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•'? 



t 



NUTS FOR BOYS TO CRACK. 



NUTS FOR BOYS 
TO CRACK. 




jHO«»S Ji„ 



270 ■ 5--^^-- 



NUTS FOE BOYS 
TO OEACK. 



KEY. JOHK TODD, D.D., 

n or "UMFLI SUTDHn," "thb tlOD Kn ft 
017IDI," BTC 





Coition: 

THQHAS KELSON AND BONa PATBRNOSTBE EOW. 



i^oxtttxttB. 



-M- 



THE PBAIRIE AND THE MOUNTAIN, 
PONTO AND FLIBT« 
8H0OTINO THE SHARK, 
THE POWER OF MEMORY, 
THE PERSIAN TRAVELLER, 
AIR-LINE POSTBOYS, 
THE ARTICHOKE, 
WALKING, 

THE LITTLE BOY ON ORUTCHES, 
BOYS-— THEIR MISTAKES, 
THE TOP OP THE HILL, ... 
-AN UNCOMMON MOTHER, ... 
THE ARMS OP LOVE, 
T^B FIRST FUNERAL IN THE NEW 
T'ALK AT THE WATERFALL, 
"'^^J'DER THE LAKE, 
** Aa.L FOR TEN CENTS," ... 



«•• ••« •! 


7 


. • • • •• • •• • 


12 


• • • • • • ••• • 


16 


••• ••• ••• • 


ao 


• •• »•• ••• • 


24 


••• ••• ••• • 


28 


• •• ••• ••• • 


82 


• •• ••• ••• • 


86 


••• ••• ••• • 


40 


••• ••• ••• • 


44 


• •• ••• ••• • 


66 


• •• ••• ••• •< 


60 


• •« ••• ••• • 


64 


HOUSE, 


68 


••• ••• ••• • 


78 


••■ ••• ••• • 


77 


••• ••• ••« • 


82 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



A BTBANOE STRANGER, ... 

THE MUSK-RAT IN THE CANAL, 

LITTLE YELLOW-THROAT, 

A FLOCK OF BIRDS, 

A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE, ... 

THE SIMPLE BREAKFAST, 

A MT8TERT ON THE OCEAN BOTTOM 

UNLIKE ANI) TET ALIKE, 

A TOUGH CUSTOMER, 

HOMES OF THE POOR, 

WHERE TO LEAVE OUR TROUBLES, 

BE^VARE OF THE CRICKET, 

CLIMBING AND FALLING, 

THE DEFORMED CHILD'S DREAM, 

LITTLE NELLIE, 

THE queen's DECISION, ... 

THE RESURRECTION, 

CALLING THE FERRTMAN, 



86 
00 
91 
99 
lOS 
109 
113 
117 
122 
126 
180 
134 
138 
142 
146 
161 
156 
160 



NUTS FOR BOYS TO CRACK. 



-M- 




*RS. PRAIRIE was one day looking up into 
the clear blue sky, and admiring the 
snowy clouds as they slowly sailed over 
her. She had just come back from a 
long retirement, during which she had 
worn a thick, cold, white robe, under 
which she had had long and quiet dreams. But 
lately waking up, recovered in health and spirits, 
she had been under thd hand of Mrs. Spring, a 
wonderful milliner, who had made her new robes, 
adorning them with vines and flowers of the most 
exquisite form and colour, and had thrown over 
all a veil of glory that made her truly queenly. 
A more gorgeous dress, woven in the loom of 
Nature, was never seen. But as she gazed on 
the sky, she happened to turn her eye north- 
ward, where she saw a blue object rising up and 



8 THE PRAIRIE AND THE MOUNTAIN. 

calmly looking down upon her^ as if admiring 
the proud beauty. 

''And who may you be, sir, that has the 
impertinence to gaze so steadily at a ' lady ' ? " 

" My name is Mountain, madam/' 

" Well, Mr. Mountain, I won't deny that I have 
heard of you before, standing there alone, on one 
foot — for though I have heard of the foot of the 
mountain, I have never heard of his feeir— and 
your cold, bare, hard head lifted up among the 
clouds, and your brow of stone, and your sides 
bristling with trees, and your heart nothing less 
than a huge rock. I have heard of your name, 
Mr. Mountain, before this; but pray, sir, if I 
may ask without giving offence, of what use are 
you to the world? I understand people cannot 
climb your sides, nor look to you for harvests, or 
gardens, or even building spote. There are a few 
wolves, it may be, that now and then entertain 
you with their music, and a few feeble rabbits 
that hop up and down your sides, and perhaps a 
noisy blue-jay chatters music to you. And then, 
sir, I'm told your head is almost always drenched 
with rains and swept by storms. Indeed, sir, 
I cannot for my life see what you are made for." 

" Be pleased, madam, to tell me what you are 
made for." 

" Me ! why, you must be blind if you do not 
see. Don't you see that I am spread out far and 



THE PRAIRIE AND THE MOUNTAIN. 9 

wide ; that in my wild state the deer, the prairie 
chicken, the beautiful quail, and every animal 
and bird have their home in my bosom ? Don't 
you see how, in my wild condition, every flower 
and every beautiful thing that can grow nestle 
over me ; that when men come, they first admire, 
and then apply to me, and I give them out 
wheat and com and cotton without measure ; 
that enormous granaries are built to receive my 
produce, and ships carry it all over the world ; 
and that I am the meal-chest of nations ? The 
rains fall upon me, coming from the far-off ocean, 
and the dews cool me nightly, and a thousand 
little streams and springs circulate as veins through 
me, refreshing, gladdening, fertUizing every part 
of me. They count my contributions by the 
million, and the world bows to me as a mighty 
mistress. Now, Mr. Mountain, what can you 
say for yourself? Of what possible use are you, 
I beg to know, and by what right do you lift up 
your head so high, seeming to say, ' I don't think 
much of Mrs. Prairie down yonder'? I don't 
mean to be uncivil, Mr. Mountain, but you know 
that we ladies have delicate nerves, and it really 
makes me nervous to look at you — so cold, so 
stem, so solitary, as if you hadn't a friend in the 
world, and didn't want one." 

"Madam," meekly and slowly answered Mr. 
Mountain, but with a rough kind of voice, 



10 THE PRAIRIE AND THE MOUNTAIN. 

" madam, I have but little to say for myself, and 
don't pretend to compare myself with you. I 
have stood here alone for ages, and if I have had 
but one foot, it has been a strong one. My 
Maker placed me here, with this lofty head and 
stony form, that I might condense the currents of 
air as they sweep over the continent, and form 
clouds and bring rain. Cloud-making, madam, is 
my great business. They gather around my head 
and sides, they pour their treasures down on me : 
the waters run into every cavern and hollow I 
have, and then break out into little springs, gather 
into ponds and lakes and rivers ; and thus the 
waters come to you and pervade you and cheer 
you ; and there is not a blade of grass, nor a 
flower on your bosom, noi: a stalk of wheat, 
which is not nourished by the waters condensed 
and supplied by us mountains. More than forty 
ponds look to me to keep them filled, and several 
rivers flow from these. I stand here alone, Mrs. 
Prairie, receiving no thanks and no praise. But 
take me away, and every stream that comes to 
you would be dry, and you yourself, madam, 
would be a shrivelled-up old lady, with no flowers 
on your broad skirts and no bread in your hand, 
shunned by man, and inhabited only by monsters. 
Your fertmty akd glory come fim me ; and 
though you will wear out by tillage and become 
poorer by-and-by, I have the hope that I shall 



THE PRAIRIE AND THE MOUNTAIN. 11 

stand here no less useful, no less necessary, and 
still honoured by those who know my mission. 
If I am by such as you scorned and * left out in 
the cold/ I shall still have the consciousness that 
the streams that I create manufacture clothing 
for the same multitude that come to you for 
bread." 

Thus the mountain ministers to the prairie, 
and the prairie to man ; and thus the North and 
the South, the East and the West of our land, 
all need each other, and none can be spared. 
" What God hath joined together, let not man put 
asunder." 



Jonto :Axtb Jlirt 



•4«- 




jONTO was an old dog, and lay on the 
sunny bank just in front of the laurel 
bushes, so that he might have all the 
sunshine and none of the cold winds. 
He was very mild and grave in counte- 
nance, and when you went up to him 
he would get up, wink hard at you, and seem to 
say, "Yes, sir, we have met before." He seemed 
to live in the past, so far as he took an interest 
in anything; but he was gentle and kind, and 
everybody seemed to be Ponto's friend. 

Little Flirt was a dog of a different stamp. 
He was all run and jump, and bark and play. 
He would often visit old Ponto ; and then how he 
Would scamper round him, look knowingly in his 
^yes, squat and look, and then jump and bound 
ftnd bark, as if he would say, " Well, Mr. Ponto, 
^id you ever see anything like that?" Old 
^onto would look at him with awful gravity, as 



w 



(( 
ff 



PONTO AND FLIRT. 13 

much as to say, "That's all well enough in a 
dog which has not yet come to years of dis- 
cretion." 

But one day Flirt came out to see Ponto on a 
sober walk. His tail drooped, and his face was 
grave, and he walked like one going to a funeral 

"Ponto," says he, "Tm going to leave.*' 

" Indeed." 

"Yea I am determined to stay here no 
longer. / am resolved to run away,'* 

" Pray where will you run ? " 

" Oh, I don't know. I'll find somewhere." 
Well, what's the matter ? " 
Matter enough. I'm tired of my master. 
You have always said he was one of the kindest 
of masters. But now I know better. You know 
old Cub, the brown horse, don't you ? " 

"I should think I do. I have run beside 
him times enough and miles enough to know 
him." 

"Has he not always been a good, faithful old 
horse ? " 

" Not always old, but always good and faith- 
ful" 

"Well, he has been sick lately. He has 
grown very thia He would stand all day and 
Wte his crib «md gnaw the planks, aixd groL in 
pain. He has lost his appetite, and I thought 
he must die. But yesterday, when our master 

(«22) 2 



14 PONTO AND FUBT. 

led him out, I thought, ' Well, now he will kill 
poor old Cub, and put him out of pain, or else 
give him some comforting thing that he can eat' 
JBut instead of that— oh dear, how dreadful! — ^be 
took him down to the blacksmith's shop, and put 
the poor fellow in a frame in which they put 
oxen sometimes; and then turned the leather 
under him so that he could not stand on his feet ; 
and then put a great stick in his mouth and 
fastened it open ; and then he took a huge piece 
of flat iron — I believe they call it a file — and 
with that he sawed in between every tooth in 
the poor fellow's mouth. Poor Cub groaned, and 
the blood ran, but no matter — ^rasp, rasp went the 
file, till there was a parting between every tooth. 
If that is not cruelty, I should like to know what 
i& I am going to run away. The cruel man 
will be sawing my teeth next. Who knows ? " 

** Suppose, Flirt, you just run into the stable 
and see what old Cub is now doing." 

Away bounded Flirt, and soon came back with 
a look of amazement 

"Why, Ponto, as true as you live, old Cub is 
eating hay as he never ate before." 

" Don't swear. Flirt, and say ' As true as you 
live ;* but now sit down and learn a thing or two, 
— ^it may do you good as long as you livei You 
must know, then, O wise Flirt, that horses were 
made to eat grass, and to bite it, and draw it into 



PONTO AND FLIRT. 16 

the mouth. This naturally draws their teeth out 
and spreads them. Old Cub has been shut up in 
the stall and fed on cut food for years. The con- 
sequence is, his teeth came tight together, and 
they ached, and this made him have what they 
call 'crib-biting,' or ' cribbering.' Now master, 
by filing them apart, has relieved the pain^ aud 
the old horse can eat as well as ever. He put 
him in the ox-frame and fastened his mouth open 
only as the easiest way to do it — easiest for the 
horse. So, you young dog, see that it was not 
cruelty but kindness in our master to file old 
CuVs teeth." 

" Oh, I see it, I see it alL What a fool I was ! 
I will never doubt my master again." 

Oh, my son, you will often meet things in 
Divine Providence that seem strange to you, and 
which look as if God were not wise and good ; 
but when these come to be explained hereafter, 
we shall see that in everything God is wise and 
good and merciful. We cannot always under- 
stand what he does, but ''just and true are all 
his ways." Remember Flirt when you are 
tempted to doubt his wisdom or his goodness. 



§h:00ting the §hnxk 



-M- 




[HE great ship-of-war lay at easy anchor 
in the beautiful bay, and the waters 
slept around her, smooth as a mill-pond 
and silvery as glass. The sailors were 
idly moving here and there on the ship's 
deck, for there was nothing to be done. The old 
boatswain, a favourite with all, was among them, 
telling his long stories, or as they called it, "spin- 
ning his long yams." Among this crew was a 
bright little boy, a son of the old boatswain, the 
idol of his father and the pet of all the sailora 
He was so cheerful and bright and good-natured, 
that there was nothing which they would not do 
for " little Jem." The morning was warm, and 
the water just of the right temperature for bath- 
ing. A group of the sailors leaned over the side 
of the ship, and seemed greatly delighted with 
something they saw. It was " little Jem," their 
pet, far out from the ship swimming alone. He 



SHOOTING THE SHABK. 17 

could whirl over, dive, float, or shoot forward like 
a duck. 

"Boatswain," cried one, "what a swimmer 
little Jem is." 

" Ay," said the father ; " he seems to take to 
the water kind o' natural I never had to teach 
him." 

" Boatswain, boatswain, — a shark ! a shark ! 
Oh, he will get Jem in one minute more." 

The old man leaped up, and a single glance 
took it all ia Yonder was his son playing in 
the water, lying on his back, unconscious of any 
danger, and a huge shark making straight to- 
wards him, and it was plain that in a very short 
time he would be crunching the limbs of the 
boy. The old man remembered that one of the 
cannon was shotted. Quick as a flash, and with 
almost superhuman strength, he put the gun in 
position, depressed the muzzle, aimed a few feet 
between the child and the shark — just where the 
fish would be in a single instant. The match 
was applied, — the gun roared and reeled. The 
poor father sank down on the deck, too faint to 
look. The smoke cleared away, and up rose a 
shout from the sailors, almost as loud as the roar 
of the gun. 

" What is it ? " called the father. 

" Oh, Jem is safe ! There lies the shark, dead 
and torn in pieces. How could you move the 



18 SHOOTIXO THE SHARK. 

gun, and sight her, and get her off so quickly 
and so accurately ? " 

" I don't know, but I believe God helped me. 
Won't some of you bring Jem to me ? " 

The next moment a boat was lowered and the 
oars were bending as she cut her way to the boy. 
He had just begun to understand the thing, and 
was paralyzed with terror. Gently they lifted 
him into the boat, and in a few minutes placed 
him in the arms of his weeping father. The old 
man seemed to receive him as from the dead, and 
could only rock him in his arms and cry like a 
babe. 

How wonderful that Providence that stepped 
in, and from a source so uncommon and unsus- 
pected, sent salvation to the life of that child. 
The only man who could have managed the gun 
so quickly and so accurately, the only man who 
thought of the thing, was the father. And when 
life and death hung on an instant of time, and 
on the accuracy of his eye and the steadiness of 
his hand, we see he had them all in full use as 
long as needed. 

My yoimg reader, there are sharks after you, 
with wide jaws and sharp teeth — coming directly 
towards you ! Will any power come in between 
you and them and save you? Have you a 
Father watching over you who will see that you 
are safe ? 



SHOOTING THE SHARK. 19 

There is one boy who has several sharks after 
him in th« shape of companions who are profane, 
undean in conversation^ who are trying to make 
him swear and drink and smoke. Will they 
succeed ? Will his heavenly Father send in 
some power that will save him? Perhaps the 
prayers of his mother^ or the gentle voice of his 
sister, or the loving heart of some good boy may 
be the instrument. Perhaps his Sabbath-school 
teacher will become that power. The Holy Spirit 
may make use of one or other or of all these. 

There is another boy who has a shark coming 
towards him in the temptation to forget the fifth 
commandment, and not to honour his father and 
his mother. The hour in which he does this he 
puts himself beyond the promise of life, and his 
end may be near ! There is a third upon whom 
the shark, in the form of doubt and unbelief, has 
fastened his eye. Will he reach him and destroy 
his faith in his mother's pmyers. in his father's 
religion, in the Word of God, and in the name 
and salvation of Jesus ? 

Oh that between every child and his great 
spiritual danger there might come a power lovd 
as the cannon* 8 roar, quick as the speed of a bail, 
and sure as the eye of a loving father. 



Wxt ^otBtt oi JEemarg. 



-M- 




BEING fair as the dawn, with bright 
hair and a clear eye, came and bent 
over the cradle and kissed the new- 
created infant. Her name was Hope. 
Just then a little sister brought it a 
flower, on which the child clapped its 
hands joyfully : then Hope promised that it 
should soon gather fairer flowers for itself 

The infant grew and became a boy. On a 
summer's twilight he was amusing himself alone, 
when another being, with a sweet, serious face, 
came and sat down by him. Her name was 
Memory, and she said, "Look behind thee, boy, 
and tell me what thou seest." 

" I see a beautiful path bordered with flowers. 
Butterflies spread their gay wings over it, and 
birds sing all around it. It seems as if it were a 
path that I had trodden, for the little foot-prints 
in it look like my own, and the cradle at its end 
— -so very near — looks like mine." 



THE POWER OF MEHORT. 21 

" What art thou holding in thy hand ? " 

And he answered, "A book which my own 
dear mother gave me." 

" Bring it to me and I will turn it iuto honey 
when thy hair shall be turned gray." 

The boy became a youth. Once he found 
Hope and Memory both sitting beside him. 
Hope broke out into a song, sweet as that 
which the lark sings as she shakes off the dew 
of night and rises up to greet the morning. 
" Follow me," said Hope, " and thy heart shall 
sing like a harp with golden strings." 

"0 Hope," said Memory, "let him be mine 
also ; and while he keepeth virtue in his heart we 
shall be to him as sisters as long as he liveth. 
Thou wilt lead him to accumulate, and I will 
keep for him all that is worth keeping." So he 
gave a hand to each, and both blessed him. 

He became a man. Hope came and girded 
him for duty every morning, and every night he 
supped at the table of Memory, with a delightful 
guest whose name was Knowledge. 

At length Age found the man, and Time 
sprinkled his hoar-frost on his templea His eye 
became dim, and the chambers of the ear became 
confused, and the warm blood in his veins moved 
cold and slow, and he thought it was the earth, 
and not himself, that had changed. 

Memory came and sat down by the chair of 



22 THE POWER OF MEM0B7. 

the old man, and looked at him with loving eyes. 
And he said, " Memory, sister dear, thou dost not 
keep my jewels safely. I fear some of them are 
lost" 

Mournfully and meekly she replied, — 

"It may be so. The lock of my casket is 
worn ; and sometimes I am weary and fall asleep, 
and then Time comes and purloins my key. But 
of the gems thou gavest me when a child and a 
youth, I have lost none. See, they are as bright 
and beautiful as on the day I received them." 
Memory looked pitifully on him, and the old man 
had learned to forgive. Hope began to show 
him a wing which another sister, called Faith, 
had been making, and he smiled. 

The aged man lay down to die. As his soul 
went forth from the body, the angels took charge 
of it. But Memory went up by his side, and 
with him passed through the gates of Heavea 
Poor Hope stopped at the gate and there expired, 
like a dying rose giving its sweetest odours 
out as it dies. But just before she expired 
she beckoned to a beautiful angel, whose name 
was Immortal Happiness, and committed to her 
the spirit she had so long attended on Earth. 
"Religion," said she, "has planted in that soul 
such seed as will make it thine for ever. I shall 
not be needed any more." 

Her dying words were like the music of some 



THE POWER OF MEMORY. 23 

breaking harp, mournful, but sweet; and the 
angel replied, "Dear earth -bom sister, Hope 
must die, but Memory is as eternal as the books 
from which men are judged. From her tablets 
not one deed of Earth can ever be erased." 



^hc Persian ^r^belkr. 



-•♦■ 




PERSIAN traveller came to our countrj' 

to see "the New World/' as he had 

heard it called. On his arrival, instead 

of finding a few huts with thatched 

roofs, as he had expected, he found a 

great rich city, the largest he had ever 

seea The great ships lay at the wharves ; the 

tall masts looked like a forest ; and the harbour 

was full of shipping of all kinds. So he landed, 

and went to the hotels, and travelled through 

the different States ; saw the farms, the factories, 

the schools, and the benevolent institutions, such 

as hospitals, asylums, and the like. At length he 

I'eached Washington. Congress and the Senate 

'^ere about to adjourn. Among other things he 

felt very anxious to see the President of the 

U^nited States. A friend walked with him to 

the White House, and introduced him. 

** Well," said the President after the compli- 



THE PERSIAN TRAVELLER. 25 

ments of the introduction, " what do you think 
of our country ? " 

" Sir, I have no words to express my wonder." 
" Will you please explain yourself? *' 
" Why, sir, on my arrival they carried me to 
a magnificent palace, which they call a hotel 
We have no palace in Persia so large. When I 
came to travel, instead of riding a donkey or a 
hired horse, luid moTuig at the rate of twenty 
miles a day, they put me into a beautiful house, 
and whirled me off three hundred miles a day. 
Then I said, ' Why, their very caravans are better 
off than our richest citizens are at the homes 
which have taken generations to adorn.' Then, 
sir, they took me to a great palace-looking build- 
ing where hundreds of blind people were gathered 
together, and where they read with their fingers, 
and where they made sweet music, and were very 
happy. ' Oh,' I said, * the very blind in this land 
are better off than those who have eyes in my 
country.' Then they took me to another such 
place, where those were gathered together who 
could neither hear nor speak; but they could 
read and write anything, and could talk with 
their fingers, by making signs. Ah, those in this 
country who are bom deaf are better off than 
those in my country who can hear with both 
ears. No ears and no eyes are here better than 
two ears and two eyes at home. Then, Mr. 



26 THE PERSIAN TRAVELLER. 

President, I came to Washington. To my amaze- 
ment I found no army here, no body-guard for 
the chief magistrate of this great nation. I hear 
that you, sir, were up at the Capitol last evening 
till after midnight, signing the bills which Con- 
gress had passed, and that then in the dark you 
walked quietly home alone, without a guard or 
anybody to defend you. I see no army in all 
the States where I have been ; and one gover- 
nor of a great State I actually found with his 
hired man planting potatoes! Sir, to one who 
has been bom and brought up where armies and 
swords are everywhere, this state of things has 
amazed me beyond expression." 

" Do you like it ? " 

" Oh, more than I can describe to you." 

** How do you account for it ? " 

" Sir, there is only one answer to that question. 
Tour land is governed by the Bible, mine by the 
sword. Your Bible has done more for you in one 
century than the sword has done for us in twenty 
centuries. Here you don't see the law; you 
don*t hear it.' It is a sort of thing that seems to 
dwell in the air, out of sight ; but it comes down 
the moment it is called. With my country, law 
is made material ; it is in armies and gims and 
guards. It is like wearing a heavy iron mail 
shirt, instead of the loose cotton kind. Your 
Bible has made schools and colleges and institu- 



THE PERSIAN TRAVELLER. 27 

tions of learning ; our sword never reared a school- 
house in all Persia. Your Bible makes readers ; 
and so you have papers and magazines and books, 
and a reading, thinking nation. Our svrord makes 
no readers, no thinkers, no teachers of good thinga 
Oh, sir, there is no department of life in vrhich 
we are not centuries behind you. I find that 
your people don't know what has made this nation 
what it is ; but it is plain to me. And now, sir, 
I beg your pardon for talking so long, and telling 
you what you know ; but you were so good as 
to ask my opinion, and I could not give it in 
fewer words. May you, sir, live twelve thousand 
moons, and your country live as long as the sun 
and moon endure. I thank you, Mr. President, 
for the light of your face, and that I may go 
home and tell my countrymen that great position 
and high office never look so majestic as in their 
naked simplicity." 

The president and the traveller both arose, 
shook hands, smiled, made each a low bow, and 
the traveller went on his way. The president 
was heard to say to himself, ''The fellow is 
right" 



^r4ine foBtho^B. 




FATHER was going to the telegraph- 
office to send a message to a distant 
city. He held the paper containing the 
words in one hand^ and led his little 
girl, between two and three years old, 
in the other. Just before they reached 
the office they passed the wires of the telegraph 
on the high poles. 

" Now, father,*' said the child, " please lift me 
up and let me put the paper on the wires." 

This was her idea of sending by the telegraph. 
And had the paper been laid on the wires, and 
then flown off in an instant, and anon come back 
with the answer, it would hardly have been more 
wonderful than the way messages are sent. Go 
into such an office at midnight, the darkest night 
you ever saw. One little lamp stands by the 
instrument. You give your message to the 
operator. He makes a few quick thumps or 



AIR-LINE POSTBOTS. 29 

knocks, and in an instant your message is in a 
distant city, perhaps two hundred miles off. 
In another instant the answer comes back. 
How much like magic ! What travelling ! We 
should think the speed would melt the wires. 
" Electricity — it's all done by electricity," they 
tell us. But pray, what is electricity ? It is not 
thought ; for it never carries a message till some 
human mind sends it It seems a kind. of postboy 
running over the wires as fast as our thoughts 
can go, with the message in his pocket. I some- 
times stop near one of the wire-poles, and look at 
the wire as it seems to ache by hard stretching- 
cold and lonely and useless. But as I look at it 
I seem to have a new and lively interest awakened, 
and I wonder if the electricity that spins over 
these wires touches every particle of the iron, or 
does it leap as the hound does when chasing the 
deer ? I wonder if it goes inside of the wire, or 
on the outside, or does it occupy every part of 
it ? I wonder if it leaves a heat in its fiery path ; 
for it is fire, as much as the lightning is fire. 
There now ; I see the wire quivers. Is it because 
the wind blows, or because the messages are going 
on it ? I can almost hear the clinking of the 
operative's machine ; and, by a kind of indescrib- 
able process, I seem to be able to read the mes- 
sages as they fly along> one after another. 

Now, then, that message tells the far-off friends 

(022) 3 



30 AIR-LINE POSTBOYS. 

that they have a new-bom child at home ; and as 
it is read, a dozen voices all at once shout for joy, 
and each is contriving what little thing he can 
send to the little stranger, "whom not having 
seen" they "love." So we can love an immortal 
thing which we have never seen. So we can 
love Jesus Christ, though we have not seen him. 

Now then, that message tells of sickness : 
"Very sick; come immediately." The very 
wires seem sad. What a stir that message 
creates ! How they hurry off to " call father," 
and help mother to pack up; and how they 
tremble and silently drop tears all over the house, 
but try to " hope for the best," and keep cheerful, 
and give courage to the sinking heart of the mother. 
She wonders if she can get there to see her child 
alive, or whether she is going to his funeral 

Ah, then there goes one bearing no doubtful 
message. It id to that large, beautiful house. 
It tells them that he, the husband and the father, 
is dead, and will be buried on Thursday. What 
a blow ! They are stunned ; they seem crushed. 
Heavy shadows fall on that dwelling, never again 
to be lifted up. I can almost hear the feet of 
the strangers who will soon possess and occupy 
that beautiful home. The hand that provided 
for all, and that held them all together, is useless 
now, and they must first mourn, then feel dis- 
appointed, and then scatter. 



AIR-LINE POSTBOYS. 31 

Here goes a message telling that the wanderer 
over the world has arrived, and will be at home 
shortly ; and they go to kill the fatted calf and 
mjEkke ready. And here is one telling of the 
failure of a great firm^ and scores are bankrupt 
thereby, and hundreds and even thousands must 
suffer by the fraud. So they go, carrying — 
these nimble postboys— tidings of buiihs and 
deaths, maxria^ and greeti^. fortunes made 
and lost^ broken bones and high fevers, and all 
the joys and sorrows, the surprises and the dis- 
appointments that make up the lot of man. This 
*' air-line" messenger never stops nor tires. Day 
and night. summTand winter, ite bosom is fiui 
with human joys and sorrows, without any sym- 
pathy or suffe'r^ iteel£ 

" Well, what do all these meditations lead to?" 
says the reader. Why, kind friend, they lead 
me to feel that He, the Infinite One, who made 
this electricity to carry human thoughts and 
feelings thus, must have that invisible telegraph 
by which prayer directly reaches his ear. I feel, 
too, that it would kill me to listen to all that 
passes over these wires in a single day ; and yet 
the joys and sorrows of the Church and of the 
world, (and we know not how many worlds,) rise 
up continually before him, and still his ear is not 
heavy, nor his arm shortened, because he is an 
infinite Redeemer, "God over all, blessed for ever." 



'JEhc Jlrtichofec. 



•4*- 




^ COULD Bever see," said a gardener to 
himself, "what these artichokes were 
made for. They take up room, are 
hard to grub up, and are really of no 
earthly use. I wish I could kill every 
one of them." 

This he said as he was trying to root them 
out, in early spring, from his garden. Just then 
he heard a voice : — 

" I say, Coleman, have you such a thing as a 
single artichoke in your garden ? I very much 
want one." 

" Why, I had plenty, but have just given them 
^-U to the pigs. But why do you want it, Mr. 
James ? " 

" You know that I have a sick child. She is 
<5onfined to her room, and has little appetite. 
®he was saying to me this morning that she 
thought she should relish an artichoke cut up in 



THE ARTICHOKE. 33 

vinegar. I have been almost everywhere, and 
can't find any. The river is between you and 
me, or I would ask you to let me come and search 
your garden further.'* 

" Hold on a minute, sir, and Til see." 

Coleman slowly and not very cheerfully began 
to dig again, and to his unexpected joy — for we 
all love to feel that we have done something to 
comfort the sick — he soon found a nice artichoke. 

" Well, here's one ; but how shall I get it over 
the river ? " 

" Throw it, and I will do my best to catch it 
and keep it from being crushed on the ground." 

"There; thank you, thank you much," said 
Mr. James as he went off rubbing his hands, 
which the artichoke hurt as he caught it. 

The humble artichoke was carried home, and 
nothing said about it till the invalid saw the 
thin, delicate slices, in the little plate at her 
dinner. How she thanked her father, and won- 
dered what ailed his bruised hand, I need not tell. 

From that day onward Coleman began to take 
an interest in the invalid, and would often send 
her a bouquet or some single beautiful flower. 
His thoughtful remembrance awakened an interest 
in the heart of the sick one also in his behalf 

Some months after the digging of the artichoke 
the invalid called to her father and said, — 

"I hear that the pretty little cottage on the 



34 THE ARTICHOKE. 

bank of the river is to be sold. Now, fJEtther, 
would not that be just the thing for Coleman? 
He wants a home, and has, I hear, a few hundred 
dollars saved. It seems to me to be just the 
thing for him." 

" I never thought of it ; but I will inquire." 

Hardly had Mr. James got out of doors when 
he met his friend Coleman in a state of evident 
excitement. He had walked fiei^t, and was flushed. 

" Oh ! Master James — just the man I wanted 
to see." 

" What is it, Coleman ? " 

" Why, sir, the Beede place is going to be sold, 
I hear, and Susan and I do want it so much 
But there are two things that trouble us : first, 
we don't know that it would be good property to 
buy ; and, secondly, we don't know how to pay 
for it. We have saved half enough, but don't 
know what to do for the rest What do you 
advise us, sir?" 

" By all means to buy it. As to its being a 
good bargain, I have just had the opinion of one 
who seldom misjudges on that point." 

"'Who is that, sir ? " 

" The sick one for whom you dug the artichoke 
last spring. As to the other half of the pay, tell 
the owner I will be responsible if he wants other 
security besides yours." 

Away bounded Colei lan with a tear in his eye. 



THE ARTICHOKE. 35 

The cottage was bought, the rose bushes were 
trimmed, the little garden was planted, and a 
prettier, cosier place, was not to be found. 

Years afterwards, Susan one evening found her 
husband in the garden, leaning on his hoe, and 
great tears rolling down his cheeka She came 
up to him and said gently, " What is the matter, 
John ? '' 

" I am crying over my own thoughts, Susan. 
Many years ago I was digging in my garden, 
when Mr. James called to me to find him an 
artichoke for his sick child. Very reluctantly, 
and feeling cross, I dug and found one — only one, 
I tried for no more. That artichoke made that 
young lady our friend, and it was through her 
means that we got our pleasant little home ; and 
we have got it all paid for. We have been 
happy here. Mr. James has ever been our warm, 
firm friend. But that dear young lady has been 
in her grave for yeara I never think it over 
without also thinking how much grew out of one 
poor artichoke, and how wrong I was to be so 
unwilling to do that little kindness for her. Oh, 
if she were alive I feel that I should love to go 
right up there and ask her forgiveness." 

" She's done with all that, John ; but we will 
never forget her — ^no, nor even the poor arti- 
choke." 



9Si^lkinq. 



■••■ 




^E should probably be frightened if we 
knew how often we come near, to 
death. Almost every one can recall 
the time and place when he was 
within an inch of losing his life. A 
single fall may so strike the head as 
to paralyze us all the rest of our lifa A single 
slip on an icy path may break a bone and lead us 
to our grave. I once knew a physician a strap 
of whose carriage harness broke as he was going 
down a mountain, and that frightened the horses, 
and that threw him out of the carriage, broke his 
bones, and cost him his life. Some time ago, on 
one of our terribly cold days, a man went off to 
the woods to chop wood. He had only a little 
boy with him. The place was several miles 
from home. In swinging the axe, it struck a 
very small twig or branch of a tree, and yet that 
so turned the axe, that instead of striking the 



WALKmo. 37 

log it struck the full blow upon the poor fellow's 
knee. The blood flowed, and the man fell. The 
frightened little boy ran for help, but instead of 
going to the nearest house, his little feet went all 
the way home. The consequence was that when 
help reached the poor sufferer he had fainted and 
the wound was frozen. It resulted in his having 
the lock-jaw, and his consequent death. And 
yet how often is the axe swung in the woods, and 
men escape death ! 

I sometimes stop and watch a bare-footed little 
bo}''. He runs like a squirrel, and is nearly as 
lively. He does not stop to see where he is to 
put down his foot, or even think of it. On he 
rushes. Should he step into a hole, it might cost 
him a broken limb. Should he step on a nail, 
it might cost him the lock-jaw. A little nail 
might first bring a smart, then a pain, then a 
swelling, and at length end in death, most likely. 
Now who guides his little feet ? 

Each little child takes from four thousand to 
nine thousand such steps every day. Why don't 
more of the little creatures step wrong and get 
hurt ? How many such steps in a year — in ten 
years ! Why, we are never safe a moment If 
we are on the water, the breaking of one single 
bolt in the ship, the breaking of one strand of 
the cable, the mispointing of the compass ever so 
little, might drown all in the great ship. Just 



38 WALKING. 

think what a multitude of men are walking in one 
city, in one army, in one country, and over the 
earth, every day. And yet how few step upon 
anything that hurts them ! We should think 
there would be multitudes of sprained ankles, of 
wrenched feet, and of bruises. In the dark night 
it is still more wonderful And how few are 
afraid to walk in the night 

The little sparrow that twitters in the rising 
sun, not knowing where she is to find her break- 
fast, gives herself no anxiety. At the right time 
and place she will find the little worm waiting 
for her. The little bee goes singing away from 
her hive, not knowing where she will find her 
sweet honey, but she gives herself no anxiety 
There has been a hand before her to sow the 
flowers, and to have their sweetness all ready at 
her coming. How tired the mother sometimes 
becomes in watching two or three little ones 
during the day, to see that they do not get 
burnt, or run over, or thrown down, or cut with 
a tool, or hurt otherwise. What a work if she 
had this to do for all the children in the world ! 
Yet God does this every moment for all that live 
— H3eeing that the child puts down his little foot 
in the right place, seeing that the swift horse 
does not run over him, seeing that his food does 
^ot poison him, and that he shall be safe day and 
^ight. It gives me a wonderful thought of God's 



WALKING. 39 

gi*eatness, just to see men walk the streets, doing 
it year after year, he keeping " their souk from 
death, their feet from falling, and their eyes from 
tears." None are so great that they can do 
without Qod, and none are so small as to be for- 
gotten by him. 

Ask a little boy how many fingers he has on 
his right hand, and he will tell you " five ; '* and 
how many on the left hand, and he says " five." 
Ask him how he knows, and he will teU you " it 
is 80 easy he can't help knowing." Yes, easy to 
him; but could a dog know how many? He 
says "No." Very well, this shows the boy 
that he knows more than the dog, because he is 
of a higher nature. Just so Qod knows how 
many hairs there are on every head. The reason 
is, his nature is so great "he can't help knowing," 
any more than the boy can help knowing how 
many fingers he has. Everything, even the 
walking of your feet, shows that God is every- 
where, and that " it is not in man that walketh 
to direct his steps." 



^he pttle fog on dUttxtckts. 



-#^ 




[HE snow was falling fast as we stood over 
the open grave, just ready to let gently 
down into its silence the beautiful form 
of a little child about three years old 
All must have been struck by the pale, 
the very pale face of the father, and have said in 
their thoughts, "Poor fellow, you will soon 
follow her." All must have noticed the almost 
wild look of the mother as her child was about 
to be buried in the dark, cold grave. The snow 
lay in the bottom of the grave, and it lay white 
on the coflSn. But did they notice a little lame 
boy, two years older than the little sister about 
to be buried, as he leaned on his small crutches 
over the comer of the grave, and looked so 
earnestly into it ? He was very small, and very 
pale, and the first look at him showed you that 
^^ must be a cripple as long as he lived. He 
had lost his little sister, his playmate, the other 



THE UTTLE BOY ON CRUTCHES. 41 

self. No voice had been so gentle, and no heart 
so loving to him as hers. He shed no tears. 
He stood like a marble figure upheld by crutche& 
But his little bosom heaved as if it would burst ; 
and though he uttered no sound, I felt sure that 
he was sincerely mourning. The men uncon- 
sciously pushed him back as they finished the 
burial Oh, how meekly those little crutches 
took him back out of the way. I felt that I 
wanted to take him up in my arms and weep 
over him. No one thought of him save the One 
who took little children in his arms and blessed 
them. 

The family returned from the burial. Each 
one thought so much of his own grief, that the 
little lame boy was not thought of — as needing 
consolatioa 

But from that day the little fellow began to 
droop and wither. It was soon noticed that he 
ate but little; and in the night he might have 
been heard, as with a low voice he repeated over 
and over the little hymns that he used to repeat 
with his little sister. They thought it the grief 
of a child, and that a new book and new play- 
things would banish it. But the arrow had gone 
in too deeply to be thus drawn out. For hours 
he would go and sit in the little nook where he 
and Jessie used to play, with his chin in his thin 
hand, thinking, thinking. Sometimes he would 



42 THE LITTLE BOT ON CRUTCHES. 

ask if Jessie could "remember now," or if she 
would " love him still," or if they supposed " she 
sang the same hymns where she was gone'' 
which they used to sing together, or if "she 
would know him if she should meet him without 
any crutches.'' The hymns that spoke of Jesus 
and his love, of heaven and its rest, of the 
angels and the redeemed, seemed to be his 
delight. Though he seldom mentioned Jessie's 
name, it became after a time well understood 
that he thought only of her. He laid aside his 
playthings as of no use, but would bend over her 
little drawer and earnestly gaze at what her tiny 
fingers once had handled. 

Slowly and gently his life began to ebb out. 
He had no sickness, made no mention of pain, 
had no cough, and medicine could do nothing for 
him. When he came to take his bed, from sheer 
weakness, he begged that he might lie on the 
very bed and on the same spot where Jessie died. 
Sometimes in the night he would be heard to 
utter a suppressed moan ; and when his mother 
hastened to him and inquired what he wanted, 
he would only say, "I want Jessie. Do you 
think she has forgotten me ? " "I want to go 
to Jessie; and she will tell me all about it." 
Once, just before the angel of dismission came 
^^r him, he was heard to break out almost in a 
shout. 



THE LITTLE BOT ON CRUTCHES. 43 

*' What is it, my son ? " said his mother. 

*' Oh, I thought Jessie had come." 

" No ; but, my child, you are going to Jessie. 
You will soon see her." 

" Ah, I know. But I wish I could carry her 
something. And yet I know she has better 
things there." 

The little crutches are now standing in the 
comer of the mother's chamber, leaning against 
the little bureau that held Jessie's clothes and 
play-things. His little hat hangs just over the 
crutches. The pale face is there no more. Side 
by side the two small graves are seen under the 
great hemlock-tree that tenderly spreads its shade 
over them. The cold winds of winter whistle 
over them; but where are the children? Did 
Jessie know him " without crutches " ? Is he 
lame, and pale, and moaning now ; or is the 
Qood Shepherd leading them to still waters, and 
educating and training them up in that pure and 
bright world ? There is no little boy on crutches 
looking into the grave of a sister there. 



^°S^-^hzk jTr. 



etikee. 




\^om the m '' 

""f PrintecT^-^ ^"^ thing, ^ ., 

*- benefit Tk °^^' ^r for ff^ *rticle 
'^«« With great ilr, ^J'^; an^ T? **»««. nor 

C'^^n^h and of tie nS'^' ««d the iQte!^f *o be 
. ^«w. „,y nervous tf, ""'^^ ^« in tb?*f °^*ie 
« ^o period of life i^l"^ ^««C fn'^J"^^ 

out to yon son^ ^^^^'^d Ji^te^ ^^ood. g^ 

verr iiabJe to n^ake ""'^^^^e^ Xb ^ P°''°' 

JVrsfc mistake • ;7'j^. ^°" are 

power. 



f J 



BOYS — THEIR MISTAKES. 45 

You know that your paxents and teachers 
often forbid your doing this or that^ and direct 
you to do what you don't want to do, or what 
you think may just as well be put off, or that 
might be done in some easier way. Then you 
feel that you know all about it as well as tiiey 
do, and better too, and so you have a right to 
resist and contest the thing, and certainly to 
grumble about it. It seems to you that they 
love to command, and make you do the very 
thing that you don't want to do, and so you ask, 
"What good will it do?" or, "Why can't I do 
it some other time ? " or you go about it mutter- 
ing and murmuring, as if greatly abused. 

Now understand that this is a great mistake. 
The parent who will toil from early dawn till you 
are asleep in the evening to support you, and 
who will watch over you day and night when 
you are sick, loves you too well to lay one com- 
mand on you which it is not for your good to 
obey. Does that parent ever bid you crush your 
finger in a vice, or bruise it with a hammer, or 
make you freeze your feet in the snow ? Does 
the teacher ever rejoice when you are in pain, or 
contrive how he can make your head ache? Why, 
then, should it give them pleasure to hurt your 
feelings, or to cross your will, unless they do it 
for your good ? I do not believe that the parent 
or teacher, in one case out of a thousand, ever 

(622) 4 



46 BOTS — THEIR MISTAKES. 

thwarts a boy unless he thinks it is for his good. 
To array yourself against this authority, then, ia 
a mistake, but a very common one. I don't be* 
lieve a boy ever rebels, or plays truant, or runs 
away from his home, without first trying to con- 
vince himself that he is right and has been abused, 
and that his father or teacher is a very hard- 
hearted creature. 

Perhaps you will say, "I would honour my 
father and my mother if they were only rich, so 
that we could have ever3^hing we want, and if 
they were educated and refined — a real gentle- 
man and a real lady ; but how can I honour one 
who is poor and uneducated, and not refined and 
respected, and who is at times impatient and 
fretful, and sometimes even violent and passion- 
ate ? " My dear boy, God knew there would be 
just such parents, and he knew how hard it would 
be to respect and honour such ; and so he has 
provided for it in two ways : first by lajdng his 
own command upon us, -^nd secondly by promis- 
ing us a special reward : " Thy days shall be long," 
— the first and last command with a promise. 
Honour thy father and thy mother because they 
are thy parents ; and though they may make mis- 
takes sometimes, they mean to seek only your good. 

Second mistake: That anything vulgar or sin- 
ful can be Tnanly, 

Boys sometimes, perhaps oflen, get the notion 



BOYS — ^THEIR MISTAKES. 47 

that it is manly for a boy to smoke, or to use 
tobacco^ because men, and respectable men^ do it; 
that to use profane or vulgar or obscene language 
is manly; that to be irreverent and low in speech 
is manly, because men are so at times. A sad mis- 
take, I assure you. If such men are allowed in 
good society, it is in spite of these things, and not 
ir^ consequence of them. I have never seen a father 
who, as I thought, really wanted to have his boy 
learn to smoke, or to be vulgar or profane ; and 
what would you think of a father who every 
morning at family worship should pray that his 
son might that day learn one more vulgar expres- 
sion, learn to use one more intense oath, or might 
learn to blaspheme the name of God with new 
gUbness? Now, is it right to do anything for 
which we may not pray ? And what would your 
mother say if in the morning she should find her 
boy kneelLg down and praying God to help him 
to be more profane, or to use "^er language than 
ever before? And yet you know that many a 
boy will use language and oaths and vile speech 
during the day, on which he dares not think when 
he meets God alone in the dark. Know then, my 
boy, that if you think that anything that is low 
or vulgar, or such as you would not want to say 
or do before your mother or sister, is manly, you 
are mistaken. " Sin is a reproach to any people," 
and to none more so than to young people. And 



48 BOTS — ^THEIR MISTAKES. 

as to those low^ vile men, who would teach you 
vile things and encourage you to be vulgar or 
profane, shun them as you would demons from 
the bottomless pit. 

Third mistake : That y<m can break off bad 
habits any time you please. 

You will often meet with boys who boast that 
they are not tied by bad habits ; that at any time 
they please they can stop doing this or that ; 
they can stop having wicked thoughts when- 
ever they please ; stop using pro&ne language, 
and have the imagination and words all pure 
whenever they please : but let them try, and 
then see. The fact is, they won't " please/' and 
they won't try to do it. You might just as well 
dip your hands in tar and keep it on them a 
month, and then say, " Oh, I can wash it all off 
in a moment, whenever I please." You might 
just as well swallow poison and say, "I can throw 
it all out of my system any moment I please." 
What would you think of a boy who should play 
with a mad dog or a rattleisnake under the belief 
that he could expel the poison of its bite at any 
moment ? No. Sin is like pitch ; it will stick to 
you. It is like poison ; it will not go out at yom* 
bidding. Many a boy drinks this poison through 
a vile book, a vile picture, or a vile companion, 
till his soul is defiled, his imagination is polluted, 
and made a den of unclean things and a rendez- 



BOYS — THEIR MISTAKES. 49 

Yous of unclean spirits all the rest of his life. All 
the waters of the Nile could not wash such a 
heart clean. No boy can conceive what shame, 
what bondage, what remorse and misery he is 
laying up for himself even in this life, by early or 
secret indulgence in sin. These sins are like little 
ropes, but they drag you into the bottomless pit. 
The waters of Jordan once cleansed one leper, and 
that was a miracle ; but no water can make your 
soul pure when once polluted. It is easy to learn 
to sin, but to break away from it when once 
learned is almost superhuman. 

My dear boy, there are Jive more mistakes 
which I want you to consider, and they will 
form the subject of another article. 

II. 

Carrying on the thoughts above suggested, I 
remark upon other mistakes which boys make. 

Fourth mistake : That atvdy is urJiecdthy. 

Boys sometimes want to convince themselves 
and others that they need not go to school, or 
may neglect to apply themselves when at school, 
because study hurts them. Now the Bible — and 
that is full of truth and common sense — says that 
" much study is a weariness to the flesh," but it 
never says it is unhealthy. Why, you have so 
many mornings and nights to play, so many half^ 
days and so many vacations, that you are in no 



50 BOTS — ^THEIR MISTAKES. 

very great danger of hurting yourself with study. 
The little delicate girl, with her gentle organiza- 
tion, may injure herself by study, though even 
she is &i,T more likely to do it by reading sickly 
novels ; but you — the stout, laughing boy — ^you 
are in no danger. 

But I will tell you what will hurt you much 
more than study, and that is reading those vulgar 
yellow-covered novels and romances, that kindle 
your passions and set your brain on fire. These 
weaken the mind, scatter the thoughts, and bring 
you into a state which makes study become 
hurtful. It is a fact that this kind of reading is 
doing more hurt in our public schools than all the 
study in the world. You might just as well 
spend so many hours every day in a hot bath and 
expect to grow strong, as to spend your time in 
this reading and not grow weak in mind. It 
does not hurt the mind to stretch it and make 
it think ; but it does hurt it to pour such trash 
into it. The hard student is more likely to be 
a long-lived man than others ; and for a boy to 
waste his school-days and neglect to prepare his 
mind for future life under the plea that study 
■will hurt his health, is a mistake so great that it 
can never in after life be corrected. 

Fifth mistake : That boyhood is an excuse for 
sin. 

Sometimes when boys are rude, turbulent, un- 



BOYS — THEIR MISTAKES. 51 

clean, and profane — outwardly vile — it is said, 
" Oh, they are only boys ; they don't think how 
it seems ; " or, " They are only sowing their wild 
oats now, they wiU be better by-and-by." But 
where does God give you permission to give your 
beautiful boyhood to sin ? Where does he tell us 
we shall outgrow sin? Where does he tell us 
that he loves to have us give the dew of our youth 
to the service of the devil ? la it such a precious 
privilege to sin, that you must claim it while a 
•t)oy ? Is it something so very desirable, that you 
claim the privilege of being wicked because you 
are a boy ? Suppose you have lived but a few 
years, is that a reason why you should be wicked ? 
Suppose a newly created angel should say, " I am 
an angel, and therefore I want to spend the first 
pait of my life in being profane and rude and 
vile;" would God excuse him? Now bear in mind 
that God will not hold any one guiltless when he 
sins, whether he is young or old. Does not a 
worm-bite look bad on the red, downy side of the 
peach? So does sin look on the young. Men 
have great outside temptations to be wicked; but 
when a hoy is wicked, we know it aU comes from 
his vile heart within. In boyhood, too, you are 
sowing the seed of what is to grow and grow 
as long as you live. It is the seed-time of life, 
and a terrible harvest often grows up from seed 
sown in early life ! I have never met a wicked 



52 BOT& — ^THEIR MISTAKES. 

man who did not begin to be wicked while 
young. Ask your parents if they have not found 
it so. 

Sixth mistake : That had company will not 
hurt boys. 

I was once called to see a person dying with 
the 8mall-}X)x, and to pray with her. I took 
every precaution to prevent bringing the disease 
into my family. I had been vaccinated when a 
little boy, and therefore felt pretty safe ; but after 
all, for days I had to suffer and to feel many of 
the pains and dangers of the disease. But sup- 
pose I had not been vaccinated, and had not been 
thoroughly prepared, the result would have been 
that I should have taken the disease, and most 
probably have lost my life. Now, it is just as 
impossible for a boy to go into bad company with- 
out being injured, as it would be to be exposed to 
the smaU-pox without danger. The Bible com- 
pares such company to pitch. It will stick. 
There are boys in almost every street with whom 
no good, pure boy ought ever to associate. They 
are teachers of iniquity. You akeady know their 
names and faces. " But what shall I do ? " say 
you. What would you do if you saw a mad dog 
in the streets ? Would you go and play with him, 
or keep as far from him as possible ? What would 
you do if you saw an enraged bull making towards 
you ? Run from him, would you not ? But what 



BOYS — THEIR MISTAKES. 53 

if yon are one of those wicked, corrupting boys — 
then what ? Then be ashamed of yourself Feel 
what a vile fellow you are, when every mother 
and sister in the street shudders at your name, 
and dreads you as she would a plamie. Humble 
yourself befL God, and ask him r^ake you a 
better boy, and not let you become a curse to 
yourself and a curse to all around you. 

Seventh mistake : That it depends on others, 
and not on yourself, what your character wUl be. 

Boys are very apt to think that if they only 
had rich parents, great advantages, and distin- 
guished friends to help them, they should do well 
— should study and learn, be industrious, and be- 
come valuable men ; whereas it depends mainly 
on the boy himself what he is, and what he shall 
become. Almost every boy may have any char- 
acter he pleases. He may become a merchant, a 
physician, a lawyer, or a minister of the gospel, if 
he chooses. And there is no boy whom all the 
money and all the friends in the world can help, 
if he is not true to himself. Not all the lifting 
in the world can help a boy to climb a tree, if he 
will not take hold and puU himself up. You 
must wash your own face if it is to be kept clean. 
It depends much on yourself what you shall be, 
both in this life and in the next. 

Eighth mistake : That religion was not mxxde 
for boys. 



54 BOYS — ^THEIB MISTAKE£(. " 

This is the greatest mistake any boy ever made. 
He may think that religion is suitable for his 
mother^ and perhaps for his elder sister ; but for a 
boy — one who feels so lively, and is so unlikely 
to die, who is so manly, and so wise— what can 
he want with religion ? I will tell you, the oldest 
man you know will tell you, that it took all the 
experience of his life to make him humble ; the 
wisest man you know will tell you that he is very 
far from being wise; and the holiest man will tell 
you that he feels anything but holy; and they all 
tell you that you are a child, and need some one 
to guide you; that you have strong passions, and 
need some one to calm you. You have no expe- 
rience, and are liable to make a thousand mis- 
takes ; you have a wicked heart, and need some 
one to make you good. You want to live, and 
who but God can keep you alive? You want 
health, and who but the great Physician can keep 
you well ? You want to grow up a man of whom 
your parents will be proud, whom all will respect, 
whose influence shall be great and good; you want 
to be useful in this world, and you want to be 
happy for ever. Can you take a single step 
towards even one of these points without religion ? 

Let a boy make up his mind to begin life with- 
out God, and very likely God will let him have 
his chosen way. There is no class in the whole 
community that would be so much aided by reU- 



n « 



BOYS — THEIB MISTAKES. 55 

gion as boys; none upon whom it rests more 
beautifully, and none whom it can fit for so much 
usefulnes& / would rather a boy were a child 
of Ood than the son of a king. The moment 
you join yourself to God, your whole nature is 
ennobled ; your powers acquire new strength, and 
your heart new and glorious aims. The boy who 
reads these lines to-day may hereafter be a noble 
man, in some profession, in some station in which 
he can be a great blessing whUe he lives. 

My dear boy, do you want to be respectable 
and useful and good ; or do you want to grow up 
a curse to yourself, a woe to your friends, a dis- 
grace to your town,— a blighted, ruined spirit, 
lost for ever, to sob and wail to eternity ? God 
says to you to-day, " My sod, if thou wilt receive 
my words, and hide my commandments with thee, 
discretion shall preserve thee, understanding shall 
keep thee." "In all thy ways acknowledge 
him, and he shall direct thy paths." " The fear 
of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom." Till 
you are a Christian, nothing is really done for 
you ; when you are, "all things are yours." 



^he %ov at the fia 



-M- 




'T seemed as if I never had seen the land- 
scape look more beautiful under the soft 
haze of the Indian summer, with the 
tints of autumn still lingering on the 
forest-trees, as my friend asked me to 
go with him to the top of a hill. The moun- 
tains rose high in the west, while here and there, 
on the hill and in the valley, the clump of trees 
or the solitary elm gave variety and beauty. 
The eye took in a wide sweep. A multitude of 
sheep seemed to be the sole tenants of the region, 
except when the squirrel uttered his little bark 
from a tree stump or a heap of stones. 

" You see this beautiful region ?" said my friend. 
" Yes, and I greatly admire it ; but I am sur- 
prised to see no houses near. I see here and 
there a very old, rickety bam, and a solitary 
chimney where a house must have stood ; but 
not a bouse in sight. '^iiaX* ^oe»\V» ^\£isaax? ** 



THE TOP OP THE HILL. 57 

" It means that men and women and children 
have passed away, to make room for sheep. You 
notice the immense flocks of sheep around u& To 
raise sheep requires a large range of pasture, and 
so one little farm after another has been swallowed 
up by the rich man, till the people have all gone 
— emigrated. On that spot where you see that 
foundation, near the big butternut-tree, once stood 
our little red schoolhouse,. with thirty scholars. 
This was once a school district, and famiUes 
enough lived here to make a good district ; now 
there is not one left : they are scattered all over 
the land. Every house has been pulled down, 
and few remember the people that once nestled 
in these beautiful nooks ; but for myself, I never 
come here without coming up to the top of this 
hill, and thinking over the past, and recalling 
the names and faces of my schoolmates. You 
must know that I graduated in that college." 

" So the old school had a mission, and did a 
work in its day." 

" Truly you may say so. I am amazed as I 
look back to see the amount of character raised 
up in that school-house. Down yonder, under the 
hill, stood an old tumble-down house. Out of that 
house came a rough, tough, good-natured boy, up 
to all kinds of mischief, yet never doing any great 
wrong. He would skate nearer the hole in tha 
river than any other boy •, v/oxiiA. tvxtl V^^ ^^ 



58 THE TOP OF THE HILL. 

down the hill over stones and walls where any 
other boy would be likely to break his neck. He 
is now commander of an East India ship; a 
pious, great-fisted, and great-hearted fellow. Over 
that hill, near the brook, stood a small house in 
which lived a poor widow. She had one child, a 
white-haired boy. He was a quiet little fellow, 
the friend of everybody ; often abused by the big 
boys, but always cheerful and happy. The poor 
mother strained every nerve, chopped her own 
wood, and even took in washing, to educate her 
boy ; and she lived to see him graduate, the first 
scholar in his class, and to take a position in the 
ministry gratifying to any ambition Near that 
great heap of stones stood a house out of which 
came up a boy who is now at the head of all the 
merchants in a great city, widely known for his 
honest, down-right integrity, for his intelligence 
and benevolence. At the left grew up a boy wild 
as the fern on the hill-side, but generous and noble 
in nature. He is now a member of Congress. 
His younger brother is an eminent Christian law- 
yer. So I might call up others who were bom 
and trained up in this humble school district, and 
who have been an ornament to their generation." 
" Yes, my good friend ; but you have not num- 
bered yourself among them, when you might have 
added^ ' One of the most distinguished surgeons 
oftbedsiyr' 



THE TOP OF THE HILL. 59 

" Well, well — we will drop the surgeon. But 
you see what a mission this school-house has 
had, and how character may be bom in humble 
stations, and the very nobility of our nature may 
come from these lowly placea Oh, the boys of 
OUR country! Let them be true to them- 
selves, AND THEY WILL DO GREAT THINGS FOB 
THEMSELVES AND FOR THEIR GENERATION." 



^n ancomnum .iftother. 



-••- 




T the gateway of one of our beautiful 
rural cemeteries^ a large funeral was 
just entering, and our attention was 
called to a very remarkable sight. 
The bier was resting on the shoulders 
of four tall, noble-looking men, in the 
prime of life. One of these bearers was a judge 
on the bench of the Supreme Court of the nation ; 
a second was one of the most eminent and accom- 
plished lawyers whom this country or any other 
can boast; a third was a very distinguished 
divine, whose pen is a great power; and the 
fourth was the president of the Senate of his 
State. And these remarkable men were all 
brothers ! They stood strong in life, but were 
bowed and silent and solemn, as if the bier were 
too heavy for their strength. Very slowly and 
carefully they trod, as if the sleeper should not 
feel the motion. 



AN UNCOMMON MOTHER. 61 

And who was on the bier, so carefully and ten- 
derly borne ? It was their own mother. Never 
did I see a grief more reverent or respect more 
profound. It seemed to me that the mother's 
cold heart must also throb in the coffin. A nobler 
sight, or a more beautiful tribute of love, I never 
saw. They were all, douj^tless, going back in 
memory to their early childhood, and to the lov- 
ing care of this best of all earthly frienda They 
well knew that they, the sons of a village pastor, 
could never have been trained and educated and 
fitted to occupy their stations without a very ex- 
traordinary mother. They well knew that they 
owed more to her than to all other human agen- 
cies. No shoulders but theirs must bear the 
precious dust to the grave-yard; no hands but 
theirs must deposit it in its last resting-place. 

That body had been inhabited by one of the 
sweetest, most cheerful and brilliant minds, that 
ever inhabited an earthly tabernacle. It had 
long, too, been the temple of the Holy Ghost. 
What that lovely woman had done to make her 
husband's ministry useful and profitable; what she 
had done in training daughters that are ornaments 
to their sex ; what she had done to make these 
distinguished men what they are, who can tell? 
What has not a mother accomplished who has 
given such an influence to the world? I never 
see one of these sons but my thoughts go back 

(622) 5 



62 AN UNCOMMON MOTHER. 

to the home of their childhood ; and I can hardly 
keep my eyes from filling with tears as I think of 
that mother. How many men start upon the 
stage of life, and feel they are great and are fill- 
in£: great spheres of usefulness, who are really 
dwaT in Lmparison with such a chaxa<.ter ! 
When that mother went down to the very brink 
of the grave that she might bring up life, as her 
children were bom, — when she toiled unseen and 
unpraised through aU their training,— what an 
influence was she preparing to leave upon the 
world after she should be numbered with the 
dead ! We may develop ourselves, and think we 
have done well if we can achieve anything in life ; 
but, most likely, if anjrthing valuable in us is 
developed, we owe it chiefly to our patient, meek, 
unnoticed mother. She forms the character which 
we develop. And in too many cases it is our 
ignorance of the laws of influence that prevents 
the mother from receiving that love and respect 
she deserves. 

Heaven will be just where we are not, and I 
can find no words in which to express my appre- 
ciation of such a friend. Some few who have 
early lost their mother, through death or the loss 
of reason, come out useful and respectable men ; 
but they would probably have been much more 
so, had they enjoyed her love and care. They 
may well mourn the loss all their daya The 



AN UNCOMMON MOTHER. 63 

names of the mothers of Moses^ of Samuel^ of 
Timothy, and other eminent men, are recorded; 
and so are the names of the mothers of the wicked 
kings generally recorded, as if to tie them to the 
disgrace of their sons. 

mother ! amid all your anxieties and labours, 
be assured that the time is coming when your 
name and image will fill the chambers of the 
memories of your children as no other can. You 
are garnering up love, respect, and veneration, 
which will gather around your coffin, if not 
around your dwelling. You will grow in the 
hearts of your children as long as they live. 

son of the good mother ! remember that she 
hath spared nothing that the human heart could 
yield for thy good. Let thy love and gratitude 
and reverence flow back upon her ; and if her haii- 
is becoming silvered with age, remember that thy 
opportunities to minister to her comfort are every 
day becoming fewer and fewer. God help thee 
to cheer her. 



%kt ^rms 0f |Cobc. 



•**- 




[HERE is something very beautiful in the 
love between a father and a daughter; 
— the one throwing the strong arm of 
manhood around the fraU little one; and 
she^ like an ivy, clinging to him with a 
confidence that never doubta For many weeks 
I noticed that on a certain day and hour a poor 
man passed my door, tenderly bearing in his arms 
his little daughter, about eight or nine years old. 
He carried her from the station to the medical 
college, near or quite three quarters of a mile, and 
in about an hour he carried her back again. So 
he must carry her, I know not how far, to and 
from the cars. How tenderly he embraces her, 
and how confidingly she throws her arms around 
his neck ! Who are they ? 

This poor child, some months ago, hurt her leg 
by a fall, as was supposed. Her parents were too 
iimorant of wounds or sickness to know what to 



THE ABMS OF LOVE. 65 

do, till the leg became so bad that they feared 
she must lose it. 

Now in this medical college there is a time set 
apart twice a week, called a " CZimjue," when 
the poor and suffering may come and receive the 
best medical advice free of all expense ; and it is 
astonishing how many gladly avail themselves of 
these opportunities. When the surgeons came to 
examine this poor child, they found her in a very 
bad condition. So they gave her something to 
smell, which put her into a sleep so sound that 
she knew nothing of what they were doing. 
While asleep, they opened the leg, and found the 
bone dead and loose, as if it had been a hard, dry 
stick in the flesh, irritating it and making it sore. 
So they took out the whole of the dead bone, and 
very carefully bound up the wound, and sent her 
home. It is to have this leg examined and 
dressed that her poor father thus carries her every 
week. He is too poor to hire a carriage. They 
don't talk as they pass along, but I can see that 
they understand each other. 

And what is to be the result ? The surgeons 
could take out the old bone, but could they put 
in a new one ? No, nothing like it. But there 
comes to the bedside of that child an unseen Phy- 
sician who works over the limb, and puts in, 
little by little, what is becoming a new bone. A 
new bone is actually growing where the old one 



66 THE ABMS OF LOVE. 

was ; and in a few months, it is thought^ the child 
will have the leg all mended, and be able to run 
about as she used to do. What a wonderful 
Physician is that ! How can he put in, particle 
by particle, atom after atom, of soft matter, car- 
ried there and left in just the right spot, and then 
make it harden and turn into bone? What a 
wonderful Physician ! 

How good is the Lord. Under no religion but 
that of Christ has the surgeon and the physician 
so much skill. It was foretold that *' the lame 
should leap as an hart," and it comes to pass every 
day. The mind and the skill of the surgeon 
must all come from God. It is borrowed from 
him. How wonderftil, too, that the highest skill 
in the world is thus at the command of the poor, 
•' without money, and without price." The gospel 
creates this benevolence too. None but Christian 
lands produce such charities for the poor. And 
how good is the Lord in implanting such a love 
in the heart of the parent ; so that the more help- 
less his child is, the more he loves her ; and the 
more she suffers, the more he will do for her. 
He does not feel his arms ache as he carries her. 
He does not think of himself at alL His child 
fills his heart ; he only thinks of having his child 
made whole. 

Ah, yes ; and the Physician of whom I speak 
can do more than all this. He can " take away 



THE ARMS OF LOVE. G7 

the heart of stone and give a heart of flesh." 
How he does it we know not, any more than we 
know how the new bone in this child's leg is to 
grow. Truly he may well be called " the Great 
Physician." Our surgeons do their best for the 
poor child vrithout fee or reward ; and so does 
He give his skill and services without money or 
reward. There are some cases brought to these 
physicians which they cannot cure, but none are 
brought to Him so bad that he cannot cure them. 
This "Clinique" is open to the poor only on 
certain days ; but He ever stands at the door, 
and you may knock and he will open it This 
little one may pass out of the surgeon's mind till 
she comes again ; but out of the thoughts of the 
Great Physician the sick one never is absent a 
moment. blessed One ! This Divine Helper 
takes our infirmities and bears our sicknesses, 
and is never weary with bearing them. Will 
you not carry your wounded spirit to him for 
Divine healing ? 



^he Jtrst ^nttal in the £Ltto ^ouse. 



•4^ 




new house was built on the spot 
where the old one had stood. The old 
house was of wood, nearly a hundred 
years old. It had been the place of 
births, sicknesses, weddings, and fu- 
nerals. It had been the home of large families, 
all now numbered with the dead. The history 
of the joys and the sorrows, the mirth and the 
tears witnessed there, will never be written. The 
new house was built of hewn stone, very bard to 
the chisel, and very beautiful. It is very large, 
and everything that money could procure was 
used to make it a noble though plain building. 
You cannot suggest an improvement It seems 
as if it must stand till the end of the world. Its 
huge, thick doors, and its plate-glass windows, 
seem to be able to shut out any foe and defend 
from any danger. 

When the family moved in, friends called to 



THE FIRST FUNERAL IN THE NEW HOUSE. G9 

congratulate and admire. The family was large 
and very healthy. Hospitality reigned there, 
and many were the friends from far and near 
who were made welcome. It seemed a very 
perfect earthly home. Nobody ever accused the 
family of being vain of their house. 

But suddenly, when the heavens were bright 
and not a cloud was to be seen, a dark shadow 
was thrown over that house. There was a 
messenger sent to that home whom no thick 
doors could shut out. He rang no bell, knocked 
at no door, but went straight in to do his errand. 
He uttered no words, showed no form to the eye, 
let no footstep fall on the floor, and asked no 
questions — such as, "Are they ready?" "Are 
they willing ? " Straight to the beautiful child 
that lay in his mother's arms he went, and 
touched it. The little one rolled its eyes, a 
shadow passed over its face, like the wind over 
the water, and it gasped once or twice, and it 
was cold as the grave, white as marble, and 
nothing but the dead casket of the soul was left 
to the family. The sobs of the father, the wail 
of the mother, and the loud grief of the children, 
fell unheeded on the ear of the dead child. And 
this was the first death in that house. And thus 
was this splendid mansion turned, for the time 
being, into a tomb. We can't look at the house 
as we did. We feel that it is marked, and a 



70 THE FIRST FUNERAL IN THE NEW HOUSE. 

process has there commenced that is to he re- 
peated again and again. Who will be next, or 
how many during the first century^ or how many 
before these walls will crumble dow|i will go 
from that spot to give an account for all the 
deeds done here in the body, who can tell ? But 
to me there never can be a funeral so solemn 
under that roof as the first 

Who and what characters are yet to come out 
of that dwelling? Will it send forth young 
hearts beating with love to Christ — ^missionaries 
of the Cross, or true and faithful ministers ? Will 
it be the school of Christ, where his disciples will 
be trained up for his service and glory ? What 
a history of all the families that will ever live in 
that house will be given at the last, great day ! 

But wisely all this is concealed from us, while 
we do know that every sorrow that shall grow 
up there, every disappointment that shall be felt 
there, and every death that shall take place there, 
may become a blessing, and fit these successive 
families for the ''house not made with hands, 
eternal in the heavens." 

I am surprised at times to see how short the 
time is, that a house can stand after being built, 
before this fearful messenger shall find it ; and I 
think my reader would also be astonished to be 
told. I wonder if Death, as he passes our streets, 
knows when he is to call on this or that family, 



THE FIRST FUNERAL IN THE NEW HOUSE. 71 

and can point his finger at every house and say^ 
" I know when." 

But there is a bright side to this dark picture. 
The first man whom Death struck down on this 
Earth was a "righteous" man, and undoubtedly he 
was saved by his faith. The little one who first 
passed from the new house into eternity, we trust 
was one who wiU be a jewel in the crown of Christ 
for ever. It went to a more beautiful home, to a 
more perfect education. And who can doubt, if 
that strong dwelling shall stand for centuries, 
that there will be many trained up there for the 
presence of Christ ? It is n,ot then, in this light, 
a gi'eat tomb, but a beautiful porch at the gate of 
Heaven. Perhaps for ages the angels will mark 
this house as the place where they come and 
gamer up the precious things of earth which were 
bought with the blood of the Lamb. There were 
"churches" in the private houses of the early 
Christians. Will not the time yet come again 
when the loving heart may send greetings to 
" the church which is in thy house " ? 

The new house is beautiful to me ; not because 
its architecture is so costly and perfect, nor because 
its furniture is so splendid, nor because it is every 
way so perfect in arrangement, but because I have 
attended the first funeral there, and feel sure that 
one dear, precious child, has gone from that home 
to his home in the skies. Men as they pass by 



72 THE FIRST FUITKRAL IN THE NKW HOUSE. 

may not know, or they may foiget, that there 
ever was a funeral in that dwelling, but I never 
shall I look upon it as the place where a 
beautiful little jewel was prepared for the diadem 
of the Redeemer ; and I earnestly pray that 
every one in the family may be saved in conse- 
quence of the first funeral in the new house. 



^Ih nt the M;AttdiiiL 



■4«- 




E were standing in a deep gorge between 
two very high mountains. It was a 
very hot day on the plain, but when 
we reached this gorge it was cold al- 
most to chilliness. There was quite 
a mountain stream, that came roaring 
through the ravine, rushing among the rocks, now 
leaping over huge stones, foaming, heaving, whirl- 
ing, and scattering its spray far and near. Just 
before us the stream seemed to be cooped up, as 
if its progress were to be stopped ; when suddenly 
it gathered force, and leaped down a precipice, 
making the very earth tremble with its fall 

"Beautiful," said my young friend, "beautiful; 
but after all I am wondering for what purpose it 
was made. Only one man in six months, it may 
be, sees it, and he may not have taste enough to 
admire it Do you suppose it was made to foam 
and roar here only for the eye of man ? " 



€1 



74 TALK AT THE WATERFALL. 

" By no means ; but it was made for the lungs 
of men, and of men too who never saw it or heard 

of it;* 

Please explain yourself" 
Well, I'll try. These great huge mountains 
are in part aU for the same purpose." 

" I don't begin to understand you, sir." 

" Don't you remember what horrid smells we 
had as we came out of the great city ? " 

" Indeed I do. I had to hold my nose for a 
time." 

" And in the roads and over the plains what 
clouds of dust we had ? " 

Yes, I was almost choked." 
Well, every city, every factory, every dead 
thing, animal or vegetable, is constantly sending 
up what corrupts the air we breathe. Every 
furnace and coal-pit, and every chimney in the 
land and in the world, adds to the impurity of 
the air. How long could you breathe holding 
your face over the top of a chimney or in the 
thick smoke of a coal-pit ? Then the decay of 
animals and of all the vegetable world, as you 
know, produces fevers, plague, cholera, and other 
fearful diseases, by corrupting the air. What 
sicknesses we sometimes have in the decay of 
autumn I Now this air has to be constantly 
in a process of purification, else it will kill every- 
body." 



€< 



TALK AT THE WATERFALL. 75 

" Well, SO far is very plain ; but what has that 
to do with this dark, unknown waterfall?'' 

" Be patient and you shall know. God knew 
that we must breathe every moment, and that we 
must have pure air; hence it is that he is at work 
everywhere to do thia With the spray and the 
waters of the ocean he begins to wash it. As the 
vapours rise up in the air, and are gathered in 
the clouds and whirled around everywhere by the 
wind, the air is washed, and every drop of rain 
does its part in this work. Then God rolls it 
over and over again and again, tossing and dash- 
ing it between heaven and earth by every storm. 
Certain parts of its impurities he lets rise up in 
the clouds, and then burns them up with lightning. 
Don't you know how much purer and sweeter the 
air is after a thunder-storm ? He drives this air 
through the great forest, and every tree and leaf 
is a kind of strainer, which takes out some of its 
impurities. Then these mountains and gorges — 
they cause the air to traverse up and down their 
sides, to roll down, sucked through every gorge, 
moistened by every spray and leap of the brook, 
whirled along by every torrent, beat and pounded 
by every waterfall, cooled in caves and corners 
where the sunbeams never fall, and then sent out 
over the plains where men live, all purified and 
fitted for their lungs. By-and-by it will come 
back again to be bruised and shaken, to creep 



76 TALK AT THE WATERFAIX. 

over the bare heads of these mountains, to be 
pierced by the darts which the lightnings send 
through them^ to be rolled and tossed like hay in 
the field, all over these mountains and foresta 
And this is what that foaming waterfisdl and 
thousands more like it are doing. They are 
churning and purifying the air that we breathe 
The babe in the narrow street of the great city, 
and the dweller in the house on the great prairie, 
may both be the better for this very gorge and 
mountain torrent The snows also that gently 
fall through the air are a great purifier. They 
wash it Have you never seen the snow almost 
dark with impurities brought down with it out of 
the air ? " 

" I see, I see ; and I wonder I never saw all 
this before. I understand too the words of the 
psalmist, and how ' fire and hail, snow and 
vapours, stormy wind, mountains and all bills, 
fulfil his word,' and aid in the great plans of his 
mercy ; and I don't wonder the holy man ex- 
claimed, 'O God, in wisdom hast thou made 
them all/ " 




anber the |^ahe. 



-•♦■ 




*E were at Chicago, where people were 
then making a contrivance by which 
to draw water — pure, cold, and nice 
— ^from the bottom of the lake. 
They formed the plan carefully, after 
many soundings and borings in the 
lake. Then they made what I would call a great 
Glib, and floated it oflT two miles, and sank it by 
filling it with stones — I dare not say how many 
tons. The bottom of the lake is hard, blue clay; 
so into and through this clay, down, down, sixty 
feet, they began to dig. 

There was a huge steam-engine, a very strong 
fellow, who cheerfully lifted up any weight they 
put on him. As the engineer was going down to 
the tunnel, by great good luck and his great 
politeness, we, two ministers and a friend, got an 
invitation to go down with him. 

The reader must know that as fast as they dig 

(622) 6 




78 UKDER THE LAKE. 

the tunnel the day is trundled to the opening, 
and then the little cars are lifted up about seventy 
feet, and emptied. The clay is then burned into 
brick, carried back, and goes to make the tunnel 

And now in the dirt and clay you are rigged 
out in old coats and hats, some too large and some 
too small, till you laugh at one another with 
great heartiness. You then get into the little car; 
crouching and twisting up your legs, and occupy- 
ing the smallest possible space. The car holds 
the engineer, two visitors, and one workman. 
Two little smoking lamps intimate that you are 
going into darkness. Word is now given, 
"Lower away," and you begin to descend into 
thick darkness. "The saints are going down," 
cries a rogue at the mouth of the hole. You look 
up, and can just see the light above. 

And now your car is down, and resting on a 
narrow railroad track. You are in the tunnel, 
which is a round arch, or complete circle, five feet 
and two inches in diameter, or from side to side 
straight acrosa Now move if you dare, for the 
man behind begins to push the car. On, on you 
go, making the air to rush past you. Be careful, 
and not lift your head an inch, or it will be 
scraped 1 On the right hand, as you go in, you 
notice the feet are marked on the brick, — ten, 
twenty, &c., up to a hundred; and then it begins 
again. On, on you go, just like dreaming, seem- 



UNDER THE LAKE. 79 

4 

ing to make no progress. And now you begin to 
feel that you are under the lake — fairly under it. 
People talk about the tunnel under the Thames 
at London as a mighty work. It is really a 
little over twelve hundred feet long. We went 
over three thousand feet under the mighty lake, 
and only three-eighths of it is yet dug ! At 
every thousand feet there is a sort of chamber 
where the cars can stop, and where on each side 
the workmen may leave their tools. 

At the farther end you are three quarters of 
a mile under the lake. But it is bricked and 
arched up until you get within about ten feet of 
the end, where the workmen are digging. That 
ten feet has no support but the clay. You can 
now hear the paddles of the steamboat, as she 
crosses over your head. What if that clay should 
break or give way ! What if the great lake 
should come rushing down upon you ! How long 
would it take to fill the great tunnel ? What a 
tomb would it be! 

You now take the pickaxe and dig a little, just 
to feel that you "have had a hand in it," and 
have "helped to dig the great tunnel" at Chicago. 
On the right as you go in you notice a black- 
looking tin pipe, about the size of a common stove- 
pipe, only flattened so as not to take up much 
room. This pipe is open at the end where the 
workmen are. and its use is to carry off the bad 



80 UNDER THE LAKS. 

air which fills the tunneL But how do they get 
good air to breathe ? Hark I don't you hear a 
whirring, buzzing noise, as if a thousand par- 
tridges had been scared up ? That is the bellows 
which our friend the steam-engine uses with 
which to blow fresh air down the shaft, and keep 
the tunnel full all the tima So you see that 
while he forces new and pure air down and into 
this dark region, he sucks out the bad air through 
the tin pipe already described. 

Two feet a day they advance, working day and 
night, and in a little more than a year they 
expect to have it done; and then the great engine 
will still force the water up high enough to run 
in pipes all over the great city. What a gigantic 
work 1 What an idea it gives one of what mind 
and skill and civilization can do. And this huge 
work, all completed and filled with water, tapping 
the lake full two miles ofi*, all complete, lay in 
the mind of the engineer before he began to lift a 
tool ! And just so all things, visible and invisible, 
lay in the mind of the Great Architect before he 
created a single thing; only he made them all 
from nothing. 

What a singular plan by which to supply a 
great city with unfailing pure and cool water. 
Does it not make one think of that more wonder- 
ful plan by which the waters of life are made to 
flow to every man's door — cool, pure, refreshing, 



Uin)ER THE LAKE. 81 

abundant for the wants, not of a city merely, 
but of a world ? " Whosoever drinketh of this 
water shall thirst again ; but whosoever drinketh 
of the water that I shall give him shall never 
thirst/' 



**M fov ^tn tents." 



■^♦■ 





LL for ten cents ! all for ten cents ! " I 
heard a voice proclaiming. It was at 
the railway station, at the close of a 
cold, rainy, dreary day, and I was just 
taking the cars, expecting to go three 
hundred miles during the night. 
"All for ten cents, sir!" repeated the same 
voice. Soon there came along a nimble, smart, 
dapper, whisking little fellow, offering to sell the 
tickets of a new kind of insurance company, who 
engage to insure your life for the night, and for 
the three hundred miles, to the amount of five 
thousand dollars, and "all for ten cents ;" that is, 
on paying ten cents for my ticket I was to secure 
five thousand dollars in the event of being killed. 
Now I knew some things perfectly well I 
knew the night was to be long and very dark ; 
that we were to go not less than twenty-five or 
irty miles every hour, counting stoppages ; I 



" ALL FOR TEN CENTS." 83 

knew I was liable to be killed should a bridge 
break down, should the wind blow down a tree 
on the track, should one of the wheels of my cai* 
break, should we meet another train by mistake 
on our track, should some careless fellow turn a 
switch wrong, should some evil-minded person put 
obstacles on the rails, should some thoughtless 
cow lie down in our path; in short, I could 
think over a great multitude of things that might 
occur, any one of which might cost me my life. 
I knew, too, that the five thousand dollars would 
be a very convenient little circumstance to my 
family, in case I should get killed that night. 
And yet, strange though it may seem, I did not 
purchase the insurance. And why not? The 
sum certainly was a very small one — " all for ten 
cents." 

"Perhaps," say you, "you had no confidence 
in the company ofiering to insure." 

" I did not think of that question. If I had 
known it to be the best company in the world 
the result would have been the same." 

" Perhaps you think the system of insurance 
wrong." 

" By no means. If honestly conducted, it is a 
very valuable aid to civilized society." 

" What then was the reason ? " 

To tell the truth, I had such confidence in the 
care and protection of God, that I did not feel 



84 "ALL FOR TEN CENTS." 

that it was worth ten cents to be insured. And 
what an amazing result is that to which this leads 
us. Probably in that long train of cars there 
were not a dozen who would pay the ten cents 
to have their lives insured. And that not because 
many of them thought of God and his care and 
protection, but they knew that something had so 
far kept them safe ; that they had ridden in eel's, 
in steamboats, and in coaches, by day and by 
night, scores of times, and had never yet come to 
any harm. What a wonderful care and protec- 
tion 'of our heavenly Father is it, that we would 
not any day or night be willing to pay ten cents 
to have our life insured! And who does not see 
that this is not presumption, but a proper result 
of our experience ? So that every day and every 
night God keeps for us that which men, at the 
very lowest estimate, call worth five thousand 
dollars. 

" How can they afford to insure life so cheap?" 
says one. I reply, that every railroad in the land 
can afford, for ten cents on a passenger, to issue 
a ticket obligating itself to pay five thousand 
dollars for every one killed. Take one railroad 
which I have in my mind. They run only six 
trains daily each way, averaging, I suppose, four 
hundred for each train, which is four thousand 
eight hundred passengers daily; which is twenty- 
eight thousand eight hundred weekly, counting 



I 



" ALL FOR TEN CENTS." 85 

six days in the week; which is nearly one million 
and a half annually^ and which, at ten cents each, 
would give the railroad 149,760 dollars. What 
railroad would not jump at the chance thus to 
insure, when often they lose not a life in a whole 
year? 

But I took my pen, not to contrive how to 
enrich railroads, but to show how wonderfully the 
providence of God prptects us, and how we rely 
upon it, even when we make no acknowledgment 
and express no gratitude. How few would be 
willing to part with that which God daily gives 
them for twice five thousand dollars, who never- 
theless are not ready to bless him for all this. It 
was not because the passengers esteemed their 
lives of so little value, that they neglected to be 
insured, but because they had so much confidence 
in the common providence of God that they felt 
that they were safe. Oh, how great is the good- 
ness of our heavenly Father ! Can you not, and 
will you not, love this kind Protector, this more 
than kind Friend — the very Redeemer of your 
soul? 



^ §txmgt ^ixwxQtt. 



-••>■ 




SUPPOSE a child or a grown-up man or 
woman could meet himself in the street, 
would he know himself? I reply. No; 
not his own face or person. The experi- 
ment has often been tried. In a certain 
shop, the new proprietors fitted up at the farther 
end a very large mirror. It reflected the full 
figure of every one in the room. An old gentle- 
man who was deaf, and who had not heard of the 
great mirror, went into the shop. As he advanced 
he noticed another old gentleman coming to meet 
him. Belonging to " the old school " in politeness, 
he bows to the stranger, and the stranger bows to 
him. He stretches out his hand, as if to shake 
hands; and so does the stranger. "Sir," said he, 
"you have the advantage of me. You seem to 
know me ; but I can't recall your name, though it 
seems as if I had seen you before. Please to speak 
louder, sir, for my hearing is much impaired." 



A STRANGE STRANGER. 87 

By this time the clerks were too full to hold in, 
and broke out in a laugh. The whole thing then 
flashed upon him, and he enjoyed the mistake as 
much as any of them. Let any one go into a 
room lighted by the moon only, and pass by a 
mirror, and he will start at seeing an unknown 
form moving in the room, not recognizing his own 
face. I once knew a very polite old gentleman of 
the olden time, who was at a large dinner party. 
At the call to the table in a distant room, he was 
naturally expected to take the lead; but as he was 
leaving the room he saw another old gentleman, 
who ought, as he thought, to have the precedence. 
Accordingly he paused and bowed, and tried hard 
to get the stranger to advance first. The com- 
pany were too polite to shout, but they could 
sqarcely refrain themselves. The panels of the 
doors were mirrors, and he was bowing to his 
own image. 

It may seem strange that a man who has seen 
his own face in the glass daily for half a century 
should not know it when he unexpectedly meets 
it ; but so it is. Men forget their own children 
in a few years. Suppose a man should find a 
great basket by the wayside, carefully packed, 
and on opening it he should find it filled with 
human thcmghts — all the thoughts which had 
passed through one single brain in one year, or 
in five years — what a medley they would make ! 



88 A STRANGE STRANGER, 

How many would be wild and foolish; how many 
weak and contemptible ; how many mean and 
vile ; how many so contradictory and crooked 
that they could hardly lie still in the basket! 
And suppose he should be told that these were all 
his own thoughts— children of his own brain- 
how amazed would he be; how little prepared to 
see himself as revealed in those thoughts. And 
how would he want to run away and hide, if all 
the world were to see the basket opened and see 
his thoughts. 

Suppose a messenger from God should take us 
by the hand and lead us up the steps of a great 
building, and as we entered the porch it should 
begin to grow dark. Suppose that he should 
then open a door into a very large hall, which he 
called a "picture-gallery." As we enter it we' 
find it dark as night ; but as the angel touches a 
spring, the light flashes in and fills the room. We 
now see that the walls are hung with pictures — 
so many and so large that they cover all the walls. 
On these are painted all the sins that we have 
ever committed ! On one picture are painted all 
the bad words we have ever spoken ; on another, 
all the crimes and jealousies we have ever felt ; 
on another, all the covetings of our hearts ; on 
others, all the wrong bargains we have ever made 
— ^all the unkindness to our parents and friends of 
which we have ever been guilty — all our prayei - 



A STRANGE STRANGER. 89 

less mornings and evenings — all our neglect of 
God's Word — all our ingratitude towards our 
heavenly Father^ and our hard feelings towards 
him — all our abuse of the Sabbath and the means 
of grace — ^all our neglect of the Saviour, and our 
grieving away the Holy Spirit. What pictures 
would our sins — open sins, secret sins, heart sins, 
and life-long sins — make! Who would dare to 
look at them ? What a terrible hall would that 
be! It would truly be a "judgment-halL" I 
don't suppose we should at once recognize aU 
these pictures to be ours ; but they would make 
us tremble. 

We have to meet ourselves at the Great Day^ 
and see all the thoughts of our life, as if laid 
together in a basket; and we have to meet all 
our sins, as if each one were painted in colours 
that will never fade ; and how much, oh ! how 
much shall we need the blessed Saviour to take 
these bodies and make them " like unto his own 
glorious body ;" and to take these thoughts and 
"cover them" up for ever; and to take these 
sins, all painted so clearly, and " blot them out " 
for ever. Oh, Divine Hand, what a work will 
this blotting out of the sins of all thy redeemed 
be! 



^hc <p:ttBfe-^t in the CmwL 



-••- 



I 




[HE musk-rat had his home in the greal 
canaL He might travel a hundred miles 
either way and find the same still watera 
He lived in a wild place £eu- from an; 
house or city, and nothing disturbed him 
except the boats that came along, day and night, 
continually. But as he came out of his hole onlj 
in the night, and as the path for the horses that 
drew the boats was on the other side of the canal, 
and as every boat had a light at her bow, which 
he could see afar off, the boats did not trouble 
him much. He swam in the canal, or he crept 
up its bank and went to the fields for food, and 
was as well off as any musk-rat ought to desire ; 
but like many men who have a fulness, he began 
to grow lazy. 

"Now," said he, as he sat perched upon the 
bank of the canal one pleasant night, " now this 
canal was evidently built for us musk-rats ; but 



THE MUSK-BAT IN THE CANAL. 91 

what a shame to make the banks so high and so 
steep. How I have to tug my grass and clover 
up this high bank; and how it puts me out of 
breath and makes me pant. Those stupid things 
called men do, to be sure, use the canal to move 
their boats on ; but it is perfectly plain that it 
was made for us noble and wise musk-rats. Now 
a thought has come into my head, — a very wise 
thought. Instead of creeping up and down this 
high bank, I will dig a hole through it, down at 
the bottom, and then I can run in and out just 
when I please. Won'tthat be worthwhile? Who 
but a musk-rat would ever have thought of that?" 

Plunge! and down he goes, and begins to dig. 
All night and all the next day he toiled, when he 
opened a little hole through the bank. The water 
followed him, which in vain he tried to kick back 
with his feet. Dig, dig, a Kttle more. There, pop 
he goes through; and rush, rush comes the water, 
tearing, ripping, and foaming after him. It whirls 
and surges and rushes and sweeps the poor musk- 
rat away, and jams him between two rails of the 
fence, where he lies dead. Rush, rush; the bank 
gives way, the water all runs out, and hundreds 
of boats are lefb in the mud at the bottom of the 
canal — ^all in a few hours. 

Now for some of the resulta The wise, lazy, 
and vain rat lost his life, which is hardly worth 
mentioning. Then there was a loss of property 



92 THE HUSK-RAT IX THE CANAL. 

in consequence of the delay to repair the breach, 
which amounted to at least fifty tliouaand dol^ 
lava. There were hundreds of barrels of apples 
and fruit lost by decay. There were ships at 
the wharves waiting for the flour, mills waiting 
for the grain, carpenters waiting for the lumber, 
soldiers waiting for the horses and the hay and 
the oats ; dealers waiting for the pork, the lard, 
the butter, and the cheese ; and hundreds of 
tradesmen and workmen all waiting for the things 
detained in the canal Men lost opportunities of 
good bargains, lost their character for truth and 
prompt dealing, lost by the fall and change in 
the markets, lost by the decay and destruction 
of their cargoes ; and all, all owing to that one 
mischievous musk-rat. The property which was 
destroyed would have given ten dollars a year to 
each of five hundred poor Sabbath-schools in all 
future time. And yet the poor musk-rat was 
not to blame : he knew no better ; he had no 
thought of the mischief he was doing, or that he 
could dp any hurt. 

But what shall we say of those who do wrong, 
knowing that it is wrong? A very small hole 
may seriously injure a canal ; a single spark of 
fire may bum up a city; the starting of a single 
bolt may sink a ship. So a single wrong deed 
may draw a great train of evil after it ; a single 
wicked word may poison a little child ; a single 



THE MUSK-EAT IN THE CANAL. 93 

wicked thought may be like opening the hole in 
the bank, through which a world of sin will 
follow ; a single unholy feeling admitted into the 
soul may do untold hurt. It is as important 
what we do Twt do, as what we do. 

Laziness does not belong to musk-rats more 
than to human beings. To save labour, the little 
animal may destroy a world of property. K we 
have laziness in the heart, out, out with it. We 
have too much responsibility resting on us to 
permit our being lazy. K we feel that we are 
too small to do good or hurt, remember that even 
one musk-rat may do untold hurt, though he 
himself is a very insignificant fellow. 



(622) 



^ittk icUoto-^hroat 



■H- 




^ is said that we have over forty different 
species of the warblers that flit among 
the branches of our northern forests. In 
a certain garden, surrounded by trees, 
there was a nest of these songsters. 
Among the thick leaves of the linden-tree the 
little nest was built, and there the tiny eggs were 
laid, and there hatched. The nestlings were very 
small at first, but at length they grew till the 
four little birds, all together, weighed just one 
ounce. No mother could be more anxious and 
careful than the parent bird, or more joyful than 
she on the day when they could leave the nest 
and try their wings. At first they could only 
flutter a little way before falling on the ground ; 
but by degrees they gathered strength and courage 
till they could flit from tree to tree anywhere in 
the garden. Here they had their home, and here 
most of them were very happy. The old bird 



LITTLE YELLOW-THROAT. 95 

taught them how to sing, how to fly, and where 
to find the best food. But the youngest of her 
family, whose name was "Yellow-Throat," per- 
haps the fairest and most beautiful of all the 
young brood, seemed to have a discontented spirit. 
She was difficult to please : her food was seldom 
right; the dews of the morning were too cool; 
the heat of the day was too great ; the songs of 
her sisters were not in chord ; or something was 
always wrong. Of course this spirit grew upon 
her. tiU her life was unhappy, and her presence 
made others unhappy. At length she gradually 
withdrew from society, and lived more and more 
alone. In vain her friends tried to draw her 
back into society, but poor Yellow-Throat had 
made up her mind that she ought to be unhappy, 
and she would be. She now began to fly to the 
tops of the trees and look out over the wall, to 
Bee how the world looked beyond the garden. 
One day as she sat thus peering about, she saw, 
apparently not very far distant, a large lake and 
a beautiful-looking island in its centre. 

"Oh, what a beautiful lake!*' cried Yellow- 
Throat ; " how delightful it would be to fly over 
that smooth water and see one's self reflected 
from it as from a great looking-glass. And how 
delightful to be on that island, all alone, there 
to sing a song so sweet that even the mermaids 
would come up from the lake to listen. How I 



96 LITTLE YELLOW-THEOAT. 

wish I were there. I can be there. I wiU be 
there." 

She then laid her plans how she would get up 
early next morning, and without stopping to eat, 
would fly away to that sweet island. The 
morning came, and as soon as the sun was well 
up, little Yellow-Throat turned her back upon 
mother and home, despising her beautiful garden, 
and without a farewell word to any one, or even a 
kind look, she lifted herself up on the wing, and 
in a few minutes was on her way to the lake. 
Alas, when she got to it, instead of being smooth 
as a mirror, the waves were tossing and dashing, 
the wind blew hard from the island, and it looked 
a great way off. But the poor thing was ashamed 
to go back, for she knew that ere this they would 
all know her folly, and so she flew forward. Cold 
and strong blew the wind, and on darted little 
Yellow -Throat, till at last, almost dead with 
fatigue, she reached the island, and dropped down 
on it panting for breath. But instead of finding 
the beautiful spot she expected, she found its 
shores all rocks ; nothing on it but clumps of 
Norway pines, through which winds moaned and 
whistled. Not a bird nor a happy thing lived 
on it. Poor Yellow-Throat ! how different from 
what her imagination painted. So she nestled 
down in the crevice of a rock, and waited and 
waited till the next morning should return. 



LITTLE YELLOW-THROAT. 97 

At last it did return; but the wind had shifted, 
and now, to get back to the mainland again, she 
had to go far from the place she came &om. But 
she felt that she must get there, or die here ; and 
so, picking up for her breakfast a few sour ants 
that were creeping over the rocks, she again made 
for the shore. The wind helped her now, and 
she was not so much exhausted by the journey. 
She entered a great orchard, where the trees were 
large, and it seemed Uke going into the very land 
of plenty. But on the first tree on which she 
alighted, she came near losing her life ; for on 
going to sleep a few moments to rest her, she 
barely awaked soon enough to escape the spring 
of a monster cat creeping towards her, with his 
great gray eyes wide open. " Oh," said the poor 
bird, " how I wish I were again at home, with my 
dear, dear mother, and brothers and sisters. But 
I don't know which way the garden lies, and 
cannot find it. What a foolish thing I was ! And 
now I must die with hunger, for I find none of 
the sweet millet seed so abundant in my home." 

At length she noticed a large flock of little 
birds coming and going to and from a fanner's 
granary. They had found a place where they 
could enter and steal as much food as they pleased. 
Yellow-Throat knew it was wrong to steal, but 
thought she might do as others did. So in she 
rushed with the rest, and filled her crop ; but 



98 LITTLE YELLOW-THROAT. 

alas ! just as a great flock were coming out, a 
farmer's boy fired his gun loaded with very fine 
shot, directly among them. One shot struck poor 
Yellow-Throat, and she had strength only to fly 
and drop over the fence to die. And these were 
her dying words :— 

" Alas, I am dying here, away from home and 
friends, and all for my folly. Oh that I could 
warn every bird and every boy and every girl to 
be content with what God has given them, and 
not try to better their condition by wishing and 
longing for change." 



^ Slock ot §ixbB. 



-M- 




WHOLE flock of birds have found their 
way into my study, and there they are, 
just beside me, in a pretty glass case, 
between thirty and forty in number. 
They have all attitudes : some with 
wings and tails spread, some watching 
for flies, some singing, some scooping the air for 
the insect on the wing, and some standing grave, 
as if waiting for a truant child to come home. 
They are of all colours : jet black, brown, olive, 
bright blue, orange, crimson, scarlet, emerald 
green, and some with several colours mingled and 
mellowing into each other. They are bright as 
jewels, and one would think from their brilliancy 
that they had been bom and coloured in therainbow. 
I know nothing of their money value. They are 
not to be estimated by dollars and cents. They 
are the most beautiful blossoms of the air, and 
have a fragrance of the heart about them, for they 



100 A FLOCK OF BIRDS. 

have just been sent to me by the young men of 
my congregation. To me, who love everything 
beautiful, and especially what is beautiful in 
character, they are of value not to be estimated. 

In looking at them I seem to read human feel- 
ing, or rather, they seem to represent human 
character. That large, portly, rotund Woodcock, 
dressed in a rich chestnut suit, with brown shorts, 
and black boots : does he not look like a rich 
alderman, well-to-do in the world, with a good 
digestion, dignified and sober, and yet able to 
present here and there a long bill to his creditors? 

And there is his cousin Snipe standing close 
by, so quiet and still, yet able to send that long 
bill far down in the sand, and bring up the worm 
and the bug that thought they were safe in their 
dark home. Friend Snipe, thou dost not look 
like a glutton, but thou remindest me of some 
men who contrive to get a good living where 
others would starve, and who will spend life in 
the mud and dirt for the sake of what they get 
out of it. 

And thou, plain, brown, striped Mockmg-bird, 
how very plain thou art. Did the Creator see 
that if thy plumage had been equal to thy voice 
thy vanity had destroyed thee ? Oh, unequalled 
songster, how often have I sat down silent and 
amazed to hear thy little throat pour out the notes 
of all the feathered tribes around thee, while they 



A FLOCK OP BIRDS. 101 

too were astonished into silence. Be content, 
thou winged music-box, to wear thy plain colours, 
and not to attract the eye. One such gift as 
thine is enough for one bird. Ah, yes, and I 
have seen human singers wondering why, with 
their wonderful voices, they could not also have 
had beauty of person. Be content. One great gift 
from our Creator is enough for one individual. 

And there is the beautiful Goldfinch, the ortoge 
Oriole, the fiery Fire-bird of the forest, the beau- 
tiful Blue-birdf and many a gem of a bird, till 
we come to the little, tiny, bright-green and gold 
Humming-bird. Wonderful specimen of work- 
manship. How can that little creature move 
these wings so fast, with a noise like a mimic 
factory, darting Uke a lump of soUd light, and 
then balancing: on the wing as if dancing on an 
invisible floor! 

All, all so beautiful ! Where were they bom ? 
In what groves have they sung ? Through what 
paths in the air have they travelled ? Some from 
the cold north, some from the middle latitudes, 
and some from South America; how wonderful 
that you should all meet here and silently teach 
a humble minister of the gospel I am almost 
sure that Adam and Eve must have admired you 
in Eden, as ye flew and sang and darted and 
flashed among the trees of that garden. And 
why, beautiful pets, are the male birds so brilliant 



II 



I 

- 102 A FLOCK OF BIRDS. 

I 

in colours^ while the female is wood-coloured an 
jl very plain? Perhaps because the female mm 

sit in her nest and tend her young, and if he 
colours were bright, the hawk and the owl an 
the serpent would see her and eat her up. Noi 
she looks like the tree ; while the male by hi 
very brilliancy can flash through the trees, an 
thus lead the hawk away from the nest and hi 
mate. Perhaps when thus engaged he forgets hi 
regimentals, and is not vain of his beauty. Do€ 
he ever wish his wife were more beautiful ? 

Oh the goodness of the Lord ! How he paini 
the grass and the leaves and the flowers of tb 
earth, and then tosses flowers through the ai] 
that we may see his skill and admire his beauti 
ful creations everywhere, and see that earth an 
water, air and sky, are fuU of his goodness an 
the wonders of his skill. My new treasures sha 
each be a preacher to me, silent but eloquent 




^ §tmttxtnl ^ktaxt. 



■*•- 




[CTUBES are called beautiful, sometimes 
for one reason and sometimes for 
another. I have the walls of my study 
adorned with many, the description of 
which would be interesting. They are 
chiefly mementoes of friends. Many of 
them are very beautiful ; but only a few touch 
the heart But I have recently received one 
from a fnend at which I cannot look without 
emotion. It is a small affair, and I do not even 
know its title. It might be called the " Voyage 
of Life," or the " Family Group," or " From One 
Shore to Another." Let me describe it. 

There is a plain, strong, every-day-looking boat 
on the water. The place of her destiny is hidden 
from sight. There are eleven individuals in it. 
At the bow of the boat are three children, with a 
basket of flowers near them. One careless, good- 
natured little girl is sitting down with her chin 



104 A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE. 

on the gunwale of the boat, looking towards you 
in a sort of dreamy state. She has no thought 
as to how fast they move, or where they are to 
go, or whether there are rocks and dangers before 
them. How carelessly her little sun-bonnet sits 
on her head. She is neither hungry, nor thirsty, 
nor weary, nor anxious, nor even curious. She 
is the picture of contentment. Happy child ! 

Near her, at the bow also, are two other 
children, a little boy and his younger sister. 
He has evidently seen something, or he thinks 
he has, in the distance, and is eagerly pointing it 
out to the sister. She is trying to see it too, 
and they are absorbed. How fresh, how new, 
how beautiful is life before them! Everything 
is on a large scale : great trees, great water, 
great hills, and great men ! 

Just behind them is the rower of the boat, 
who, I suppose, is Time. He is neither old nor 
young, and is both. He is looking with a curious 
face on the two lovers who sit just forward of 
the middle of the boat. The youth is evidently 
telling the fresh emotions of the heart in the low 
tones of love to the maiden who sits near him, 
and who holds a bunch of flowers just taken from 
her lap ; and she lets it dip in the water, as if 
she were too much occupied with that to hear 
the fooUsh things which he is whispering. She 
gazes down in the water, and sees that the flowers 



A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE. 105 

are already beginning to be washed from their 
stems. How eager he seems ; how modest she. 
They look neither backward nor forward : they 
are full of the present. They see nobody else, 
and are not aware, apparently, that there is 
another person in the boat. Beautiful maiden ! 
she thinks that if the waters should carry off 
every flower-bud in her hand, she has a whole 
lapful left. To them the world contains nothing 
but flowers. 

Just behind them are three figures. The man 
in middle life stands tall, firm, self-possessed, and 
vet evidently not without anxiety. He is look- 
ing forward, with an eager, sharp gaze, towards 
the spot to which the boat is moving. He sees 
not his wife sitting close to him, though, as he 
touches her shoulder with his left hand, it is plain 
that he fed^ her presence. Evidently he realizes 
that all in the boat are committed to him, and 
manfuUy does he stand up to meet the responsi- 
bility. He will not disappoint expectation. 

At his feet sits his wife. Her beautiful little 
boy lays his head on her knee, going to sleep, 
contented and safe and happy "to be where 
mother is." She lays her right hand on him as 
a living shield ; but she sees him not. Her eyes 
are upward, watching her husband's face. She 
knows his anxious look, and shows that she feels 
that her future and that of her children all depend 



106 A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE. 

on him. What a confiding, humble, grateful gaze 
she bestows on him. Is he not " a strong and 
beautiful staff;'' and is she not secure as long as 
he is with her to direct the boat and eye the 
future ? You can see the confidence and love of 
the wife expressed in the open, clear eye, with 
which she regards him. Peerless gift of God to 
man — the gentle, modest, loving wife ! No other 
friend can ever take her place, in counsel, in sym> 
pathy, in self-denial, in forbearance, and in affec- 
tion. '' Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, 
and obtaineth favour of the Lord.** 

At the stem of the boat are two figures, and 
how you sympathize with their sadnesa They 
are an aged couple — probably the parents, who 
have seen the spring, the summer, and the autumn 
of life pass by them, while its winter is now upon 
them. They are old, and have drunk from the 
cup of life till they find its dregs — put there to 
make them willing to let it go from them. The 
aged wife holds her travelling-basket in her lap, 
as if it contained all that they will want during 
the remainder of the voyage, her hands lightly 
clasped together, and with a sad face she is look- 
ing back upon what they have passed over. Does 
she see the green moimds which covered her little 
ones long, long ago ? Do pictures of the long life 
and its changes come before her ? Do the graves 
of friends, neighbours, and a multitude who began 



A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE. 107 

life with her, rise to view ? Is the past receding, 
so that she sees it more and more dimly ? She 
lives in the memories of the past, and the progress 
of the boat now makes no impression on her. 
She does not, for the moment, see her husband, 
the venerable, bending figure sitting near her. 
How he bows that head leaning upon his staff, 
the white locks, " the crown of glory," resting on 
his shoulders. You notice the dark mourning 
crape upon his hat ; he beholds nothing back, 
nothing forward, nothing present ' He is looking 
down into the boat, thinking, thinking. What 
are the thoughts that are now thronging. through 
his heart ? Evidently he has done with the past, 
has nothing to do with the future, and nothing 
with the present. What does he see in the 
bottom of the boat ? Is it the picture of his own 
grave ; or is he peering only into vacancy and 
musing of the farther shore where he hopes to 
meet those for whom he wears the crape ? Who 
can help giving their sympathy to this aged 
couple ? 

Our sweetest joys and our deepest sorrows 
grow in the family. '* He setteth one thing over 
against another ; " and in proportion to the love 
and confidence which bind our hearts together, 
so are our sorrows deep when death separates ua 
And eagerly does the head of the family look for- 
ward, not only to see what Ues before the family 



108 A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE. 

boat as it glides over the waters of time, but also 
to pierce that veil which hangs over the land 
whither they are going. Will that old man meet 
the little ones who perished from his arms years 
ago ; and will he know them as the babes that 
were once his ? Will he greet those children who 
died in manhood, and will they come around him 
as their father ? And why does he not now wish 
to go to them? Why had he rather bend over his 
poor staff and toddle along a little further, than 
die when the joys of life are all gone ? Because 
God has made us to love life, that we may be care- 
ful of it ; and because, also, it is all an unknown 
land whither we go. We know that they live 
there ; for Moses and Samuel and Elijah and Paul 
have been there and come back to us. But they 
had no power, for it is not in human language to 
describe what that world is. Eye hath not seen 
it, ear hath not heard it, the heart hath not con- 
ceived it. Oh, what wiU it be when the whole 
family shaU reach that blessed shore, and there be 
reunited in youth that is immortal, in glory un- 
fading, and in blessedness eternal and infinite ! 



^hc §implt §xmUi$iBt. 



-••- 




drew our little boat up on a beautiful 
little island in the lake, where we 
proposed to take our breakfast. It 
was early in the morning, but my 
Indian guide had my breakfast ready 
in a much shorter time than I had 

supposed possible. 

"I hope you feel hungry,** said he, "for our 

breakfast is very simple.** 

We had a large newly caught lake trout, coffee, 

biscuits, butter, salt, and pepper ; and this he 

called "very simple.'* The remark set me to 

thinking. 

" Sabattis, how old do you suppose our trout, 

that we are eating, is ? *' 

" I cannot tell ; but I notice that all the trout 

of last year weigh about a pound, and those that 

I call two years old, about two pounds ; this 

fellow, then, that weighs at least five or six 

pounds, must be five years old.** 

(622) g 



110 THE SIMPLE BBEAEFilST. 

"Very well Now what enemies beset this 
trout during the five years ? " 

"During the first year the older trout hunt 
and eat them always as surely as they can find 
them, so that they must go into shallow water to 
get rid of them. There the kingfisher stands 
ready to eat them at all hours of the day. Next 
the wild ducks, as they lead out their young and 
feed them. Then the loon, which I believe would 
eat a peck of fish a day if he could get them, 
hunts them without mercy. If he escape all 
these, there is the fisherman with his troUing^rod, 
or his line at the buoy, or his spear and torch- 
light, as the fish lie on their spawning-beds in 
the autumn. Among all these, I often wonder 
how a trout ever lives to grow as large as the 
one we are now eating." 

" Yes ; and how many fish must have been 
created for his food during all these years and all 
this growth. How much do you suppose he eats 
daily ? " 

" There's no saying. I have often caught them 
when they had at least half-a-pound of undigested 
fish in their stomachs ; and then again without 
anything. They seem to eat enormously when 
they can get enough, and to go without when 
they can't." 

" Well, it seems to me, from your account of 
the matter, we are to have a very costly breakfast ; 



THE SIMPLE BREAKFAST. Ill 

and I marvel at that Providence that has gone 
before us to get it ready for us." 

" How costly, sir ? " 

" Why, there are five years of watch and care 
to rear our fish down in the bottom of that lake, 
defend him from being eaten up a hundred times, 
help him away from the fisherman's hook, and 
then at the very time when we needed him to 
have him snap at our hook and be taken. Then 
we needed salt, and there it is, made in the West 
Indies, and brought by a hundred hands to this 
place. There too is the pepper, raised on the 
island of Ceylon, and brought here for seasoning. 
There is our butter, made from the grass on the 
hills, which have been turned into pasture after 
years of toiL These biscuits are from wheat 
that grew in Illinois, ground and baked ready 
for our use. It would be curious to know how 
many farmers, merchants, sailors, teamsters, and 
labourers, have been employed in getting what 
you call our ' simple breakfast' ready. And then 
consider that if all the people on this Earth are 
to be fed this day, and should they all be seated 
side by side, each one occupying but eighteen 
inches, their table would reach round the Earth, 
twenty-four thousand miles ! Food to be created, 
gathered, and cooked, so that all these can eat 
three times every day ! And these are only one 
kind of the unnumbered creatures which have to 



112 THE SIMPLE BREAKFAST. 

be fed. 'Thou openest thy hand and satisfiest 
the desire of every Uving thing.' " 

"I see it is so; bat I never thought of it before." 
** And that forgetfulness of God and of his con- 
stant providence is one of the most unaccount- 
able things in the world. The fact is, Mend 
Sabbatis, men do not love to think about God, 
or to acknowledge him in anything. I was 
lately in a place suffering from the want of rain 
—the crops withering and the streams drying 
up ; and though the people wanted rain, longed 
for it, spoke of it, yet I doubt if any one prayed 
for it, or looked to God as the one who ' maketh 
a path for the rain.' I heard many profiEuie 
words, but not one of prayer. And it sometimes 
seems to me very strange that God endures a 
race of creatures so unthankful as we are ; truly 
'it is of the Lord's mercies that we are not 
consumed.' But this mercy of the Lord is like 
an ocean, without bounds, without bottom, and 
fanned by the wings of angels. I think that 
we ought to recognize God in everything; and 
when I hear a blessing asked at the table, I un- 
derstand it to be an acknowledgment that God 
has gone before and provided our food, gathered 
from all parts of the world, and prepared for us 
personally." 



^ JftfiBterB xm the ®jcean bottom. 



■♦♦- 




[AR down in the deep waters of the ocean 
there are mountains and rocks and valleys 
and caves, just as there are up in our 
world. Sometimes the sailor drops the 
lead attached to a cord, and it sinks 
down not far ; and then again at a little 
distance, it wiU sink down, down very far. In 
the first place it fell upon a mountain, and 
then in a valley. Were the great ocean dried 
up, we should see wonders there. 

At the foot of one of these mountains in the 
ocean there was a kind of tea-party met, consisting 
of Mrs. Eel, Mrs. Lobster, Mrs. Cod, Mrs. Shrimp, 
Mrs. Flounder, and Mra Nautilus. The fact was, 
a curious event had happened, and they were met 
to discuss it. A long, small thing, had come 
creeping down the mountain and across the 
valley, and along it went on the oceocv'^ \i<^\K»^^s^^ 
so lon^ that they could see no eii^ \/^ V\. ^-^O^'st 



114 A MYSTERY ON THE OCEAN BOTTOM. 

way. Gently it came down and lay quite still 
on the bottom of the ocean. 

"Mrs. Eel/' said Mrs. Lobster, "is not this 
some relation of yours ? It looks more like one 
of the Eel family than anything else." 

" I would have you to know," said Mrs. Eel, 
" that an eel has a head and a tail and fins ; and 
don't you see this has none? An eel keeps 
moving ; and don't you see this doesn't move at 
all ? How could you think it was an eel ? " 

"I thought it was a worm," said Mrs. Cod, 
" and I tried to bite it. Whew ! it almost broke 
my teeth out. It's nothing that I can eat; though 
you know, Mrs. Lobster, I can eat a whole family 
of lobsters, if they are not too old." 

" I'll tell you what / think," said little Mrs. 
Shrimp. "It's a thing for us shrimps to creep 
on and cling to, and under which to lay our eggs 
and raise our young." 

" It's very plain," said Mrs. Flounder, " it is a 
scratcher, just for us flounders to swim over and 
scrape our breasts on." 

" You are all wrong," said Mrs. Nautilus. " It 
is a thinking Tnachine.'* 

" A what ? " exclaimed all together. 

"A thinking machine, I tell you. There are 
creatures that live up out of the waters who think 
a great deal. They send messages, instead of 
gomg to carry them. They are curious creatures. 



A MYSTERY ON THE OCEAN BOTTOM. 115 

and sometimes when I have been up on the top 
of the water I have seen them." 

" Why, what fables you are telling us ! Do 
you expect that we shall believe that creatures 
can live out of the water ? " 

** Yea, they do. And instead of fins and tails 
they have two legs with which they walk." 

"A very unlikely story," said Mrs. Lobster. 
'' When even I, skilful as I am, can't walk on less 
than a dozen legs, how can they walk on two ? 
What kind of fins have they ? " 

" They don't have fins ; they have arms and 
hands instead. They seem to be full of thought 
Now this machine, so long that you, Mrs. Lobster, 
could not creep to the other end of it in a life- 
time, is one of their contrivances. They will stand 
at one end of it, and send thoughts or messages 
through to the other end in a moment ; and thus 
they talk to each other hundreds and thousands 
of miles apart. Even now, while we are looking 
at it, they are sending their thoughts through it." 

"That I don't believe," said Mrs. Cod. 

" Neither do I," said Mrs. EeL 

" Why not ? " 

"Because we can't see any thought passing 
through ii" 

" No ; nor hear it" 

"No ; nor smell it" 

" No ; nor feel it Now you don't think we 



116 A MYSTERY ON THE OCEAN BOTTOIC. 

are such fools as to believe a thing which we. can't 
see, nor hear, nor smell, nor feel, do you ? You 
don't expect us to believe there are creatures who 
can live out of water, and move without fins, and 
think all along the bottom of the ocean. Oh, Mrs. 
Nautilus, we are proud to know we ai'e above 
being deceived by such storiea We don't believe 
there is any world but our ocean world. Pray 
what kind of light do they have up there ? " 

" Oh, it is stronger and purer and more beautiful 
than ours. Compared with ours it is consolidated 
light. It's a more gloripus state than ours, and 
the creatures who live there apd think so much, 
are far higher in thdr nature than we." 

" Well, Mrs. Nautilus, that will do for one day. 
We may as well break up our party. We can't 
associate with one who tries to make us believe 
what we can't understand. We know too much 
for such deception." 

At that Mrs. Lobster opened her great claw as 
if she would crush poor Mrs. Nautilus, and Mra 
Cod rolled her eyes and snapped her great jaws. 
Mrs. Eel twisted and darted here and there, and 
Mrs. Shrimp swelled, and Mrs. Flounder turned 
her eyes and looked sideways. 

Alas, poor creatures I just as wise as the 
Sadducees and such like people, who say "there 
is neither angel nor spirit," nor a higher state 
than this, because they cannot comprehend it. 



anlikc anb uet ;^Uke. 



■^4- 







|0U talk about true religion," said Mr. 
Dunbar to his Mend, old Mr. James 
Hamilton. "Now isn't true religion 
the same thing, created by the same 
Spirit, the world over ? " 
Certainly it is." 
So I believe ; or so I should believe, if I 
believed at alL But instead of seeing all have 
the same religion, there's hardly two that think 
alike. You talk about the 'revival' now going 
on in our city : will it make them all alike ; or 
rather, is it not so, that men who thought and 
felt alike before becoming religious, begin to differ 
and separate more and more immediately after ? " 
"Ah well, we will not argue the question; but 
will you go with me this evening ? " 
" With all my heart." 

So Mr. Hamilton meekly led his friend first 
into a Presbyterian prayer-meeting. It was very 



118 UNLIKE AND TET ALIKE. 

full and still and solemn. The prayers were short 
and full of awe. The minister read the Word of 
God, and they sang hymns in long metre, slowly, 
strongly, and solemnly. At length a young man 
arose, and said that he began to indulge a trem- 
bling hope that he had been bom of the Spirit ; 
but that his sins seemed so many, his life so 
guilty, that he abhorred himself; that he knew 
he deserved hell, and that nothing but the mercy 
of God in Christ kept him out of it He spoke 
with diffidence, with awe, and almost with terror, 
as if ready to sink under his own sina The 
great impression which he conveyed was the guilt 
of his sovZ, It seemed as if the Spirit had 
"convinced him of sin, of righteousness, and of 
judgment to come." 

Next they went to a meeting of the Baptists. 
They seemed to speak and pray readily, and with 
simplicity and sincerity. Both sexes partici- 
pated. A young convert arose to tell his "ex- 
perience." He had been led to see that he 
needed religion, and he had made up his mind 
that he must have it. He was ready to take up 
the cross and "go down into Jordan" and be 
baptized ; nay, he longed for the day to come 
when he should be immersed. It was a most 
joyfiil anticipation. 

Then they went into a Methodist meeting. 
There they sang, and shouted, and prayed, and 



UNLIKE AND TET ALIKE. 119 

clapped their hands. A young convert broke out 
in shouts. He had found the Saviour. He had 
set his face towards Zion; nothing would turn 
him back—" Glory to God!" "HaUelujah!" He 
only wanted wings to fly. He had no fears, no 
terrors, no doubts. It was all clear and delight- 
ful to him. He could not shout and sing loud 
enough. 

They then went into an Episcopalian meeting, 
and there too was a young convert, and devoutly 
was he reading his prayer-book. It never seemed 
so beautiful or so precious before. Those prayers 
were just what suited his case — so reverential, 
so unexceptionable, so majestic. How he admired 
the " excellency of our liturgy," and felt that the 
lines had fallen to him in plea^nt places and 
that he had a goodly heritage. He felt sure 
that under no other form of worship could he 
grow in grace so fast. 

Next they went to a small, plain- looking 
Quaker meeting-house. There too they found a 
young convert. He did not shout, did not read 
prayers, did not ask for baptism, did not speak 
about his guilt ; but he sat down alone and 
pondered and thought, and had *' great searchings 
of heart" He thought of his own heart and life, 
of his need of a Saviour, and of the character 
and worth of Christ. He did not weep or smile, 
but he pondered and meditated. 



120 UNLIKE AND TET ALIKE. 

** There now; how unlike!" said Mr. Dunbar. 
" Is it not just as I said — no two alike ? " 

" Nay ; you are there greatly mistaken, sir. 
If you could see their hearts, you would find that 
all this difference is merely outside. Get into the 
heart, and you will find that they feel alike as to 
their sins, as to their need of mercy, and as to 
the fitness of Christ to be their Redeemer. Put 
them in heaven, and they would all go together 
and cast their crowns at the Saviour s feet." 

" What makes them so different then here ? " 

" You must remember that all these have dif- 
ferent minds and modes of thinking ; they were 
not educated alike, not instructed in the Bible 
alike, and have moved in different spherea And 
the Holy Spirit has kindly adapted himself to 
their peculiar character : ' Diversities of opera- 
tions, but the same Spirit.' You and I would 
try to make men and Christians all in one mould; 
but God does not so make men. And instead of 
its being an argument against the reality of relig- 
ion, this diversity of showing its workings in the 
heart is a strong argument in its favour. Be- 
neath this apparent diversity there is unity. I 
have just been to see a sick child ; he was near 
death, and singing in a low voice, ' I want to be 
an angel.' And I have this very afternoon been 
to see a young maiden near her end, and she was 
singing, * Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee;' 



UNLIKE AND YET ALIKE. 121 

and also a poor suflferer under the most awful 
pains, and she said, Thou holdest mine eyes 
waking. I am so troubled that I cannot speak ; 
but I call to remembrance my song in the night ; 
I commune with mine own heart The Lord 
will not cast me off for ever. His mercy is not 
clean gone for ever. His promise will not fail 
for evermore. Though he slay me, yet will I 
trust in him.' " 

"Diversities of operations, but the same Spirit." 



^ ^0ugh €nBtomtt. 



■4*- 




[HEBE is a certain fellow who travels 
about, but who is so shy that we hardly 
ever catch more than a glimpse of him. 
I have several times met him, but he 
always contrived so to muffle up his 
face that I found it difficult to see how he looks. 
But one day I met him, fairly met him face to 
face. He had a very old look, a sharp, hatchet 
face, eyes that seemed to shoot out fire as he 
peered around His skin was bronzed and greatly 
wrinkled. He was evidently a great traveller ; 
and his feet seemed to be made of flint, and his 
hands of iron. He had a great load of tools, for 
he was evidently a hard worker. His pockets 
were filled with parchments and papers. In his 
hands he held large rusty keys, a long sharp 
sword, heavy chains, some hot pincers, and sev- 
eral fire-brands. He strode along, looking as 
innocent as possible, and yet so fiercely did he 



A TOUOfi CUSTOMER. 123 

move that I was afraid he would run over me, 
and stamp me with his heels of flint ; so I hailed 
him. 

" Hallo there ! don't run over me. Pray who 
are you ? " 

"An old traveller, sir, moving about among 
men, making war upon hypocrites and the super- 
stitious ; always ready to do a good turn, and 
never idle." 

" Why, sir, you don't look right to me. Is it 
possible you are a holy reformer, and go about 
doing good ? " 

" That's it, I assure you. I have done a great 
deal of good in my day." 

" Pray how wiU you prove that V* 

" Don't you admire the Psalms of David, espe- 
cially those in which he cries out so loudly against 
his enemies ? " 

" To be sure I do." 

" Well, I helped him to write all those psalma 
I wrung them out of him. — ^Don*t you like the 
story of Daniel ? " 
Certainly I do." 

Well again, I pushed those three men into 
the furnace of fire ; and I thrust Daniel in among 
the lions; and though things didn't work as I 
expected, yet that was not my fault. — You like 
the Epistles of Paul, don't you ? " 

" Yes, very much. The Bible would be very 



€€ 
(I 



124 A TOUGH CUSTOMER. 

incomplete without them. But you don't pretend 
that you wrote thew,y do you ? " 

" Not exactly. But you notice that they are 
mostly dated in a prison. Well, sir, I put him 
in those prisons. A capital place in which to 
write letters. I confess I did not think he would 
do that. I only wanted to stop his preaching ; 
but he was a long-headed fellow, and I am not 
certain but I should have done better to have let 
him go on preaching. The fact is, I got caught 
so once since. There was a warm-hearted tinker, 
who went round preaching and scaring people out 
of their wita I got him shut up in a jail ; but 
what did the creature do but go to writing a 
Dream, which has had more effect upon the world 
than a hundred such preachers. Things will work 
so sometimes." 

"Pray what have you in that great bag thrown 
over your right shoulder ? " 

** Dresses, sir; nothing but dresses. I some- 
times want to come out in a Heathen costume, 
sometimes in a Mohammedan, and sometimes in a 
Papal. I can work in one dress and costume as 
well as in another." 

"I see. But what's in that bag under your 
left arm, which you hug so closely ? " 

" They are little nettles, sir, with which I fill 
the air, and make the faces of people smart. They 
are commonly known by the name of sneers,*' 



(t 



A TOUGH CUSTOMER. 125 

" What do you do with that long pole in your 
hand ? " 

" Oh, I stir up mischief, and rouse up neigh- 
bours ; and by a few pokes can set the drunkard 
to shouting, and the genteel to scoffing, and the 
profane to blaspheming. But I am in a hurry, 
and can't stop to talk all day." 

Where are you going in such haste ? " 
Why, sir, I'm going to the next town. I hear 
there is some trouble there with the minister; and 
I am going to put in my pole. I feel sure I can 
drive him out of town." 

" Yes ; but why do you want to do that ? " 

*'What a simple question! Don't you see I 
am an enemy to aU humbug, and all priestcraft, 
and all that superstition which men caU Religion? " 

" I see, I see. But what may I call your name 
if I should ever meet you again ? " 

" Persecution, sir ; old Diabolus Persecution, 
at your service. Don't you want me to do some- 
thing for you ? " 



(622) 



pontes of the foot. 



-M- 




|HE cars stopped in front of the great fac- 
tory just at night, as all the workmen 
were coming out — a great multitude. 
When you look at a great multitude at 
once, you feel very little interest in them; 
but the moment you select one or two and look 
at their faces, you begin to feel an interest in 
them. Among those who came out I noticed 
two, — respectable, intelligent-looking men, en- 
gaged in earnest conversation. They had evi- 
dently got already to some subject more interest- 
ing than their mechanical labour in the work- 
room. What were they so earnestly discussing ? 
— religion, politics, some new book, or new dis- 
covery in art or science? While I conjectured, 
they passed on, and I observed another, a tall, 
straight, fine-looking man. Over his shoulder 
hung a large salt cod-fish, done up in brown paper. 
He looked happy. Doubtless, his day's work 



HOMES OF THE POOR. 127 

being done, he was now on his way home to wife 
and children, carrying them food, and expecting 
to see their smiles and to hear their greetings. 
What a wonderful mark of the wisdom of God, 
that such a strong man, instead of being idle and 
vicious, instead of being a thief or a robber, instead 
of being a curse to the world, is now' willing and 
happy to spend his life in toiling early and late to 
make his home comfortable, his wife and children 
happy. He can't leave and so away, he can't stop 
wirSng. he can't waste his money, aid yet among 
all that multitude who surround him not one calls 
him a fool or laughs at his drudgery. They all 
know he is happier than men who have no famiUea. 
And is it not curious that a man will thus spend 
his life, barely having clothing and food himself, 
that he may provide for his family ? There is an 
unseen cord that binds him to his home, and all 
this toil and labour are no burden to him; and 
this cord, called love, is the whole secret. 

There was another on whom the eye rested ; it 
was a thin-faced, pale little girl, about twelve 
years old. She was barefooted, with nothing on 
her head, and she looked tired and jaded. She 
had finished her day's work, and was now on her 
way home. Did I pity the poor child? Cer- 
tainly ; but then I thought, " Now probably this 
little child has a poor home, and has to work hard; 
but very likely by so doing she helps to provide 



128 HOMES OF THE POOR. 

for her mother, and thus she and her little brothers 
and sisters have better food and better clothing, 
and have many comforts which they could not 
have without her labour. She, too, instead of 
being brought up in idleness and in filth, has 
learned to be industrious, and has found that 
industry wiU procure wages and comforts. She 
has learned how she can support herself and be 
independent. She has taught her mother to value 
and love the little being whose toil helps her to 
bear the burdens of life. No ; I need not pity 
her as much as if no such blessing came out of all 
this. Very likely that little girl has in her the 
elements of a noble character : at any rate she is 
taking great lessons in life ; al^d though the bur- 
den falls upon her while a mere child, yet what a 
blessing for her to feel every day that she is so 
useful." 

So my thoughts ran, till soon I noticed a neat 
but pale woman, with a baby in her arms, come 
to meet the little factory girl, to take her hand, 
and so speak to her that the smile of child- 
hood, which I feared had been worn oflF for ever, 
returned in all its beauty. It was plain that she 
was bringing a loving heai-t to meet her child, 
and a tender care for her. She could not wait, 
but must meet her child, and carry the baby too, 
and lead her home. May God bless that home. 
It is not likely I shall ever see that little girl or 



HOMES OF THE POOR. 129 

her mother again. I can do nothing for them. 
They may sicken and die, and I shall not know 
ii But if the glance of a stranger's eye upon 
them can awaken so much interest in his heai*t, 
what may we not hope from the loving care and 
tender protection of our heavenly Father ? His 
eye follows them to their humble home, and he 
knows every anxiety of their hearts. That little 
sparrow that sits so unconcernedly on yonder bush, 
not knowing where and how she wiU find the 
next morsel of food, or where she will sleep to- 
night, is under his care and love ; and that little 
thistle-down, floating away in the air, will settle 
in the very place where he directs. How rich is 
every one who has a Father who owns the world ! 
How lovingly and how confidently that babe 
rested in the arms of its mother, not fearing that 
she would let it fall, or that her strength would 
give out, or that her love would be exhausted, or 
that she could not provide for it. Oh that we 
might so feel towards our heavenly Father, whose 
knowledge numbers the very hairs of our heads, 
and whose care and tender mercy are over all 
his works. Oh, little child, who knowest not 
when thy foot will slip, or when pain and sick- 
ness will overtake thee, or what thy life may be, 
I know thee not ; but how blessed the privilege 
of commending thee to the everlasting Kedeemer, 
who doeth all things well 



Mhzxt to %m\}z 0ur ^roubleB. 



■H- 




rS the angel of mercy flew over the Earth 
■ at midnight, he saw so many forms of 
sorrow, heard so many groans of pain, 
listened to so many sighs of distress, 
that his heart was moved and saddened. 
He went and laid his sadness at the 
feet of Jesus on the throne. 

** Go back," said the sweet Voice. " Qo back 
and visit each one of those sufferers, and see if 
they need suffer as they do." 

Down again to the Earth the swift angel flew, 
and entered a small, humble dwelling. He 
paused and stood in the chamber door. On the 
bed lay a dying father. He was pale, and breathed 
with difficulty. On his breast lay a great bundle. 
It was evident it was very heavy and very op- 
pressive. He could not get it off. Presently the 
angel saw a Hand close by the bed holding a 
large sack in the shape of the human heart, and 



WHERE TO LEAVE OUR TROUBLES. 131 

on it was written, " Cast in all thy cai'es, for He 
careth for thee." The writing was in letters of 
light, large and plain. The poor man put his 
trembling hand into the bundle, and took out a 
handful marked, " Anxieties for my poor wife." 
Slowly and tremblingly he cast it in. Then he 
took another marked, "Distress for my orphan 
children." He threw that also in ; and his load 
was lighter. Once more he took up another 
parcel marked, " Oh! my aged father and mother." 
Slowly he dropped it into the sack. Then he 
seemed to be frightened at what he had done, and 
tried to reach down and take back these several 
burdens. But no ; the Hand withdrew the sack 
and he could not take them back. Then his 
breathing became soft and easy, his face lit up 
with smiles, his heart beat with hope, and he 
died in peace and joy, casting all his cares on 
Him who cared for him. 

Next the angel of mercy entered a magnificent 
dwelling. Softly they were treading upon the 
rich Turkey carpet; with gentle step and low 
breathing they were gathering around the couch 
of a beautiful, dying child. Near the little suf- 
ferer stood the mother, pale, tearless, wringing 
her hands in agony. Her child, she knew, must 
die — was dying. Slowly and gently the Hand 
held up the heart-sack, and she read, "Cast aU 
your cares upon Him, for He careth for you." In 



132 WHERE TO LEAVE OUR TROUBLES. 

a moment she threw in her sorrows, her griefs, 
and her agonies ; but before she could feel relief 
she suddenly stooped down and snatched them up 
again, and laid them on her own heart. A tender 
Voice seemed to say, " Cast in, cast in, and thou 
shalt be comforted." But she would not. She 
said she had cast in all her cares, and wondered 
why she was not comforted. Poor weeper 1 she 
forgot that we must leave our cares with Him as 
well as cast them upon Him. 

Again, the angel stood in the study of a minister 
of Christ. It was Sabbath evening; and the 
wearied man was thinking over the results of 
another day's sowing, and was crying to his 
Master, "Lord, who hath believed our report, 
and to whom hath the arm of the Lord been re- 
vealed? When will the harvest-day come?" 
The Voice spoke to him, " Be not weary in well- 
doing ; " " In due season you shall reap, if you 
faint not'' 

And then he met the physician just entering 
his home, after having seen nearly forty patients 
since he last slept He was worn down. There 
was an epidemic, and the community w&s filled 
with terror. What could he do? He had ex- 
hausted all his skill. Gently the Hand held up 
the sack, and he saw written, "If any of you 
lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth to 
all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it 



WHERE TO LEAYE OUR TROUBLES. 133 

shall be given him." "Cast all your cares upon 
him." 

Then the angel met a little child in the street, 
sobbing and in tears. 

" What is the matter, little one ? " 

" Oh ! I can't understand my lesson, and my 
teacher is not patient with me. I try hard ; but 
I can't get it." 

In a moment the Hand drew the sack up to 
the little one, and the Voice bade him throw in 
his sobs and his tears. 

And the angel saw that in every instance when 
they cast in their cares, and did not take them 
up again, they all were comforted and cheered. 
They could dry up their tears, and the smile 
followed the tear. But when they refused to cast 
them in, or were unwilling to let them remain 
after they had cast them in, there was no comfort; 
the Hand withdrew the sack, and left the poor 
suflFerer to his sorrows. And as the angel went 
back to the Throne, he brought a loud thanks- 
giving that there is one place large enough to 
hold all the sorrows of Earth, if the poor suflFerers 
would only cast them in, and let them remain 
there. 

" Earth hath no sorrows which Heaven cannot 
cure." 



^etoarc x)f thz Cricktt 



-H- 



mf^ 





T was once a matter of great surprise that 
a man who had passed through the 
temptations of youth and early man- 
hood should then fall^ become a knave, 
and ruin his character ; but we have a 
great many such in our penitentiaries now, and 
probably many more who ought to be there. 
When we consider how great is the hunger and 
thirst for money at the present day, how varied 
and multiplied are the temptations to dishonesty, 
perhaps we ought not to wonder at the number 
of those who cannot resist the temptation. Now 
and then a gray-headed man will yield, and throw 
away aU the character which his life has earned 
The great Tempter is a skilful fisher, who waits 
long and tries different kinds of bait before he 
hooks such. 

The taking of such makes me think of a good 
illustration of what I mean, and which I lately saw. 



BEWARE OF THE CRICKET. 135 

As I was sauntering along by the side of a 
small stream I came to a high dam, over which 
the waters came tumbling and foaming and roar- 
ing as if suddenly awakened out of a pleasant 
sleep, and plunged headlong over the falls. At 
the foot of the falls was foam, and the waters 
twisted and eddied here and there, as if frightened 
at their late plunge; but their surface was smooth, 
as if they were trying again to become quiet 
Just as I reached this place I saw Jem White, a 
keen old fisherman, creeping up-stream, and stop- 
ping just under the falls. Carefully he fixed his 
rod and put on his beautiful June fly, and with a 
jerk, such as none but an old fly-fisherman under- 
stands, he threw it spinning over the water, and 
carefully made it swim on the top of the water. 
Scarcely had he done this when a magnificent 
trout — I had no conception there could be such a 
fish in the pool — came up and looked at the fly 
without touching it. 

" Aha ! " he seemed to say, " you don't catch 
me so ; I am a little too old to be caught in that 
way. I don't fancy that fly, sir." 

Again the fisherman put on another fly and 
threw it over the pool; but no, the old trout was 
not to be caught thus. Then he tried one fly 
after another till he had used more than a dozen 
kinds ; but nothing would tempt the old trout 
Not a fish nor a shadow of a filsh could he raise. 



136 BEWARE OF THE CRICKET. 

Carefully laying his rod on the rock, he climbed 
up the bank, and going off into a fields he turned 
up a flat atone, and under it he found two laige 
crickets. One of these he succeeded in captur- 
ing. With a peculiar twinkle in his eye, he 
returned and fixed his cricket on the hook in 
such a way as not to kill it Carefully now he 
threw his line, so gently that the poor cricket 
seemed to have jumped into the water^ and to be 
swimming for dear life. This was too much. 
Pop! up came the old trout and snapped the 
poor cricket, and in an instant he was hooked ; 
and Jem's eyes twinkled more still as he let him 
swim here and there, just keeping the line taut, 
without breaking the delicate thread. A long 
time he plagued the poor fellow, till he was tired 
out, and then he gently drew him near the shore 
and caught him in his landing-net, just as the 
officer catches a rogue after hooking him and 
letting him have the line a while. He was a 
very large, old trout, which had resisted the temp- 
tation of all sorts of flies and baits and hooks 
till he saw the live cricket, and the temptation was 
too great to resist. Poor, foolish fish 1 the fisher- 
man was too much for thee. He knew how to find 
the very bait that would take thea And does not 
the greater Tempter thus fit his bait to every one, 
and find the very cricket that is irresistible ? 
When I see a man who w&s accounted honest 



BEWABE OF THE CRICKET. 137 

till he reached a position where he could defraud 
a bank and become a defaulter for a great sum, I 
say to myself, " That fellow could not resist the 
cricket." 

And when another seems honest, and, like our 
fish, has never bit at small things, yet when he 
becomes a railroad manager, and speculates and 
steals by the hundred thousand dollars, I feel sure 
that the cricket must have looked large in his eyes. 

How often do we see the boy who means to be 
noble and manly resisting many temptations, tiU 
the cricket is thrown before him in the shape of 
cigars, or cards, or drinking, or bad company, 
and then the fish is caught ! 

How often do we see the little girl, amiable, 
kind, and sweet-tempered, till her young com- 
panion has received a prize that she hoped to 
obtain, or outshone her in a new dress, and then 
the fish is caught by the cricket ! 

Oh, ye new bonnets and new dresses ! ye 
lighted cigars ! ye places of drink ! ye piles of 
money ! — what baits ye are in the hand of the 
great Destroyer, with which he catches his fish ! 
Alas ! we know not how strong or how weak we 
are till the bait is thrown before us, and then it is 
often too late. Pray, pray earnestly to God that 
he will give you grace to stand and resist for to- 
day, and when to-morrow comes offer the same 
earnest prayer. Beware of the cricket-bait 



Climbing attb Jailing* 



■<M- 




[N the banks of a beautiful river stood a 
laige, wide-sprea^ng, and yet lofty 
tree. The waters that flowed past it 
were so pure, and the stream always 
so full, that the tree was always green, 
of leaves, and abounding in fruit At aU 
times it had fragrant blossoms, whose sweetness 
tilled the air, and at the same time was loaded 
with fruit that delighted the eye. 

At the foot of this tree there lived many nimble, 
active, and intelligent ants. They were told that 
the fruit on this tree was most delicious for food, 
most satisfying to the appetite, and most nourish- 
ing to the eater. All around the tree looked poor 
in comparison with that golden fruit They knew, 
too, that by climbing up into the tree they could 
have just as much of the fruit as they wanted. 
Many ants had gone up and reached it, and sent 
word back for their friends and neighbours to 



CLIMBING AND FALLING. 139 

hasten up. By looking upward they could see 
the golden sunbeams dancing among the green 
foliage, and the fair fruit hanging on every bough. 
At last they determined that they would leave 
their old home, and go and live up among this 
beautiful fruit. So they began to climb up, some 
going straight upward, and some in a zig-zag 
course. But it was soon found that they kept 
slipping and fisdling down agaia Some hardly 
got started ; some got up a few feet, and some a 
little higher; but the result was the same. So 
I set myself to watch them, and see what the 
reason could be that they so soon fell back to the 
place of starting. The first one which I noticed 
was an old ant, whose joints seemed somewhat 
stiffened by age, and who came tumbling and 
rolling down in a hurry. 

" What's the matter with you, friend ? " 

" Matter enougL I can't get up, and there's 
no use trying. Every time I have tried I have 
faUen." 

" Well, why do you try to tug up that bit of 
straw? That's what tumbles you down. It's 
too heavy." 

" Straw ! Sir, do you call that straw ? Why, 
it's the property I have been all my life earning. 
There is not another ant under the tree who owns 
such a property. I rtiusb carry that, at all eventa" 

The next ant had got up a little higher, when 



140 CLIMBING AND FALLING. 

a light puff of wind blew him off, and he came 
whirling down. 

"Why, my good fellow, do you try to carry 
that bit of red feather in your mouth ? Don't 
you see the wind strikes it and upsets you, and 
tumbles you off? " 

" Red feather, you call it ? No, sir, that is not 
its name. It is called fashion, sir, among us ants, 
and the longer the feather the more fashionable is 
the owner, and I assure you there is no one who 
can show such a feather as that. Oh, sir, I can't 
think of going up and leaving my red feather 
behind." 

The next one that came rolling down fell so 
hard and kicked so feebly that I really thought 
he was killed ; but he soon picked himself up, 
and what do you think he had as his load ? It 
was a grain of hard, yeUow saiiA 

" Well, Mr. Ant, you are here, and I see what 
kept you from going up ; but I can't see the use 
of that grain of sand." 

** Sand, sir, sand ! No, that is pure gold. 
There is not another such lump in all antdom. 
And would you have me go up if I can't carry 
my gold ? I had rather never taste the fruit on 
this tree." 

Down came another, and as he fell I heard a 
sort of ringing sound. And, can you believe it^ 
the fellow had a fiddle in one of his claws 1 



CLIMBING AND FALLING. 141 

" Oh dear, I fear I shall never get up. How 
many times I have fallen ! But I can't go and 
leave my fiddle. I must have my amvsements 
else I can't live ; and if I can't carry them with 
me, there is no use in my going." 

Then I saw another trying to carry up a little 
flask of brandy — just to give him strength and 
to enable him to climb the faster, as he said. 
But he hardly began to ascend before he fell to 
the ground. 

Among them was a curious, sly fellow, who 
seemed to have nothing to hinder him, and yet 
he could not get up. But on close examination 
I noticed that he had a small secret vial, in which 
was a drop of something very black. He tried to 
hide it, but I caught a glimpse of it, and saw it 
labelled "secret sin,'* He toiled and tugged hard, 
but the vial was too much — he could not get up. 

Dear reader, this tree is the Tree of Life ; this 
river is the River of Life ; this fruit is communion 
with God and the faith that lifts us to heaven. 
You see the things that keep us from going up 
and taking of the fruits. We try to carry too 
heavy burdens. We are not willing to leave the 
follies and the things of this world behind us. 
Poor little ants ; poor human beings. How much 
alike. 



r«2»; 10 



^ke geformcb Chili's gream* 



^44- 




[Bffi longer we live the more we love, or 
ought to love, little children. Their 
joys and sorrows come and go very 
quickly, but every one leaves some im- 
pression which goes into character, and 
perhaps writes its history on the memory. A 
cruelty, an unjust accusation, or a severe judg- 
ment, which the little one cannot argue or even 
resent, may put a small thorn in the memoiy 
which no after years can extract. I sometimes 
see these little creatures blind, or deaf, or de- 
formed, and my heart goes out towards them with 
a sympathy not to be described. 

At the door of a small cottage just under the 
shadow of a great mountain, on a bright morning, 
sat a poor little deformed child. The children 
were all gathering towards the small school-house 
near by, and as they came, with their shouts and 
ringing laughs, swinging their little dinner-baskets. 



THE DEFORMED CHILD's DREAM. 145 

happy as birds, running and leaping, the poor 
child turned her mild, large eyes towards them, 
and covered her face with her apron, and sobbed 
and wept She knew that she would never 
run with them, never go to school, never be one 
among them. Her journey through life, longer 
or shorter, must be alone. If the children ever 
stopped to speak to her, not unlikely before they 
lefb they would say something to remind her of 
her deformity, and to show that she was not 
one of them. She had often felt her lonely lot, 
but never as this morning did it so weigh down 
her heart. Her widowed mother heard her sobs, 
and guessed too well what was the cause, and 
shed new tears for the thousandth time over her 
only and dear suffering child. She made no at* 
tempt to comfort her ; she knew she could not. 

How long the child sobbed I know not ; but 
some time after, her mother went to her and 
found her lying on her side, her arm under her 
head, her kitten purring near her, and herself 
sound asleep, with a sweet smile playing on her 
face. "Poor thing," said the mother to herself, 
*' she has forgotten her sorrows, and it may be she 
dreams that she is well and running about with 
other children. But it is only in dreams that my 
dear one will ever run. When she has no mother 
to lift and carry her, what will she do? Father 
in heaven, why was this poor sufferer bom ? " 



144 THE DEFORMED CHILD'S DREAM. 

A little after, the child awoke and called to her 
mother. With a step never slow when that voice 
was heard, the mother hastened to her. 

''Oh, mother, I have had such a beautiful dream I 
It makes me happy to think of ii" 

" What was it, my chUd ? " 

''I thought I was in a great garden full of 
roses and tulips and all kinds of splendid flowera 
The hunmiing-birds flew among them, the honey- 
bees went from flower to flower, and the birds sang 
in all the trees around the garden. There were 
fountains of water playing, beautiful paths to walk 
in, benches and chairs to sit on, and a great mul- 
titude of people walking about and admiring the 
flowers. Presently the owner of the garden came 
in, and seeing me, came to me and took me by 
the hand, and somehow or other I seemed to be 
able to walk by his side and move as he moved. 
He showed me the flowers, told me their names, 
pointed out their beauties and their nature. At 
length we came to a plant that stood out by itself, 
near the hedge. It was a green, leafless, shapeless, 
ugly-looking thing. I wanted to crush it It was 
a real deformity, and seemed as if made just to 
show how ugly it could look. Just as I was 
going to kick it, the owner held me back. 'Stop,' 
said he ; * I value that flower above every other. 
Watch it' And as I watched it, I saw its buds 
grow red, then swell, then open, till out burst the 



THE DEFORMED CHILD'S DREAM. 145 

most beautiful flower I ever saw. It was large, 
red and purple, with long, white petals, as if feeling 
for the light ; and the inside of the flower looked 
as if sunset had spread her satin robe there, and 
had forgotten to take it away. I clapped my 
hands for delight, and wondered how so much 
beauty could grow out of such deformity. 

" * Oh, sir, what a flower ! I never saw so 
beautiful a thing. What is its name ? ' 

'''It is called the cactus apedosissimua, my 
child. There is no flower like it for beauty, or 
for growing out of such a stalk. Oh, child, don't 
you see how Qod can make beauty to grow out 
of deformity? And don't you see how, out of 
your poor body, he can train and bring a charac- 
ter and a soul beautiful as an angel? There is 
no flower in my garden that I think of and 
admire so much as this; and depend upon it, 
there is no child He thinks of more than yoa 
If you will bow to his wisdom, love and obey his 
Son Jesus Christ, he will bring out of you a 
character most beautiful' 

** Then mother, he left me, and I looked again 
at the cactus, and it was turned into a little girl ; 
and I looked again, and saw it was myself I Oh, 
what a dream! And oh, dear mother, I will 
love Jesus, and never mourn again that I am a 
poor, feeble, deformed child." 



%ttnt #eHic. 



•4^- 




pOONEB or later in the experience of life 
we all feel alike. The poor family in 
the cottage as they bury their dead, and 
the rich family in the old mansion when 
death enters there^ have the same emo- 
tions created Their tears and their sorrows are 
the same^ coming from the same human heart. 
And thus the brotherhood of the human family 
is maintained more by our afflictions than by any- 
thing else. Few can sympathize with David as 
the king of a great nation ; but how many can 
sympathize with him as a father, weeping over 
his lost Absalom I Few can know how the king 
felt in his glory; but when he comes to die — 
not the king, nor the great warrior, nor the 
immortal poet even, but ''David, the son of 
Jesse" — all can love him then. 

I am thinking of a beautiful home which I 
knew many years ago, in which was so much to 



LITTLE NELLIE. 147 

make life pleasant. It stood on an eminence, 
and overlooked an expanse of water, where all 
forms of shipping, from the huge steamer to the 
little tow-boat, were constantly moving. The 
sea-gulls flew thick and screamed loud just before 
the storm, and the sunbeams flashed and twinkled 
on the* silver sur£Etce in the calm. 

The house was large, handsome, convenient, 
and had everything about it to make it pleasant. 
It stood in the middle of a gently sloping lawn, 
with just enough of ancient trees in clumps to 
make it a perfect landscape. The walks so taste- 
fully curving and winding through the grounds ; 
the shrubbery seemingly thrown here and there, 
though according to the highest art ; the flowers 
of all forms and hues ; — indeed, everything was so 
complete and perfect that nothing seemed super- 
fluous and nothing wanting. 

The family who occupied this beautiful home 
were educated, wealthy, refined, and most respect- 
able; they were well-bred, generous, and kind; 
but they had a fulness of everything, and it 
'seemed as if there could be no tie of sympathy 
between them and the rest of the world, save the 
very few who were in like circumstances. 

But there was one tie, one chord of sympathy 
between them and the poorest family in the 
whole neighbourhood, and that tie was "little 
NeUie." 



148 LITTLE NSLUB. 

LitUe Nellie was their youngest child ; and 
a sweeter, lovelier specimen of humanity was 
seldom seen. But little Nellie was blind — stone 
blind, bom blind. Not one ray of light had 
ever reached her eyes, and she never knew how 
the beautiful light or anything else looked. How 
tenderly the mother bent over her, and watched 
her. Truly she loved her with a depth of love 
which no language can expresa Little Nellie 
was the centre of all plans and thoughts, and the 
whole family gathered around her with a tender- 
ness impossible to describe. She was with them 
six years only, when she opened her eyes in a 
world where all is light 

Down near the water^s edge was a fisherman's 
small, humble home. In that was a little blind 
boy just about Nellie's age. These little ones 
were early brought together, and it was found 
that there was a mysterious sympathy between 
them, with which no one could intermeddle. 
They loved to be together, to talk and play to- 
gether, and neither seemed to know that the one 
home was any better than the other. A few 
months before little Nellie was called away, they 
were overheard talking together. 

" Tommy, do you know anything of what it is 
to see, as my mother does ?" 

" No, I only feel I can't see anything." 

" But don't you wish you could see ? " 



LITTLE NELLIE. 149 

« 

"Why, I don't know. I should not know 
how to see, I think." 

"Oh, I wish I could see, — once, only once, 
Tommy, and that for a little while." 

" What do you want to see so much ? " 

" Why, my own mother^s face." 

" How do you think it would look ? " 

" I'm sure I don't know. I try to think very 
often. But I think it would look just Wee a very 
sweet sound ! " 

Dear child; she could imagine nothing more 
beautiful and lovely than her ovm motiier^s voice. 
What conception of form could she have more 
beautiful than this ? 

I will not pain my reader by a description 
of the manner the frail house without windows 
in which Nellie's spirit dwelt was taken down ; 
nor will I mention the hymns that she sang on 
her dying bed, so tender, so sweet, and so confi- 
ding; nor the deep agonies that rolled through 
that family as they listened for the footsteps of 
Death ; nor the sweet smile left on the face of 
the child as she sung herself to sleep in the arms 
of Jesus ; nor shall I try to picture her joy as 
she awoke in Heaven. 

Little Tommy survived her but a few months, 
and eveiything possible to be done for his com- 
fort was done by Nellie's parenta The little 
ones — ^it would have been done even if Tommy 



150 UTTLS NELLIE. 

had not requested it — were laid side by side in 
the grave. " Pleasant and lovely in their lives, 
in their death they were not divided." 

And what was the mission of "little Nellie'' 
here ? Plainly to create a human sympathy in 
her &mily, which has been a great force ever 
since. It softened them all, and made them feel 
that the fisherman's child and their own were 
alike in time and alike in eternity. It weaned 
their hearts from earth, and made them follow 
their treasure. And although no poet has em- 
balmed their ''little Nellie" in song, as Boms 
did his ''Highland Mary," yet all who knew 
that fiunily knew that no blessing ever bestowed 
upon them taught them to become such blessings 
to others as the life and death of this dear child. 
It was "little Nellie's" mission. 



^hc (Siattn'B f msion. 



■♦•- 




[NCE upon a time, long ago, the queen of 
language sent forth a proclamation that 
on such a day there would be a conven- 
tion of all classes of people, who might 
take her trusty servants, the Alphabet, 
consisting of twenty Hsix letters, and the one who 
should form the sweetest word should be seated 
next to the queen, and receive a crown of gold. 

Far and wide the proclamation went, and 
multitudes began to study what word they would 
form; but lest somebody else should select a 
chosen word, every one kept silent and only 
looked wise, as much as to say, ** I know some- 
thing, if I only chose to telL" 

At length the day arrived; and there was 
the queen, and the crown, and the alphabet, and 
all the multitude. The question now was, who 
should first spell what he considered the most 
beautiful word in the world. So the queen told 



15S 

them an caiefblly to write their wofd and fidd it 
up and cast it into a box which she had jftepani. 
She would then draw them out hy lo4^ reiki the 
word aload, call upon the writer to stand np, and 
she would then decide upon eadL So she drew 
all the moltitade closely around her, and all were 
hushed and silent when she put in her hand and 
drew out a paper. Upon opening it^ she read 
aloud, " MoiuyJ* 

" Whose is this ? ** asked the queen. 

" It is mine/' said an old, hard-fiiced miser. 

''And why do you think this the sweetest 
word in human language ? " said she. 

''Because, madam, money is what all want, 
all toil for, and all rejoice over. It will buy 
anything, do anything, and, as the Qood Book 
says, 'Money answereth all things.' It is the 
sweetest word ever spoken." 

"I beg leave to differ from you, sir. You 
pervert the meaning of the Good Book. You 
say money will do anything, and procure any- 
thing. Is that so ? Will it raise the sick man 
from a bed of pain ? Will it cheer or save the 
dying man ? Will it heal a wounded conscience? 
Will it restore the dead babe to its mother's 
arms ? Will it open the door of Heaven to the 
soul, or make immortality blessed? No; it is 
a slippery servant, to minister to the wants of 
the body, or to raise the pride, or to pamper 



THE queen's decision. 153 

the appetites^ or a hard master to grind the poor. 
It is anything but the sweetest word." 

She then put her hand again into the box and 
drew out a paper, on which was written the word 

" Who claims this ? " 

" I do," said a fineJooking young man, dressed 
in splendid military garmente. 

"And what is your plea for your favourite 
word 1 " said the queen. 

" Why, madam, it seems to me too plain for 
argument. The child at school, the boy on the 
pky-ground, the parent in plannmg for his child, 
the scholar in wasting life over his books, the 
sailor risking his Ufe on the stonny ocean, the 
politician in wrestling for position, and the soldier 
rushing up to the cannon's mouth — all are wit- 
nesses that TumoxLV is the word, above all others, 
that is the sweetest to the human ear." 

"You plead well," said the queen; "but I 
cannot agree with you. Honour is a powerful 
instrument with which to move men to effort 
and action; but you will notice that it appeals 
to and cultivates supreme selfishness in the 
heart, shuts out domestic affections, tramples on 
the most sacred rights of others, seeks its place 
through fields of blood, and often Siia nations 
with wailing. I cannot allow you the premium, 
sir." 






154 THE QUKBN's DECI8I09. 

Again the fair hand of the queen drew a paper 
from the box, and on it was written the word 
" Lover 

" Whose may this be ? " asked the queen in a 
softened voice. 

** Mine, madam/' said a young man whose bee 
was glowing with excitement^ while a thousand 
youths around him, and &s many bright-eyed 
maidens, seemed ready to shout. 
And your reasons, sir ? " 
It is not a matter of reason, madam, but it is 
the verdict of the mother over her babe, of that 
babe as soon as he can return her smile, of the 
child longing for home, of the widow in her deso- 
lation, of youth seeking the dearest Mend the 
earth knows, of age leaning upon the child for 
support. It is sung in the songs of the birds, 
echoed in the notes of the mourning dove, and it 
thrills in the language of every living thing. We 
have reason to believe that it reaches the angels 
of heaven." 

"A strong plea, certainly," said the queen; "but 
I must have time to think further upon it before 
I decide." 

Once more she drew from the box, and the 
word was read amid great silence, " jESua" 

"Whose is this?" said the queen in a low, soft 

tone. 

"I wrote it," said a sweet little girl, almost 



it 



THE queen's decision. 155 

sinking under the eyes that were turned upon 
her. 

''And can you, my child, tell me the reasons 
why you think * Jesus ' the sweetest word in the 
world ? " 

No ; I only feel so." 

Truly, little one, you feel aright. There is 
no attribute of humanity, no beauty of character, 
no greatness in our idea, nothing exalted, refined, 
gentle, loving, or good which is not found in him. 
There is na language on Earth into which 'Jesus' 
cannot be introduced untranslated. The Jew, the 
Greek, the Hottentot, and the refined nations of 
the Earth all sing the same name. It ia the 
sweetest word on Earth, and probably the sweetest 
in Heaven. Come, little child, and sit by my side 
and receive this golden crown, faint emblem of 
the crown which Jesus will one day place upon 
thv head." 



^he JBitBvixxtcixon. 



■H- 




IRHAPS my young reader does not know, 
as he sees the plain, coarse, sorrel-col- 
oured caterpillar creeping on the ground, 
that this caterpillar has a butterfly within 
him, and that his body is little else than 
a creeping cradle. And yet it is just so. 
Those men who are so skilful in dissecting men 
and animals tell us that in cutting a caterpillar in 
pieces they can clearly see the form and shape of 
the butterfly. Perhaps my reader does not know 
that in the autumn this little caterpillar creeps 
up on a small bush, and there weaves around 
him a sort of shroud, in which he coils up and 
dies. There he hangs through all the cold snows 
and storms of winter. The winds rock him, but 
there is no life apparent. Freezing does not hurt 
him. Inside of that little shroud there is nothing 
but a thick fluid. But when the winter is past 
and the warm spring returns, the sun falls upon* 



THE RESURRECTION. 157 

this apparently dead thing, the shroud bursts open, 
and out comes, not the caterpillar, but a beautiful 
butterfly ! 

There is a still more curious thing connected 
with our caterpillar. Everything in the world 
seems to have some enemy, some destroyer, so 
that, as the Bible says, ''the whole creation groan- 
eth." There is a peculiar kind oifly found wher- 
ever the caterpillar lives. She has a long tail, 
and in that tail a little lance or sting, with which 
she bores a hole. When she sees a caterpillar 
creeping on the ground, what does she do but pop 
down and sting the poor fellow in his back. But 
that is not all ; for in doing this she thrtists a 
little egg into the body of the caterpillar. Perhaps 
near him is another of his race which the fly did 
not see. Now the sting pierced the poor fellow, 
but did not kill him. He creeps along and lives 
through the summer, and forgets all about the 
sting. He winds up in autumn and nestles in 
his shroud just as any caterpillar would. But 
now look out ! that little egg that seemed to be 
too small to do any hurt, hatches in the cater- 
pillar, and goes to work and eats up the butterfly ; 
so that when the warm sun of the spring comes, 
and the grass springs up, and the leaves burst out 
of the trees, and the flowers open, and when the 
buttei-fly ought to burst out into life, there is no 
resurrection for him. He has been destroyed h^ 

C022) 11 



158 THE RESURRECTION. 

the sting. Perhaps on a bush close by another 
hangs, and out of that the beautiful buttertly 
emerges. Poor fellow. There is, however, no 
great harm done. We have a miserable-looking 
fly instead of the beautiful creature which wo 
should have had. The butterfly seems like an 
angel beside him. 

And may not every child learn a great lesson 
from this ? The Bible tells us that " the hour 
Cometh when all that are in their graves shall 
hear the voice of the Son of man, and shall come 
forth, to the resurrection of life, or to the resur- 
rection of damnation" By the resurrection of the 
spring we see that it is easy for Qod to raise the 
dead grass, the dead leaves, and the dead worm. 
So it will be easy for him to raise men from the 
sleep of the grave. But we see that instead of 
rising a beautiful creation, we may come forth 
like the fly, hideous and undesired. We have all 
been stung by sin, and that soul which is within 
us is destroyed. It is not killed, but so injured 
that, unless cured of the sting, it will rise to 
"shame and everlasting contempt." And this is 
what the blessed Redeemer has done : He has 
provided a cure, so that if we go to him for 
healing, we shall not come forth out of our graves 
covered with shame and contempt. The difler- 
ence between us and the poor caterpillar is this : 
While only here and there one is stung, we are 



THE RESUBRECTIOM. 159 

aU stung aiid poisoned by sin. "The sting of 
death is sin." While there is no cure for him, 
there is one for us, and an angel form may come 
out of our coffin. While he has lost only one 
short life, we may lose life everlasting. When- 
ever I see a caterpillar moving along on the 
ground, I wonder if he is ah-eady stung, and if 
the butterfly will have no resurrection. And 
whenever I see an immortal man I know he has * 
felt the sting of sin, and I wonder if he has been 
to the Great Physician for cure, in order that he 
may awake in the likeness of Christ and live in 
God's glory for ever. 

My dear young reader, how is it with you? 
Has the divine hand of the Son of God taken 
away the sting, so that you wiU have part with 
him in the first resurrection ? " Blessed are they 
who have part in the first resurrection.*' 



Calling the Jerrsman. 



i^*- 




[HEY reached the river, the father and his 
little daughter, late in the evening. The 
woods through which they had passed 
reached to the very brink; and as the 
night was cloudy and very dark, the 
foliage seemed to render the gloom profoundly 
deep. Far away on the opposite shore was here 
and there a twinkling light in the small, scattered 
houses; while farther off still were the bright 
lamps of the great city whither they were going. 
The little child was weary and sleepy, and chilled 
by the evening air. Nothing but urgency would 
have induced the father to be out with her thus. 
When they came to the ferry, they found the boat 
over on the other side, where the ferryman lived. 
So the father shouted and called, but no voice 
answered ; then he would walk to and fro, and 
speak to his child, and try to comfort her ; then 
he would call again and again. At length they 



CALLING THE FERRYMAN. 1 61 

saw a little twinkling lights and heard something 
on the water. Nearer and nearer the sound 
came ; bat it was too dark to see the boat At 
last it came across, and the travellers entered it. 

" Father 1 *' 

" Well, my child ? " 

*'It's very dark, and I can't see the shore where 
we are going." 

" No, little one ; but the ferryman knows the 
way and we shall soon be over, and then soon 
home in the city, where will be light and a good 
fire." 

" Oh, I wish we were there, father." 

Slowly and gently the boat swung off in the 
stream ; aud though it was dark, and the river 
seemed to run fast, they were carried safely over, 
and the child soon forgot her great fear. In a 
short time after they landed she reached her home, 
where loving arms received her ; where the room 
was warm with fire and was flooded with light 
On the bosom of love she rested, and her« chills 
and terrors passed away. 

Some months after this the same little child 
had come to another river, darker, deeper, and 
more fearful stilL It was the River of Death. 
When she first came near it the air seemed cold, 
and darkness covered it, and all seemed like night 
The same loving father stood near her, distressed 
that his child must cross this river and he not be 



162 GALLnro thb fkbetkak. 

able to go with her. For days and nights he had 
been, along with her mother, watching over her, 
and leaving her bedside only long enough to take 
his meals and pray for the life of his precious 
child. 

For hours she had been slumbering very quietly, 
and it seemed as if her spirit would pass away 
without her waking again; but just before the 
morning wi&tch she suddenly awoke, with the eye 
bright, the reason unclouded, and every faculty 
alive. A sweet smile was playing on her face. 

" Father, I have come again to the rivernside, 
and am again waiting for the ferryman to come 
and carry me over." 

"Does it seem dark and cold, as it did when 
we crossed the river ? " 

" Oh no ! There are no dark, gloomy trees here. 
The river is not black, but covered with floating 
silver. The boat coming towards me seems to be 
made of solid light; and though the ferryman 
looks dark, I am not afraid of him." 

" Can my child see across the river?" 

" Oh yes ! but instead of the little twinkling 
light here and there, as before, I can see a great, 
beautiful city, flooded with light and glory. I 
see no sun and no lamp, no moon nor stars ; but 
it is full of light. Ah, I hear music too, coming 
softly over the river, sweet as the angels could 
make." 



CALLING THE FEBRYMAN. 163 

** Can you see any one on the other bank of the 
river ? " 

" Why, why, yes ! I see One, the most beauti- 
ful fonn I ever saw ; and what a face ! what a 
smile ! And now he beckons me to come. Oh 
ferryman, make haste. I know who it is. It is 
Jesus — my own blessed Jesua I shall be received 
into his arms ; I shaU rest in his bosom." 

" Is my little daughter afraid ? " said her 
mother. 

" Afraid, dear mother ? Not a bit ! I think of 
my psalm : ' Though I walk through the valley 
of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil : for 
Thou art with me ; Thy rod and Thy staff they 
comfort me.' " 

And thus she crossed the dark river, made like 
a silver stream by the presence of the blessed 
Redeemer. The father and mother wept, but joy 
and sorrow mingled in their tears. They could 
almost see the, golden gates open to receive their 
loved one ; and they then understood the words 
of the prophet : '' The child shall die a hundred 
years old." 



t :| 



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