“I HAD just arrived by rail at a little wayside station near my home, and had run quickly up the steps that led across the railway, to gaze once again on placid river and rippling stream, on wooded glen and furzy hill—scenes over which childhood’s memories cast a halo. At the sound of my father’s voice the thoughts of the land-scape vanished, and descending with the alacrity of youth, I added another to the group of persons on the platform.
“Read the directions again, Johnny,” I heard the station-master say to the porter.
The object of attraction was a common round hamper, which had been sent by passenger train. It was addressed to the station-master. The label informed him that the basket contained doves, and requested him to undo the fastenings, and telegraph to the sender in Motherwell at what time the birds were let loose.
We eagerly watched as a dozen bluish-gray pigeons escaped from their wicker prison, rose into the air, and for a little remained poised on the wing.
“How far is it to Motherwell?” asked one of the bystanders.
“Twenty-six miles as the crow flies,” said my father.
Round and round flew the pigeons. Now a little in one direction and again in another. Mount Tinto raised its cairn-crowned head between them and their view of home. Higher and higher they rose, and, after many varied gyrations, flew off straight toward the top of Tinto, thus taking the direct route to Motherwell.
“Thou hast doves’ eyes,” said my father, as we saw them set off in the right course. Why did they not linger where they were? Fair was the scene to which they had been sent. Laurel bush and quivering aspen, and sycamore with pendant flowers wooed them to shelter in their bowers. They did not stay to discover any beauties around, but restlessly fluttered till their penetrating eyes caught sight of home, or at least, of the correct road to it. Towards it they hastened, even though that home lay in the coal country, where unsightly piles of refuse marked the entrance of each dark pit, and huge iron furnaces blackened the air with grimy smoke, and belched their lurid flames athwart the sky.
Ah! friend, have you felt the allurements of this world grow stale, the pleasures of sin pall, and, satiated with vapid enjoyments of earth, do you long for the wings of a dove, that you might fly away and be at rest.
To whom will you turn in your distress? Only one, the Lord Jesus, has the words of eternal life. If you are bowed down with the burden of sin, be assured you are the very one He wants, for it is the weary and heavy laden He invites to come to Him and get rest. All your life you may wander, like Noah’s dove, seeking rest, but you will find none till, like that lonely bird which turned to the ark, you turn to the Lord Jesus.
When you do, you will discover a hand put forth to pull you in; a voice speaking peace, and the arm of the Lord stretched forth to save.
There is no salvation to be found anywhere else, “for there is none other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved.”
M. M.