Prayers For Donald Grant.
In the highlands of Scotland, punctuality at public worship is reckoned among the cardinal virtues. The people, for generations, have been trained to reverence God's day and his house, so that it is considered not only wrong, but also disreputable, to lounge at home, or to stroll over heath and burn, while others are honoring God in the sanctuary. There lived in this region, some years since, an honest farmer, yclept Donald Grant. He was very wise for this world; and, while professing better things, he gave all his strength and energy to his six days' toil, so that when Sunday came, he was unfit for the services of the sanctuary. Once, in the season of barley harvest, when farm help was scarce, Donald so overwrought himself on Saturday, that his seat in the "auld kirk" was empty the next day. He remained at home, to recruit his powers for a fresh campaign on Monday. Some wag in the parish, knowing Donald's besetting sin, and fearing the effect of his example on others, resolved to nip the delinquency in the bud, and took the case into his own hands. In the afternoon, when the pastor entered the pulpit, he found a note, in which was written: "The prayers of this church are requested for Donald Grant." The minister was taken by surprise, not having heard of his illness, but remembered, as also did the people when the note was read, that his family pew was tenantless in the morning. After service, one asked another what ailed Donald Grant, but none could tell his neighbor; and all decided that some sudden illness had brought this request directly from the family. The Sunday passed, and Donald, refreshed by many hours of sleep, and by the sweet breeze and the holy calm of his native hills, rose on Monday, like a strong man to run a race. But scarce had the sun begun to gem the dewey heather, when above the whetting of the sickle, he heard the stentorian voice of Sandy Graham, the village blacksmith. "Hoot man, and are ye at it this early, after the deathly illness o' yesterday?" It was in vain that Donald protested he had never been better. Sandy declared that he was out of his head, and ought to be taken back to bed—he could see by the color of his face there was a high fever on him! While yet he was speaking, they were joined by Duncan McIver and Malcolm Sterling, two large-hearted neighbors, coming to sympathize in Donald's affliction, and to proffer their aid in reaping his barley; and before any explanation could be made of the puzzling matter, the loving old minister, staff in hand, had arrived with the oil of consolation. Donald persisted in saying he was never more hearty; when the pastor asked, "Why, then, mon, did you forsake your seat in God's house and implore the prayers of his people?" "Aweel, aweel, then," replied Donald, in amazement, "I was awa' fra the kirk wi' the aching o' my limbs fro' the week's work, but I asked prayers o' no mon alive?" The joke was perceived, and the pastor reminded Donald that the man who absented himself from God's house, for no better reason than his, ought to ask prayers, if he didn't! Donald Grant lost more time in entertaining the many who came to inquire for him, on Monday, than he had gained by resting on Sunday; but he learned a lesson he did not forget. The barley harvest never kept him at home again. Should it be taken for granted that sickness afflicted the families of all who absent themselves from our churches, we should have a long list of names to be prayed for.—Watchman and Reflector.