Boys in the Sabbath-School.
THERE was a fair-faced young lady in a certain Sabbath-school, whose class of boys had arrived at the dangerous age; yet she held them steadily. Not only were they attendants, but they were noticeably regular in attendance; not only that, but they were prompt. I studied over it a good deal. I knew the young lady. She did not seem to be more learned than the others, or more apt to teach; she had no better advantages for preparation, and, so far as I could learn, she did not study harder than some of the rest; yet, apparently, she succeeded better. I was quite well acquainted with one of her class. I cross-questioned him. "Is Miss Marvyn a very superior teacher, Charlie?" "She's tip-top." Spoken with the air of prompt heartiness that means so much in a frank-hearted boy. "How did she manage last Sunday's lesson?" "Oh, I dunno;" in that off-hand tone, which may mean: "I know all about it, but I'm not going to tell you; its a matter of confidence between her and us." "The boys all like her, don't they?" "Of course they do; they would be great simpletons if they didn't." "But, Charlie, what makes her any better than the others?" "Dunno, I'm sure; all I know about it is, we don't want to exchange her for anybody that we know." I was still in the dark as to Miss Marvyn's success; but that evening, as Charlie was coming in at his father's side-gate in his shirt sleeves, and with dusty hands which had been helping to build a wood-pile, I, standing in the door, saw him suddenly halt and lift his cap, and at the same time heard a cheery voice say: "How do you do, Charlie? I was just thinking of you; I hope we shall see you out this evening; we are depending on you." Then—as he protested that his hands were too dusty to accept her offered glove—"Never mind the dust, Charlie; good, honest dust never hurt anybody's hands. May we expect you?" "I'll be there," he said, heartily. Then he came in. "Charlie," I said, "Miss Marvyn has a real cheery way with her, hasn't she? I like to see people shake hands with their friends." "She'd shake hands with one of her boys if he had just tumbled out of a tar-kettle," said Charlie, emerging from the basin into which he had dipped his curly head, and speaking in a tone of grim satisfaction. "Where is she so anxious to have you come this evening?" "It's to prayer-meeting," he said, under his breath. "She wants some of us to help along the singing." "Charlie, are you going?" "Yes'm, I am; I kind of like to please her; and beside," with a rougish glance at me, "she had us to her house to eat strawberries and cream last night; a fellow would feel rather flat not to do what she asked him after that." And I, as I went up stairs, mused as to whether I had found a clew to Miss Marvyn's influence. "The children of this world are in their generation wiser than the children of light." It was infinite wisdom that said that; are not we, as a people, at work proving the truth of it? There is only here and there a Miss Marvyn who has any consecrated strawberries and cream, or a pair of gloves that honest dust will not hurt.—Baptist Teacher.