HERRINGS FOR NOTHING.

The darkness is coming on rapidly, as a man with a basket on his head turns the corner of a street in London. He cries loudly as he goes, “Herrings! three a penny, red herrings, good and cheap, at three a penny!”

Soon he comes close to me and commences conversation.

“Governor, why can’t I sell these herrings? I have walked two miles along this dismal place, offering them; and nobody will buy.”

“The people have no work at all to do, and they are starving; there are plenty of houses round here that have not had a penny in them for many a day,” was my reply.

“Ah! then, governor,” he rejoined, “if they have n’t the half-pence, they can’t spend ’em, sure enough; so there’s nothing for me but to carry ’em elsewhere.”

“How much will you take for the lot?” I inquired.

“I’ll be glad to get four shillin’.”

I put my hand in my pocket, produced that amount, and transferred it to him.

“Right! governor, thank’ee! what’ll I do with ’em?” he said, as he quickly transferred the coins to his own pocket.

“Go round this corner into the middle of the street, shout with all your might,— ‘HERRINGS FOR NOTHING!’ and give three to every man, woman, and child, that comes to you, till the basket is emptied.”

So he proceeded into the middle of the street, and went along shouting, “Herrings for nothing! good red herrings for nothing!”

I stood at the corner to watch his progress; and soon he neared the house where a tall woman stood at the first floor window, looking out upon him.

“Here you are, missus,” he cries, “herrings for nothing! come an’ take ’em.”

The woman shook her head unbelievingly, and left the window.

“Vot a fool!” said he; “but they won’t all be so. Herrings for nothing!” A little child came out to look at him, and he called to her, “Here, my dear, take these in to your mother, and tell her how cheap they

are—herrings for nothing.” But the child was afraid of him and them, and ran in-doors. So, down the street, in the snow, slush, and mud, went the cheap fish, the vender crying loudly as he went, “Herrings for nothing!” and then adding savagely, “Oh, you fools.” Thus he reaches the end of the street; and then turning to retrace his steps, he continues his double cry as he came.

“Well,” I said to him calmly, as he reached me at the corner.

“Well!” he repeated, “if yer think so! When yer gave me the money for herrings as yer didn’t want, I thought you was training for a lunatic ’sylum! Now I thinks all the people round here are fit company for yer. But what’ll I do with the herrings if yer don’t want ’em, and they won’t have ’em?”

“We’ll try again together,” I replied; “I will go with you and we’ll both shout.”

Into the road we both went, and he shouted once more, “Herrings for nothing!”

“Then I called out loudly also, “Will any one have some herrings for tea?”

They heard my voice, and they knew it well; and they came out at once, in twos

and threes and sixes, men and women and children, all striving to reach the welcome food. As fast as I could take them from the basket, I handed three to each eager applicant, until all were speedily disposed of. When the basket was empty, the hungry crowd that had none was far greater than that which had been supplied; but they were too late, there were no more “herrings for nothing!”

Foremost among the disappointed was a tall woman of a bitter tongue, who began vehemently, “Why haven’t I got any? A’n’t I as good as they? A’n’t my children as hungry as theirs?”

Before I had time to reply, the vender stretched out his arm toward her, saying, “Why, governor, that’s the very woman as I offered ’em to first, and she turned up her nose at ’em.”

“I didn’t,” she rejoined passionately, “I didn’t believe you meant it!”

“Yer goes without for your unbelief!” he replied. “Good-night, and thank’ee, governor!”

I told this story upon the sea-beach, to a great crowd gathered there on a summer

Sabbath day. They looked at each other; first smiled, then laughed outright, and at length shouted with laughter.

It was my time then; and I said, “You cannot help laughing at the quaint story, which is strictly true. But are you sure you would not have done as they did, and been as unbelieving as they? Their unbelief cost them only a hungry stomach a little longer; but what may your unbelief cost you? God has sent his messengers to you for many years to offer PARDON FOR NOTHING! peace for nothing! salvation for nothing! He has sent to you the most loving and tender offers that even an almighty God could frame; and what have you replied? Have you taken the trouble to reply at all? Have you not turned away in utter scornful unbelief, like the woman? or ran away in fear, like the child? You are still without a hope on earth, or a hope in Heaven, because you will not believe God’s messengers when they offer you all that you need for time and eternity—for nothing.

PARDON FOR NOTHING!

“Take warning by that disappointed crowd of hungry applicants. When they were convinced

that the offer was in good faith, and would gladly have shared with their fellows, they were too late!

“Let it not be so with you! Do not be in that awfully large crowd of disappointed ones, who will be obliged to believe when belief will not help them; whose knowledge, when it comes, will only increase the sorrow that they put off believing until it was too late.”

As I looked earnestly upon that vast crowd, the laughter was entirely gone, and an air of uneasy conviction was plainly traceable upon many faces.

“Will you not come to Jesus now?” I entreated. “He is waiting, pleading with you! Here is salvation, full, free, and eternal; help, guidance, and blessing,—all for nothing! without money and without price.”

NOT FAR.

Not far, not far from the kingdom, Yet in the shadow of sin, How many are coming and going; How few are entering in!

Not far from the golden gateway, Where voices whisper and wait; Fearing to enter in boldly, So lingering still at the gate!

Catching the strain of the music Floating so sweetly along, Knowing the song they are singing, Yet joining not in the song!

Seeing the warmth and the beauty, The infinite love and the light; Yet weary, and lonely, and waiting, Out in the desolate night!

Out in the dark and the danger, Out in the night and the cold; Though He is longing to lead them Tenderly into the fold.

Not far, not far from the kingdom, ’Tis only a little space; But it may be at last, and forever, Out of the resting-place.

THE WIFE’S RESOLUTION.

“YES, it must be done, I am resolved upon it,” said the young wife as she clasped her slender hands. “I must be firm in carrying out my resolution, for nothing else can save my husband from the fate of other members of the family—and oh! such a fate!” she continued, burying her face in her hands, as if she would shut out the remembrance of something terrible. “Can it be that I am destined to become the wife of a drunkard? Is this pleasant home,” she added, looking around the tastefully furnished apartment, “to be exchanged for the wretched dwelling of an inebriate, and my kind, warm-hearted husband to become—oh, no, no! Father in Heaven, avert this threatening calamity! Send suffering and sorrow if thou seest they are needed to purify our souls from the dross of earth, but spare us, O God! from sin and degradation. They surely cannot be necessary; then grant me to avert them,” and rising from her luxurious

couch she passed from her parlor into an elegant dining-room beyond.

“My husband will be displeased at first, and his father and brothers will ridicule me, but my husband is dearer to me than my own reputation, and I must endure even his anger for the sake of saving him;” and with trembling hands but unflinching will, the lovely bride removed the decanters of choice liquors from the sideboard, and preparing some lemonade most carefully, she placed it in their stead beside the crystal goblets. Though she retired to her chamber and spent the interval until her husband’s return in earnest prayer for strength to bear ridicule, and, it might be, angry reproach, her heart misgave her when she heard his step on the gravel walk and saw that he had company with him; and as she descended to meet him in her accustomed place, her trembling limbs almost refused to bear their light burden.

“Wife, this is my friend, Mr. Ormsby,” said the proud husband. “Ormsby, this is Mrs. K——, the loveliest, gentlest wife in all the land.”

The visitor seemed struck with the beauty of the young wife’s face, but replied gaily,—

“You may think so now, because your honeymoon is scarcely over, and, as is the custom with young husbands, her whims have been laws to you. Wait a bit, my friend, until her wishes come into collision, and then you may change the adjective to a more significant one.”

“Nay, my veriest whims are laws to her, and I am not afraid of her setting up her wishes in opposition to mine.”

“Except for our own good,” said the wife softly; but she only said aloud, “Your friend will stay and take a social supper with us?”

“Not to-night, I thank you.”

“You will at least take some refreshment,” said the husband. “My dear, order in some cake and wine.”

“Nothing for me, indeed.”

“Oh, you must taste of my cake in order to judge of my housewifery; only a good wife has the right to fulfill your prognostication of swaying it over her husband,” and laughing merrily she left the room. Surely that salver borne by the servant who returned with her, was sufficiently tempting, with the rich cake, the basket of choice fruit,

and the silver pitcher of lemonade; but the husband looked blank at the absence of wine, and something was said in a low tone to the wife, who answered,—

“I prepared this expressly for you; will you not take it for my sake? Surely, this warm evening it is more refreshing than wine.”

While the lady was speaking to her guest, the host sent the servant on some errand to the dining-room, and when she returned with the answer, “There is none,” an angry flush mounted to his brow, but no sooner had the door closed upon their visitor, than he assured himself by personal observation that she told the truth.

“Tell me, where are the decanters, and why was not my friend permitted to refresh himself with wine in my house?” he exclaimed hastily. “Have we suddenly become bankrupt, that we must use such stinted hospitality!”

“There is no stinting here,” replied the lady, “and I am sure none of your friends need complain when they have refreshing lemonade offered them instead of the dangerous wine-cup.”

“Dangerous! What temperance stuff is this! Another such freak and I shall get the name which is new to us, that of being too stingy to provide wine. None of our family were ever known to be sparing of it before.”

“Far better if they had,” said the wife, unconsciously wringing her hands. “O James, this omission sprang from no momentary freak, no woman’s caprice, but from an earnest resolution to—”

“What!”

“Try to save my husband,” she added meekly, but fervently.

“To save me? You are vastly kind. From what?”

“From poor Fred’s fate,” she said faintly, blinded by the tears that would not be held back.

“I thank you for the compliment. So you think me in danger of becoming such a miserable sot; but I hope I have too much pride, if nothing else, to keep me from degrading myself thus.”

“At your age did he not think the same? A few years ago did he not look as fair as you, did he not think himself as strong?

And what is he now—where are the manliness and beauty of which he was so proud? His miserable face haunted me all night, and I dreamed of his broken-hearted wife and his poor children, blighted in their youth by their own parent. O James, the Bible says truly, ‘Wine is a mocker,’ and so long as we tamper with the poison, we have no right to say, ‘We are safe.’ Those only are secure who obey the exhortation to ‘touch not, taste not, handle not;’ and I have resolved, after earnest and prayerful deliberation, never to be guilty of offering that insidious foe to my friends, much less to that dearest of all friends, him in whom all my life is bound up.”

“You don’t mean to say that you wish to exclude wine from our dinner table and from our social parties?”

“Believing it to be dangerous, I do.”

“Then you would force your husband to visit the drinking saloon or the tavern for that refreshment which you deny him at home.”

“Does my husband mean to insinuate that he is already such a slave to the excitement of liquors that he cannot do without them?”

Angrily he strode to and fro, while the wife retired to her chamber, weeping, but not disheartened. She felt that she was right; and while she realized her own weakness, she trusted in Him who has said, “My grace is sufficient for thee.”

The month she had spent in the home of her husband, had opened her eyes fearfully to the danger lurking in the exhilarating wine-cup. She had often heard in her girlhood of the evils of intemperance, but she fancied they existed only among the lower class, the dregs of society. Until she became an inmate of that family, she dreamed not that the highly educated, the refined, degraded themselves to the level of the brute, by first sipping rosy wine from shining liquor cups or sparkling crystal goblets.

Free, generous livers they were called; exercising a whole-souled hospitality to all, while none who came within the circle could fail to be fascinated with their charming manners. Alas! the poor young wife soon saw that they were only genial when under the influence of excitement, and that even those lovely girls, her new sisters, sought the stimulus of wine when they wished to be

lively and fascinating. When she saw their beautiful eyes sparkle with unwonted brilliancy, and heard the flashes of wit, she turned away in sadness, saying, “Alas! alas! what lovely victims!” The father could dispose of bottle after bottle without losing his control, but not so his sons. Persons occasionally wondered that their high spirits should lead them to such extremes, but there were times when she could not help knowing what excited these polite, refined young men.

The name of the eldest son, Frederick, was seldom mentioned by any of the family, and the day previous to the commencement of this sketch she understood the reason why. Then he came reeling along into her home. She shuddered as she looked upon that bloated, besotted face. She could not pollute her hand by placing it within his; much less in addressing the degraded being, could her lips frame the holy word “brother.”

No wonder the spectacle haunted her dreams that night, or she would fancy herself at the death-bed of that once lovely woman, whose heart he had broken, and hear her whisper, “Your husband is following in the footsteps of mine; oh! stop him!”

Not long after the wife’s resolution was formed, the young couple wished to give a dinner party to all their relatives; and as it was the first in their own house, they wished to convey pleasant ideas of their hospitality.

Then came the contention which the lady had foreseen, and the bitter opposition of her husband to the resolution she had formed to banish liquor from their board. In vain she told him of the delicious beverages which should supply its place; he persisted that she should not thus bring upon him the name of a niggard. And though she told him that upon her, rather than upon him, should all imputation rest, though she pleaded in the gentlest manner, she had need of all the strength she had so earnestly implored from on high.

For a time there was a serious estrangement between them; and his family, taking sides with him, told him that she wished to usurp too much authority over him as the head of the house, while they sneered openly at her “fanaticism,” her “meanness,” her “want of hospitality.” But she prayed without ceasing, and God at length opened her husband’s eyes to the danger of trifling

with that which had caused his brother’s ruin. With his consent, liquors were regarded only as “medicines,” and while the wife exerted herself to have a supply of good things in the house, both united in giving so cordial a welcome to their guests, that those who enjoyed their hospitality soon ceased to notice the absence of wine.

By degrees, others followed the example of the young wife, and gradually such a reformation took place in the town, that in a few years all the “first families” had banished the beverage from their sideboards and dinner tables.

Her husband is now the only survivor of all his father’s family. While he remembers that each one fills a drunkard’s grave, he turns to his wife, now no longer young, but beautiful in his eyes, and says, “Such would have been my fate but for you. I stood on the brink of the precipice, but I knew not my danger until you revealed it to me.” And she exclaims with gratitude, “Not unto me, but unto thy name, O Lord, be all the praise.”

THE BEST FUN.

“Now, boys, I’ll tell you how we can have some fun,” said Fred Blake to his companions, who had assembled on a beautiful moonlight evening, for sliding, snowballing, and fun generally.

“How?” “Where?” “What is it?” asked several eager voices all at once.

“I heard Widow More tell a man a little while ago,” replied Fred, “that she would go to sit up with a sick child, to-night. She said she would be there about 8 o’clock. Now, as soon as she is gone, let’s make a big snow man on her door-step so that when she comes home she cannot get in without first knocking him down.”

“Capital!” shouted several of the boys.

“See here,” said Charlie Neal, “I’ll tell you the best fun.”

“What is it?” again inquired several at once.

“Wait awhile,” said Charlie. “Who has a wood-saw?”

“I have,” “So have I,” answered three (264)

of the boys. “But what in the world do you want a wood-saw for?”

“You shall see,” replied Charlie. “It is almost 8 o’clock now, so go and get your saws. You, Fred and Nathan, get each an axe, and I will get a shovel. Let us all be back here in fifteen minutes, and then I’ll show you the fun.”

The boys separated to go on their several errands, each wondering what the fun could be, and what possible use could be made of wood-saws and axes, in their play. But Charlie was not only a great favorite with them all, but also an acknowledged leader, and they fully believed in him and his promise. Their curiosity gave elasticity to their steps, and they were soon assembled.

“Now,” said Charlie, “Mrs. More is gone, for I met her when I was coming back; so let’s be off at once.”

“But what are you going to do?” inquired several impatient members of the party.

“You shall see directly,” replied the leader, as they approached the residence of Mrs. More.

“Now, boys,” said Charlie, “you see that pile of wood; a man hauled it here this afternoon.

no͟on, and I heard Mrs. More tell him that unless she got some one to saw it to-night, she should have hardly anything to make a fire in the morning. Now, we can saw and split that pile of wood just about as easy as we could build a great snow man, and when Mrs. More comes home from her watching, she will be full as much surprised to find her wood sawed as she would to find a snow man at her door-step, and a great deal more pleasantly, too. What say you—will you do it?

One or two of the boys demurred at first. But the majority were in favor of Charlie’s project; so all finally joined in, and went to work with a will.

“I’ll go round to the back of the shed,” said Charlie, “and crawl through the window and unfasten the door. Then we’ll take turns in sawing, splitting, and carrying in the wood; and I want to pile it up nice, and to shovel all the snow away from the door; and a good wide path, too, from the door to the street—won’t it be fun when she comes home and sees it?”

The boys began to appreciate the fun, for they felt that they were doing a good deed, and individually experienced the satisfaction which always results from well-doing.

It was not a long, wearisome job, for seven robust and healthy boys to saw, split, and pile up the poor widow’s half-cord of wood, and to shovel a good path. And when it was done, so great was their pleasure, that one of the boys, who objected to the work at first, proposed that they should go to a neighboring carpenter’s shop, where plenty of shavings could be had for the carrying away, and each bring an armful of kindling wood. The proposition was readily acceded to; and this done, they repaired to their several homes, all of them more than satisfied with the “fun” of the winter evening.

The next morning, when the weary widow came home from watching by the sick bed, and saw what was done, she was pleasantly surprised; and afterward, when a neighbor (who had, unobserved, witnessed the labors of the boys) told how it was done, her fervent invocation, “God bless the boys!” was, of itself, an abundant reward for their labors.

Ah, boys and girls, the best fun is always found in doing something that is kind and useful. This is the deliberate opinion of a gray-headed man; but, if you doubt it in the least, just try it for yourselves, and you will be convinced.

SOMEBODY’S MOTHER.

The woman was old and ragged and gray, And bent with the chill of a winter’s day;

The street was wet with recent snow, And the woman’s feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing, and waited long, Alone, uncared for amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by, Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laugh and shout, Glad in the freedom of “school is out,”

Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray Hastened the children on their way,

Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses’ feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came out of the merry troop The gayest laddie of all the group;

He paused beside her, and whispered low, “I’ll help you across, if you wish to go.”

Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so, without hurt or harm, He guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content.

“She’s somebody’s mother, boys, you know. For all she’s aged and poor and slow, And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand, If ever she’s poor and old and gray, When her own dear boy is far away.”

And “somebody’s mother” bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said Was, “God be kind to the noble boy, Who is somebody’s son and pride and joy!”

WAITING FOR THE GRIST.

It is impossible to measure the influence which may be exerted by a single act, a word, or even a look. It was the simple act of an entire stranger that changed the course of my whole life. When I was a boy, my father moved to the then Far West,—Ohio. It was before the days of steam, and no great mills thundered on her river-banks, but occasionally there was a little grist-mill by the side of some small stream, and hither, whenever the water was up, the whole neighborhood flocked with their sacks of corn. Sometimes we had to wait two or three days for our turn. I was generally the one sent from our house, for, while I was too small to be of much account on the farm, I was as good as a man to carry a grist to mill. So I was not at all surprised one morning when my father said, “Henry, you can get up old roan and go to mill to-day.”

When I arrived, I found the North Branch and Rocky Fork farmers there ahead of me, and I knew there was no hope of getting (270)

home that day; but I was not at all sorry, for my basket was well filled with provisions, and Mr. Saunders always opened his big barn for us to sleep in; so we had a pleasant time while waiting for our grist. That day there was an addition to the number who had been in the habit of gathering, from time to time, in the old Saunders barn,—a young fellow about my own age. His name was Charley Allen, and his father had bought a farm over on the Brush Creek road. He was sociable and friendly, but I instinctively felt that he had “more manners” than the rest of us. The evening was spent, as usual, in relating coarse jokes and playing cards. Although I was not accustomed to such things at home, I had become so used to it at the mill that it had long since ceased to shock me, and, indeed, I was fast becoming a very interested spectator.

When bedtime came, we were all so busy with our own affairs that we did not notice Charley Allen until a rude, profane fellow exclaimed, “Heyday! we’ve got a parson here!” Charley was kneeling by the oat-bin, praying. The jest met with no response. The silence was broken only by the drowsy

cattle below, and the twittering swallows overhead. More than one rough man wiped a tear from his eyes as he went silently to his bed on the hay. I had always been in the habit of praying at home, but I never thought of such a thing at Saunder’s Mill. As I lay awake that night in the old barn, thinking of Charley Allen’s courage, and what an effect it had upon the men, I firmly resolved that in the future I would do right. I little thought how soon my courage would be tested. Just after dinner I got my grist, and started for home. When I arrived at Albright’s gate, where I turned off to go home, I found the old squire waiting for me. I saw in a moment that something had gone wrong. I had always stood in the greatest awe of the old gentleman because he was the rich man of the neighborhood, and now I felt my heart beginning to beat very fast. As soon as I came near he said, “Did you go through this gate yesterday?” I could easily have denied it, as it was before daylight when I went through, and I quite as often went the other way. Charley Allen kneeling in the barn came to my mind like a flash, and before I had time to listen to the tempter I said, “Yes, sir; I did.”

“Are you sure you shut and pinned the gate?” he asked.

This question staggered me. I remembered distinctly that I did not. I could pull the pin out without getting off my horse, but I could not put it in again; so I carelessly rode away, and left it open.

“I—I—I—”

“Out with it; tell just what you did!”

“I left it open,” I said abruptly.

“Well, you let the cattle in, and they have destroyed all my early potatoes,—a terrible piece of business!”

“I’m very sorry, I’d—”

“Talking won’t help matters now; but remember, boy, remember that sorrow don’t make potatoes,—sorrow don’t make potatoes.”

I felt very bad about the matter, for I was really sorry that the old gentleman had lost his potatoes, and then I expected to be severely reprimanded at home; but I soon found that they knew nothing of the matter, and after several days had passed, I began to rest quite easy. Alas for human hopes! one rainy afternoon I saw the squire riding down the lane. I ran off to the barn,

ashamed to face him, and afraid to meet my father. They sat on the porch and talked for a long time. At last my curiosity overcame my fear, and I stole back to the house, and went into mother’s room to see if I could hear what they were talking about. “Why, the boy could be spared well enough, but he don’t know anything about the business,” said my father. “There is one thing he does know,” said the squire, “he knows how to tell the truth.” He then related the circumstance which I so much dreaded to have my father hear. After he had gone, my father called me to him, and told me that the squire was going to start a store in the village, and wanted a boy to help, and that I could go if I wished. I went, and remained in the village store until it became a city store. People say that I got my start in life when I entered Albright’s store, but I will always maintain that I got it while I was waiting for the grist.

TWO WAYS OF READING THE BIBLE.

“Would you like another chapter, Lilian dear?” asked Kate Everard of the invalid cousin, to nurse whom she had lately come from Hampshire.

“Not now, thanks; my head is tired,” was the reply.

Kate closed her Bible with a feeling of slight disappointment. She knew that Lilian was slowly sinking under incurable disease, and what could be more suitable to the dying than to be constantly hearing the Bible read? Lilian might surely listen, if she were too weak to read for herself. Kate was never easy in mind unless she perused at least two or three chapters daily, besides a portion of the Psalms; and she had several times gone through the whole Bible from beginning to end. And here was Lilian, whose days on earth might be few, tired with one short chapter!

“There must be something wrong here,” thought Kate, who had never during her

life kept her bed for one day through sickness. “It is a sad thing when the dying do not prize the word of God.” “Lilian,” said she, trying to soften her naturally quick, sharp tones to gentleness, “I should think that now, when you are so ill, you would find special comfort in the Scriptures.”

Lilian’s languid eyes had closed, but she opened them, and with a soft, earnest gaze on her cousin, replied, “I do—they are my support; I have been feeding on one verse all the morning.”

“And what is that verse?” asked Kate.

“Whom I shall see for myself,” began Lilian slowly; but Kate cut her short—

“I know that verse perfectly—it is in Job; it comes just after ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth;’ the verse is, ‘Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.’”

“What do you understand by the expression ‘not another’?” asked Lilian.

“Really, I have never particularly considered those words,” answered Kate. “Have you found out any remarkable meaning in them?”

“They were a difficulty to me,” replied

the invalid, “till I happened to read that in the German Bible they are rendered a little differently; and then I searched in my own Bible, and found that the word in the margin of it, is like that in the German translation.”

“I never look at the marginal references,” said Kate, “though mine is a large Bible and has them.”

“I find them such a help in comparing scripture with scripture,” observed Lilian.

Kate was silent for several seconds. She had been careful to read daily a large portion from the Bible; but to “mark, learn, and inwardly digest it,” she had never even thought of trying to do. In a more humble tone she now asked her cousin, “What is the word which is put in the margin of the Bible instead of ‘another’ in that difficult text?”

“A stranger,” replied Lilian; and then, clasping her hands, she repeated the whole passage on which her soul had been feeding with silent delight: “‘Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not a stranger.’” O Kate,” continued the dying girl, while unbidden tears rose to her eyes, “if you only knew what sweetness I have

found in that verse all this morning while I have been in great bodily pain! I am in the Valley of Shadow—I shall soon cross the dark river; I know it: but He will be with me, and ‘not a stranger.’ He is the Good Shepherd, and I know his voice; a stranger would I not follow. And in the glad resurrection morn, it is the Lord Jesus whom I shall behold—my own Saviour, my own tried friend, and ‘not a stranger;’ I shall at last see Him whom, not having seen, I have loved.”

Lilian closed her eyes again, and the large drops, overflowing, fell down her pallid cheeks; she had spoken too long for her strength, but her words had not been spoken in vain.

“Lilian has drawn more comfort and profit from one verse—nay, from three words in the Bible, than I have drawn from the whole book,” reflected Kate. “I have but read the Scriptures—she has searched them. I have been like one floating carelessly over the surface of waters under which lie pearls; Lilian has dived deep and made the treasure her own.”

ROCK OF AGES.

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,” Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, Fell the words unconsciously From her girlish, gleeful tongue; Sung as little children sing; Sung as sing the birds in June; Fell the words like light leaves down On the current of the tune— “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Let me hide myself in Thee”— Felt her soul no need to hide— Sweet the song as song could be, And she had no thought beside; All the words unheedingly Fell from lips untouched by care, Dreaming not that they might be On some other lips a prayer— “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me;” ’T was a woman sung them now, Pleadingly and prayerfully; Every word her heart did know. Rose the song as storm-tossed bird Beats with weary wing the air, Every note with sorrow stirred, Every syllable a prayer— “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me”— Lips grown aged sang the hymn Trustingly and tenderly, Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim— “Let me hide myself in Thee.” Trembling though the voice, and low, Rose the sweet strain peacefully, Like a river in its flow; Sang as only they can sing Who behold the promised rest— “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee.”

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me,” Sung above the coffin lid; Underneath, all restfully, All life's joys and sorrows hid. Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul! Nevermore from wind or tide, Nevermore from billow's roll Wilt thou need thyself to hide! Could the sightless, sunken eyes Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye, still the words would be— “Let me hide myself in Thee.”

THE AGED.

If you would make the aged happy, lead them to feel that there is still a place for them where they can be useful. When you see their powers failing, do not notice it. It is enough for them to feel it, without a reminder. Do not humiliate them by doing things after them. Accept their offered services, and do not let them see you taking off the dust their poor eye-sight has left undisturbed, or wiping up the liquid their trembling hands have spilled; rather let the dust remain, and the liquid stain the carpet, than rob them of their self-respect by seeing you cover their deficiencies. You may give them the best room in your house, you may garnish it with pictures and flowers, you may yield them the best seat in your church-pew, the easiest chair in your parlor, the highest seat of honor at your table; but if you lead, or leave, them to feel that they have passed their usefulness, you plant a thorn in their bosom that will rankle there while life lasts. If they are capable of

doing nothing but preparing your kindlings, or darning your stockings, indulge them in those things, but never let them feel that it is because they can do nothing else; rather that they do this so well.

Do not ignore their taste and judgment. It may be that in their early days, and in the circle where they moved, they were as much sought and honored as you are now; and until you arrive at that place, you can ill imagine your feelings should you be considered entirely void of these qualities, be regarded as essential to no one, and your opinions be unsought, or discarded if given. They may have been active and successful in the training of children and youth in the way they should go; and will they not feel it keenly, if no attempt is made to draw from this rich experience?

Indulge them as far as possible in their old habits. The various forms of society in which they were educated may be as dear to them as yours are now to you; and can they see them slighted or disowned without a pang? If they relish their meals better by turning their tea into the saucer, having their butter on the same plate with their

food, or eating with both knife and fork, do not in word or deed imply to them that the customs of their days are obnoxious in good society; and that they are stepping down from respectability as they descend the hillside of life. Always bear in mind that the customs of which you are now so tenacious may be equally repugnant to the next generation.

In this connection I would say, Do not notice the pronunciation of the aged. They speak as they were taught, and yours may be just as uncourtly to the generation following. I was once taught a lesson on this subject, which I shall never forget while memory holds its sway. I was dining, when a father brought his son to take charge of a literary institution. The father was intelligent, but had not received the early advantages which he had labored hard to procure for his son; and his language was quite a contrast to that of the cultivated youth. But the attention and deference which the young man gave to his father’s quaint though wise remarks, placed him on a higher pinnacle in my mind, than he was ever placed by his world-wide reputation as a scholar and writer.

Continue reading: A QUESTION OF WAGES.