mr. Colfax, —a sweet, true, self-adjusted wo man, with a younger heart than 1 ever saw at thirty odd years, who never would make a career for herself, but would accept and fill whatever place came to her in the way of duty.” Judging from this brilliant bit of character-painting the women of America will have reason to : bo satisfied with their representative in the second lady of the na tion. ■ : ' ’ 1 VOYAGE IN THE ARM CHAIR. Ob pa pa! dear papa ! we’ve bad such a fine game, We played at a.sail,,on the sea; The old arm chair ruade sucb ,a beauti sjiip, v ’■ And it sailed—oh, as hide as could he. ! ,J ‘ We made Mary the captain, arid Bob was the boy, 1 Who cried “Ease her " “Back' her;” arid “81ow,” And dan e, was the steersman who stands at the wheel, , And l watqiied the engin.es be}o^. We had for,a passenger grandmamma's cat, , , And as rom couldn't pay he went free; From the fireside we sailed at half past two 1 o'clock, And we got to the sideboard" ,at‘three.' But ohljonly think, dear, papa, sy,hen, half way,.. Torn overboard jumped to the door; And though we "Tomlcpme backj’ddii’t be drowned,” right out at tlih docky ’ ‘ 1 r But papa, dear papa, listen one mouieDt ihokey 1 ■ i 'filial tell :you the end,of our sail; 1o ■i.t-rm 'hi ! .From; th ( e Bidp-b,oard yt e went ,gt; five minutes, past' " ; ; three;., .... <' ■’ i>’ j, j And at four o'clock saw'such a whale? . , The' whale was the sofa, and jt, dear pap'a," -' ‘; Is at least twice as large'ks ! cmr ship; 1 “ 11 ' ■; Our captain called out,’“ turn thCship round about, r 0, liwisli we had not cocud this trip!''’' I i And we all cried, “ Oh, yea, let us get away home, ,And bide in, some corner-guile snug;’’ . ~, So we sailed for the fireside as cjuick as we could, s And we.landed illdafe bntlierug. >» Am :QVBE THE LINE. o v Br Bfiy. <! , Uevef ytas there a time when it-would, bo more appropriate to carve on the very walls of the sanctuary, and for every Christian; tb ; ’grave“ oh the,palms of his'hands ” this divine 1 admohitioh; “Be ye holt Conformed to this world.” ■ “ Whosoever therefore will be a friend of the world,,is the enemy of God.” No share is so subtle, constant, and perjl ”oiiB to the hf GiirisV as conformity ■tblthe whrld. 1 ; Nothing sooner saps his spir ituality p Nothing hitideijs a : revival in>ithe ,Church.;flipre eflfectupjijV Cpnformi,ty im plies resemblance. And when a professed Christian begips,.tp looklike a-,worl.giing, jahd jiveljkg awprldling, dyyeljleth tiieTjoye of Christ in him? For there isp cpmplpte and irrecpncileame antagonism between ( what the Bib I? calls the “ world” and the' spry ice .pf.sQhrist. ■ ' Tne bhief end of a Chyistiap,’a ! jiifei,.iB to glorify God. Is this the chief end of life with the people Of the world ? Ask any one: iny Interests; in gratifying my.tastes, ahd in'taking my com fort. w»n.t<.tog,et all I.can,,and jtp getithe most out* of "it. He “ looks, only , thpse things which are seen God is ignored entirely ythe'soul is ignored; eter-: •nity is forgotten.hThei pleasures inost'relish ed are the pleasures of sinijtfor God is nptiin any ope pf shym. The worldling, commonly delights most in what a consistent Christian finds to be forbidden fruit on forbidden, ground. That forbidden fruit is potion to the Christian; : ! ; Bear in mind that every pure pleasure which an.unconverted heart can enjoy, such as the joys of home and of friendship, the love of letters or art, the sight of beauty, or the delig.t.ofjredieying.sorrow,,all .thesethe: Christian can have nnd enjoy likewise. They arc, not ftinful, and the child of God can par-; take of them with a clear conscience. Bat just jyh.ere a .Biblo-eonscienee tells him to! stop , the license of the world begins, Tho liVord of Gqd.drawS ;a'dividing ;line. r iQver> that line, lies the path of self-indulgence. Over that line,ließ;selfipampej;iDg,'fjpivqlity, slavery tcffashiqn,. .Qvprithat .line,/God is ignored, and often deified ! • Christ ic.woand ed there and crucified afresh.. Oyer, line, the follojyer pi' Jesus .has „np business: ,to go. , It was over -inich a “ fttiile/” that' Runyan’s Pilgrim looked wistfully; for the 1 path. f iyas,sqfp ;a^d-l s Jtirt, e| d yyith.flowers,-, but vyhen he.Blppped Boo n rljaund him self in the dungeons of Giant Despair. , .Oyey. the; Jine, w-hjch f ;SpparateB tgure piety from the world, the Christiau, if he goes at ail, must,go as a piar.licipant’in.the pleasure of the world, or as,, a, protestapt against them. If he goes to,partake,>he offends Christ ; ifjjhegpes, to, protest, he offends "his ill-chosen associates. Christian! if yon ever attend a convivial party, a.bali-roomtaspem bly, a theatre, or a gaining company, ~ : do you go as 1 a partaker in the sport, or-to make your .prptest against" such ain.uBe ments ? If you go for the first object, jyc>u offend your Lord;.if yo.u.gp for. the second, you offend yonr company. They do not want you if here, are .quite,surethatno bpvy of merry-makers- would be the hap pier over their cups, or their cards, or their cotillions, if alf the-,Blders and Deacons of our Church were to come in, suddenly among, them. 'Brethren 1 the “world” don’t want you in their giddy and Godless pleasures,.unlessayp^,are willing ;to' go all lengths with^them., IL.yQu,,walk,- one thile wi.th thempY(orth<vliue, they will•“ com pel you to go with tffem twain* If your conscience, yieldsjthe epat”,-th»y will soon rob you of “ your closdr, also." V ~. % > Vanity Pair would have welcomed Chris, tian and Faithful to their jovial town, if the pilgrims had only been willing to doff their Puritan dress and “ take a hand with them in all their revelries. But because the godly men refused to be conformed to the fashions and follies of Vanity Fair, one of them was soon sent to the prison, and the other to Where does the dividing line ran between true religion and *tbe world ? We answer that it runs just where Clod’s Word puts it; and a conscience which is enlightened by the Word and by prayer does not commonly fail, to discover it. Wherp God is honored is the right side ; where God is dishonored, or even ignored, is the wrong side. Where Christ would be likely to, go JT he Wpre on earth, is the right side; butwheye,® Chris tian would be ashamed tp have lps Master find him, there he ought neverJto.find him self. Wherevera .Christian csngf>, apd con scientiously ask God’s blessing cm what he is doing, there lqt that Christian gq. • He iB not likely to .wandef .pjfir the line. 'And when a fchurcb member can enter a,,play house, or, into a, daneing frolic, and ask Gpd’s blessing on the, amusements .and .eom.o ,a.way a bptter i; phH for, it, then let him .befoftf. , Wheu a Ohris tian invokes the diyine hlpssing on ihb bot tle which' he puta tp his neighbor’s lips, he had better, look sharply, whether there is not a “ serpent”'and a stinging adder ”in thp, 3 sparkling ..liquor. lY^thp-u^,going into farther illustrations, we come .to .this funda mental priueiple,that w hate ver. of work, or of recreation a Christian, engages ip to pro mote the health, of Jos bpdypr soul and in which he can glorify Christ, lies on the safe sidevpf. the dW-itfing; lintc. moment he crosiefe''jit HMibecohre -IW “Friend- oi- the world” he becomes the “enemy of God.” But should not every good man be a “ friend of the worids?*'' oVSJas not the Divine Jcs.us a friend of the world whop he bo ldveditt.bat He gave. Himself for its" re deinptionT Did' not PaiiMbve theworld when he endured hard&hipJhurniliatrVonß'and -martyrdom eto.r lead ; Binders to the cross ? Ah.l jy.ep—very, truehut whbh. i&® Re deemer, and, JEJis Sipostle were ; ,was not sinner’s sins,' but sitipprs’ souls. And they sought to save the woVld hot by con oforMityttr it, but <by ‘trailsform iag it' to a higher and'holieicitleai' of‘ } lifb: r -Love not the world, nor the -things' that are ini the world, xlf any man love the Ssvbrldythe love of ihe Fatheris not in him:.”-;' - : 'I left I sighed to do good, bat I epuld not.' My friends had neighbors were all independent and needed,no aid from me. My means were so limited .that I had nothing with .wbh'h tp assist the .poor and needy, aid my health 39 delicate that ! could be of no ser vice to the sick'and 'suffering. 'The‘power pf doing good,, I- ,felt )f grp,atly , to )m;y regret, had been denied me.. Akl walked, musing in this way) I beheld an old man approach ing. ,His formwas bent, his phpek furrow ed;, hip hair whitp and.thin. In ope hand wap a staff, in the he held across his shoulder and upon which s.was Suspended a- w-Allet .containing, as I supposed-, a few articles of apparel. He came feeblyopward and as I drew near he stbppeii from the walk and. Stood for me to pass. T glancVd at him, bid whole Appear ance indicated poverty and want. My heart , w.en,t ppt,toward * wppjU'Oid man. I did pot speak,, but withmy .feelings expressed ip'rny fa.cp,,l.smded,kindly upon him, “Ah, how de-do: h'owdjk.atp}’’ inplahtly and with strong emphaai.-i, ppoke put the old man, his whole countenance lighting up and his whole manner changing. Nothing more was said, we hoth paßSed in Bilence along. ' : A- short tint# aVter ihrs) at nearly the same spot-in which I"had pih'ebwitbf tbe-old man, *1 saw a woman sitting upon the-grass, by ! the road-side, With herelbow upon her knee and her head' resting upon her hand. She did- not l passed her, for her eyes were closed, but she looked -so worn and tired and, her'attitude w,pprrpo.Bad and thoughtful, that my sympathies were at opce excited and 1 turned back to address her. In my hand I.parriedasmall .basket of, early apples which I emptied upon the grass, beside thp woman,saying: “Madam, you ar,e ..worn ;,and tired j these apples may refresh, you pceept them ?” At the sound pf my,: voice she; started,, looked .earnestly at me and said: “ Accept them ! ,Q yes, Miss,, with a thousand thanks.” Conversing with her a few moments, I learn ed that shp had be.ep to see a .poor sister, re siding several mileif distant, who was sick -and dying. Ab inth-rued-to leave, '"with a -few-words of- sympathy-,-, ahe s ,thanked me again and again, and* then .filing hep eyes enquiring upork)me, sh t e said 5 : Mayn’t I ask, Midi's, if you ain’t theyoung ‘lady that spoke So kindly, last Week* to my poor old lather'?” t: * it . 6S I imet;aPi.old. man, just about this spot, lashwp&k, and-I ! s.n B iled,»p,pn hip, but I did o,ot ; speak,” I replied. “ That was my fath er !” she exclhimedj’grasping my hand,” and I thank • yon, for him, 'for ’the smile. He has talked about it ever since and tells every dayithow mn,ch gpod’it did him. And now towj much good your kipincss has done me, lady,” and she pressed my hand and burst into tears. And I felt, at that moment, that I would' never say again that 1 could not’ do Igood in the world. —-Lutheran Obser ver.' ■ - , >. Look hpward for the gr’ac'e 'needed now, and forward for the rfedt that remaineth. Gijilt upon the conscience will make a feather bed hard ; but jieaee 6f mind will make a straw bed soft and easy. Ws may be engaged In the work of tk« XiOrd a» well with' a s£kde' or a in oef hand, as ‘biir 'knees scmbbing a floor,: qson lonrikh-ees in the* attitude * B “ act tfW*W**i9mhw.j< 3 POWEB OF A SMILE-
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