Name: Sabbath Readings for the Home Circle Volume One
Author: Anonymous

Sabbath Readings for the Home Circle Volume One

Anonymous

The Pacific Press · No. 1059 Castro Street, Oakland, Cal. · 1877

PREFACE.

The compiler of this series of volumes has been gathering a large amount of moral and religious reading during the past twenty years, from which selections have been made, admitting only those which may be read with propriety on the Sabbath.

These volumes will be found to contain the best lessons for the family circle, such as will inculcate principles of obedience to parents, kindness and affection to brothers and sisters and youthful associates, benevolence to the poor, and the requirements of the gospel. These virtuous principles are illustrated by instances of conformity to them, or departure from them, in such a manner as to lead to their love and practice.

Great care has been taken in compiling these volumes to avoid introducing into them anything of a sectarian or denominational character that might hinder their free circulation among any denomination, or class of society, where there is a demand for moral and religious literature.

The family circle can be instructed and impressed

by high-toned moral and religious lessons in no better way during a leisure hour of the Sabbath, when not engaged in the solemn worship of God, than to listen to one of their number who shall read from these precious volumes. May the blessing of God attend them to every home circle that shall give them a welcome is the prayer of the COMPILER.

SABBATH READINGS

FOR

THE HOME CIRCLE.

THE DAUGHTER OF A KING.

I WISH I were a princess!” Emma stood with the dust-brush in her hand, pausing on her way up-stairs to her own pretty little white room, which she was required to put in order every day.

“Why, my child?” asked her mother.

“Because then I would never have to sweep and dust and make beds, but would have plenty of servants to do these things for me.”

“That is a very foolish wish,” her mother replied; “and even if you were a princess, I think you would find it best to learn how to

do these things, so that you could do them in case of necessity.”

“But it never is necessary for princesses to work.”

“There my little girl proves her ignorance. If she will come to me after her work is done I will show her a picture.”

The little bedroom was at length put to rights, and Emma came to her mother, reminding her of her promise about the picture.

“What do you see, my child?” her mother asked, as she laid the picture before her daughter.

“I see a young girl with her dress fastened up, an apron on, and a broom in her hand.”

“Can you tell me what kind of a place she is in?”

“I do not know. There are walls and arches of stone, and a bare stone floor. I don’t think it can be a pleasant place.”

“No, it is not. It is a prison, and the young girl is a king’s daughter.”

“A king’s daughter!”

“Yes; and her story is a very sad one.”

“Please tell me about her.”

“More than eighty years ago the king of

France was Louis XVI., and his wife was Marie Antoinette. They were not a wicked king and queen, but they were thoughtless and fond of pleasure. They forgot that it was their duty to look after the good of their people; so they spent money extravagantly in their own pleasures, while the whole nation was suffering. The people became dissatisfied; and when, finally, Louis and Marie Antoinette saw the mistake they had been making, and tried to change their conduct, it was too late. The people, urged on by their leaders, learned to hate their king and queen. They were taken, with their two children, and shut up in a prison called the Temple.

“There were dreadful times in France then, and every one who was suspected of being friendly to the royal family was sent to prison and to the guillotine. The prisoners in the Temple passed the time as best they could. The king gave lessons to his son and daughter every day, or read aloud to them all, while Marie Antoinette, Madame Elizabeth and the young Marie Theresa sewed.

“After awhile the angry people took away

the king and beheaded him. And shortly after the little son was separated from his mother, sister and aunt, and shut up by himself in the charge of a cruel jailor. Next it was Marie Antoinette’s turn to ascend the scaffold, which she did October 16, 1793. Her daughter, Marie Theresa, was then left alone with her aunt, the Madame Elizabeth.

“But it was not long she was allowed this companionship. Madame Elizabeth was taken away and beheaded, and then the poor young girl of sixteen was left entirely by herself in a dismal prison, guarded and waited on by brutal soldiers. For a year and a half she lived thus, leading the most wretched existence, and not knowing whether her mother and aunt were alive or dead.

“Years afterward, when she was free, she wrote a book about her life in prison. In that we read: ‘I only asked for the simple necessities of life, and these they often harshly refused me. I was, however, enabled to keep myself clean. I had at least soap and water; and I swept out my room every day.’

“So here in the picture you see a king’s daughter, and the granddaughter of an emp

ress—Marie Theresa of Austria, one of the most remarkable women in history—after having carefully made her toilet, sweeping the bare stone floor of her cell.

“Which in those days do you think caused her the most satisfaction—the remembrance that she was the daughter of a king, or the knowledge of domestic duties, acquired no doubt while she was a happy, envied princess, living in a palace and surrounded by a great many servants?”

“Is that a true story?”

“Yes, Emma, every word of it; and there is much, much more that I cannot tell you now.”

“What became of her at last?”

“She was finally released from prison, and sent to Austria to her mother’s friends; but it was a full year after she reached Vienna before she smiled; and though she lived to be seventy years old, she never forgot the terrible sufferings of her prison life.

“But, my child, what I wish to teach you is, that though it is sometimes very pleasant to be a princess, it may be most unfortunate at other times. But there are no circumstances in life, either high or low, in which

a woman will find the knowledge of domestic duties to come amiss, and in which she will not be far happier and more useful for possessing that knowledge.”

Children do not always comprehend everything at once; so I will not say, at that time Emma took delight in dusting and sweeping. But, my readers, bear in mind that that woman is the most queenly who uses her wisdom and her strength for the benefit of those around her, shrinking from no duty that she should perform, but doing it cheerfully and well.

We are not meant to be idle, Day laborers in the field; We each have a garden given us, Our life is the fruit it will yield. We must toil in it without ceasing, In the scorching sun and the rain; Each moment we lose is a flower That never can blossom again.

JAMIE AND HIS TEACHER.

AMONG the scholars in a mission Sabbath-school formed in one of our large country villages, was a little Irish boy, whose bright, intelligent face, quickness of mind, and earnest attention to the lessons, had awakened great interest in the mind of his teacher. After a few Sabbaths, however, this boy was missing, and when sought by the visiting committee during the week, was never to be found. Sometimes he was seen from a distance, looking with apparent interest, as the superintendent or one of the teachers passed by, but if they attempted to approach him, he would take to his heels, and spring over walls and fences with such agility that there was no hope of overtaking him.

His teacher in the Sabbath-school was a young lady belonging to one of the wealthiest families in the village. One cold afternoon in December, after Jamie had been absent from his class more than a month, he made his appearance at the back door of her father’s house, asking to see Miss L.

“No, no,” said the cook, “ye needn’t be thinking the young leddy’ll come in the woodshed to see ye. If ye have any message, ye can go in the house.”

“I don’t look nice enough to go in,” said Jamie, glancing ruefully at his torn trowsers and coarse, muddy boots.

It so happened that Miss L., passing through the hall, heard and recognized the voice, so she came to the door to see what was wanted. Jamie hung down his head in confusion, while the young lady kindly took his hand in hers, and asked if he had been well, and why he had not been to Sabbath-school.

“Me father wouldn’t let me come,” he sobbed out at last; “he bate me because I’d been to the Protestant place, and then he took me to a praiste, and he bate me harder yet.”

“Poor child!” exclaimed Miss L. “But does your father know you came here this afternoon?”

“No, ma’am; but he said I might have every half holiday to go skating, if I promised never to go inside the Sabbath-school again. So I brought my Testament, and I thought mebbe you’d teach me here, ma’am.”

Was it not a bold request? Did not Jamie know that with home duties and the claims of social life, his teacher’s time must be fully occupied? Might she not think that her services on the Sabbath were all that should be required of her? Ah, no; what were time, and strength, and fashionable amusements, to be compared with the value of a precious soul? Miss L. could only thank God for so rich a privilege, and enter with joy upon the work of instruction.

So every half holiday found Jamie seated by her side in the beautiful library, reading and earnestly studying the words of the Master, who has said, “Suffer little children to come unto me.”

Skating-time came and went; the last ice had melted from the pond, but never once had Jamie employed his only half holiday in that favorite amusement. He had found a source of purer, deeper delight, than even boyish sports could afford.

But his new resorts would not always remain hidden. Jamie’s well-worn Testament once happened to fall from his pocket in the presence of his parents.

“What’s that?” demanded the father fiercely.

“It’s my Testament, father,” Jamie gently replied.

“And where did ye get that? Have ye been to the Protestant school since I told ye not?”

“No, father; but my teacher gave me this a great while ago.”

“And who is your teacher?”

“Miss L.”

“What, Miss L.? The one that lives in that splendid house on the hill?”

“Yes, father.”

“Well, well, what’s in the book? let’s hear a bit.”

Providentially, this was one of the rare occasions when Mr. Ryan was not intoxicated, and as the boy read passage after passage from his beloved book, the Father’s mind opened with a child-like interest to the truths of the holy word. From that day he became a sincere inquirer after the truth as it is in Jesus. The appetite for strong drink, which had been the cause of his degradation, was at last quenched; for a stronger thirst had taken possession of his soul, even for that purifying stream of which whosoever drinketh shall never thirst.

A STORY OF SCHOOL LIFE.

“OH, girls! I shall just die, I know I shall!” exclaimed Belle Burnette, going off into a hysterical fit of laughter, which she vainly tried to smother behind an elegant lace-edged handkerchief.

“What is it, you provoking thing! Why don’t you tell us, so we can laugh too?”

“Well—you—see,” she gasped out at last, “we’ve got a new pupil—the queerest looking thing you ever saw. I happened to be in Madam’s room when she arrived. She came in the stage, and had a mite of an old-fashioned hair trunk, not much bigger than a bandbox, and she came into Madam’s room with a funny little basket in her hand, and sat down as if she had come to stay forever. She said, ‘Are you Madam Gazin?’ ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘that is my name.’ ‘Well, I’ve come to stay a year at your school.’ And then she pulled a handkerchief out of her basket, and unrolled it till she found an old leather wallet, and actually took out $250 and laid it in

Madam’s hand, saying, ‘That is just the amount, I believe; will you please give me a receipt for it?’ You never saw Madam look so surprised. She actually didn’t know what to say for a minute, but she gave her the receipt, asked a few questions, and had her taken to No. 10, and there she is now, this very minute.”

“Well, what was there so funny about all that?”

“Why, this: she has red hair, tucked into a black net, and looks just like a fright, every way. She had on a brown delaine dress, without a sign of a ruffle, or trimming of any kind, and the shabbiest hat and shawl you ever saw. You’ll laugh, too, when you see her.”

Bell Burnette was an only child, and her wealthy father was pleased to gratify her every whim. So, besides being far too elegantly dressed for a school-girl, she was supplied with plenty of pocket money, and being very generous, and full of life and fun, she was the acknowledged leader among Madam’s pupils.

When the tea-bell rang, the new-comer was escorted to the dining-room, and introduced

to her school-mates as Miss Fannie Comstock. She had exchanged her brown delaine for a plain calico dress, with a bit of white edging about the neck. She did look rather queer, with her small, thin, freckled face, and her red hair brushed straight back from her face, and hidden as much as possible under a large black net, and but for the presence of Madam her first reception would have been exceedingly unpleasant. She was shy and awkward, and evidently ill at ease among so many strangers. As soon as possible she hastened back to the seclusion of her own room. The next day she was examined, and assigned to her place in the different classes, and to the surprise of all she was far in advance of those of her age. But this did not awaken the respect of her school-mates as it should have done. On the contrary, Belle Burnette and her special friends were highly incensed about it, and at once commenced a series of petty annoyances, whenever it was safe to do so, which kept poor Fannie miserable, indeed, although she seemed to take no notice of it. A few weeks passed by. Her lessons were always perfectly recited. She made no complaint of

the slights and sneers of her companions, but kept out of their way as much as possible. Her thin face grew paler, however, and there were dark rings about her eyes. A watchful friend would have seen that all these things were wearing cruelly upon her young life. One Saturday the very spirit of wickedness seemed let loose among them. Madam was away, and the other teachers were busy in their rooms. Fannie had been out for a walk and was near the door of her room when a dozen or more of the girls surrounded her, clasping hands together so she was a prisoner in their midst. For a moment she begged piteously to be released, but they only laughed the more, and began going around, singing something which Belle had composed—cruel, miserable, insulting words. She stood for an instant pale and still, then, with a piercing cry, she burst through the ring, and rushed into her room, closed and locked the door. Through their wild peals of laughter the girls heard a strange moan and a heavy fall.

“I believe she has fainted,” said Belle.

“What shall we do?” said another.

For a moment they stood there sober

enough; then one of them ran for the matron and told her that Fanny Comstock had fainted in her room and the door was locked.

She had a long ladder put to the window, and sent the janitor to see if it was true. Fortunately the window was open, and in a few moments he had unlocked the door from the inside. The girls were huddled together in a frightened group, while Madam lifted the poor girl and laid her upon her bed. She was in violent spasms. The doctor was sent for, but when the spasms ceased, alarming symptoms set in, and he pronounced it a serious case of brain fever. It is impossible to tell the shame and remorse of the conscience stricken girls. They were not brave enough to confess their guilt, but hung around the sick room offering their services, vainly wishing that they might atone for it in some way. But their presence only excited the poor sufferer, so that they were all sent away. Day after day passed, and still she raved in violent delirium. The little hair trunk was searched to find some clue to her friends, but there was nothing found in it but the plainest, scantiest supply of clothes. Day after day the doctor came, looking grave

and anxious, and at last the crisis came. For many hours she lay as if dead, and not a noise was permitted to disturb the awful silence while they waited to see if she would live or die. At last she opened her eyes; and the suspense was relieved by an assuring word from the doctor, that with careful nursing she would soon be well again. But her convalescence was slow and tedious.

Her former tormenters dared not speak of what they had done, but they sent daily little bouquets of fragrant flowers and other delicacies to tempt her returning appetite. Her eyes would light up with surprise and pleasure at the little gifts. And amidst all her wild ravings not a word of complaint at the ill treatment she had received ever escaped her lips.

One day Madam was sitting by her side, and as Fannie seemed to be much stronger, she ventured to ask after her friends.

“I have no friends, Madam, only cousin John who has a large family of his own, and has never cared for me. Mother died when I was born. I had a step-mother, but father died five years after, and I’ve taken care of myself ever since.”

“And you are only fifteen now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How did you get money enough to pay for a year’s board and tuition here?”

“I earned it all, Madam, every cent of it. As soon as I was big enough I went into a factory, and earned two dollars a week at first, and finally $3.50; and I worked for my board nights and mornings.”

“Poor child!”

“Oh no, ma’am, I was very glad to do it.”

“But how did you keep along so well with your studies?”

“I used to fix a book open on my loom, where I could catch a sentence now and then, and the overseer did not object, because I always did my work well. You see, Madam, I wanted to be a teacher some time, and I’d have a better chance to learn here than anywhere else, so I determined to do it.”

“What are your plans for the long vacation?”

“I must go back to the factory and earn enough to get some warmer clothes for the winter. You see, Madam, why I can’t afford to dress better.”

Madam’s heart was full. She bent over

the white, thin little face, and kissed it reverently.

That evening, when the girls gathered in the chapel for worship she told Fannie’s story. There was not a dry eye in the room. The moment Madam finished, Belle Burnette sprang up with the tears pouring down her cheeks and said:—

“Oh, Madam! We have been awfully cruel and wicked to that poor girl. We have made fun of her from the first, and she would not have been sick as she was if we had not tormented her almost to death. I was the most to blame. It was I that led on the rest, and we have suffered terribly all these weeks, fearing she might die. You may expel me, or punish me in any way you please; for I deserve it; and I shall go down on my knees to ask her pardon, as soon as you will let me see her.”

“My child, I am shocked to hear this. I can scarcely believe that any of my pupils would ill-treat a companion because she was so unfortunate as to be plain and poor. But you have made a noble confession, and I forgive you as freely as I believe she will, when she knows how truly you have repented

of your unkindness.” By degrees, as she was able to bear it, one after another went to Fannie and begged her forgiveness, which was freely granted. She said, “I don’t wonder you made fun of me. I know I was poorly dressed, and awful homely. I would have pulled every hair out of my head long ago only I knew it would grow out as red as ever. But, oh! if I could have felt that I had just one friend among you all I could have borne it; but somehow it just broke my heart to have you all turn against me.”

After this she gained rapidly, and one fine morning the doctor said she might join the girls in the drawing-room for an hour before tea. There had been a vast deal of whispering and hurrying to and fro of late, among the girls, of which Fannie had been totally unconscious in the quiet seclusion of her room.

At the appointed time, Madam herself came to assist her, and leaning upon her strong arms, the young girl walked feebly through the long hall and down the stairs.

“My dear, the girls have planned a little surprise for you, to make the hour as pleasant as possible.”

She opened the door and seated Fannie in an easy chair, and the girls came gliding in, with smiling faces, singing a beautiful song of welcome. At its close Belle Burnette approached and placed a beautiful wreath of flowers upon her head, saying: “Dear Fannie, we crown you our queen to-day, knowing well how far above us all you are in His sight, who looketh upon the heart instead of the outward appearance. You have taught us a lesson we shall never forget, and we beg you to accept a token of sincere love and repentance for our treatment of you in the past, which you will find in your room on your return.”

Fannie’s eyes were full of tears, and she tried to say a word in reply, but Madam spoke for her, and after another song they followed their newly crowned queen to the dining-room, where a most tempting feast was laid in honor of the occasion. Fannie was quietly, tearfully happy through it all, yet so wearied with the unusual excitement that Madam said she must not see the girl’s “Peace offering” that night. The first thing she saw the next morning was a fine large trunk, and lying upon it a card, “For

Miss Fannie Comstock, from her teacher and school-mates.” Having opened it she saw it was packed full of newly folded garments, but she had no time to examine the contents, until after breakfast, when they left her alone with her wonderful gifts. There were pretty dresses and sacques, a fine new parasol, gloves and ribbons, cuffs and collars in abundance—indeed, everything that a young school-girl could possibly need. Every one of Madam’s two hundred and ten pupils had contributed from their choicest and best, to furnish a complete outfit for their less favored mate. At the bottom was a well-filled writing desk, an album containing all their pictures, and a pretty purse containing $5, and the following note from Madam:—

“MY DEAR CHILD—This shall be a receipt in full for all expenses, during whatever time you may choose to remain in the seminary, which I present you as a sincere token of my love and respect.” “JEANNETTE GAZIN.”

They found her at dinner-time on the floor, surrounded by her new treasures, crying like a baby; but it did her good. She was soon able to resume her studies, and was ever

afterward treated with kindness and consideration, even though all her hair came out and left her head bald as her face, so she had to wear a queer cap-like wig for many weeks.

When the long vacation arrived, Belle carried her off to her beautiful home on the Hudson, where for the first time in her life she was surrounded with beauty and luxury on every side, and was treated as a loved and honored guest. It was not long before the hateful wig was cast aside, and Fannie’s head was covered with a profusion of dark auburn curls, which were indeed a crown of glory that made her plain face almost beautiful.

Gentle, loving, and beloved by all, she remained in the seminary until she graduated with honor, after which Madam offered her the position of head teacher, with a most liberal salary, which she gratefully accepted.

GOD IS LOVE.

There sat a radiant, white-winged bird, I listened but no sound I heard. And then I spake: “Sweet bird.” I said, “From what far country hast thou fled? Whence cam’st thou; and why cam’st thou here? Cam’st thou bring aught my soul to cheer? Hast thou strange news? speak, gentle dove!” And the bird answered, “God is love.”

“They tell me so.” I faintly said. “But joy has flown, and hope is dead, And I am sick, and sad and weary, And life is long, and dark, and dreary— Think not thy words my spirit move!” Still the bird answered, “God is love.”

“Some dearly loved are far away, And some who fondly near me stay, Are sick, and sad, and suffering, While I am weak and murmuring, Each for the other grieves, and tries To stay the tears that fill his eyes— Why comes not comfort from above?” Firmly, but mournfully, the dove Distinctly answered, “God is love.”

I started up, “The world,” I said. “Though beautiful it once was made, Is full of crime and mis’ry now; Want sits on many a haggard brow; The warrior wields his bloody sword, Slaves tremble at the tyrant’s word— Vice honored—virtue scorned—we see, Why are these ills allowed to be?” He raised his head, that soft-eyed dove, As though my boldness he’d reprove, Then bowed and answered, “God is love.”

“Forgive,” I said, in accents mild, “I would I were again a child. I’ve wandered from the heavenly track, And it is late to journey back; My wings are clipped, I cannot soar, I strive to mount, but o’er and o’er My feeble wings I raise in vain— I flutter, sink and fall again!” In low, but earnest tones, the dove Still softly murmured, “God is love.”

“Thou mov’st me strangely, wondrous bird! My soul is strongly, deeply stirred, My heart grows lighter, may I still My mission upon earth fulfill, Proving my love to God sincere, By doing all my duty here. Shall past omissions be forgiven? And shall the weary rest in heaven?” He spread his wings, that radiant dove, And cheerily answered, “God is love.”

Thou blessed type of joy and peace, My hope and faith thou’lt still increase, Be ever near me, gentle dove, I know, I feel, that “God is love.”

A KIND WORD.

William and Henry were clerks in a large wholesale establishment. They met one morning on their way to the store and proceeded together. After talking a while on various subjects, the following dialogue took place:—

“By the way, William,” said Henry, “I understand you were last evening at ——’s,” naming a fashionable billiard saloon.

“A mistake, Henry. I was never in a billiard saloon.”

“Well, I thought it very strange when I heard it.”

“Why so?”

“Why?” said Henry in astonishment. “Why, because you are a religious young man and a church member.”

“Do you ever visit such places, Henry?”

“Oh, yes; but that is quite a different matter. I don’t profess to be a Christian, you know.”

“You would think it wrong for me to be there?”

“Of course I should.”

“And right for yourself?”

“Well, yes; there’s no harm in my being there.”

“Why not?”

“Why, because—because I do not profess to be bound by the same obligations that you are.”

“And who has released you from those same obligations and imposed them upon me?”

“Oh, well, now, there’s no use in talking, William; you know that Christians do not and ought not to engage in what they consider pernicious amusements.”

“I certainly do know that they ought not; but I wish to know why it is wrong for them and right for others.”

“You know the fact that it is so.”

“No, I do not know that it is; and I wish to call your attention to the truth that the obligation to refrain from evil rests upon every rational human being in a Christian land. God has commanded all men to love and obey him; also, to the fact that the difference between the Christian and the sinner is that one acknowledges the obligation,

while the other denies it; and that the denial does not remove the obligation. God has not invited you to love him if you prefer to do so; but he has absolutely commanded you and me to love and obey him. I have the right, if you have, to engage in any kind of amusement, and to follow my inclinations in all things; and it is your duty, equally with mine, to honor our Master’s law by shunning every wicked way. Think of this, friend Henry, I entreat you, and acknowledge the responsibility which you cannot remove; and from which, after accepting, you would not desire to be released.”

They had arrived at the store, and each went to his own department. These young men had entered the employment of A. B. & Sons at the same time, about two years before the above conversation occurred. William had gained the confidence of his employers, and had risen in position. The senior partner intended retiring from business, and was looking about for a Christian young man of ability and energy to propose as a partner for his sons; and had lately been thinking of William as a suitable person. He had observed him closely, and thought

he saw in him the habits and qualifications necessary to make a successful business man.

He had also been watching Henry’s course. He had heard of him at places where a young man who aspires to positions of truth and honor will never be seen, and was about proposing his discharge to the other members of the firm. He knew that a clerk whose style of living requires more money than his salary gives him will be very likely, indeed almost sure, to resort to dishonest practices to make up the deficiency. Instances of this kind are every day occurring in our cities; and as long as we meet, as we may every morning and evening in the Broadway stages, dainty looking young men, dressed in finer and fresher broadcloth than their employers wear, with heavy gold chains, fine chronometers, and diamond pins and rings, we may expect to hear of a great many more.

That morning’s conversation made a deep impression upon Henry’s mind. The subject had never been presented to him in that light before. He had imagined, as young persons are apt to suppose, that no moral responsibility rested upon him till he assumed it publicly by uniting with the church. Henry

did not mean to die a sinner. Oh, no; he fully intended, after he had enjoyed what he considered the pleasures of youth, to settle down into Christian manhood. After this talk with William he could not get rid of the idea of accountability to his God. His wicked amusements and extravagant habits appeared to him as they never had done before, and he began to see their inevitable tendency. The result was an entire change in his aims and conduct. This was so marked that it very soon became known to all of his associates, and, of course, to his employers.

He remained in that house; gradually rising to the highest clerkship, and, finally, becoming the junior partner of the firm of which William had for some time been a member. His happiness and prosperity he always attributed to the word kindly spoken at the right time by his fellow clerk. He has been successful not only as a merchant, but as a Christian, exerting a powerful influence for good upon all about him, but particularly upon the young men employed in his house.

MISSIONARY KATY.

Katy Gray had been to a missionary meeting, and heard a lady speak who had been for fifteen years a missionary in Africa. She had spoken only of the bright side, and not of the dark, and Katy was delighted and interested.

“Yes, I have concluded to be a missionary when I get ’bout forty.”

“Why wait until you are forty?” asked Katy’s mamma, looking up from the sewing that occupied both hand and foot.

“Well, you see, I must teach first, you know, and perhaps write books, too, and make lots of money; and then, when my hair gets gray, and my teeth tumble out, and all—why, then I’ll look well enough to be a missionary; the heathen won’t mind.”

“Sure enough,” said Mrs. Gray; “that is a very good plan of life if you can follow it out. But you know, there was Mrs. Stephens, who died last week, and she was just forty. Don’t you think you had better place it a little earlier?”

“Well, perhaps thirty-five would do.”

“Yes, that would only be keeping seven-eights of life for yourself, and giving one to Christ. That might do only, aunt Katy, you know, died at thirty-five. Would that be safe?”

“Well, thirty, then;” and Katy moved to the window and looked out.

“Thirty—that’s better; that is just the age of cousin Mary when she was thrown from the carriage on her way to the party. You know she has never walked a step since.”

Katy drummed restlessly on the window. Never in her life, it seemed, had so few old persons passed on the street.

“Perhaps I could at twenty-five,” she said at last, with a sigh.

“That is young enough to go to Africa,” replied Mrs. Gray. “You know that pretty Miss Robins who was buried last week at that age, thought of going to India.”

“I don’t see, mamma,” said Katy, turning from the window, and laughing with tears in her eyes, “but I shall be obliged to go right away, so as to be safe.”

“So you would, darling, if you would be

one of Christ’s workers every day right here. If you should live for yourself twenty-five years, it would be rather hard work, all at once, to begin to live for others.”

“Don’t dream, my dear, of great things by and by; but be such a helpful worker every day in little things that at the last the Master shall see that you have grown strong to bear great things.”

“I will try mamma. I can help take care of the baby, and cheerfully do errands for you.”

And Katy did begin right then and there, and she began, too, in the true way. Home missionaries are as important and useful as those in foreign fields, and for them there is always an “open door.”

Katy followed up the missionary work in various ways which proved a blessing to herself as well as to those about her. There were many things which she could do to help her kind mamma. There were little errands upon which she could go as an angel of mercy. She could carry a basket of provisions to some poor widow and orphan children, even through the rain and snow; she could speak kindly to those in trouble and distress;

she could lead and gather up to Sabbath-school the little ones that lived near, who without her services would perhaps never have found their way thither, or the door into the fold of the good Shepherd.

In this way Katy is preparing herself for greater missionary duties by and by, should it please the good Lord to spare her. And should it be his will early to remove her from labor, she will be among those to whom the blessed Master will say, “Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”

NOT MIGHTY DEEDS.

Not mighty deeds make up the sum Of happiness below; But little acts of kindness, Which any child may show.

An early flower, unasked, bestowed; A light and cautious tread; A voice to gentlest whisper hushed, To spare the aching head:—

Yes, deeds like these, though little things, Yet purest love disclose, As fragrant perfume on the air Reveals the hidden rose.

Continue reading: WILL WINSLOW.