My Little Friend Annual: Volume 2 (1877)

I FEAR that poor image man has a hard time of it in the winter, although he has some tempting wares in his basket. I do pity those poor foreigners, for most of them are Roman Catholics; and I know the street most of these kind of people live in, where they mold and chisel out their images. Some friends of mine often go to their houses to tell them about a living Jesus in heaven, but they will not hear them. The picture reminded me of a story I once heard about a little Roman. Catholic boy. It was this: Henry T— used to help his mother, who looked after the chapel, and had to clean and sweep and dust for the next Sunday service. Harry’s companion was a Sunday-school boy, whose mother was a Christian, and I suppose the boys often got talking together about these matters: One day Harry was with his mother as usual, and while dusting or cleaning the image of the infant Jesus, he said-

“Mother, Mrs. Pritchard’s Jesus is different from our Jesus.”

“How so?’’ asked the mother.

“Because we have to wash our Jesus; but Mrs. Pritchard’s Jesus washes them from their sins in His blood. What a difference, mother!”

This led Harry’s mother to think, and a little Afterward she got into conversation with Mrs. Pritchard, and, the precious ending of it all was, I heard that Harry and his mother were both of them led to that same Jesus, “who died, the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God,” who said, “This is life eternal, that they might know Thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou has sent” (John 17:1).

A Child's Resting Place.

THE other evening, as I was carrying my little child to bed, she in her chatting way, told me she had seen a picture as she passed by a shop on that day. On asking her what it was about, it she said that it was someone lying in in the arms of Jesus, and that it looked so nice. Following her little train of thought, I said, on kissing her when had placed her in her cot, “There, dear, now lie down — safe in the arms of Jesus.’” “Yes,” she sweetly responded, “ ‘safe on His gentle breast;’” and plunging her little head in the pillow, she was soon fast asleep. What a resting-place for a child!

Teddy and Scrub.

DEAR little Ted Shirley

Was a bright little lad,

His hair was so curly,

His face was so glad.

And father and mother

Were fond of their boy,

And one and another

Would bring him a toy.

His sister was ready

To join in his play,

Or help little Teddy

In her own little way.

She button’d his jacket

And made it to fit;

His frock, she would tack it

If it happen’d to slit.

She fasten’d his buckles

And put on his shoes;

And when his poor knuckles

He happen’d to bruise,

She got some nice plaster

And stuck it on tight;

And helped him to master

His lessons at night.

So gentle and steady

With needle and thread,

She always was ready

To help little Ned.

He loved sister Mary

For all these kind things,

And thought her a fairy

That hadn’t got wings.

He had heard about fairies

In silver and silk,

That went to the dairies

And drank up the milk.

Or turn’d bread and butter

To slices of gold;

Or made in a flutter

The sheep in the fold.

But his sister Mary,

The very first thing,

Would go to the dairy,

And thence she would bring

Some new milk for mother,

And cut up some bread,

And feed baby brother,

And dear little Ned.

She got up quite early

(For that was the rule),

To help Teddy Shirley

Go early to school.

One day, baby brother

Was sick, and he died:

And father and mother

And all of them cried.

One night, Teddy linger’d

Alone in the lane,

And fondled and finger’d

Old Scrub and his chain.

Then said, in a minute,

“Perhaps, dear old Scrub,

As you are not in it,

You’ll lend me your tub.”

Scrub gave an inspection,

Then sat down to rest:

He had no objection

To Teddy’s request.

He bark’d not, nor fumbled

His collar or chain,

And only once grumbled

At dogs in the lane.

At the flies that were stinging,

He snapp’d once or twice;

But little Ted’s singing

He thought very nice.

By the way that he listen’d

And prided up his ear,

And the way his eyes glistened,

It seem’d very clear,

He could not be surly,

But still as a mouse,

While little Ted Shirley

Sat down in his house.

The stars were all blinking,

(His bedtime was seven),

While Teddy was thinking

Of Willie in heaven.

He knew the sweet story

(Was taught it with care),

Of Jesus in glory,

And little ones there.

He knew He caress’d them

When he was below;

Spoke kindly, and bless’d them,—

The Bible said so.

And Mary had told him

That Christ was the same:

He wish’d to behold Him,

And call Him by name.

Ah, all who like Willie,

To Jesus do go,

Are pure as the lily,

And whiter than snow.

So Teddy sat singing

To Jesus in heaven,

Till he heard a bell ringing,

And a clock striking seven.

When he thought it seem’d foggy,

And so little Ned,

Having thanked dear old doggie,

Went straight off to bed.

But years have been bringing

Their sorrow and joy,

Since the night Ned was singing,

When he was a boy.

He has had many losses,

And sorrows has known:

He has had many crosses

Since to manhood he’s grown.

But wherever driven,

Amid sorrow and woe,

He knows he’s forgiven,

And “whiter than snow.”

And now ‘tis his pleasure

To tell all around,

What an unfading treasure

In Jesus is found.

And oft-times he’s thinking

Of faithful old Scrub,

When the stars were all blinking

As he sat in the tub;

When he thought of the story

Of Jesus’s love,

And Willie in glory

With Jesus above.

DICKIE RHYMER.

"Jesus Died for Me!"

I WILL tell you, my dear young readers, of a little boy whom the Lord took to be with Himself a short time ago. It was my privilege to nurse him and hear the above sweet confession from his lips. Scarcely eight summers had rolled over his head, —a noble generous hearted boy, foremost in all the games with his schoolfellows, among whom he was a general favorite. Now, disease was doing its deadly work to his once active limbs. Scarlet fever in its worst, malignant form had seized him, rapidly he grew worse, and the doctor gave no hopes of his recovery. Having had this dear child for some time under my care, I had become very attached to him, and now, the thought he was so soon to be taken made my heart sink within me. Returning to the next room I threw myself on my knees, and earnestly pleaded with the Lord, that if He took him, He would enable him to confess Christ, and again looking to Him for the suited portion of His word, I went to the bedside of the little sufferer. Taking his feverish hand in mine I said, “Johnny you are very ill, what would you like?” He looked up and said, “To be with Jesus, for He died for me.”

The commencement of the fourteenth chapter of Matthew seemed much laid upon my heart, which, after reading, he exclaimed in his childish manner―

“Poor John shut up in prison, and then beheaded,” but quickly added, “Ah, he had the best of it after all, for he exchanged the prison walls to be with the Lord,” and many other sweet remarks, which time will not permit me to enter into. Knowing his hours were numbered, I felt anxious till I knew for certain he was saved, so I said, “Johnny, suppose the Lord should see fit to call you away, what about your soul? Could you say of yourself, as you did of John the Baptist, you would have the ‘best of it?’” With an earnestness in his languid eyes, he exclaimed, —

“Jesus died for me. Dear Jesus had the nails put into His hands and feet, bore all the punishment I deserved on Calvary’s cross, so that I and every poor sinner might have the best of it.”

Strange yet sweet expression, “he had the best of it.”

Dear little ones who read this narrative, how is it with you? If you believe on the Lord Jesus Christ you will, as dear Johnny exclaimed, have the best of it. And, like the subject of this narrative, be enabled to say, “Jesus died for me.”

Words fail to express the deep gratitude to the Lord I felt for permitting me to hear such a sweet confession from those lips which were so soon to be closed in death. A few hours after, the little one became delirious, and the following day the Lord gently took him to be with Himself, for of such is the “kingdom.” His remains are interred in a village churchyard not far from where he lived. And on his tombstone are inscribed the words of his Favorite text, “Suffer little children to come unto me.”

Dear young reader, again let me intreat of you to come to Jesus now, you may never have another opportunity. How uncertain is life! your now healthy limbs may soon be cold in death. The subject of this narrative was suddenly called away. Only ill two days, previous to that, he was looking the picture of health, making the air ring with his merry laugh as he joined in the games of his companions. Suppose you should be thus suddenly called away, do not put off this solemn question any longer. Where are you going to spend your Eternity?

May He bless the reading of this narrative to many a little one.

F. A.

Brotherly Love.

I WAS one day walking through a London square, when I noticed a little boy and girl standing before a gentleman’s house. The little girl was holding by the railing with one hand and holding up one foot, while the little face was puckered up in a most wry fashion. I saw she was in pain. I suppose she had sprained her foot a little. Her brother, younger than herself, was sympathizing with her in a true brotherly way, and by his manner I judged be was urging her to do something to which she objected; by the shake of the little curly head, too. But on looking round again I saw at a glance what he had been urging on his lame sister, and that after she had put her foot to the ground once or twice, and still found she was lame, she gave way to his entreaties, and he gained his point. What do you think it was? Why, he wanted to carry her home! I suppose at first she felt this was an undignified procedure for a little lady, and it was not until she found out how helpless she was that she would accept of the help of another. The last I saw of them was the little fellow with his sister on his back, going a little way and then resting, and going on again. Ah, he was another member of the “Try Company,” as Mr. Editor calls it, and his trying’s began where they shine best, at home among his brothers and sisters. I know some members of this honorable company don’t show their colors at home; it’s harder there, they find, but if it is, how much nobler to work where a good victory is to be gained. Think of that, dear little readers; try to help each other at home, bearing one another’s burdens, helping one another, working by love, for if “God so loved us we ought also to love one another.”

Little Daisy.

I WAS visiting the home of a little girl some time since in the country. Her name was Daisy F. don’t know why she was called by that name, unless it was after her namesakes that dotted the broad meadows in front of her father’s house, and grew as thick as thick could be all along the stream that bubbled away on its journey to the mill, a few fields off, whose heavy water-wheel it had to turn all day long. However, we had been spending the evening together with a good number of children, talking about Jesus, and how He was once not only among men and learned doctors in the Temple, but sometimes was found to speak to mothers and little children. Then He was in the bedchamber with a little maiden, and raising her to life, or sending a message by a nobleman about his little boy; sometimes, too, He would talk about the lilies of the field, or the little sparrows on the housetops, and how not one fell to the ground without His Father’s knowledge — to teach us that if He cared for sparrows, how much more would He care for us. Well, we had a beautiful time together, and little Daisy, like one of the field daisies, was not inclined to close her little petals (and the eyelids remind me of the flower) till bedtime. When she went home of course mamma had to hear all about it, and even when kneeling on ma’s lap to have the good-night kiss, little Daisy had to tell something that was forgotten before; but she said, “Do you know, ma, I shall love Jesus better after tonight than ever I did.”

Was not that a beautiful resolution and desire for a little one to express? Oh, may nothing crush little Daisy’s desire, but may she and all my little readers grow in grace by the stream of life closer and closer to Jesus. The flowers that grow by the side of the stream are always fresher and brighter than those that grow on the high hills.

Dot's Corner.

A HAPPY NEW YEAR to you, little friends, readers and writers too. We spent many happy hours tether last year; I hope we shall have more. Your letters give me great pleasure, and although perhaps some feel disappointed not gaining a prize, you know St. Paul says all run in a race, but one wins. And your labor has not been all lost, as I have gleaned some precious thoughts for myself from your letters. You will see Willie Branford is the successful one this month.

I see some of the newspapers have been reading your letters, and many good things they have said about our Magazine, for which we all would thank them; but one editor can’t understand how children so young can write such letters without somebody’s help. Ah! that gentleman is not a Sunday School teacher, or his little ones do not go to a Sunday School, or he would know more about what you learn from the word of God, and that it says there, “I thank Thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes (Matt. 11:25). And again, “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings Thou hast perfected praise.” Such precious words as these give me bright hopes what sort of men and women Dot’s little Bible readers will make. But now let us see what Willie Branford has to say on

Joshua and Caleb.

WE first read about Joshua in Exodus 17:9 where Moses bids him go out and fight with Arnalek, and Joshua did so. His name occurs next in Exodus 24:13, when God called Moses up into Mount Horeb, and his minister Joshua. From this Scripture and 33:11 we find he is called Moses’ servant. He did not bow down and worship the calf, for he was with better company, — he was on the mount of God; but when he came down he heard what he thought was the noise of war in the camp (32:17). The first mention of Caleb is in Numbers 13:6. He was one of those whom Moses sent to spy out the land. He belonged to the tribe of Judah. Joshua is here said to have been of the tribe of Ephraim. Joshua’s name is changed by Moses. When the spies came back, only two of them gave a good report of the land; their names were Joshua and Caleb. Caleb stilled the people when they spoke against God. They rent their clothes when they heard the evil report of the other spies. Joshua and Caleb were the only ones who spoke the truth when they said “The Lord is with us: fear them not.” Joshua and Caleb were in danger of being stoned for their faith in God’s power, God was angry with the people. He said that not one of the children of Israel then living should enter into the land of Canaan, but Joshua and Caleb, though their children should enter the land. They were to wander in the wilderness for forty years (Num. 32:12, 13; also Deut. 1:36, 38). Joshua was full of the spirit of wisdom, and he did as the Lord commanded Moses (Deut. 34). After the death of Moses the Lord spoke unto Joshua, saying, “Arise, go over this Jordan. But before Joshua led the people over into Canaan, he sent two men to spy out the land secretly. They went to Jericho, and lay there all night. When it was told the King of Jericho, he sent to Rahab, saying, “Bring forth the men;” but Rahab hid them, and they got away safe the next morning, and after three days they returned to Joshua and told him all that had befallen them. The Lord told Joshua what the officers, priests and Levites, were to do. How they were to take the ark to the brink of the water and stand still while all the other people passed over. So everything was done as the Lord commanded. When they were all clean passed over, God told Joshua to send out of every tribe a man to take up twelve stones out of Jordan, to be a memorial to their children when they asked their fathers about them, and also to set up twelve stones in Jordan. God told Joshua to circumcise the children who were born in the wilderness, and they did so in Gilgal. And then they kept the Passover in the plains of Jericho. The manna ceased, and they ate of the fruit of the land. It was close to Jericho that Joshua saw the Prince of the Host of the Lord, and he fell down and worshipped him like Moses. Jericho was shut up. The Lord said unto Joshua, See, I have given into thy hand Jericho, Encompass the city six days, and blow with rams’ horns, and on the seventh day the walls shall fall down. And they did so, and the walls fell down flat, and the city was taken and accursed. God forbade anyone to take of the spoil of Jericho. Achan disobeyed — he took of the spoil and hid it in his tent. Joshua’s army attacked Ai, but were beaten because of the sin of Achan. Joshua found it out, and Achan was put to death and his household. They attacked Ai again, and took it. The Gibeonites, by not speaking the truth, got the princes to make a league with them, and their lives were spared. Joshua divided the land after he had conquered it. Then Caleb came to him and reminded him of a promise God made to Moses. He said that he was as strong as when he was sent to spy out the land, although he was eighty-five years of age. Joshua gave him Hebron for an inheritance. Joshua died at the age of one hundred and ten years, and was buried in Timnathserah in Mount Ephraim. Caleb, after the death of Joshua, drove out the sons of Anak. Now, Mr. Dot, is not the ark down in the river Jordan while the people passed over it, like Jesus dying on the cross, that all who believe in Him might have their sins forgiven? for God’s word says, “Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us.” Joshua in Hebrews 4 means Jesus. Joshua was appointed by God to bring His people into Canaan, but Jesus is going soon to take His people into Heaven; that will be far better Joshua and Caleb served the Lord wholly; they only were faithful, and all the rest were unfaithful. So we see they could not enter in because of unbelief.

Yours respectfully,

WILLIAM BRANFORD.

Abbey Street, Farnham, Surrey. Aged ten years and seven months.

Yes, Master Willie, it is like Jesus — a type of Jesus, who at the cross conquered death, and took its fear away — so beautifully expressed in the words “they passed over dry shod,” because if the river was dry, and there was not a drop of water to be seen, or a bit of mud to sink in, the “little ones” of Israel would not be afraid to cross over. We do hope that the Word of God will be to all our dear little readers sweeter than honey, and more precious than thousands of gold and silver.

Your affectionate Friend, DOT.

A half-crown hook, entitled “LITTLE HAZEL,” will be the prize for the next successful article.

King Baby.

THERE’S a dear little baby

Asleep in the cot;

And grandfather calls him

His dear little “Dot.”

We’re obliged to be quiet

When baby’s asleep;

Or Lizzy will charge us

A penny a peep.

At six in the morning —

And sometimes at five,

The crib in the corner,

You’d think was alive.

He crows out so loudly,

And rattles his crib,

And plays with the tassels

Or pulls at his bib;

And then after washing

His pleasures begin,

As he sits on and plays with

That large leopard’s skin.

And what cares “King Baby”

For satin or silk?

He’s fond of his bottle —

A bottle of milk.

And when he is drinking,

Miss Pussy will stop;

I dare say she fancies

He’ll give her a drop.

Baby loves to be carried,

Because he’s so small!

We love him so dearly,

He’s king of us all.

And we are his people,

To love and obey!

I mean in the nursery,

When we are at play.

A rattle’s’ his scepter,

His cradle’s his throne!

And the toys and the trumpets

He claims as his own.

The nursery’s his kingdom,

His region of bliss!

His rates and his taxes

We pay with a kiss.

Of course when we pay him,

We ask for a treat!

That’s a drop from his bottle,

Which is rather too sweet!

A kiss his receipt is;

But we have to beware

Of a little addition —

A pull of the hair.

When Fred blows his trumpet,

Or beats his big drum,

A regiment of soldiers

He fancies will come,

To crowd round the cradle

And fight for their king;

The flies are his foemen

That tickle and sting!

DICKIE RHYMER

Little Bits.

ONE day I saw two little boys at their mother’s door. I think they had been to the baker’s to fetch a loaf.

They were small, because neither of them could reach the bell, so they tried on tip-toe, and put their arms out as far as ever they could, but they couldn’t do it; so after a minute, the eldest took the loaf under his arm, and then stooped down while his little brother Tommy got on his back, and then he gave the bell a pull, which made mother come quickly, as perhaps she thought it was a gentleman ringing, when it was her two little boys. I thought that was what we ought to do — help one another; but then you know the biggest had to stoop so that the little one might reach the bell. Perhaps, Mr. Editor, some of your “Try Company Members “will not mind stooping low enough to help their brothers and sisters — Jesus stooped very low to save us.

I feel sure we shall remember the pretty “little bit” — I suppose we may have some more, as it says “Bits” — which we have just read, and I hope not forget the lesson of stooping. Yes! Jesus did stoop so low to save us that there is no need to get on a brother’s back to reach Him; “He is near to every one of us.” And He says, “Come unto me,” and “Believe on me, and you shall be saved.” Well, let us try to bring our brothers and sisters to Jesus, but, as our friend says, “don’t be afraid of stooping low.”

The Puzzle Corner.

“Ask.”

FIND three separate texts contained in one verse, each text in order beginning with the letters of the above little word, and each text referring to obtaining something from God.

DOTTIE BIGGS, SWINDON,

Aged 11 years,

[We shall be glad to give a space every month for the best Scripture puzzle or enigma or acrostic by our little friends under twelve, for which a prize will be given. The answer inserted the following month.]

"Why Do All the Good Children Die?"

THAT was the question asked by a friend of mine after reading about the happy departure of a little girl. He wished they all lived. Ah! but they do not all die when young. I know many who are now men and women, who were converted when they were little ones, and who are glad they were brought to Christ in their early days. They have passed through the trials which all must pass through — they have had falls through unwatchfulness, and then have gone to the Lord about it and got restored — and have thus learned what a loving, and pardoning, and forgiving Father we have in heaven, who loves us too much to give us up to Satan; and though He sometimes has to use the rod, as our fathers have to when we are naughty, it is in love, and He will not let strangers punish His children.

I hope my little readers will not be afraid to confess Christ because they may be laughed at. Just look at a few verses in the first chapter of Proverbs, and see who will laugh presently.

When we ask you to accept Christ, and by believing have eternal life through His Name, we don’t lead you to expect that Satan will let you have it all quietly. But if you know you have peace with God, you will have strength to overcome. When you melt a dirty piece of lead, all the dirt is left behind, and the new metal is beautiful and bright. Does not that remind us of what Scripture says, “We are new creatures— old things are passed away”? But you will say the lead will get dirty again. That depends upon whose hands it is in. Do you see what I mean?

A little roughing of it brings out what is in us, you know.

I was looking at my sister one day, cleaning her fire-irons; they had got a little rusty. Well, she got a piece of sand-paper and rubbed away, and didn’t leave off till every spot was gone, but I thought they looked rather scratchy; but presently Nancy got a piece of chamois leather, and rubbed away again till all the scratches were gone, and she didn’t leave off till she could see her face in them — they were so bright. Ah! I thought — for I get into these ways of thinking sometimes — that’s what trials and troubles do for a Christian. So it says in Peter — you will remember where, — it keeps the rust of evil away, and keeps us bright for Jesus, so that He can see His face in His own work, for He does it. That is a little word for the girls who help mother with the cleaning of the fire-irons.

Now a word for the boys. My little boy and I were often fond of taking a walk by the river side, and watching the fish in their gambols. “Now, Freddy, do you see that fish always swim up stream? “Well, we watched, and Fred saw that that was the habit of the little finny tribe. “Look there, Fred, you don’t often see a dead fish, but where’s that going?” Ah! that was going down stream fast enough. What a difference life makes! So when we get life — I mean when we are converted — we find everything against us, and we want to go up stream; that’s what we call conflict. You have heard people talk of going with the stream; that’s easy enough — down, down, down, with the weeds and every little thing light enough to float. Now, boys — and most boys are fond of fishing — notice how the fish battle against the stream, and then write down in your text-book this verse,

“THIS IS THE VICTORY WHICH OVERCOMETH THE WORLD, EVEN OUR FAITH.” (1 John 5:4.)

My Little Friend.

OH, what a contrast we get in the picture on the other page! Inside all is light, and joy, and merriment; outside, poverty, sorrow, and hunger. The widow and the fatherless are at the rich man’s gate. Does he know it? and if the bell is rung will they be sent away? What a contrast to Jesus, who says, “He filleth the hungry with good things”―that is, if they hunger and thirst after Him.

“Then said David to the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israe1, whom thou hast defied. This day will the Lord deliver thee into my hand; and I will smite thee, and take thine head from tine; and I will give the carcases of the host of the Philistines this day unto the fowls of the air und to the wild beasts of the earth; that all the earth may know that there is a “God in Israel. And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saved not with sword and spear: for the battle is the Lord’s, and He will give you into our hands.” (l Sam. 17:45-47)

The Limpet on the Rock.

ON Connemara’s rugged coast,

Beside the open sea,

A little girl might oft be seen,

A happy girl was she.

A basket on her arm she bore,

And shifted to her hand

When stooping down to gather up

The seaweed on the strand.

A stranger strolling there, who had

From England journey’d o’er,

Did one day meet this Irish girl

Upon that rocky shore.

“Do you love Jesus?” did lie ask;

“And do you know, child, why

He came to this dark world of sin,

To suffer pain and die?”

“I hope, sir, I do love him now,”

Did she in answer say;

“But I was once a giddy child,

And only thought of play.

“Look at that limpet, sir, that hangs

With scarce a hold at all,

As if it might from that wet rock

At any moment fall.

“I was, like it, without a fear,

And quite as careless too;

But wait, sir, till I tap its shell,

And see what it will do.”

She walked some paces unto where

A limpet then was seen,

As she described it, on a rock

O’er which the tide had been.

She placed her finger on its shell —

Quick to the rock it clung,

And there remain’d immovable,

No more it loosely hung.

“See, sir!” she added, “what a hold”

Has now this tiny thing;

The more I try to knock it off,

The tighter does it cling.

“The Lord upon me placed His hand —

He sickness on me brought;

And I became so terrified

When first of death I thought.

“I knew that I, a sinner great,

Was not prepared to die,

And oh! how wretched was I then,

And often did I cry.

“I rose up from my bed of pain,

No longer rude and wild;

No longer thoughtless as before,

But quite another child.

“And now I trust I love my God;

And while I Him adore,

To Jesus, who has died for me,

I’ll cleave for evermore.”

The stranger, oh! how pleased was lie,

I need here hardly say,

With what he heard from this dear child,

And musing went his way.

Dear children, when you’re by the sea,

And playing on the beach,

Think of the little Irish girl,

And what the limpets teach.

May you in loving trust, and strength,

God will the weakest give,

Cling to the Rock of Ages too,

And perish not, but live.

R. H. G. W.

Luther.

LUTHER, thoroughly enjoyed himself in his family; he had in all six children.

When worn out with his work lie would take his flute, and sing one of the hymns he had composed for use in the church; or calling his wife and children round him, they would all sing together. “There is nothing sweeter,” he used to say, “nothing more beautiful than a happy marriage, where the husband and wife live tether in peace and concord. It is the best gift of heaven next to the knowledge of God and of His word.”

He was also fond of his garden, and when his brain was overwrought, or he felt harassed by Satan, he would seek relief with the spade.

But here his thoughts were busy. Bending over a violet he would say, “Poor violet, what a perfume you exhale; but how much sweeter it would have been if Adam had not sinned! How I admire your tints, O rose! but which would have been more brilliant but for the fault of the first man. Nature does not show its ingratitude like man; for the murmur of the streams, the perfumes of the gardens, the breath of the winds, the rustling of the leaves, are so many hymns chanted to the Creator; whilst man, made after the image of God, forgets him entirely since his sin!”

Luther was stern in his discipline with the children. On one occasion he would not allow his son John to see him for three days. His Wife,’ was distressed, and interceded for the boy, and some of his friends did the same; but without effect. “I would rather my son were dead,” said Luther, “than badly brought up. I will not forgive the boy until he has written me a letter, humbling himself and asking for pardon.”

On the other hand he could fully enter into the thoughts and pursuits of his children. On one occasion fie discovered that his servant had put up a net to catch the birds, so Luther wrote a complaint of the birds thus:—

“To our very Dear Lord Martin Luther: —

“We, the thrushes, chaffinches, linnets, goldfinches, and other honorable birds, who will have to pass by Wittenberg this autumn, take the liberty to inform you that one Wolfgang, your servant, has had the audacity, out of dislike to us, to set up a net in order to deprive us Of the liberty of flying in the air, and of picking up from the ground the little seeds that God has given us. Moreover, he Seeks in this way to take our lives, we having never done him any harm. For this reason we pray you to restrain your servant from such acts.

“Given in our aerial abode under the trees, with our ordinary seal.

“Behold the fowls of the air: they sow not, neither do they reap, yet your heavenly Father feedeth them.”

Luther was poor, but he did not speak of it except to laugh at it among his friends. But it grieved him when he could not relieve cases of need as be would have wished. One day a student came to him with a tale of poverty and distress. He called to his wife, and told her to give to the poor man some money.

“I have got none,” said she, “not a farthing.” Luther at once seized a gold cup and gave it to the student, bidding him sell it and relieve his wants.

“A pewter mug will serve me,” said Luther.

[The above extract is from “The Life of Luther,” an interesting and instructive book for the young, which we have great pleasure in recommending to parents and superintendents of schools, with its companion volume, “Lights and Shadows of the Reformation” (2S. 6d. each), as excellent books for presents or rewards. London: G. Morrish, 24, Warwick Lane, E.C.]

"Bear Ye One Another's Burdens."

THERE was once a poor widow who had a son whose name was Tom. He was a very strong and healthy boy, but I am sorry to say that he was rather a lazy boy; when his mother asked him to do anything he always said it was too much trouble, so his poor mother had to do everything. Early every morning she had to get up and light the fire, and go and fetch the water from the well, for they had no tap; and about five o’clock in the evening she had to call the fowls and the chickens into their houses. There was a little boy who lived not far from Mrs. Hales’s house (for that was the widow’s name), who wanted to do something to please God, so he thought of a plan that he would get up an hour earlier every morning before he went to school and go and fetch the water from the well and call the poultry into their houses of an evening. Co early the next morning he went and got the pail which stood outside the back door of the widow’s house, and went and drew the water from the well, and stood it down where he had found the pail, and then he went home and had his breakfast and started off for school. He was not thinking about his lessons while he was going to school, but be was thinking how surprised Mrs. Hales would be when she found the water already drawn from the well.

I must go further back with my little story, and let you know how surprised the poor widow was when she found the pail full of water standing at the back door already drawn. She could not think whoever it was that had been so kind as to put it there. But day after day passed away, and she could not find_ out who put the water against the back door every morning, or who called the poultry to their houses of an evening. I must now close my little story, by saying, was this not bearing the other’s burdens?

ALICE COOMBES,

Aged eleven years,

Green Street, Byde, Isle of Wight.

We think this is a pretty little illustration of the text, and thank Alice for telling us about it. I really don’t know which had the most pleasure about the pail of water — the widow or the little boy. Oh, yes! I just remember Jesus said, “It is more blessed to give than to receive,” so the little boy’s blessing was greatest, as he fetched it to please God. Jesus also said. “A cup of cold water given in my name shall not lose its reward,” —which was the best thing anyone could do; and we are sure we are not saying too much when we say that every drop of that pail full of water must have been sweet to the widow, because of a blessing being in it.

We hope Master Tom was very much ashamed of himself when he found someone else had done what he ought to have done; we are afraid, as he was “strong and healthy,” his mother had forgotten to use that little remedy for “laziness” — the ROD — for it is not love to let a little boy or girl grow up selfish, and disobedient to their parents. It says in the proverb that “a foolish son is a heaviness to his mother” (Prov. 10:1), And, no doubt the poor widow often felt this. We wonder if Tommy ever read the last five verses in the 24th chapter of Proverbs. If he has he will see that the thorns and the thistles are not lazy, and that poverty travels very rapidly. But we hope he will not only be strong for his mother, but be brought to know Jesus as his Saviour, and’ then to do good in every way: and if we want to serve one we love, where there’s a will, there’s always a way.

Dot's Corner.

MY DEAR LITTLE FEIENDS. — Sometimes I think I will ask our kind Editor to give me a little more room to put in some pretty thoughts. I glean in your letters only I’m afraid he, will say, “Ah, Dot! you asked for a corner; then I gave you a page, and then you stepped over the other side a wee bit, and then you asked as a great favor to squeeze in a bit more, you’ll want all the room presently!” And you know he puts in all you write without altering anything, except when any little word is not spelt right.

But stop, the winner of “Little Hazel” beautiful story, in (a beautiful binding), is Charlotte Ann Rawdon, who has given us the whole history of David in a little space.

David and Goliath.

DAVID was the eighth end youngest son of Jesse; his early years were spent as a keeper of sheep. At that time. God appears by the hand of the prophet Samuel to anoint him with holy oil and the Spirit of the Lord came-upon him to prepare him for coming duty. Saul, the king of Israel, was yet alive, and the Spirit of the Lord departed from him, and an evil spirit from the Lord troubled him. He was advised to try music, and David was sent for, being skillful in playing upon the harp; and Saul loved him, and he became his armor-bearer. At this time the Philistines made war against Israel, and Goliath challenged Israel. David offered to meet him, and trusted in God’s strength, as the same God had delivered him from the paw of the lion and the bear, and with his sling and stone killed Goliath, and defeated the Philistines. And in honor of the victory the women came out with singing and dancing, saying, Saul has slain his thousands and David his ten thousands. After this Saul became jealous of David and sought to take away his life, but the Lord protected him; then David became an exile and was hunted as a partridge on the mountains. Jonathan, Saul’s son, was his friend, their love for each other was very great; when Saul and Jonathan were slain he made great lamentation over them. David became king, and was spoken of as the man after God’s own heart. He was a prophet, and spoke of the sufferings of Christ. David wished in his heart to build a house for God. He is called the sweet singer of Israel, and wrote the Book of Psalms; he was a type of our Saviour. David was the shepherd of his father’s sheep but Christ is the Good Shepherd, and gave His life for me.

CHARLOTTE ANN RAWDON, aged 12.

Victoria Street, Whitstable.

Now don’t you like that? I think it is good, bat the last words are best, “Christ is the Good Shepherd, and gave His: life for me.” Oh! may He graciously keep, not only our young writer, but every one of you who can say these words. Good-bye till next month. I would like to keep on but I fear I am getting out of my corner.

"Shine Your Boots, Sir?"

AT early morning they rise from bed;

A basin of coffee, and hunches of bread —

The bread is thick, and the butter is thin,

Then the tasks of the day begin.

And forth they go, in their jackets of red,

Boxes and brushes aloft on their head,

That comprises the stock-in-trade

Of the well-known firm — “The Shoe Brigade.”

One of its members I often see,

Very few happier boys than he;

He whistles away, and tosses his head,

His eyes are bright, and his cheeks are red,

His face is plump as an apple with streaks,

The blacking has soften’d the red on his cheeks;

His lips are black, but his teeth are white,

And he shows them well when he shows delight.

As he turns to a gentleman passer-by,

He touches his cap, and then will cry

(Whether the weather is damp or fine),

“Shine your boots, sir? penny a shine!”

One looks black — another will laugh —

One will frown — another will chaff, —

Yet, if the day be fine or damp,

He sticks to his box by the side of the lamp.

Down on his knees, by the side of his box,

Then to a tune with his brushes he knocks,

Till once again he chances to spy

Some dirty boots that are passing by;

Then he commences his musical line—

“Shine your boots, sir? penny a shine!”

The gentleman stops before the boy,

Who is brisk as a bee as he hums his joy;

And hands and arms and brushes as well,

Work their magical, beautiful spell;

The hoots, so dirty, so black with mud,

Such as a meadow after a flood,

Now look fit for a monarch so fine,

Just by the help of that “penny a shine.”

The penny is paid, and the boy looks round,

And once more utters his magical sound

“Shine your boots, sir? penny a shine!”

Out in the streets he’s obliged to dine.

A drop from the fountain he has for his tea,

Or “a ha’ penny orange” — and what cares he?

He thinks it’s as good as old port wine —

“Shine your boots, sir? penny a shine!”

He sings away as blithe as a lark,

And keeps to his post till after dark;

And finishes up as the clock strikes nine―

“Shine your boots, sir? penny a shine!”

Jemmy and Freddy, and Polly and I,

Look at the boy as we’re passing by;

We listen awhile to his musical sound,

Till we see the boy look sharply round;

He looks at Fred’s boots, and then at mine―

“Shine your boots, sir? penny a shine!”

When Polly is walking alone in the street,

He looks at the doll and her miniature feet,

And wittily says, though they look so fine,

“Shine her boots, Miss? penny a shine!”

And when we’re at play on winter nights,

At kings and queens and lords and knights,

At games for girls, or games for boys,

Dressing up dolls, or knocking down toys, —

Every one to his fancy and choice —

Fred calls out at the top of his voice,

Knocks his top on his “box of nine,”

“Shine your boots, sir? penny a shine!”

This is the thing that Grandpa suits,

Shining tempers and shining boots.

A happy heart shows a shining face,

The blessing that flows from the Saviour’s grace.

DICKIE RHYMER.

Little Bits.

No. 2.

I was looking at my sister lighting the fire, and noticed how carefully she poked out every bit of dust and cinder; then she strewed some paper at the bottom, then she placed bits of stick lightly crossways, and on the top went the cobbles of coal. When she put the lighted match to it, how soon it blazed up; and in a little while Nancy had a bright fire, and the room was nice and warm. When I spoke about her poking all the corners out first, so that not one bit of cinder should be left, she said, “it was no use putting new stuff on old rubbish. She always liked to begin with an empty grate— if she didn’t, the fire didn’t seem to burn well all day long.” That set me thinking. I said to myself, “Ah! perhaps that is why some of us don’t burn so brightly all day — we didn’t begin with an empty grate. When there’s a lot of rubbish underneath, how sulky the fire looks, and the more you poke it about the worse it seems; nothing like a good beginning. I think Sunday School Teachers are very busy laying the fire with their lessons and addresses, and patiently waiting for the Lord to put the flame to their labors, because that is His work. Well, there’s one thing about Sunday Schools, — I think there is not much poking needed there— not much rubbish, you know, but one or two large cinders that cannot easily get through the grate. You can’t get them out, and they won’t burn out, either — SIN and SELF; but they are very deceptive, for if we are not watchful they catch alight directly, and what mischief they do then. Scripture talks about live coals which the angel took off the altar with the tongs for his service. I do so want to be a “live bright coal.” Well, I am converted. I don’t mean that — but a coal that soon gets into a flame. A few bright coals at the bottom of the grate is more cheerful, and gives more warmth than a grate full of smoky coals. So I think a little love to the Lord at the bottom of the heart is better than a deal of show and no reality.

[I am sure some of us older Christians will agree with our friend as to the “poking about” we need. I suppose we were not thoroughly emptied of Self when we began, and so we have not burned so brightly as we ought. Nothing like beginning early and well― beginning with Jesus in childhood. We thank Nancy for the lesson she taught her thoughtful brother. — Ed]

The Poor Man's Canary.

I BOUGHT thee from a man of care,

With scanty means or none;

To look for help, he knew not where,

Then sold his cherished one.

Thou once wert fond of that poor man,

But times are changed — as thou;

Who would’st his face in terror scan

If he approached thee now.

So thou with me contented art,

And singest merrily;

Nor wert thou willing to depart

If offered liberty.

Thou hast no search to make for food,

Thy wants are all supplied,

And seemest in a joyous mood,

Morn, noon, and eventide.

To help a poor man in his need

I bought thee, gentle bird;

And never more by him, indeed,

Will thy sweet notes be heard.

But as to him in bygone days

Thy song did solace bring,

So now for me thy pleasing lays

Thou dolt as freely sing.

And as out-ring those strains of thine,

Doth come to me this thought —

Like thee, by payment rendered mine,

I also have been bought.

But me to purchase — what was done?

Upon the Cross I see

The blood-stained, suff’ring form of One

Who gave Himself for me.

And thou remindest me that I

My grateful song should raise,

And He who died and sits on high

Should he its theme of praise.

R. H. G. W.

Blind Man's Buff.

THE lessons are over, and spelling, and sums,

We close our books, for the play-time comes,

And while we are romping and making a din

Grandpa is quietly looking within:

You see that he’s looking on pleasant enough

While we are playing at Blind Man’s Buff,

And says with a smile, as he hastens away,

“There’s a time to learn and a time to play;

And a time to think of the Saviour above,

Who died for us in His great, great love.”

Brave Benjamin.

ONCE on a time I was in North Wales, and was fond of getting on some mountain to enjoy the fine scenery below my feet, while in the distance the great ocean stretched far as the eye could reach, till sky and waves seemed to mingle. Sometimes I would wander amid I the solitude of the hills, or amid the ruins of bygone ages, where the silence was alone broken by the busy little waterfall in its leaping’s over the jutting rocks as though eager to gain the broad river that wound among the valleys in a serpent-like course. But I was once looking from the bridge that crosses the Menai Straits, admiring the grandeur of the scenery around me from its giddy height. Leisurely looking on the water below, and watching the steamboats with their loads of sight-seers as they left a path of foam behind them, I was at last attracted by some boats that lay along-side a little landing place, and while looking from one object to another, I saw two little boys get into a boat, and, loosing the rope that held it to the moorings, the bigger of the two gave a push and the boat drifted slowly away. The mischievous boys were “just going to have a ride.” For a few minutes they rolled about, which made the boat go farther away; the tide was fast ebbing as well, and this made the boat speed farther from the landing stage. The boys now looked about them for the oars, intending to pull back I suppose, but there were none. I could see by their manner the poor lads were frightened, and as they found they were now being borne away towards the bay of Carnarvon, and then on to the great wide sea, they set up a shout. I felt frightened too, as I saw the helpless boys drifting rapidly down farther and farther away. No other boats appeared to be at hand just then. But to my joy and surprise I saw an unexpected deliverer. A lad about fourteen, I think he was, saw the danger of the boys, threw off his jacket and boots, and without hesitation plunged in. He was evidently a good swimmer, and seemed quite at home in the waves, and the brave little fellow struck out boldly towards the boat. It was a breathless time as I watched the boy’s progress to the boat. The frightened boys, too, saw him coming, and I think I can tell how they felt at such a time. Ben, the boat-boy, at last gained the boat side, and telling the boys to get on one side, he got in at the other. He was well up to his work, or he would have capsized the boat. He was not long in turning the boat round. It seemed to me as if he used one of the footboards to paddle his boat back. As soon as I saw the boys safely landed, I went on my way. I had no doubt brave Ben got his reward. I am sure he must have felt happy in delivering the poor boys from their danger. I could not help turning my thoughts to Him who had delivered me from a worse danger than that, when as giddy and thoughtless as the boys, I was going on my way, and the precious text came to my mind — “He loved me, and gave Himself for me.” I dare say a good many of your readers can say the same. I hope so.

"I Never Thanked the Lord Aloud."

HAVING a deep interest in the little ones, leads me to record a simple incident which came under my notice not long ago in a school, trusting the Lord may use it in blessing to my young readers.

I was accustomed from time to time to assemble these dear boys together on the Lord’s-day afternoon, to read His word to them. Memory now often recalls many a happy time spent with them. And the Lord graciously blessed the Word from time to time, thereby encouraging me to sow the seed. On this afternoon to which I refer, the ten lepers was our subject (Luke 17:12-19). After speaking upon it, and putting some solemn questions to them, the quietness was disturbed by one little fellow fairly sobbing. Knowing him to be the Lord’s, and seeing his sorrowful face, down which the tears were flowing most profusely, I inquired the cause of his grief, but he remained silent with his face buried in his handkerchief. Nothing broke the silence save the sobs of this dear boy; all eyes were fastened upon him. Drawing the child to my side, I said, “Tell me now, what is it troubling you? Is it your sins?” He looked up, and with a sorrowful countenance stammered out, “No, they were borne by Jesus more than eighteen hundred years ago. He died for me, washed me in His precious blood more than a year ago, and I never thanked Him aloud only when I have been alone. The leper, when he was cleansed, with a loud voice glorified. God, and fell at His feet giving Him thanks. He was more grateful than me. And yet I have had more cause to thank Him.”

No one looking on that dear boy’s grief could have doubted his sincerity, and I then said, “Now is the time.”

All knelt, and in broken sentences he said, “Lord Jesus, you washed me in your precious blood, — gave me peace. I have never thanked you aloud, and before others. Please, I thank you more than I can say.” And then most earnestly he prayed that his schoolfellows might know the blessedness of being saved.

My young readers, does not Jesus like to be thanked? Indeed He does. Luke 8:43 to 48 gives us another proof. If this should fall into the hands of any little one, who has received Jesus in his or her heart, and has not confessed Him aloud, may He enable you to do so, for you will never be really happy till you have given Him the praise.

F. A.

Alice T.

SOME of the dear children who read “My LITTLE FRIEND” may have lately been to the cemetery, and seen the body of a little brother, or sister, or playfellow, put in the ground.

Perhaps some little one has asked himself the question, “Am I ready to die?” It is a happy thing when anyone can answer, — “Yes! because the blood of Jesus has put all my sins away.”

It is because we want you all to be able to give this answer brightly and happily, and without a shadow of doubt or fear, that we write to you every month. And I have asked your kind friend the Editor to allow me to tell you about a little girl I knew. Alice T― lived in a country town, many miles away from “smoky London.” Her home was near the green meadows, and pretty country lanes, where the wild flowers bloom so sweetly in the spring time, and where ripe blackberries hang so thickly on the bushes in the early autumn. Alice went out with her father, mother, and sister, for a ramble in the country, in one of the bright days in July. Perhaps the dear child little thought it would be her last ride out. And you, dear little one, who are reading about Alice, may only have a few days longer to live. Are you quite ready to die? You are if you believe in the blessed Lord Jesus. We do hope your sins have been a trouble to you, because it will then be such good news for you to hear that Jesus died to put them all away. “Who His own self bare our sins in His own body on the tree” (1 Peter 2:24). How we do long for each of you to be able to say, “Yes, precious Saviour! He bore all my sins.”

“Dear little Ally,” as her father calls her, was taken ill on Lord’s day August 27th and died on Tuesday, September 5th so you see she was only ill a few days; and her sufferings were very sharp part of the time, and we think if she had never believed in Jesus and loved Him as her own dear Saviour, she would have been very unhappy indeed. But she liked to sing about Him, and about heaven as her home. When she saw her mother weeping, she said, “Don’t cry mother; if I don’t get well, I shall go to heaven, and see dear little Harry (her brother), and we shall sing together.”

I saw her the day before she died, and being anxious to know if she was resting only on the Lord and His work, after quoting that beautiful verse in Isaiah 40:11, “He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom,” I said, “The blood of Jesus puts away all sin.” She turned her bright eyes toward me as if she wanted to hear more, so I said again, “It’s nothing you have done, is it, darling, that can put away sins? Nothing but the blood of Jesus, — precious blood!” The earnest way in which she responded, made me hope she was thinking of her Saviour. Her father tells me he believes her whole mind and sad was stayed on Jesus. She had a copy of “MY LITTLE FRIEND” for August, and told me she would like to take it in, adding, “Because it’s so pretty.” But when the September Number came, poor Alice was on her dying bed. How suddenly, how unexpected! It ought to make us all think seriously of eternity. But I must not take up too much room in your little book, so hoping the Lord will bless each one of you, I will finish by giving you the last verse of a hymn dear Alice sung: —

“I’ll soon be at home over there,

For the end of my journey I see;

Many dear to my heart over there,

Are watching and waiting for me.

Over there, over there,

I’ll soon be at home over there!”

Christ church Sept. 1876.

F.A.F.G.

Dot's Corner.

MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS: — How the months slip round; I hardly seem to have done with one letter before Mr. Editor says, “Waiting for your Corner, Dot, please.” But I must tell you that as we have to print a great many thousands we have to go to press early, so that when you are reading the March Number I am getting ready for April, and that’s why I like to get your letters early. I do think the papers on “Gideon and the Pitchers” are the best I have had from you, which shows you have been reading and searching and thinking over the Scriptures. Your endeavors have gladdened me very much, and as I think every post brings me letters from different parts of the kingdom, and I always open them as soon as I can, you see I have Dot for breakfast, Dot for dinner, and Dot for tea and supper too; and as “Dot junior” gets the envelopes, I think he will begin to learn D O T before A B C. How I am chatting away — but then this is our Chit-chat Corner you know, and once a month is not very often. It was quite a difficulty this time to say which was best, so many so very good, and especially between Mary Johnstone and Charlie Lavender and Willie Branford — but I thought after reading them over a great many times that Mary Johnstone brought most Scripture proofs together about the subject. So I have decided in Mary’s favor.

Gideon and the Pitchers.

WE have in Judges 7. a very interesting story about a servant of God called Gideon; he was one of the judges of Israel whom God chose to rule over His people. He was the son of Joash, an Abiezrite (Judg. 7:11). The Midianites were come up to fight against the Israelites, and they did not know what to do, for the Midianites and the Amalekites who helped them were like grasshoppers, and like the sand of the sea for number. In chapter 6 we have an account of God sending His angel to tell Gideon to go and fight against the enemies of Israel; He told him that the Lord was with him, and that he was a mighty man of valor. Gideon was quite surprised to hear this. He said, “If the Lord is with us, why then is all this befallen us?” and he was afraid to undertake so great a charge. But the angel encouraged him to go. God saw that his faith was weak, so He gave him several signs to strengthen him. He also allowed him to hear a dream which the Midianites told in their camp. This seems to have encouraged him more than anything else. He chose the three hundred men who lapped, when tried at the water; he gave them each a pitcher a trumpet, and a lamp — the lamp was in the pitcher, so that the light might not be seen, for it was night. When they came up close to the camp, they broke the pitchers, blew he trumpets, and shouted, “The sword of the Lord and of Gideon! “This terrified the Midianites, and they fled in all directions. I think that this was a stratagem Gideon used to make the Midianites think there was a great number, when there were only three hundred. The Israelites gained a complete victory, for the Lord was with them. No one but God could conquer such a host with so few. In Mark 10:27, the Lord said, “With God all things are possible,” and in 2 Corinthians 12:9, “My strength is made perfect in weakness,” and St. Paul adds, “When I am weak, then am I strong,” and that he would glory in infirmities that the power of Christ might rest upon him. We may also apply this story in another way, — our bodies are like the pitchers. For St. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 4:7, that we (that is, those who are converted) have a treasure in earthen vessels. When the Israelites broke the pitchers and the light shone out, it is like when the Lord afflicts His people, as He often does in different ways. The light of the gospel and the life of Christ shines far more brightly often in the time of affliction than in times of joy. Those who have every luxury do not care to think so much of God. But it is those who are persecuted and afflicted on every side, who shine most for Christ, and He alone can make the light shine out of darkness. We have another verse in 2 Corinthians 4:8, 9. We are troubled on every side yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed. Some people might think that God does not love His people when He allows them to be persecuted, but it is out of love He does so, and for their good.

MARY JOHNSTONE, aged 11.

Glanmore, Ashford Co., Wicklow.

The more proofs you bring from other parts of Scripture the more I search also to see if they are correct. And so we all have to go to the same Hive — and who can handle the honeycomb without getting one’s fingers all over honey? — but the word of God is “sweeter than honey or the honeycomb.” I should like to put in the names of the writers this month, but it would swell my Corner — but I have a bit of good news for you. The publisher thinks some of you must be disappointed, and so by way of encouragement he is going to send a book to everyone who writes to me next month. So I think we will have a little change, and the subject shall be “The Prodigal Son” (Luke 15), the best paper for which a handsome prize will be given. Please let the papers be sent in before the 14th, of March, so you will have a fortnight to get ready, and I must have a good rest first to get ready too. Well, good-bye till the 14th. May the Lord bless your reading and writing to the thousands who read our Magazine.

Your affectionate Friend,

DOT.

P.S. — Just as I was sealing my letter the Editor wished me to say that “if the Lord will” (see James 3:13-15) a BEAUTIFULLY-Colored PICTURE will be given away with the June Number of My LITTLE FRIEND. I have had a peep at it, and like it much, and believe you will too. Now, will you make it known to your friends? After June the pictures will be one penny each. You won’t forget that the picture is to be given away with the June Number. — DOT.

Dicky at the Door.

OFT a hungry sparrow comes

Hopping, chirping round our door,

And we throw him out some crumbs,

So he comes and wants some more.

In the hawthorn tree he sits,

On a bough that’s almost bare, —

“Please to throw me out some bits,”

Seems to be his little prayer.

Little odds and ends of crust

Baby drops upon the floor,

Though there’s very little dust,

Goes to Dicky at the door.

Now he’s gone, but then we wait

Wondering whither birdie’s fled;

Ah but see — he’s brought his mate,

Just to share his bits of bread.

Dicky has a little brood

In the hedge-row by the rill,

And he wants a lot of food

Little hungry mouths to fill.

Dicky’s family’s rather large,

And they crowd his nest so wee;

Father never makes a charge

For his house beneath the tree.

Oft we wonder where they go

Ere the little river thaws;

When there’s only frost and snow,

And there are no hips nor haws.

They have neither barn nor shed,

Nor large houses where to dwell;

Yet the birds are daily fed

By the One who knows them well.

And will not, the God above,

Feed and clothe each little one

Who will reckon on the love

He has shown us in His Son?

Soon the hawthorn tree will bloom;

Soon its variegated flowers

Will be shedding their perfume

In the spring-time’s lengthen’d hours.

Then the swallows on the ledge

Will be swift in search of food;

And the sparrows in the hedge

Will bring forth their little brood.

Soon of food there’ll be a store

When the glowing summer comes,

But for Dicky at the door

We will gather up the crumbs.

When I’m throwing out some bread

Oftentimes it seems to be

Just as if a voice had said,

“Feed the little birds for me.”

Was it not from One above

Who would teach me more and more

Of His power, and grace, and love,

By the Dicky at the door.

DICKIE RHYMER.

The Good Shepherd.

I WILL tell you a story about a sheep. There was once a Good Shepherd who had a great many sheep and lambs. He took great care of them, and led them into the fresh pastures, and gave them clear water to drink, and when any of them were sick he used to take them up in his arms and take great care of them, and they used to follow him, and would not follow anyone else, but would flee from them. As that Good Shepherd Himself said, “A stranger will they not follow, for they know not the voice of strangers.” But every night this Good Shepherd used to put them into a sheepfold, which was made so that nothing could come in or out except at the door, only the robbers who would climb over the wall, but the Good Shepherd used to stand and defend them. Now they were all happy, and loved the Good Shepherd, except one foolish sheep, who did not like to be shut up in the fold at night. So the next evening, when the Shepherd called them all in by their names, this one crept away and hid itself slyly, and so it was not missed, and when they were all safe in the fold, this sheep frisked about and strayed far away on the mountains, which it did not know, and lost its way altogether, and wished to get back again to the fold. So the next day when the Good Shepherd called his roll this one was missing; so he left the rest in the wilderness and went to seek for it. Now this sheep had a great many escapes from the wolves and other dangers of the mountains, and it was a good while before the Good Shepherd found it; and when he found it, he laid it on his shoulders, and rejoiced greatly. And, dear little friends, who do you think this Good Shepherd was? It was the Lord Jesus, who “came to seek and to save that which was lost,” who said himself (John 10:11), “I am the Good Shepherd: the Good Shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.” And again (in vs. 14), “I am the Good Shepherd, and know my sheep, and am known of mine.”

And, dear little friends, would you like to be of that fold which belongs to our Good Shepherd; or would you like to be away on the mountains wandering from Him who “laid down his life for the sheep?” Come to Jesus while you are young, and “choose the better part that shall not be taken away from you in this world or in the world to come.” C. R. STOREY, aged 13 years.

Angrim, Co. Galway, Ireland.

The Puzzle Corner.

Enigmas. 1.

A boy tenderly beloved.

A woman who had weak eyes.

One of the books in the Bible.

David’s grandfather.

A man who prayed three times a-day when he was told not to do so.

Take the first letter of these names, and they will spell that which makes us fit for heaven.

A child given to God from his earliest youth.

One slain by his brother’s hand.

A queen who lost her crown through disobedience.

The father of twelve princes.

A Christian servant in an evil court.

The birth-place of a very rich man.

The place where a wicked king died.

Take the initials of these names, and form a title given to our Lord before He was born.

SUSAN HAMMOND MORRISON, aged 9 years.

Green Street, Chislehurst, Kent.

Nothing to Do.

“The Prodigal.” — Luke 15

IN rags and in ruin — without and within

A terrible mass of pollution and sin

By harlots deserted, of fortune bereft,

He turns to the home he once eagerly left.

Oh! none can restore, or such deep sin efface,

But the One who comes forth in such infinite

grace:

For grace is above all his sin and distress,

And he’s nothing to do — save his sin to confess!

What an earnest and seal of unspeakable bliss

Is conveyed in the Father’s affectionate kiss;

The lost one is found! and the servants must

bring,

At the Father’s command — the shoes, and the ring,

And the very best robe, and the failing, and wine

(What a change from the rags, and the husks,

and the swine),

With music and dancing — ‘tis something so new

Such a fullness of blessing — and nothing to do!

Ah, nothing to do! for the sinner that’s dead

Must needs have another to work in his stead:

And Jesus in Calvary’s terrible hour,

Redemption accomplished in marvelous power,

Which shut up the world to it’s folly and

strife,

But opened a passage from death unto life.

Are you ruined and helpless? God offers to YOU,

A free, full salvation — and nothing to do!

Not a tittle of WORK till we’re saved from our sins!

For then is the moment when labor begins,

With the message of mercy we eagerly run,

Till glory shall perfect what grace has begun.

The Pool of Siloam.

WE have given this beautiful picture for a subject, which we wish some of our young friends to write about. It is full of interest in its associations with Old Testament and New Testament times, and still more so in connection with that Blessed One who sent the blind man to wash there. The best paper will be inserted the following month. We ask this because we wish to encourage our little friends in the exercise, and do not wish to have it all to ourselves. Papers to be sent to the Editor, 54, Paternoster Row, E.C.

Elsie's Prayer Answered.

Some of our readers are familiar with the little tale of Elsie’s prayer on the Child’s Own Roll and the Little Friend Almanack; but I have never told them that the prayer has been answered, and perhaps numbers of our readers have not seen it, and so I will give the whole.

Little Elsie was an orphan, both father and mother were gone to heaven, but not without a full hope of seeing little Elsie there, for she had often spoken of Jesus as her Saviour, and of His blood washing her from sin and making her fit for heaven, After the death of her parents, Elsie lived with an elder brother, who also loved the Lord, and who acted very tenderly with his little sister, and helped to lead her on in the way to heaven. And many were the sweet little talks they had together about the better land. But Elsie had a brother about twelve or thirteen years old, who lived with them too. Now Jem was not a bad boy, as we understand the word; but he never cared to hear about Jesus. “He didn’t want to be religious. It spoiled a fellow for everything, and made him feel horrid.” Ah! Master Jem, if it was only being religious, perhaps it would do so; but to know we are saved and fit for heaven at any moment, I find, makes one very happy, and makes one feel anything but horrid. Well, Elsie used to say she wished he believed in Jesus, but Jem would whistle louder and louder, or take up his cap and go off. Now don’t think that the little girl was one of those very dull, sorrowful-looking little creatures which boys call “goodies,” and which they despise. She would often join in his games, and her merry laugh and winsome manners showed that she was a little girl still, and that if in her heart she loved Jesus, it was no “make believe,” but a real thing. I don’t like imitations myself. It reminds me of once being in a friend’s room when I noticed, in a vase on the mantelpiece, a posy of beautiful violets, and, being fond of flowers, I naturally walked up to smell them; but judge of my surprise when I found they were artificial — and not a bit of perfume. “Ah,” thought I, “that’s like all ‘make-believes,’ very pretty to the eye, but no life nor sweetness.” Now, let me tell you, Elsie was not an artificial violet, but a real flower. I am not writing her “life and times,” as big writers say, or I should have to give a chapter now and then of poutings, and cross words, and hot tears running down over fevered cheeks, when Elsie “felt horrid,” as Jem called it, because some little whim was not carried out, or something was to be done which was not pleasant, etc., etc., etc., as the draper says on his bills when he can’t find room to give a catalog in full. I am telling how Elsie felt about Jem’s soul.

One day the elder brother was going upstairs, and he met Elsie coming out of her room, and saw a look of sadness on her face. He took her up in his arms and asked her what was the matter. But Elsie was reserved, and felt no inclination to answer. He kissed her, and asked her again what made her look so sad, for she had been crying.

She at last said, “I’se just been asking Jesus to save dear brother Jem.” Robert was glad to find his little sister knew where to go to tell her troubles and seek for help, and assured her Jesus would answer her prayer.

Soon after this Jem took a fancy to go to sea. Poor Elsie was sorry to part with her brother, and after he was gone she never forgot to pray for him.

Of course Jem found life on the sea was not exactly like what he had read in story-books. Very few, if any, marvelous adventures fell to his lot. Plenty of hard work, coarse food, angry words, and not unfrequently blows, from the rough companions on board, so that poor Jem thought the romance must have been all in the books, for he found none on board. Many a time did he wish himself back in the old home at Islington, as he recalled past scenes. But I cannot go into all the details of the voyage. God has His own way of answering prayer, and Jesus had not forgotten Elsie’s prayer about Jem; and, one night, when the tempest was laying heavily on the ship, there was a voice that spoke in great tenderness to Jem’s heart, which the wild waves that tossed the ship sometimes on their foaming crests, and again carried it down to the trough between, could not silence. There was a great calm on Jem’s spirit, for with him it was peace. He was there brought to a knowledge of his need of a Saviour, and the change was soon seen by all around. He was sent less aloft for disobedience.

Mouths afterwards Jem stood at the door of the old home at Islington, the very picture of an English sailor; and the fierce sun of the tropics and the wild winds that range the broad Atlantic had browned the once fair features of the boy; but there glowed in his face a joy which told of a hidden peace. I will leave you to understand what dear Elsie felt when she found how her prayer had been answered; and you may be sure she did not forget to praise the Lord for having saved dear brother Jena. Perhaps some of you have brothers to pray for: remember, He is faithful that promised, who also will do it.

The English Drummer Boy.

IN one of the many wars fought between the French and English many years ago, amongst other prisoners taken by the French was a little drummer boy. As prisoners of war, they were often treated kindly, and not confined in prison walls. On one occasion the Great Napoleon, with his staff, was passing where the boy was stationed. The fearless bearing of the young soldier as, with a careless air, he stood with his drum slung over his shoulders and his sticks in his hand, caught the eye of the Emperor, and he had him brought before him. The young drummer, prisoner though he was, seemed not abashed in the presence of the man who was then the terror of all Europe. After hearing from him what regiment he belonged to, and in what action he was taken, he ordered him to strike up with his drum. The little fellow instantly brought his drum into its proper position, and then as if he were at the head of his regiment just entering into the fight, he seemed to throw his whole soul into it as he rattled away upon his instrument. When he ceased, Napoleon said, “Now beat a retreat.” The boy with a smile said, “Don’t know how, Emperor,” and slung his drum over his shoulders again. The reply, and the manner of the youth, so pleased the Emperor that he gave orders for the release of the boy, and sent him to the English lines with a proof of his approval.

Now I am not going to give a long moral, because 1 know if I do I shall get no readers; but the incident recalled to my mind some young Christians I know who had become soldiers of Christ, and in their young love to Him would, like the little drummer boy, have gladly been at the head of the regiment, and go anywhere for Jesus; but presently, unlike the little fellow in the presence of the Emperor, they have beaten a retreat. That is just what the apostle means in Hebrews when he says, “We are not of them who turn back unto perdition, but who believe unto the saving of the soul;” and he says, after speaking of some who had “beaten a retreat,” by which I mean they had given up Christ, “But, beloved, we are persuaded better things of you, and things that accompany salvation” (Heb. 6:9).

I have read with a great deal of pleasure the writings of your little correspondents, and am thankful for the confession of Christ they make; and I hope when they get older, and have to go into warfare, by which I mean the various snares that surround young Christians, they will not be terrified by the enemy to beat a retreat. O may they be true to their Lord, and He will certainly make them more than conquerors. The apostle, speaking of us as soldiers in Ephesians 6, says, “And having done all, to stand.” Faithfulness and loyalty to the Lord will bring their own reward; for even an enemy despises a traitor, and it is better to be a prisoner of the Lord in the enemy’s hands than to be false to Him for the sake of ease or honor. May it never be said of any one of the little soldiers of Christ, who are showing their colors in your magazine, “He beat a retreat!”

Little Albert Garton says he hopes “dear little Dot will love Jesus, and be one of His little lambs.” We thank him much for his little comforting words, and hope he will indeed be early brought to lisp the name of Jesus. Albert says, “I have a baby brother who is fond of singing ‘O tink ob do home ober dare!’” I dare say he hears father and mother singing it — and so is early learning about heaven and Jesus who dwells there. I do sometimes wish I could write the best hymns and songs that boys and girls would always sing. Because a little verse of poetry may be like dropping a tiny seed in a little crannie which nobody sees, and which lays a long while forgotten, till, presently, a little green blade pops out, and then the stalk, and Afterward the ear with its beautiful fruit. When I walk about the streets and hear little children singing foolish and even wicked songs, I can’t help thinking they are neglected by father and mother, or never go to Sunday-school; and so become strangers to God and ignorant of Jesus and His precious blood, and never care to sing, like Albert’s baby brother, “O fink ob de borne ober dare.” — ED.

Dot's Corner.

MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS — The 14th has come, and so have the letters — they have been coming since the 3rd every day and every post, so that when I put them all on a large table there was a heap — hundreds of them. Now, I have gone through every one carefully, and after selecting 18 of the best, and then 12, and then 6, and then 2, I at last decided on giving the prize to F. Ramsey. Sonic of you have gone into it very fully; but after reading the last four again and again I think this must have the post of honor. It is brief, but to the point in every respect, and shows thoughtfulness, and I trust prayerfulness also; and I hope he will study the Word of God, first for his own soul’s profit and then for the edification of others. But now let us have

THE PRODIGAL SON.

The parable of the Prodigal Son tells us of a son who was too proud and independent to live in his father’s house and to be fed at his father’s table. He, therefore, asked his father for the property that was likely to come to him by-and-bye. When we are tired of waiting upon God we are like this son. God’s children say, “Give us this day our daily bread;” the prodigal said, “Give me the portion of goods that falleth to me.” The father did as the son desired, which is a type that God never beeps man in His service against his will, but allows him to go the way of his own heart. The same did the prodigal. He, went with all his property into a far country and wasted it with riotous living. This far country is the wicked world where God is not known; it has charms and pleasures, but sooner or later man will find himself out, when his substance is gone, and nothing but famine around him. So it was with the prodigal — what did he do but go and work for a citizen of that country, who sent him to feed swine. That is, he took the devil for his master, and did his work, vile as it was, and could not get in return enough food to satisfy his hunger. He Afterward felt ashamed of himself, and resolved to go back to his father, and confess his wicked deeds to him. Perhaps his father was looking for him, as he saw him a long way off, and ran to meet him and fell on his neck and kissed him; he gave him the ring, the Holy Spirit’s seal, shod his feet, and killed the fatted calf, that a feast might be spread on his son’s return, There was also music, for the elder son heard it, and came, and was angry with his father.

F. RAMSEY, aged 11 years.

The Gladsome Spring.

THE gladdening spring has come again and the dancing sunbeams that come peering and peeping into our nursery seem to invite all the little folks out into the fields. Oh, how fresh and green everything appears! those tall and broad skeleton-looking trees in the orchards and gardens by the hill side, and lonely-looking sentinels upon the hill tops, all holding up their long arms as though asking spring to clothe them again with her beautiful green verdure. And the little birds, too, want their nests covered from the prying eyes of the little robbers, or the dreaded hawks that go flying about in search of prey. All at once the fields seem covered with the welcome little daisy, and buttercups, and cowslips, and myriads of flowers. While walking out amid the beautiful meadows, glancing at the hedge-rows, now putting on their loveliest coat, or stopping by the quaint stile, and the narrow plank that crosses the babbling brook, and rushes away as if on important business, my heart is very glad, and full of praise to God for His goodness, and I at once refer to the beautiful description in Psalms 65. “Thou visitest the earth and waterest it: thou greatly enrichest it with the river of God, which is full of water: thou preparest them corn, when thou Nast so provided for it. Thou waterest the ridges thereof abundantly: thou settlest the furrows thereof: thou mast it soft with showers: thou blessest the springing thereof. Thou crownest the year with thy goodness; and thy paths drop fatness. They drop upon the pastures of the wilderness: and the little hills rejoice on every side. The pastures are clothed with flocks; the valleys also are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing.”

WE hope to have the June number, with the colored picture ready very early, and we are printing a great many thousands, in order to satisfy every little friend. But to prevent disappointment, ask your Superintendent or Teacher to plea.se order the supply for the School early. When the final edition is gone we shall have to charge one penny for the number and picture.

The Pool of Siloam.

THIS pool is very near the Mount of Offense, where Solomon built altars for his wives to sacrifice to their false gods. In the days of the Prophet Nehemiah, Shallun built a wall round the Pool of Siloam (or, as it was then called, Shiloah), but it is probable that another has been built, because Nehemiah lived four hundred and forty-five years More Jesus was born. The water from the pool flowed into the king’s garden, to water it. Hezekiah, one of the kings of Judah, made a pool opposite Jerusalem, most likely the Pool of Siloam. When Jesus was in the temple at Jerusalem, he sent the man who was born blind to wash his eyes in the Pool of Siloam. I think the blind man (see John 9) is a type of the sinner before he comes to Jesus; and, as washing in the Pool of Siloam was the way the blind man received his sight, so, washing in the Blood of Jesus, the sinner receives his sight.

EMILY Johnston,

Aged 12 years.

Dunesk, Belfast.

A Little Pilgrim.

The following anecdote was told by a Christian who was in the car at the time. Many will wonder what was the end of the story. Doubtless her now friend world see her safe home again.

ONE Summer’s evening, ere the sun went down,

When city men were hastening from town

To reach their homes — some near at hand, some far, —

By snorting train, by omnibus or car,

To be beyond the reach of city’s din;

A tram-car stopped, a little girl got in:

A cheery-looking girl, scarce four years old;

Although not shy, her manners were not bold;

But all alone! one scarce could understand.

She held a little bundle in her hand―

A tiny handkerchief with corners tied,

But which did not some bread and butter hide;

A satin scarf, so natty and so neat,

Was o’er her shoulders thrown. She took her seat,

And laid her bundle underneath her arm,

And smiling prettily, but yet so calm,

She to the porter said, “May I lie here?”

He answer’d instantly, “O yes, my dear.”

And there she seem’d inclined to make her stay,

While once again the train went on its way.

The tall conductor — over six feet high,

Now scann’d the travelers with a business eye;

But in that eye was something kind and mild,

That took the notice of the little child.

A little after, and the man went round,

And soon was heard the old familiar sound

Of gathering pence, and clipping tickets too —

The tram was full, and he had much to do.

“Your fare, my little girl,” at length he said.

She look’d a moment, shook her little head, —

“I have no pennies; don’t you know,” said she,

“My fare is paid, and Jesus paid for me?”

He look’d bewilder’d — all the people smiled:

“I didn’t know; and who is Jesus, child?”

“Why, don’t you know He once for sinners

died,

For little children, and for men beside;

To make us good, and wash us from our sin:

Is this His railway I am traveling in?”

“Don’t think it is! I want your fare, you know.”

“I told you Jesus paid it long ago:

My mother told me, just before she died,

That Jesus paid when He was crucified;

That at the cross his railway did begin,

Which took poor sinners from a world of sin;

My mother said His home was grand and fair:

I want to go and see my mother there —

I want to go to heaven, where Jesus lives,

Won’t you go too? My mother said He gives

A loving welcome — shall we not be late?

O let us go before He shuts the gate;

He bids us little children come to Him.”

The poor conductor’s eyes felt rather dim,

He knew not why — he fumbled at his coat,

And felt a substance rising in his throat.

The people listen’d to the little child,

Some were in tears — the roughest only smiled,

And some one whisper’d, as they looked amazed:

“Out of the mouths of babes the Lord is praised.”

“I am a pilgrim,” said the little thing;

“I’m going to heaven. My mother used to sing

To me of Jesus and His Father’s love;

Told me to meet her in His home above,

And so today when aunt went out to tea,

And looking out I could not father see,

I got my bundle — kiss’d my little kit,

(I am so hungry — won’t you have a bit?)

And got my hat, and then I left my home,

A little pilgrim up to heaven to roam.;

And then your carriage stopp’d, and I could see

You look’d so kind. I saw you beckon me,

I thought you must belong to Jesus’ train.

And are you just going home to heaven again?’

The poor conductor only shook his head;

Tears in his eyes — the power of speech had fled.

Had conscience by her prattle, roused his fears,

And struck upon the fountain of his tears;

And made his thoughts in sad confusion whirl?

At last he said, “Once I’d a little girl,

I loved her much; she was my little pet,

And with great fondness I remember yet

How much she loved me. Put one day she, died.”

“She’s gone to heaven,” the little girl replied;

“She’s gone to Jesus — Jesus paid her fare.

Oh, dear conductor, Won’t you meet her there?”

The poor conductor now broke fairly down;

He could have borne the harshest look or frown,

But no one laughed; but many sitting by

Beheld the scene with sympathetic eye.

He kissed the child, for she his heart had won.

“I am so sleepy,” said the little one,

‘‘If you will let me, lie here and wait

Until your carriage comes to Jesus’ gate;

Be sure and wake me up, and pull my frock,

And at the gate give just one little knock!

And you’ll see Jesus there!” The strong man wept!

I could but think, as from the car I stept,

How oft a little one has found the road,

The narrow pathway to that blest abode;

Through faith in Christ has read its title clear,

While learned men remain in doubt and fear.

A little child! the Lord oft uses such

To break or bond, the stoutest heart to touch,

Then by His Spirit bids the conflict cease,

And once forever enter into peace.

And then along the road the news we bear,

We’re going to heaven — that Jesus paid our fare!

DICKIE RHYMER.

Safe in the Tree.

ONE fine day in August, a little girl went for a walk. She saw the men busy cutting the corn, and children gleaning. She was startled by a scream, calling to her, “Come, run to me, dear I o; you will be killed.” She looked up the road, and saw a bull running at full speed; she turned round, and saw a boy standing at the foot of a tree. She soon ran to him, and he put her in the tree, and got in himself. So the bull stood at the foot of the tree roaring furiously. But how nice it was, to look down upon the bull, and say, “Ah! I am, safe in the tree.” How nice it would be, if we could say, “Ah! we are safe in the arms of Jesus,” to any sinner that comes in our way. Weil, the little girl did not forget to reward the boy who saved her life; nor should we forget to thank Him who died to save us all.

E. M. TOTTENHAM,

Acacia Road, Wood Green Age 11 years.

Happy Bobbie.

LIITTLE Bobbie had been lying on a small bed in the Children’s Hospital for two years. The nurse said he had hip disease, and we soon saw that it was a; hopeless case. No wonder that his face had grown, oh, so white and thin, and his eyes large and hollow; but the little hand that was lying outside the bedclothes, and looked hardly strong enough to lift a feather, was raised to shake hands with us. All the other children were having their tea, yet, though a large mug-full stood beside Bobbie’s bed, he did not seem inclined to taste it, but lay with his eyes closed, and a peaceful look upon his little wan face.

“Well, Bobbie,” said one who knew him well, “are you happy?”

“Yes,” said the child.

“Loving Jesus?”

The thin lips parted this time with a smile, and the same answer.

“And are you happy to go to Him, Bobbie?” asked his friend.

We caught another faint “Yes,” and bright smile before we turned away.

What! I thought to myself, as we left the Hospital, can a little child of eight years old (for that was Bobbie’s age) really be happy, lying there day after day, never seeing any birds, or trees, or flowers, and never able to run about like others boys? It seemed very strange, but when I thought of Bobbie’s next answer I laid hold of his secret. He said he loved Jesus. Then it was that which made him so happy.

Have you ever driven on a cold winter’s night through dark narrow lanes, with the wind blowing so hard in your face, that although the rain fell heavily, it was impossible to hold up an umbrella? But if you have had a very dear friend with you, who has talked pleasantly-all the way, and tried to sheer you from the wet and cold, then you have not minded one bit. The journey has seemed so short that you were quite surprised when you reached home.

Well, this was how it was with Bobbie. There was One who more than eighteen hundred years ago had given him a proof of His love — such as Bobbie could never forget. I need hardly tell any of you who it was. It was Jesus — yes, it was the Lord Jesus Christ, who loved little Bobbie with such a deep, such a wonderful love, that He left His beautiful home on high, where He was daily His Father’s delight, and came into this world, to endure the shameful death of the cross; if only by shedding His own precious blood, He could bring any poor sinners to dwell with Him forever in His Father’s house.

Oh! I wish you were like a little girl that I heard a gentleman telling about the other day. She was at school and very unhappy indeed, because she had not peace with God — she was not trusting to the blood of Jesus. At last she told her trouble to her school mistress, who, instead of pointing her to the Lord Jesus, gave her books to read, which made her only become more and more miserable. But one night, as she lay awake in her bed, too wretched to sleep, this verse came into her mind, “God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” “What,” she thought, “is it possible that I have been trying all this time to love God, and it says He loves me?” And as she thought, her joy became so great, that she could not help shouting out, “GOD LOVES ME―GOD LOVES ME!” till the schoolmistress and all the girls came running in to know what could be the matter.

And ever since that night she has found out more and more what “God is love” means; for “in this was manifested the love of God towards us, because that God sent His only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through Him.”

Oh, can you not go on to the next verse and say from your heart, “Herein is lore, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins?” “We love Him because He first loved us.”

“How great is the love

Which Jesus hath shown!

He came from above,

From heaven’s bright throne,

That He might deliver

Poor sinners from hell,

And take them forever,

In glory to dwell.”

DEAR SIR. — Kindly accept the enclosed little fable (which is translated from the French) for “MY LITTLE FRIEND.” This is my first attempt at translation by myself, but I hope you will receive it favorably. I am too old to compete for the prizes in “Dot’s Corner,” for I am nearly thirteen years old. With best wishes, I am, sir, yours, etc.,

CHERRY RIPE.

Ross, Herefordshire.

The Young Fly.

A YOUNG fly was with her mother upon the wall of a chimney, rather near to a pot, where someone was cooking soup. The old fly, who had some other affairs, said to her daughter in flying away, “Remain where thou art, my child; do not leave thy place until my return.” “Why therefore, mamma?” asked the little one. “Because I have fear that you will approach too near to this boiling source.” (It is the pot which she called thus.) “And why is it that I must not approach unto it?” “Because thou wouldst fall in, and thou wouldst be drowned there.” “And why should I tumble in there?” “I cannot tell the reason of it; but believe in my experience! Each time a fly has ventured to fly upon one of these sources, from whence exhales so many vapors, I have always seen that she fell in there, without over getting up again.” The mother believed she had said enough, and flew away. But the little one, laughing at her advice, said to herself, “Old people are always too careful. Why wish to deprive Me of the innocent pleasure of fluttering a little on this smoking source? Have not wings, and am I not prudent enough to avoid accidents? In short, mamma, you have spoken beautifully, and I allege your experience; but I will amuse myself in fluttering a little round this source, and I would wish to know well what would make me fall into it.”

She flies away in saying this; but hardly was she above the pot when, rendered giddy by the vapor which ascended from it, she fell there. Before expiring, she had enough time to utter quickly these words: “Unhappy children who do not attend unto the advice of their parents!”

[A correspondent, who gives us his name and address, but wishes to be called “Cherry Ripe,” sends us the above; and as a translation and a first attempt of a boy thirteen years of age, we give it a corner, as it will doubtless amuse our young readers. “Cherry Ripe” gives no moral for it needs none — the point is plain low often are me like the silly little fly — we little ones —running into danger, because we think we arc so wise and strong. It just calls to mind a verse in James 1:5, 6.― ED.]

Pictures in the Sky.

I DARE say a great many of my little A friends have often amused themselves by making out “pictures in the fire,” and I think I can see three or four pairs of bright eyes peering into the red glow, while Georgie is so astonished, that Kate, who has found a beautiful fairy cottage, windows and all, cannot see the splendid camel he is so delighted with; but I wonder whether the owners of these same bright eyes have ever thought to look up into that wonderful sky-roof above us, and watch the endless variety of form and color in the far off cloud-land. Talk about pictures! what a magnificent panorama may be seen in an autumn sunset, or the quick gathering of the clouds for a storm in the 8unimer-time! Yes, truly there are pictures in the sky.

A Stormy Sky.

SHAPELESS monsters on giddy heights,

Gigantic ruins so cold and bare;

Yawning caverns as dark as night,

A frowning precipice here and there.

A leaden wilderness, cheerless, bleak

Mountains, with steep and rugged sides;

And often a grim, fantastic peak,

Where many a bird of prey abides.

All floating on, while each fresh cloud brings

Some different form in the dull, gray light.

And fancy might picture a thousand things,

For the sky is ever a beautiful sight.

Sunset.

AMBER lakes with jasper shores,

Fairy palaces all of gold;

Cities of bright and sparkling ores,

Changing beauties never told;

Phantom vessels, with sails of snow,

On seas of a soft and limpid blue;

Landscapes bathed in a crimson glow,

Delicate trees of every hue.

White-robed angels, with golden wings,

Floating along in the peerless light.

So I gaze and I picture a thousand things,

For the sky is ever a beautiful sight.

But now, children, I want you to look right away, far beyond that changing sky, and see One who never changes, One who is “the same yesterday, today; and forever,” sitting there, a glorified Man, “on the right hand of God;” One who amid the worship and music of angels, is occupied, in His unwearying patience and love, in watching and listening. Yes, Jesus, you all know that beautiful name, Jesus is listening, and the whisper of His name from the tiniest lips, the look of faith from even the very little ones are heard and seen by Jesus; and then a loud and ringing note of joy, the deepest joy that even Heaven knows, proclaims that yet another tender lamb is safe in the fold for eternity; this remember, is no picture of fancy, but a real, solemn fact, as told us plainly in the Word of God, and may all of my little friends place their trust in the saving name of Jesus, in the precious blood of this One who died for them so many years ago. Come freely, come truly. Come now to Jesus.

W. J. W.

Dot's Corner.

MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS, — Our bundle of letters was not quite so great as last month. But I have had some interesting ones, and the one I put in my corner is by Henty Welch Paterson, aged 11 years. Harriet Howard’s was very prettily written, but she stopped too soon in the history. The next best essays are by

MINNIE MARSHALL, aged 10 years,

KATHERINE AGNES YERGETTE, 111/2 years,

MARY ANN ORMOND, 10 years.

WILLIAM S. FERGUSON, 10 years.

Absalom’s history is a very painful one. The vanity and the self-will were bad enough, but rebellion to his own father was the saddest part of the matter.

Absalom.

ABSALOM, the much beloved son of King David, had many faults, among which were vanity and self-will, which last showed itself in his rebelling against his father, that he might become king in place of his father. In this matter he certainly-broke the fifth commandment, thereby shortening his days, which will be seen presently. Absalom, although so wicked, must have been very beautiful; for in the 2 Samuel 14:25, we find, “In all Israel there was none so much to be praised as Absalom for his beauty.” Absalom, however, did NOT attain the object of his ambition, for his father sent out his army to fight against him. While the army was preparing to depart, David showed his love for Absalom, when he said to the leaders of his army, “Deal gently for my sake, with the young man, even Absalom.” Accordingly, David’s army went to the battle in the wood of Ephraim, and slew 20,000 of the Israelites. Absalom, after meeting the servants of David, turned and fled upon a mule, hotly pursued by David’s men. And while passing under the bough of an oak tree, his beautiful long hair caught in the branches and lifted him from off his ass, which escaped. While hanging in this manner, a certain young man saw him, and told Joab, who, despite the injunctions of David not to hurt the young man, took his spear and thrust it through Absalom’s heart. Also the ten young men who carried Joab’s armor smote him; after which they threw him into a pit, and heaped stones upon him. David, we are told, wept and mourned for Absalom, who so sadly met his death, and said: “O my son, Absalom I my son! my son, Absalom! would God I had died for thee; O Absalom, my son I my son!” We should draw a lesson from Absalom’s character, that if we dishonor our father or mother our days will be shortened.

Yours respectfully,

HENRY WELCH PATERSON.

5, Sandford Street. Portobello,
Scotland.

I most heartily agree with Henry, and others who have made a similar remark, that a solemn lesson may be drawn from Absalom’s history. I have often said, Show me a girl or boy that loves and honors their parents, and I will show you one that have great hopes of in the future, both as to time and eternity. Nothing is so painful to me as to hear any one speak lightly of father or mother. It seems as if Satan has undermined the holiest and truest affection that God has implanted in our hearts, when such is the case. To honor father and mother, the great apostle says, is the first commandment with promise. Your papers have turned my thoughts to that Obedient Son, who could always say of His Father, “always do those things that please Him;” and it joyed His Father’s heart to say, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” Accept my thanks for your many efforts to get a place in my little corner. I wish I could give you all a place there; but I cannot help saying that you all have a place in my heart (all over it — not in a corner). Well, as we have papers for June, I should like the subject for July to be “Nebuchadnezzar and Babylon,” and I can give you more time. So please let me have your papers by the 4th of June, as we shall all have a good look at the picture by that time. When I tell you that our Magazine is read by perhaps over eighty thousand readers, it is worth trying to do our very, very best.

Very affectionately yours,

DOT.

54, Paternoster Bow, London.

By the River Side.

A FEW summers ago I was recovering from a severe illness, and to gain strength went into a little country place in the hope that the soft breezes would bring back the color to my cheeks, and health to the weak frame. It was in the early part of June, I think, and the weather was sultry, so that it was pleasant to take a wrapper and lie down on the tender grass, beneath the shade of an out-spread umbrella. I found it more than pleasant, while lying thus by the side of the river Thames, watching the glassy stream in its lazy-like wanderings through the flowery-scented meadows and vales in zig-zag course, as though making its journey as long as possible, ere it was lost in the salt sea waves a few miles further on. The “time of singing had come,” and the many-voiced songsters were heard on every hand, calling one’s thoughts away to a time when

The day will never be too long

For cloudless joy and happy song,

The songs that will the Mansion flood

From those made happy through His blood.

Then my thoughts were called back again to the margin of the river by the shouts of little children, who were amusing themselves in various ways. One little boy seemed “happier than a king,” as, with shoes and socks thrown aside, he sat dangling his feet in the river; causing the little fish to wonder — if they ever do such a thing — what large monster was thus disturbing their peaceful element. But what shout of joy was that? Oh, I see; it’s a little girl calling her brother’s attention to the poor prisoners in the bottle, who cannot make out why the stream is so narrow, as they knock their little noses against the glassy banks. I suppose the important person with the rod and line, and the cunning hook, has made the unfortunate little minnows captive. O, sunny time of childhood! how enjoyable is everything to you, how real the pleasure and the pain. But I’m not going to write a long moral, you know; but I could not help thinking how often we are like the little fish in the bottle. A tempting bait — Satan is the angler — how soon we snap at it. Dear little friends, don’t snap at every bait you see: that is what I thought at the river-side.

AN INVALID.

Tasting the Whip.

MASTER Tommy is having the first taste of the whip, you see. It is all very well tasting it in that fashion; but if he is a naughty dog, he will have to taste it in another way, not quiet so agreeable, I think. But he’s a good little doggie to play with us in the nursery, or to scamper away over the fields. Aunt Lizzie says it is not right of us to have pets. Well Tommy is a good little playfellow, and as we are only little children, we like a romp with him. Perhaps when we are as old as Aunty, we shall think like her. Pa likes us to have our pets, because he says it teaches us to show kindness to animals. Then Tommy is so good when we are learning our lessons, and looks so grave, just as though he wished he could help us when we are lost in the “rule of three.” We tell Aunty, when we say “we do love you little Tommy,” it’s different when we kiss Bertie’s little rosy cheek, and in his own baby language say, “We love oo ten thousand pounds.”

Nellie's Birthday.

It WAS Nellie’s birthday, “Six years old

today!”

She kept exclaiming, as with spirits gay,

She went from room to room through

out the house,

Ofttimes as stealthy as a little mouse;

Then bursting into laughter, shook her curls

As though she were the happiest of girls.

Said Nellie’s ma, “Now you may have today

Whatever friends you like to tea and play;

We’ll gladly welcome every one that comes.”

So Nelly counted fingers, counted thumbs,

And yet again re-counted, making twenty,

The sideboard seem’d the very land of plenty.

Such piles of cake, and nuts, and sweets, and

fruit,

And many nicknacks that young people suit;

So Nelly sat her down to think awhile

Who she should ask — then with a meaning smile,

Said, “Let me see, there’s Flora Wilberforce,

And Frank her brother, they must come of

course.

Then there’s the Spencers, let me see, that’s

four,

And Flossy Addington who lives next door.

I must ask her, for in a week or so

She has a party, and I’d like to go.

And Harry Latimer, and cousin Mack

They’ll have to come, to play with brother Jack.

Thus Nelly counted up a good round sum

Of grand companions who should really come.

But while she sat amid her birthday cares,

The bell was rung for reading and for prayers,

For Nellie’s parents loved the precious name

Of Jesus, and they loved to teach the same

To all their children. So a rule was made, —

The family gather’d while they read and prayed.

Now Nelly sat beside her father’s knee

As happy as a little child should be;

And to his reading seem’d to give her mind

“When thou to give a dinner art inclined,

Ask not thy neighbors who are grand and great,

Who can repay thee from their vast estate;

Nor wealthy kindred to thy feasts invite,

For they can ask again and thee requite.

But ask the poor, the sick, the lame, the blind,

And such unworthy ones as thou canst find.

They cannot pay again. If God’s thy trust,

Then, at the resurrection of the just,

Thy seeds shall be remembered. Thou shalt too

Know God is faithful, and His word is true.”

The book is closed — the father’s voice is heard

To ask a blessing on the Sacred Word.

* * * * * * *

‘Twas four o’clock, the dining-room was cleared

For children’s play — but not a guest appear’d.

And where was Nelly? No one seem’d to know

Except the housemaid, — thought she saw her go

Across the pathway; but knew nothing more.

But hark! there is a knocking at the door!

A minute more, and in the grand old hall,

Where only wealthy folks were wont to call,

A motley crowd ‘Was seen, who shyly gazed.

The housemaid stood with both her hands upraised,

While Nelly stood amid her boys and girls, —

Some without shoes or caps, with matted curls

Uncomb’d;’ unwash’d, which she in love had

sought,

And brought away from “Golden Pippin Court”

To grace her feast. When brother Jack came down,

He looked upon the crowd with such a frown.

But ere her parents had a word to say,

“You gave me leave to choose my friends today;

You know, mamma, this morning father read

In God’s own Book, that when a feast was spread,

We were to ask the poor, the maim’d, and blind,

And so I thought I’d really try to find

The very poorest ones in Jesus’ name, —

You said you’d welcome every one that came!”

Ma kissed her Nellie — pa could only smile;

The housemaid said they would her chairs defile.

The little Arabs gazed with wondering eyes

Upon the cakes, the biscuits, tarts and pies,

Prepared for others; but it soon appear’d

They did them justice, for the plates were clear’d;

Though brother Jack declared he would not come

And show his things to “Nellie’s wretched scum

He changed his mind, and show’d his magic slides,

His box of tricks, and many things besides;

But in a little pa surprised them more,

And much they listen’d to his wondrous store

Of tales of Jesus — narratives of love,

About the mansions in His home above.

A little cripple on her crutches lean’d,

And look’d so sunny — had her young heart glean’d,

Some thoughts of heaven to light her little mind’?

And next to Nelly, ragged, pale, and blind,

But so attentive, stood a little boy,

In whose wan face there shone a gleam of joy,

While listening to the tale with such delight,

As though he saw the Lord with inward sight.

In simple language was the story told,

About the city with its streets of gold,

Its wondrous gates of rich and lustrous pearl,

How every little ragged boy and girl

Should find an entrance if they only canto

Through faith in Jesus and His precious name.

And though their souls were black as city mud,

They should be white as snow — washed in His

blood.

O wondrous place, so dazzling and so bright,

With God’s own glory and the Lamb’s pure light,

What huge foundations, deck’d with precious

stones,

Within whose walls are neither sighs nor groans,

While thus he spake, the wretched children thought,

“How different that from ‘Golden Pippin Court!’

Where all day long from women, men, and boys;

‘Twas nothing else but drunkenness and noise.”

Jack, in one corner quietly aside,

Looked grave. The housemaid, in the other,

cried;

But said, while fumbling with her apron’s hem,

“I’ll gladly wait again on such as them.”

And Dick, who walks on hands instead of feet,

Or acts “the wheel” for coppers in the street,

Looks on in wonder, silent as can be,

But shuts his eyes-lest they his tears should see.

The seed was being sown, and though in tears,

The reaping time would come in after years.

And many a precious truth those ears had caught,

Was heard that night “Golden Pippin Court.”

While little Nelly in her simple way,

Beside her cot that night knelt down to pray;

She was so tired, but said in accents sweet,

“I thank you, Jesus, for my birthday treat”!

DICKIE RHYMER.

“WHEN thou makest a dinner, or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind: and thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee: for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.” — Luke 14:12-14.

Out in the Meadows.

OUT in the meadows, all covered with flowers,

Gladly we spend our holiday hours;

Down by the Vallie’s or over the hills,

By the broad rivers or miniature rills;

Out in the sunshine we pleasantly roam,

Filling our basket with posies for home;

Sometimes we wander along by the brook,

Or sit on its margin with crochet or book.

The birds, how they twitter when searching for food—

Some stray little maggot to take to their brood.

We’re glad of the sunshine, and glad of the flowers,

And glad of our health and our holiday hours.

The Little Orphan.

I AM going to tell you a true story about a tiny boy named Tommy. Where I first met him was at the “hospital,” —a sad and dreary place to make a little boy’s acquaintance, you will say. I had been visiting some sick people in one of the wards, and thought I would just look in at another on my way out. I accordingly did so, and there behind the door was a small bed, in which was a little boy of about four years of age, sitting quite upright. He had pale, thin cheeks, and beautiful brown eyes, and his head hung slightly backwards. I inquired who he was of a nurse standing by. “Ah, Miss,” said she, “he is an orphan. We don’t know his real name, but we always, call him Tommy.” Then she told me how that he had been there a year, and had something very serious the matter with his throat, and that the doctor, had said he would never be well and strong again. She told me, too, that Tommy could never lie down, but always sat up as he then was, day and night. She was soon called away, when I spoke to the dear-little one, and took his wasted band in mine. He didn’t talk, but smiled sweetly. I shall never forget the expression of his little face. I went again the following week, and took him some little cakes and sweetmeats Which very much delighted him.

For several weeks Tommy continued the same. Once I saw a very kind-looking woman leaning upon his bed, and looking as though she loved him very much. I was told that she had nursed him when he was a little baby, before she was forced to take him to the hospital.

Another week passed away, and again I went to see Tommy; but ah! when I got there, what do you think I saw? Only an empty bed! That dear little one’s spirit had flown away during the week, to be with Jesus in the glory, forever and ever. What a change from the great, dreary hospital!

Tommy’s heavenly Father had taken His little lamb away from all the sin and suffering of this world, to be with Himself in His own glorious home. I couldn’t feel sorry that Tommy had gone, because I knew how happy he was. I just thanked the Lord for having taken him.

On my way out I met the woman who was so attached to Tommy. She was very sad, for she had heard that the little one had died. I don’t know whether she knew and loved Jesus, but if she did she must have been comforted to know that soon she, too, would be with Jesus, and meet once more the little boy she loved.

L. G.

Puzzle Corner.

A Scripture Character.

I’m sometimes in heaven, and sometimes on earth;

I am not an angel, but a thing of no worth, —

More worthless a thing there surely can’t be,

Yet the wealth of the world would never buy me

I’m a puzzle indeed, for I’m often defiant,

Yet weak as a babe, but strong as a giant;

So horrible, too — so black am I found,

Yet lovelier than snow ere it falls to the ground;

I’m often in sorrow, and shed many tears,

And yet I am happy — a stranger to fears;

I died, and behold, I am living today,

Was buried, and yet I can never decay;

My life is so frail, a child may it sever,

Yet nothing can touch it forever and ever;

I’m a slave, yet free as a bird on the wing;

I’m poor, yet rich as the wealthiest king;

I’m a stranger unknown that hasn’t a home,

And yet I have mansions, — then why should roam?

No parent am I — I’m with cares unencumber’d―

But my sons and my daughters can never be numbered;

Pray tell me my name, my character, station,

Where I lived, where I died, and my rich habitation;

My goodness and badness I’d have you rehearse,—

Remember, I ask you for chapter and verse.

D. R.

A good prize will be given for the best answer to the above, with the correct references.

WE had several good puzzles, at least I thought so, but on puzzling some young friends with them, they gave the answer directly, with the remark, “Oh, we learned them at school.” Now, we want original ones, and therefore not too easy. Our little friends will take the hint.

Little Goosie.

POOR little girl! She has been Marketing, you see, and is taking home the good things she has bought, and sitting down thinking how many tarts that bundle of rhubarb will make, and how pleased she will be to help mother roll the paste, or cut it into strips. She has fallen asleep; I daresay she was very tired — carrying that heavy basket. Ah! little does she know what a lot of busy customers are at her stall helping themselves, so that I am afraid the tarts will come poorly off. I hope they will be goosies enough to cackle together and wake the little girl before her provisions are eaten.

A Treat.

I WAS much amused one Sunday afternoon with a little boy, a little more than three years old — or as another little one said, “a quarter past three.” The children had been told in the morning by the superintendent that Mr. Blank was going to speak to them that afternoon, and added. “You’ll all have a treat:” meaning, of course, that the address would be extra interesting. Now our superintendent was not a man that walked on stilts in his conversation, I mean he, did not usually talk so hit, that it went over the children’s heads. I daresay most of us understood him — but how did the infant class interpret these words “You’ll have a treat?” Well, at half-past two, we had a very practical answer to that question, when Billy Bingley came in with his little cup slung round his neck. When I asked him what he had brought his cup for, he said, “We was told we was going to have a treat,” and I saw at once that Billy’s interpretation of a treat was cake and tea, and it was natural to a child’s mind to so understand it. In intercourse with children, the memory of Billy’s cup has been of service to me, helping me to remember days gone by, when another little boy in a pinafore, or in a velvet coat slightly too big for himself, and slightly too little for his bigger brother, would have understood it so, How much waste of time and words there is between teachers and children ofttimes, through forgetfulness of the difference in understanding, and if you look at the faces of children ofttimes when “the address” is given, you would think it was anything but a treat to them. A friend of mine who loves little children very much, but when addressing them forgets himself and goes on with his “points” and “arguments,” and while speaking has the habit of shutting his eyes, so that long before he has got into his “ thirdly” (and he is fond of dividing his discourse into heads) some of the children have shut their eyes too — I mean they have gone to sleep. To such lovers of little ones I would say, Remember Billy’s cup, and that he expects a treat.

W. G. S.

Too Old for Sunday School.

WHEN Fred Taylor was a little boy in our Sunday-school, I thought him a promising young Christian. He seemed so happy with us in everything concerning divine things, that I hoped to see a future standard-bearer of Christ in Fred. But time went on with all its changes, bringing in fresh faces, and taking away others — some had gone to the clerk’s desk in the banker’s counting-house; or behind the haberdasher’s or chemist’s counter, while the girls that had outgrown us, had also gone to find their places in the field of labor. At last the long looked for 14th year of Fred Taylor’s life came, and after the month of trial there was a scroll of parchment, and a solemn signing of indentures, that fastened him for the usual seven years. But presently Fred’s place at the Sunday-school was vacant. When kindly sought after he was very lofty, very, you would have thought he had grown up into a man all at once after signing that parchment.

We had hoped to have found a good helper in Fred as a teacher. But what a change! Once he had acknowledged Jesus as his Saviour, but to talk of him now in Fred’s presence was to run the risk of hearing him speak lightly of divine things.

The very bearing of Fred as you saw him in the street chewed the change his heart had undergone. I believe Fred was converted, but lately such a lot of things had choked the seed, and prevented its springing into fruitfulness. Oh how pained I was sometimes when meeting that once bright sunny-faced Sunday scholar. On such occasions he suddenly seemed interested in the architecture of the building opposite, or had to make a note in his red morocco diary. And since he had become a sort of, — what shall I say, — model on which the tailor’s first-class garments could be shown off to advantage with the help of a little gilded jewelry, and the nameless knickknacks of youthhood, you would have thought he was the eldest son of Sir Anthony Somebody; but he wasn’t. If I told you he was the youngest son of a worthy and respectable bootmaker in Small Street, I should be nearer the mark. But when I think of dear Fred, I also think of what I saw in our back kitchen once. It was an old-fashioned grate where wood was used instead of coal. Well one day the fire was wanted, and I thought it was out — it looked as if there was no spark there. The white ashes looked dead enough; but my sister gave it a little stir, and blew softly upon it, and lo! There was the fire — and a little blowing and careful stirring, soon brought out a beautiful blaze which a little fresh fuel strengthened. Ah! thought I, I will yet have hope of my old Sunday-scholar who is grown too old for school. I do believe there is life there, and—but the Lord must do the stirring and the blowing before the warm and serviceable blaze of light shall spring forth. But I can watch and wait patiently over the embers. I often wonder what becomes of our elder scholars. Perhaps as teachers, we don’t watch the turn of the tide with them — each one wants a different leading, a different training, a prayerful and loving care for them, a brotherliness and companionable kind of way. I wish I could express what I feel about those who, as tender saplings twined round us, but growing into stout branches, shoot up in all sorts of ways that defy training.

S. S. S.

Dot's Corner.

DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS, — If I were a little fly on the shoulders of readers of “My Little Friend,” I should see a great many turn to “Dot’s Corner,” and I should also see the eyes-glance down at the end of the essay, to see who was the fortunate name in print, before they read my letter; so I may as well begin at once by Saying that Harriet Ellen Howard, of Oldham, gains the publisher’s prize this month. I wish, however, while considering her essay the best that reached me in time, that she had gone a little further into it. Still I prefer a short thoughtful paper to a great waste of words; but judge for yourselves.

DEAR MR. DOT, — Solomon, the son of King David by Bathsheba, was born about B.C. 1035. He was called Solomon to mark his peaceful temper and reign, and Jedidiah to mark him the darling of the Lord. His father knowing that he was to build the temple, made great preparations for it, and trained him with great care. As his brother Adonijah thought to usurp the throne, David, by the instigation of Bathsheba and Nathan, caused Solomon to be anointed king while himself yet lived, which was done with great solemnity. After his father had directed him concerning the temple, concerning Joab and Shimei, and solemnly charged him to walk in the way of the Lord, and blessed him, he died. Solomon, who about two years before had married Naamah, the Ammonitess, and had Rehoboara by her, was now about eighteen years of age, when he entered on the sole government of the kingdom. Having put Adonijah, Joab, and Shimei to death, and confined Abiathar the high priest for their respective crimes, he married the daughter of Pharaoh, king of Egypt, who seems to have become a Jewish proselyte, for Solomon’ appears not to have fallen into the idolatry of her country. The Lord offered to grant him whatever he should ask. He requested wisdom, to qualify himself for the government of so great a kingdom. His request pleased the Lord, and he granted him such wisdom, honor, and wealth, as none before or after him ever possessed. Rising from his sleep he came to Jerusalem, and offered a great number of sacrifices before the ark, and then made a feast for his family.

Yours faithfully,

HARRIET ELLEN HOWARD, aged 11.

124, Main Road, Westwood, Oldham.

It is short, but sweet, I think. Elizabeth Small wrote an excellent article on the subject; but, being thirteen years of age, was inadmissible. A group of letters from some little friends in Glanmore were also very good. I quite agree with one writer, that “if the wisest man went astray, how much we need grace to walk watchfully, lest we also should go aside”, I think for July we will go into the New Testament, and the subject shall be “Timothy.” Please let me have your papers by the 10th of July. The Editor keeps his packet open till nine o’clock that night. “The latest moment I can wait for you,, Dot,” he says. But a day or two earlier is better for your

Affectionate friend,

54, Paternoster Row. DOT.

Don’t you think the little girl in the colored picture will learn to “watch, when she finds out how sad it is to go to sleep on duty I It reminds me of a text — a beautiful one, too — “Awake, thou that steepest!” (Eph. 5:14.)

Please to see you get your picture with this number―without extra charge.

The Little Stranger.

ONE morning, at seven o’clock,

A little while ago,

We came into the nursery

So quiet and so slow.

For Clara came to call us,

And whisper’d, “Now, you boys,

When you go down to breakfast

Be sure don’t make a noise;

And when you eat your porridge,

Don’t drop it on the floor;

And then I’ll spew you something

You’ve never seen before.

A bran-new lovely present,

As you can never guess,”

“A new wax doll for Polly?”

“A plaid-and-velvet dress?”

“A set of cups and saucers?”

Says Polly right away;

“Then I can ask my cousins

To come to tea and play,”

But Clara looked so funny,

Her face so full of glee;

We guess’d, and guess’d, and wonder’d.

Whatever it could be.

We scarce had done our breakfast,

And picked up all our crumbs,

When Brother Bobby shouted,

“Our grand new present comes.”

And Clara came so softly,

With something wrapped up warm

(Reminding us of Polly,

One day when in a storm).

We crowded round her bundle

Of flannel, silk, and stuff:

“We want to see the present.”

“You cannot while so rough.”

The bundle seem’d in danger,

When Clara, to our joy,

Revealed a little stranger,

A bonny blue-eyed boy!

We were so proud and happy,

We never thought of this:

To have a baby brother,

To play with and to kiss.

And Kitty loves to prattle

At little Stanley’s bed,

And shake her wicker rattle,

While baby shakes his head.

And Polly is the mother,

And then again she’s nurse;

While Freddy is the doctor,

If baby brother’s worse.

But let me tell you, Freddy

Don’t give those horrid pills,

Or cups of salts and senna,

Nor “half a glass of squills.”

We rather like his medicine―

A tumbler full of ‘Swiss’;

A fine large lump of sugar,”—

His fee is just a kiss.

We wouldn’t sell our darling

For all the city gold;

We think him far more precious

Than all its wealth untold.

DICKIE RHYMER.

The Open Bible.

WILL all the readers of My LITTLE FRIEND open their Bibles? “Yes,” you say; “that is very easy.” Well, but now I must tell you. On looking over Dot’s corner in the May number, I noticed with much interest and pleasure, that our magazine has about eighty thousand readers; so, you see, in response to my simple question there will be just about that number of Bibles spread open without an effort. Does not this strike you as a very wonderful thing? But, above all, I want you to look upon it as a very solemn thing, — this free and unfettered access to the Word of the living God. What a responsibility it is! and yet the youngest child may read without fear, although it be a direct message from God, which in very truth the precious volume is. I suppose there is scarcely one of you without a Bible, and no doubt some of them are very pretty to look at, with their shining gilt clasps and daintily colored maps, and others may be very plain, and even in rough bindings; but, dear children, let them all be in one condition, and that is, well-used. Oh! I do desire to direct your attention to the unspeakable value of this blessed book, for God’s testimony concerning His Son is there, and the love of Jesus in giving Himself as a ransom is told out there, and told in such simple and beautiful language, that even the little ones may understand. Read it then, often, ponder it well; for the only way of approach to God is given there, and there only. But now I have a suggestion to make, and hope you will all agree to it. Let every one of us, and we number eighty thousand, remember, open our Bibles, between the hours of nine and ten every Sunday morning, and read a few verses; would it not be nice? And doubtless the Lord would add His blessing (without which it would be worthless); for I am sure there are many, very many, who would silently pray as they read their own selection, that the Word might be used for rich and lasting profit to the large numbers thus occupied at almost the same moment.

Oh! that precious book the Bible,

Hold it with a jealous care;

All I know of life and glory,

All I know of Christ, is there.

Some would tell me ‘tis a fable,

Full of legend, rich and rare;

But to me it is God’s message,

All He tells of Christ is there.

May I guard it then while passing

On to regions bright and fair;

And should others smile, I’ll tell them

Christ the Way, was shown me there.

W. J. W.

A Favorite Verse.

“It is not the will of your Father who is in heaven that one of these little ones should perish.” “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

I HAVE written some little pieces of poetry which have appeared in “My LITTLE FRIEND;” now I will write a short piece in prose. It shall be about a dear girl not quite nine years of age — my own little daughter, Grace, by name. Last spring she was so healthy, active, and strong, and delighted in being taken for long walks; but what she liked best was roaming over the green fields when the weather was dry, and picking the wild flowers whenever she found them. This spring it is very different with her; she has had a severe illness, and is just now recovering. We (her fond parents) were very anxious about her at one time, she became so weak and looked so thin and frail. We were reminded of the expression found in Isaiah, “We all do fade as a leaf;” and of the following pretty lines I had lately copied into my Bible: —

“A thousand summers kiss the lea, —

Only one the sheaf;

A thousand springs may deck the tree, —

Only one the leaf.”

But it was a great comfort to us to find that she never lost her interest in the Bible; but whenever her mother (who was nursing her and other children, all laid low in measles, day and night) came near with the Bible in her band, she smiled. Once when her mother was reading the 103rd Psalm, and had just finished the clauses, “Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies,” she said in a faint whisper (for she could not speak otherwise, her throat being so sore), “That’s my favorite verse.” She had read this Psalm with her eldest sister on a Sunday afternoon before she was taken ill. She is so pleased to see the spring flowers that are brought into her in nice bunches, and likes the name of “God’s smiles” for them. A little while back her mother asked her if she would be afraid if she knew the Lord was now coming to fetch His people; she replied, “Oh no, mother, for He has forgiven all my sins.” I hope that every dear little girl and boy, who reads this, may, by His grace, be able to say the same.

B. H. G. W.

The Pardon.

THE Romans had a law that no person should approach the emperor’s tent in the night, upon pain of death; but it once happened that a soldier was found in that situation with a petition in his hand, waiting for an opportunity of presenting it. He was apprehended, and going to be immediately executed; but the emperor having overheard the matter in his pavilion, cried aloud, saying, “If the petition be for himself, let him die; if for another, spare his life.” Upon inquiry, it was found that the generous soldier’s prayer was for the lives of his two comrades who had been taken asleep on the watch. The emperor nobly forgave them all. How refreshing to turn to the Bible and listen to the word of Him who is the King of kings, the Lord of lords, and only Ruler of princes, who says, “Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in My name, He will give it you” (John 16:23). As sinners He bids us come just as we are, and accept pardon and eternal life at His hands; and as Christians we are told to “come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need” (Heb. 4:16).

The Scripture Dial.

AS I sat reading to my blind grandpapa, the clock struck one, and lie told me that all the numbers round the clock were mentioned in the Bible, so I searched for them, and found them to be as follows:

“One like unto the Son of Man clothed with a garment down to the foot” (Rev. 1:13).

The two malefactors put to death with our Saviour (Luke 23:32).

The three that went from Jerusalem to Jericho (Luke 10:36).

“Then said the king, Did we not cast three men bound into the fire, but lo! I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire” (Dan. 3:25).

The five barley loaves (John 6:9).

The six cities of refuge (Num. 35:13).

Elijah the prophet said to his servant, Go up now, look toward the sea. And he went up and said, There is nothing. And Elijah said, Go again seven times (1 Kings 18:43).

The eight persons that were saved in Noah’s Ark (1 Peter 3:20).

The nine lepers that were cleansed, but only one returned to give God thanks. Jesus said unto him, Were there not ten cleansed? Where are the nine? (Luke 17:17.)

The ten virgins (Matt. 25:1).

The eleven apostles (Acts 1:26).

The twelve gates of the heavenly Jerusalem (Rev. 21:12),

JOSEPH E. EVERETT,

Aged 11 years.

22, Bedell Place, Andrews Rd.,

Hackney, E. Lyndon.

Self Sacrifice.

TWO boys were at play inside the upper part of St. Leonard’s Tower at Bridgenorth, when the beam or joist on which they were standing gave way. One of them had just time to catch hold of the beam, and suspend himself from it; while the other, slipping over his body, caught hold of his legs, and thus they hung for some time, calling for help, but in vain. At length the boy who clung to the beam said he could hold out no longer, upon which the other who was clinging to him said, “Do you think you could save yourself if I were to loose you?” “Yes,” said the other, “I think I could.” “Well then,” said he, “God bless you;” and loosing his hold, he fell, and was dashed to pieces on the stone floor below. Upon this, his companion either climbed to some place of safety, or stayed till someone came to his help.

Here we have a remarkable instance of heroic self-sacrifice; of devoted affection; a beautiful illustration of the ways of one well known to our hearts. Wondrous was the love of this dear boy to his friend. But what was it to the love Christ has for us? What to the love that led Him to Calvary, there to give His life a ransom for us; to suffer, the just for the unjust, in order to bring us to God that wrung from Him that cry of unparalleled anguish, “My God, my God, why host Thou forsaken me?”

A Very Poor Shelter.

IT was only a spring shower — just enough to christen the little apples, when there are any — so that I did not think it worthwhile to put up my umbrella; but on a door step sat four little girls under a tiny parasol, really not enough to cover one; but as they considered it a family umbrella, each had a share of its sheltering wing. They were at play when the shower came on, and so had to seek shelter till the storm was over. You little girls and boys in the country, who can go into the meadows where the daisies are so thick that you can cover a dozen with one little hand, or can romp about on the scented heath, or the will common, forgetful that there are thistles there, till one ventures to remind little sister Jenny’s leg that there is a part the sock does not cover, and which produces a wry face in an instant, — I say you don’t know what shifts we London boys and girls are put to, and where we have to play. Yes, it’s a game of cricket agreed upon, and half-a-dozen boys instantly doff their hats and jackets and set them up for wickets in the middle of the roadway of a narrow street; a stick or bit of wood is the bat, sometimes it is a bit of wood for a ball; but the game is soon going on as lively and as resolute as if they were the “Eleven of all England.” The girls have their skipping-ropes, and “the children” with a bit of rope — that is, the little toddlers — set up swings before the doorway from railing to railing; but they seem to gather enjoyment from their own ingenuity. But it was amusing to see the four companions sitting under an old parasol, with several rents in the silk, and a few ribs broken. Fancy goes a great way, and they thought it a beautiful shelter. I could not help thinking they were like any little readers who were not saved, How many go to Sunday School, learn their lessons well, get rewards, and the Superintendent writes on the leaf inside, “Presented to William Brown as a reward for his regular attendance and general good conduct” (you see I peep into Reward Books sometimes); and yet they are not rally saved; they do not know when a stormy day of illness sets in that Christ is their shield. If you are hidden behind a shield that is larger than yourself, you need not mind the arrows flying. The old parasol was to the children worse than no shelter, because they fancied they were safe while they were getting very wet. Just then a woman and a little girl passed me. What did “mother” do, do you think? Why, when the first drops came, she threw as much shawl as was necessary all over the little girl. Yes, she was completely sheltered. She loved her little girl, and braved all the wet that little Nancy might not have a drop. And is not that what Jesus has done for us?

Dear boys and girls, don’t be satisfied with anything less than the salvation which God gives when He says, “He that believeth on the Son of God HATH everlasting life.” Anything else you trust in will be like the little girls under an old tattered parasol.

FRANK OPENEYES.

The Cheated Fox.

(From, the French.).

A STARVED fox perceived a hen, who was picking up worms at the foot of a tree. He was going to throw himself upon her, when he heard the noise of a drum suspended in a tree, and which the branches, agitated by the wind, moved. “Oh! oh!” said master Fox, raising his head, “are you there? I will be with you directly. Whatever you may be, by the noise you make, you ought to have more flesh than a hen; that is a very common repast; I have eaten so much of it that I have been disgusted with it for a long time; you shall make amends to me for the bad meals I have made; I find you very seasonably.”

Having said this, he climbs upon the tree, and the hen flies away, glad to have escaped from so imminent a danger. The famished fox seizes his prey, and works with claws and teeth; but what was his surprise when he saw that the drum was hollow and empty; that he had found nothing but air in the place of flesh! Drawing a profound sigh, “Unfortunate am I!” cried he; “what a delicate piece I have lost for air, for emptiness and noise “The prudent man must not leave reality for appearances. That which makes the most noise is not always the most solid, nor the most advantageous.

CHERRY RIPE, Aged 121/2 years.

Ross, Herefordshire.

[I think we gather a very useful lesson from Cherry Ripe’s little fable; for though we think we are very wise, as Master Reynard did, we are easily caught by the noisy and glittering things around us, and find they are empty as drums, not only in little things, but in other matters. Eternal life and eternal happiness are offered; but the big drum of the world or Satan calls the attention at once. I tell you what I wrote down when I read it “I want reality.” — E D.]

Dot's Corner.

DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS, — I want the corner to myself this month, to tell you about one of our Sunday School Treats. You who live in the country, and who know the smell of the lilac and the sweet-scented May, whose lovely robe of whiteness seems even whiter beside the golden ringlets of its neighboring laburnum, can hardly imagine the pleasure of a look at the green fields, and the still greater pleasure of a good romp and revel in them. In some parts of London there are beautiful parks and gardens, but there are streets wherein hundreds and hundreds of children live who are not near these places, and who never see a cowslip or buttercup growing, except when they go out “with the treat.” Our school was in such a neighborhood, and it was good news to 250 boys and girls one Sunday afternoon to hear that they were to go by train thirty miles in the country and spend a day in a gentleman’s park.

The day came at last, after a fortnight’s wishings and counting of hours. The train at London Bridge was waiting at nine o’clock, with all the carriage doors open, and soon swallowed up the chatterboxes, and at a given signal we steamed out amid banners flying and rejoicings from the merry little throats that were piping so cheerfully. Steam was up, and away we went, and it was a matter of inquiry which was moving the fastest, the hedges and trees or the train; how they did seem to fly by us, and the stations, too, as though they wanted to get out of the way. And now we had a beautiful view of the real country — hills and dales, gardens and orchards, rivers and lakes, and it was a feast to little eyes; it did us teachers good to hear the notes of surprise and wonderment. But flowers and fields don’t fill hungry bellies, and so the sandwiches, and bread and treacle, and buttered rolls began to come out from all sorts of places. Sally Brown’s large “reticule” had seen better days. Some could only boast of a paper wrapper; but where two or three in a family came, a shiny bag contained provisions for the lot. Some had no lunch at all, and were reserving themselves for the tea in the park, “free, gratis, for nothing,” as they said.

A loud whistle three times, and a cry, “Here we are!” brought all the heads out of the windows it was possible to get through. And what a funny picture it looked! — with all the variety of combed and uncombed, straight and curly, and of all kinds and shades one sees in a hairdresser’s window, only not quite so proper looking! A few minutes more, and we are marching out of the station, two and two. A shout, announcing our arrival, brings the quiet cottagers to their doors, and sends the peaceful rooks flying from their leafy houses, cawing disapprobation at the intrusion.

A good brisk walk, and we are in the park, with its massive old oaks and solemn-looking elms, and after a winding path and climbing a hill; we are under a beautiful avenue of tall trees; and here we are met with a welcome from the lady and gentleman who are going to spew us “how to spend a happy day.” We come opposite the cottage near which the tents are fixed, and it is such a hot day, that the demand for water keeps a few hands drawing a supply — bucket after bucket — of, oh! such cold water! it does relish! we think it a treat, indeed. Then we are told that we can roam wherever we like, and do what we like.

But, better than that, we saw a donkey-load of playthings drive up — bats and balls, skipping-ropes, whistles, battledores and shuttlecocks, and bats and traps, and more than I can remember. As for the swings in the trees, they were just delightful. Some of the boys had never seen a park before, and what a fine sight to behold the graceful deer in companies fleeing to some distant glen, scared away by the little intruders. So every one did according to his fancy. Some fancied lingering by the tents, where the operation of cutting up bread and butter and prime currant cake was going on, although I’m sure anticipation was not the best part in that matter. Others went among the poultry; and the cackling of fowls and quacking of ducks and ducklings and gobblings of turkeys, were sounds quite new to their cars. Then, again, to have a romp among the sweet smelling hay, and tumble and toss each other amongst it, or under the haycocks, was delightful; and so the merry hours glided away, till the gong sounded the crowning triumph of the day.

Tables on the grass covered with white tablecloths, beautiful nosegays here and there on the tables, with heaps and heaps of prime bread and fresh butter, and cans of new milk and smoking tea. We all stood and sung our thanksgiving, and then began the battle between hungry boys and girls and cake and bread and butter. Column after column of the enemy fell, and still the officer brought up fresh supplies. The war waged for a considerable time, and if there had not been a good reserve, the boys and girls would have beaten; but as it was, cake and bread and butter finally got the victory, and had sole possession of the field. “Couldn’t eat a bit more,” was the sad confession of many a little one that had battled famously.

Another good run, then we collect together, and the old park rings with songs of praise. After a hearty shout — and a good many of them — to our kind friends, we get ready to march; but every little hand has a good bun put into it, and every mouth a good drink of lemonade. The ride home seemed longer — all the courage or spirits had oozed out up in the park. But that was a day long to be remembered.; it was a proper treat, and I think few enjoyed it more than your affectionate friend,

DOT.

The Duchess of Nurseryshire.

BE quiet, you boys, be silent you girls,

Take off your hats, and straighten your

curls

(Oh Bobby, don’t make such a terrible din),

For now the Duchess of N. comes in.

With father’s hat and his stick in his hand,

At the nursery door Fred takes his stand;

You’d think he was mocking the clock, “Big Ben,”

When he shouted aloud, “THE DUCHESS OF N.”

Our Polly came in with a stately air,

Which made little baby Stanley stare,

And mischievous Frank in a corner sat,

And as Polly went by he touched his hat.

The Duchess of N. to the cradle came:

She kiss’d the baby, and asked his name;

She said his cheeks were as soft as silk,

And drank a drop from his bottle of milk,

Which Percy thought she oughtn’t to touch,

And fancied she drank a drop too much.

Fred rapp’d his stick with his knob on the floor,

And then we halted at once to the door,

And stood as stately as noblemen,

And bade good-bye to the “Duchess of N.”

DICHIE RYHMER.

Childlike Faith.

SEEKING to explain to his hearers the nature of faith, a preacher of Christ once illustrated it in the following way: what he described having happened to himself. One day he was engaged in a dark cellar under his house, to which access was gained by a trap-door. Whilst there, his little girl, who was about three years of age, wishing to join him, came to the door and called to him, “Are you there, papa? How can I come to you? I don’t see you; it is quite dark.” “True, my child, but I am below you, and I see you, though you don’t see me; jump down — I will catch you.” “Oh, papa, I don’t see you.” “I know that, my child; nevertheless, since I am here, no harm can come to you.” Little Mary opened her eyes as wide as she could; but in vain; nothing could she descry. She hesitated awhile, until at length, taking courage, she leaped down, and was caught in her father’s arms.

A few days after, Mary finding the trap-door open, and, supposing that her father was below, called out, “Shall I come again, papa?” “Immediately, my child,” said her father; and hardly had he time to reach the spot where he was to catch her, when she, in her infantine joy, leaped down into his arms. Taking him round the neck, she said, “I knew, dear papa, that I could not fall when you where there.”

Such is faith; it is trusting our heavenly Father in the dark. Like little Mary, we cannot see Him with our bodily eye, but, resting on His word, let us cast ourselves into the arms of His sovereign mercy, for He waits to receive us, and be gracious unto all who throw themselves upon Him with faith like that of this little child.

Scraps for Little Bible Readers.

IN reading your Bible I dare say you often come against things you don’t understand, especially about the way in which things were measured in Scriptural days gone by. How many little ones are acquainted with the history of the giant of Gath, whom little David killed in the valley of Elah; and most of them know his height was six cubits and a span; but I question if many have stopped to ask how high he was according as we understand it; so I propose dotting down little things I glean in reading for your little readers. Measures of length, we are told, were mostly taken from the human body, as hand-breadth, span, palm, and foot.

The finger-breadth is said to be the breadth of six barleycorns in the thickest part when laid together, or rather more than three-fourths of an inch.

The hand-breadth, or palm, is the width of a man’s four fingers when they are laid fiat, a little more than three and a half inches.

The span is the measure from the thumb to the little finger expanded, equal to three palms, or about ten inches.

The cubit is the measure of a man’s arm from the elbow to the extremity of the middle finger, about one foot eight inches (so Goliath must have been nearly eleven feet in height).

The fathom is the distance between the hands stretched out, about six feet eight inches.

The reed was six cubits and a hand-breadth, or about ten feet ten inches.

A mile about one-fifth more than an English mile.

I have compared these with various Biblical accounts, and hope they may be helpful to your young friends.

Little enquirers after more details will gladly be helped, I am sure, by teachers or superintendents who have generally a Bagster’s Bible or a Teacher’s Bible, which I see you advertise.

“They that trust in the Lord shall be as Mount Zion, which cannot be removed, but abideth forever.”— Psalm 125:1.

Evening Shadows.

AROUND the little cottage,

Across the country lane,

The twilight shadows lengthened,

‘Twas evening once again.

The neat and well-stocked garden,

Tended with loving care,

Sent forth a breath of fragrance

Upon the freshening air.

Close by an open window,

Watching the last faint gleam,

Her eyes fixed on the landscape,

She sat as in a dream;

Her widowed heart was lonely,

No loved one there to cheer;

And in the gathering darkness

She wiped away a tear.

But as she thus sat musing,

A happy look there came —

A radiance o’er those features,

A softly-whispered name;

And drawing forth a letter, —

She knew it all by heart, —

Thought of her boy returning,

Never again to part.

A few short days of waiting,

Her sailor boy would come

To cheer his doting mother,

To bless that cottage home;

To give fresh life and vigor

To her so sad and lone,

To be her joy, her comfort,

To make her world his own.

Her face grew brighter, brighter, —

It was no transient gleam, —

There came no thought of sadness

To chase away the beam;

But onward to the meeting

She looked with joyous thrill,

And so, till night and darkness,

Sat dreaming of him still.

* * * * *

The sun was softly setting,

The waves were bright and blue,

And swiftly through the silence

The seagull screaming flew;

Across the gleaming waters

A golden pathway shone,

And everywhere a radiance

Was o’er the ocean thrown.

The yellow sands were sparkling

Beneath the ruddy glow,

The fair and lovely landscape

Did fairer, brighter grow;

The sky was bathed in glory,

Deep tinged with every shade,

And seemed, though ever changing,

Too beautiful to fade.

A ray of crimson sunlight

Fell in a little cave,

And there, so still and peaceful,

Sport of the fickle wave,

An outstretched form was lying,

The features cold and dead,

While golden beams were playing

Around the youthful head.

A fair yet manly beauty

Was on the changeless face —

There one long look of sadness

Had found a resting-place;

The clustering curls fell darkly

Upon the thoughtful brow, —

The hand that last caressed them

Waits to caress them now.

So full of life, but lately

Buoyant with sailor glee,

The blue eyes, calm and fearless,

Lovingly scan the sea;

A hurricane swift and awful

Passes across the deep,

And winds and waves are quickly

Rocking the boy to sleep.

Lower the sun, yet lower

The last faint ray was there,

Lighting those placid features,

So sad, so calm, so fair;

And ever through the stillness

Murmured the sea’s deep tone,

The seagull’s cry yet wailing

Over the dead alone.

* * * * *

Each evening in the twilight

The widow leaves her home,

And slowly to the churchyard

Still does she feebly come

There, by a dark green hillock,

She stands with chasten’d joy,

And knows she soon shall meet them:

Her husband and her boy.

W. J. W.

The Captain's Confidence.

SPEAKING of the confidence a Christian ought to show in the care of God in the hour of danger or sorrow, as well as in times of peace, a gentleman gave the following pretty illustration of it. While on its voyage, Captain B— ‘s ship was overtaken by a heavy storm, and for two or three days it lay heavily upon the vessel. The captain had on board with him his wife and little daughter, which of course increased his anxiety when at times hope of the vessel’s safety seemed faint. But the captain was at his post through the terrible storm, giving his orders with a calmness that surprised his wife, who was terribly agitated, and fearing for all their safety. At last the storm abates, and with a thankful heart the captain conveyed the news to his trembling partner that the storm had passed over, and they were safe. She could not help praising hire for his courage and bold ness through the hour of danger.

“No,” said he; “it was not courage or boldness.”

“What was it, then,” asked his wife, “that enabled you to be so calm and fearless when even your sailors were alarmed?”

“It was confidence,” replied he. “I will show you.” He, took his little daughter, and stood her on the table; then reaching a most formidable sword, he passed it before the child’s face, then pretended to strike her on the head. She only smiled; and when again he flourished the gleaming weapon before her, she did not flinch.

“Were you not frightened at that terrible sword” asked the captain.

“No, father; it was in your hands, and I knew you would not hurt me!”

Turning to his wife, he said, “My dear, that storm was in my Father’s hands, and I knew He would not hurt me. I did my part as the captain of the ship, and left all to Him; it was confidence in a Father’s care that kept me peaceable in the storm.”

How blessed it is to learn in early days that God is love, and that He changes not, and that if trouble or sorrow come, it is but to draw our hearts in confidence to Himself, and to put our whole trust in Him at all times.

The Defeat of Sisera's Army.

Judges 4 and 5.

ISRAEL had sinned, and in their willful way

To serve the Gentile’s gods had gone

astray,

And worship due to Israel’s God alone

Was daily given to gods of wood and stone.

They did more wickedly, until the hour

God gave them up unto the Gentile’s power,

And Jabin’s captain for a score of years

Had made them feel the tyrant’s rod; their

tears

And bitter anguish to Jehovah rise, —

They seek Him yet again. He hears their cries

And sends deliverance. While their prayer is

heard

The spirit of the prophetess is stirri’d―

“Up, Barak! up! and unto Tabor’s mount

Before the sunset thou shalt surely count

Ten thousand warriors, mighty, brave, and free,

Ready to do thy will and follow thee.

Hath not Jehovah seen His people’s woe,

And the proud triumph of His haughty foe?

Hath not He heard the cry and seen the tear?

Up, Barak! then, for thou halt naught to fear.”

But Barak paused; his faith was very low

“Go with me, Deborah, and I’ll surely go;

Or otherwise I cannot wield the sword.”

But Deborah reckons on her faithful Lord.

The trumpet’s blown! the men of Zebulun,

With courage waken’d, unto Barak run;

And Issachar sends out her warriors too,

While over Naphtali the tidings flew―

“The Lord again has stretched His mighty hand

And brought deliverance to His chosen land.”

* * * * * * *

Nine hundred chariots, and an armed host

Does Sisera gather — Jabin’s pride and boast.

He views his army with a haughty glee —

He’ll quell the bondmen who would dare be free.

He’s eager for the fight, and Kedesh hears

The sound of habergeons, swords, and spears.

Stout-hearted Captain, what cloth ail thee now

And why that frown upon thy soldier brow?

A mighty host from Tabor’s mount he spies,

Like storm-clouds gathering o’er the eastern

skies.

‘Tis Barak’s army — Deborah at their head;

While Sisera’s followers seem filled with dread.

On, on they come, like overwhelming waves,

Firm in the confidence of Him who saves.

The armies meet — the Gentile host gives way:

Each soldier’s heart seems filled with dire dis

may.

In vain the chariots and the prancing steeds

Come on in numbers. ‘Tis Jehovah leads.

As when the sea its mighty waters threw

On high like walls to let His people through,

The host of Sisera’s scatter’d far and wide —

They flee, or in the neighboring mountains

hide.

* * * * * * *

The battle’s over and the day is spent,

And Heber’s wife is standing at her tent;

Her eager glance sees coming through the vale

The fallen Captain, weary, sad, and pale;

And in his downcast look she reads the worst.

He asks for water just to quench his thirst —

He lays him down; she goes to get his wish,

But brings him milk to drink from lordly dish.

Wearied and downcast soon he falls asleep,

Beneath her mantle — and his slumber’s deep.

Jehovah’s enemy — His people’s foe

Is by a woman’s feeble hand laid low.

Though Barak after Sisera has sped,

He reaches Jael’s tent to find him dead,

The hosts victorious who together throng,

With Deborah leading, raise their gladsome

song —

“The Lord be praised! The glory’s His alone;

His people’s free — the foe is overthrown.”

An earthly people used a carnal sword

And went to war, obedient to their Lord.

A heavenly people yet still more delights

To hear and rest upon His word; but fights

With very different weapons, and lays hold

Upon the Christian’s sword, and thus is bold;

Their keen, bright weapon is the word of truth,

A sword that can be used by age or youth;

For warriors past it ever has sufficed,

And will do still for all who cleave to Christ.

‘Gainst self we use it, for till that’s laid low

We cannot wield it o’er a hurtful foe.

If true to Christ — be danger what it may,

He gives His word to keep the foe at bay.

Oh, let us trust His grace still more and more,

Till conflict’s ended, and temptation o’er.

DICKIE RHYMER.

Sparrow Borough.

PERHAPS little readers who live in the sight of green fields, and can always bear the musical ripple of the tiny rill running over its gravelly bed, and from early morn till sunset are familiar with the sight and songs of birds — perhaps they think we have no birds in London; but we have, I don’t mean those shut up in cages, but birds at liberty. But I think the little sparrow abounds in greatest numbers. I am amused when going down the City Road just as I get opposite to what I call “Sparrow-borough.” The Islington part of the City Road has trees on either side, and in spring-time, when they put forth their young green leaves, it is cheering to London eyes; but the first one is a big tree with wide-spreading branches, and here the sparrows assemble at evening, I suppose to twitter over the events of the day. Perhaps what good food some of them have found in places where little folk don’t eat up all their crusts at breakfast. Perhaps, too, they may have to relate some narrow escapes from certain sleepy-looking creatures, belonging to the firm of “Puss and Company,” who are very fond of pretending they are asleep, just to catch Master Dickey unawares.

I don’t know where all the sparrows get to through the day — very likely they have their districts to visit — but at five o’clock on a summer’s evening, Sparrow-borough is as busy with its debates, and its rights, and its wrongs as any borough in the country. You know the sparrow is fond of the society of man— on friendly terms with him.

I love the little sparrow too, because the way it is mentioned in Scripture shows the greatness of God’s love, who cares for sparrows; and if He cares for them, bow much more shall He care for those who have been redeemed by the blood of Jesus! I see from a good authority that it is mentioned above forty times in the Old Testament and twice in the New Testament, and that its name means “chirp,” or “twitter.” Travelers tell us that our English tree-sparrow (a different family, though perhaps first cousin, to the house-sparrow) is very common in the Holy Land, and abounds on Mount Olivet. I find there is another Fart of the sparrow family, called the rock-sparrow, which is very common in Palestine, especially those parts where there are no woods or trees. He seems a lonely little fellow, for they say he is found sitting alone on the top of a rock, or any large stone, and this makes scholars think this is the kind referred to by the Psalmist in Psa. 102, “I watch, and am as a sparrow alone upon the housetop.” But it is an interesting study to find out all the passages in which our little friend is referred to, and then look at the connection they have with God’s beloved people. If I may lead any little readers to search their Bibles, I shall not he sorry to have paid a visit to “Sparrow-borough.” I should think many of your little readers could give us some interesting bits about birds, animals, or fishes picked up in their experience, for I cannot understand young ones going about with their eyes shut.

CHIRRUP.

Dot's Corner.

DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS, — I thank you very much for following out directions as to manuscripts. I find, too, a great improvement in your letters, and a more thoughtful way of treating your subjects. Willie Branford’s was well written, but a trifle too stiff, and if I could have put in two his would certainly have been one. As it is I have given the prize to Johnny Migens, as you see.

Nebuchadnezzar and Babylon.

NEBUCHADNEZZAR, the most famed king of Babylon, was so great, it is said, that all nations feared before him (Dan. 5:19). The Jews for their wickedness were also delivered into his hands, and carried captive to Babylon (2 Kings 24). The Book of Daniel tells us much about the greatness and pride of Nebuchadnezzar, and what God did to humble him, which we have to notice by-and-bye. In the second year of his reign he had a surprising dream, but entirely forgot it, and because the wise men of Babylon could not tell him his dream nor the interpterion of it, he gave orders to have them all put to death. Now they had in Babylon some of God’s children, who were also appointed to death; but four of these young men, Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, prayed to the Lord concerning the matter, and the Lord enabled Daniel to relate the king’s dream with the interpretation thereof. Nebuchadnezzar was then so well satisfied that he constituted Daniel the chief of all his wise men. Afterward Nebuchadnezzar set up a monstrous idol in the plains of Dura, and ordered all, as soon as they heard the sound of the concert of music on that occasion, to fall down and worship it, under pain of being cast into a burning fiery furnace. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were accused of refusing to worship the idol. They declared their resolution not to do so, and their faith in God, whom they served. Nebuchadnezzar, enraged, ordered them to be cast bound into the furnace of fire, heated to a sevenfold degree. The fire was only permitted to burn their bonds, but not so much as to singe their garments nor the hair of their head. Nebuchadnezzar, observing this, called them to come forth, which they did, and were advanced to more honorable stations in the province of Babylon. Nebuchadnezzar also dreamed of a large and flourishing tree cut down, and no more of it left but the stump, fixed in the earth, to be wet with the dew of heaven till seven times passed over it. When none of the pretenders to wisdom could interpret it, Daniel came, and being encouraged by the king to tell him the interpretation, be what it would, he told him that for seven years he should be reduced to the condition of a beast, and driven from the society of men, and after his acknowledgment of the Divine supremacy should be restored to his throw. One day, as he walked in his palace, and, looking on his august city, said, “Is not this great Babylon that I have built by the might of my power and for the honor of my majesty?” a voice from heaven replied that the kingdom was departed from him. He was immediately struck with some strange distemper. He fled to the fields, and there lived on the grass, and went naked. At the end of seven years he was restored to the use of his reason; he humbled himself and glorified God.

God’s dealings with this great and haughty man should teach us how hateful pride is in His sight, and we should always remember the example that Jesus left us, who was meek and lowly in heart. Neither should we glory in any earthly treasure, which may soon pass away like Babylon.

JOHNNY MIUENS, Junior, aged 11.

Dresternan Roslea,

Co. Fermanagh, Ireland.

Yes, Johnny, a valuable lesson for all of us, especially when we remember what Jesus says, “Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away,” May His word have a greater hold upon our hearts. I cannot tell you what great help “the Corner” has been to me. Good-bye again till next month.

Your affectionate friend,

54, Paternoster Row, London, E. C.

DOT.

To enable little friends in Australia, New Zealand, Africa, America, Canada, and other distant parts, to get the volume at Christmas, at the same time as little friends at home, we must have the last four numbers in hand, so I give you four subjects to write upon —

1. Timothy, the young reader of the Word of God.

2. Daniel, the undefiled captive.

3. Aaron, the high priest.

4. The blood of Jesus.

I think they are four beautiful subjects to meditate over and write upon. You can write for all four. I should like them by the 25th of August, please.

When you are looking at your Bibles (as suggested) on a Sunday morning, remember that I am joining you, and if I find anything I think helpful, I shall note it down as “Notes by Dot.”

On the Beach.

OFF to the beach, where the waves are dancing,

Merrily, bright, and free;

Where the yellow sands lie cool and glistening

Washed by the sunlit sea.

Mingle the music of childhood’s prattle,

The pictures of childhood’s ways,

The murmur and splash of an ocean ripple,

The beauties of summer days.

Give the clear blue tide in its onward flowing

Some levelling work to do;

Go meet it with sand-heaps of fancy patterns,

With trenches to wander through,

Of archways all curves, of pail-shapes all

sizes,

The wave in its course can tell.

Elaborate structures, too, clever and pretty,

White-capped with the cockle-shell.

Over the tide in its backward ebbing

Let sounds of young voices go,

As chubby bare-feet with untiring patter

Run ceaselessly to and fro.

Set dimpled hands fishing for crabs and sea

weed

In beautiful rocky glades;

Ring shouts of delight over simple sea-treasures

‘Mid flourish of tiny spades.

Off to the beach, where the waves are dancing,

Merrily, bright, and free;

Off to the sands so smooth and glistening,

Washed by the sunlit sea.

Off for a playtime, where breezes blowing

Over the summer spray,

Whisper of health, and new strength for the coming

Of work in the wintry day.

W. J. W.

Another Prize!

A GENTLEMAN who takes an interest in little folk, offers to give a prize for the best article to be entitled “Our Sunday School Treat,” by little friends under ten years of age. As I daresay the treats will be all over by the time you read this, and as I suppose all Sunday Schools do have treats, you will be able to give us a description of yours and of the addresses which followed. The best one will appear in “THE LITTLE FRIEND.” The papers must not be too long, and please, in writing it, do it as if you were telling mother and father about it afterward. Never mind about big words, then you will do it so much better. DOT lets me look at his letters sometimes, and I think in some they have a spelling-book favour —I daresay you know what I mean. Address your papers, The Editor of Little Friend, 54, Paternoster Row London, E. C. Papers must be sent in before September 15th.

Self Sacrifice.

INSIDE the upper part of St. Leonard’s Tower at Bridgenorth, two boys were at play, when the beam or joist on which they were standing gave way. One of them had just time to catch hold of the beam, and suspend himself from it; while the other, slipping over the body, caught hold of his legs, and thus they hung for some time, calling for help, but in vain.

At length the boy who clung to the beam said he could hold out no longer, upon which the other, who was clinging to him said, “Do you think you could save yourself if I were to loose you?”

“Yes,” said the other, “I think I could.”

“Well then,” said he, “God bless you!” and loosing hold, he fell, and was dashed to pieces on the stone floor below. Upon this, his companion either climbed to some place of safety, or stayed till someone came to his help.

Here we have a remarkable instance of heroic self-sacrifice; of devoted affection; a beautiful illustration of the ways of One well known to our hearts. Wondrous was the love of this dear boy to his friend. But what was into the love Christ has for us? What to the love that led Him to Calvary, there to give His life a ransom for us; to suffer the just for the unjust, in order to bring us to God; that wrung from Him that cry of unparalleled anguish, “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?”

A Wet Day at the Seaside.

Do you know anything more gloomy: to holiday keeping boys and girls than a thorough wet day at the seaside. My sister and myself were once there with our friends. It was beautiful to be laying out on the sands in the glorious sunshine, when it was not too hot. But one day, when we got down to breakfast, it was raining very fast, that steady kind of rain that seemed to say, “I’m going to have it all my way today.” Yes, and wouldn’t listen to the spell that some little folks were using, as though to prevail upon the clouds to move off, by singing Rain, rain, go away, and come again some other day.” It was not going to do that, and so it kept on till dinner time, and all through the afternoon, and till the darkness shut out the gloomy view of “water, water, everywhere.” There we were in front of the sea that did not tumble on the shore as when in a playful mood, no; it looked like a great sulky puddle, one vast sheet of wet, and the mountains seemed as though they had put on immense black Shetland veils to hide their faces. And no one indoors cared to read or write. The fire-grate was full of beautiful stones, but we could not get any one to talk about geology. Poor Harold and his sister looked the picture of woe, I don’t know what to compare there to, but judge for yourselves what they look like in the picture. Poor Harold is trying his new knife on his finger nails, or something in his hand, and Fanny has nothing to do.

The Young Martyr.

WHEN the wretched 6th regiment mutinied at Allahabad, and murdered their officers, Arthur Marcus Cheek, of Evesham, in Worcestershire, a youth only sixteen years of age, an ensign who was left for dead, among the rest, escaped in the dark· ness of the night to a neighboring ravine. Here he found a stream, the waters of which sustained his life for four days and nights. Although desperately wounded, he contrived to climb up into a tree during the night for protection from wild beasts.

The firmness of the native was giving way as he knelt amid his persecutors, with no human sympathy to support him. The boy officer, after anxiously watching him for a short time, cried out, “Oh, my friend, come what may, do not deny the Lord Jesus.”

Poor boy, he had a high commission to fulfil, before death released him from his sufferings. On the fifth day he was discovered and dragged by the brutal Sepoys before one of their leaders, to have the little life left in him extinguished. There he found another prisoner, a Christian catechist, formerly a Mahomedan, whom the Sepoys were endeavoring to torment and terrify into recantation.

Just at this moment the alarm of a sudden attack by the gallant Colonel Neil with his Madras Fusileres caused the instant flight of the murderous fanatics. The catechist’s life was saved. He turned to bless the boy whose faith had strengthened his faltering spirit; but the young martyr had passed beyond all reach of human cruelty. He had entered into rest.

The Glory of God in Creation.

(From the French.)

LET us take a walk, and We will speak of the works of God. The pine grows on the mountains, and the willow waves its branches lightly on the solitary stream of the fountains. The thistle is armed with little prickles, the mallow is sweet, and covered with fur. The hop twists itself round long sticks, and its affectionate tendrils, Mixed with delicate flowers, support themselves there. The oak strikes its thick root into the earth, and braves the storms of winter. The daisy enamels the fields, and blooms even under the feet of the passenger. The showy tulip demands a rich soil, and the care of a gardener. The rushes and the reeds grow in damp marshes. The wallflower takes root among the stones, it exhales its perfume among the ruins. Each leaf has a distinct form, and each plant its flower. When spring approaches, the primrose and the lily of the valley; lift up their heads; they show their pretty flowers: the carnation awaits the summer, and the laurel caresses the winter. Each plant produces a similar one; an ear of corn never produced an acorn, and a vine does not give cherries; but each plant comes of its proper grains. Who preserves them during the cold of winter, when the earth is covered with snow, and all is frozen? Who sows the little grain, hides it in the bosom of the earth, makes it grow up and become strong? It is God. These are a part of His wonders. All by which we are surrounded comes from God. We can see the power of His hand in every leaf, as well as in the heavenly bodies which illuminate the skies. We cannot see God. He is invisible to mortals, but we can admire his wonders, and adore His holy name. Each day that we know Him better, we shall praise Him more.

CHERRY RIPE.

Ross. Aged 12 years

A Strange Adventure.

MANY years ago a friend and myself were on a visit to the sea side. He was just recovering from a long illness, and the sea breezes were expected to bring back the color to his cheeks, and, health to his weak frame.

As neither of us had as yet ever seen the great ocean, our expectations were running very high, as we steamed away through flowery meads and long tunnels, sometimes catching a sight of the sombre-looking mountains of Wales, and then suddenly finding ourselves in a deep cutting, and soon after getting out into the sunlight again. The great towns with their huge manufactories and grotesque chimney stacks were far behind us, and as we left Chester station we were eager to catch the first glance of the ocean. A few minutes’ ride, and we were facing the river Dee, down which one or two fishing-smacks were gliding.

As far as the eye could reach we could discover nothing but desolate-looking tracts of mud. Here and there a little boat, and a fishing-net stretched out to dry, were the only things that broke the sameness of the scene. At last our destination was reached; the rush and bustle of passengers searching for their luggage was over; the train was again on its way, and we were safely and really: at the sea-side. It was too late, however, to pay a visit to the beach; so, having secured lodgings, we retired to rest, resolving to rise early to catch the coming-in of the tide.

It was a bright sunny morning as we wended our way through the streets of the little town towards the ocean. A brisk breeze was blowing of the time, and over the wide-spreading sands the waves came rushing on, every one apparently striving to outrun the other to reach its utmost bound, obedient to God’s decree: “So far shalt thou go, and no farther; and here Shall thy proud waves be stayed.” I cannot tell you the pleasurable feelings I had, as for the first at time I saw those tremendous waves with their, silvery crests come rushing in on “very hand; sometimes bearing high up upon the beach masses of seaweed torn from their ocean depths; and as they retreated, leaving behind them upon the sands innumerable little creatures and grotesque-looking fish, which attracted us wonderfully. Then, again, to gaze upon that immense body of water as far as the eye could discern, till at last the sea and clouds seemed to mingle, was interesting indeed.

One morning we thought we would go and meet the tide far away over the sands; for when the tide was down, it was pleasant to ramble over miles of sand where a few hours afterward you could sail away, the little boat skimming along the surface of the water as though it were a, feather. Following the example of others, who, like ourselves, were strangers to the danger incurred, on we wandered, till we reached the spot where the water seemed accustomed to retreat ‘till the turn of the tide, and which we were soon aware had taken place, and that the waves were moving in towards the shore, at first in such a stealthy manner as to be scarcely noticed, but presently we saw each wave was getting much stronger, and which were making rapid advances to the shore; and as the waves came onward we retreated step by step, as though contending for the right of possession. However, we soon found, like King Canute, that the waves were no respecters of persons, and onward being evidently their purpose, we were glad to beat a retreat, and which had to be hastened as the sea regained power, and threw up its boiling waters around with a deafening roar. Of course, as we had the sea before us, we supposed we were safe, forgetting to look around to see what was going on behind us. Presently, however, loud voices, above the roar of the in-coming tide, fell upon our ears, and we turned round. As we did so one glance showed the perilous position, we had placed ourselves in, a glance which made our hearts quail, taking the color from our cheeks, and causing a cry of astonishment to escape our lips.

That part of the sands on which we were, walking happened to be ‘a little more elevated than the part nearer the town, and as a consequence the waters had rapidly and stealthily flowed down all the little gullets and lower, parts of the sand, and completely shut us in; for as we turned round when the alarm reached us, we saw the last bit of sand disappearing from view under the great body of water which was now rising with a rapidity that made our position positively alarming. Our first impulse was to rush forward, but in less time than takes in the telling, the waters had risen to such, a height before us that escape seemed impossible. Behind us the immense columns of water were rolling on, every instant making our prison more certain, and the little elevated spot upon which we were standing was giving way beneath our feet, the sandy foundation absorbed by the surrounding waters, and which in a few moments must be covered. The water was too deep to be forded, and none of us were able to swim. What was to be done? A few minutes at most must settle the question of life or death. We were helpless. Many persons in the distance were looking on with anxiety and pity, although just then we needed not only pity, but deliverance. At that moment a voice reached us, calling out, “Stand where you are!” It was the shout of a strong boatman, who had seen our danger, and saw how completely we were cut off from the shore, and knew, the only way of escape lay in his waiting till the tide was sufficiently high to bring his boat to our rescue. There was a good number of us entrapped in the waters, and who can tell the thoughts that passed through our minds during those few brief moments we waited the coming of the kind-boatman to our rescue? It was too painful to look around. Our eyes were intently fixed on the boat, which the strong arms of the sailor soon brought near enough for us to get in, and right glad we were of the good man’s help in the hour of need, who brought us safe to land.

As I have thought since of our dangerous position, and the wonderful deliverance we had, it reminded me of a greater danger in Which I once stood, I mean before my conversion. I knew not the danger until the voice of mercy reached my ears. Many a time I had heard the gospel, which was nothing less than God speaking to me; but the mind was so occupied with other things, that the words were unheeded. I was no worse than others, I thought, but on reading my Bible I found it said, “All have sinned,” and that if we were to-be saved it must be by Jesus, who came to save that which was lost. Just see, how we were placed. First came the voice that awakened us to a sense of danger; then the words, “Stand where you are;” then the boatman, with strong arms and willing.

Salvation comes through believing in Jesus.

The Pardon.

Dot's Corner.

MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS. — My pleasant monthly task is over once more, and I have put Charles Tozer in the corner, not as at school for being naughty, but because I like his paper the best. There were some papers which” at first reading I thought better, but after getting the scales and weighing them a little, I fancied some of ‘the thoughts weighed a little too heavy for the writers. It seemed as if the Bible dictionary had been used a little too much. I don’t say anything about consulting it for many things, but when we use it to give greater clearness to our own thoughts, we should say where we get it born, like this: “Solomon the son of King David by Bathsheba was born about B.C. 1035.” — Wood’s Bible Dictionary. I mean where anything is taken from another book, because it so happens that two or three writers may look in the same book, and write down the same words. And in answer to Eva Bond, who wants to know if the papers are to be “What little girls think themselves?” I say that is just what I do want. When it is other people’s thoughts it reminds me of when I was young, and we were one day blackberrying, all, except brother Willie, were busy gathering. When we had finished, and Willie had his share given him, he was the first to cry out “See, mother, what fine blackberries we have gathered!” But what had we to do with it?If mother had looked at the hands she would have seen who had gathered.

Willie gave mother what others had gathered. I want to help you to think — express your thoughts in your own language. You know a plain-looking plate with bread and butter on it is to a hungry person better than an empty china one with a great many pictures on it. But let us hear what Charles Tozer says.

Timothy.

MY DEAR DOT. — I will begin by saying that Timothy was the grandson of Lois and the son of Eunice; the mother of Timothy was a Jewess, his father was a Greek. Timothy was taught from an early age to read the Bible. Paul would have Timothy go with him, and took and circumcised him, because of the Jews that knew his father was a Greek. When they had gone through Phrygia they were forbidden by the Holy Ghost to preach in Asia. We see in the Bible that Timothy and Paul were great friends. You will find in the thirteenth chapter of the Hebrews, the Epistle was written to the Hebrews from Italy by Timothy, You will also find in the first chapter of Philemon that it says, “Paul a prisoner of Jesus Christ, and Timothy our brother,” I suppose, dear Dot, that it means a brother in the Lord. We find in Acts 17 that he was called Timotheus. We also find in the same chapter that he was a certain disciple. Paul and Timothy used to go together on their travels to preach. We find that Paul has got written in the first epistle of Timothy, second verse, “Unto Timothy, my own son in the faith, grace, mercy, and peace, from God our Father and Jesus Christ our Lord.” But in the second epistle of Timothy, second verse, “To Timothy, my dearly beloved son, grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father and. Christ Jesus our Lord.” Paul, when he had passed through Macedonia, sent two of his messengers into Macedonia whose names were Timotheus and Erastus, but Paul himself stayed in Asia. We find that Paul and Timotheus went to Spain, for Paul liked Timothy to be with him.

Yours most faithful,

Charles Tozer

Aged 11 years and 3 months.

5, Park Terrace, Maidenhead, Berkshire

Kindness.

KIND looks — they’re not forgotten;

Treasured in the heart they lie;

Lightening many a heavy burden,

Softening many a bitter sigh.

Kind words — they live forever,

Springing up when sorrows press;

Cheering many a darksome pathway,

Making many a trouble less.

Kind acts — they’re always blooming;

Fruit a hundred-fold they bring;

Calming many a troubled surface,

Drawing many a deadly sting.

Kindness! it is great, ‘tis noble;

Truly, surely, will the kind

Many a rich and lasting blessing,

Many an unsought pleasure find.

W. J. W.

Thoughts About Thinking.

OUR little Edith is quite quiet for a moment, just look at her now, I do believe she is thinking; and what a pretty picture — but it would never do to tell her so, you know; two years old, true-blue lo es, and a merry, laughing face, beaming with health and happiness. A gaily painted all, and a ball that is, not painted, are waiting-se by for the dimpled fingers to set them rolling and bouncing, a wonderfully-shaped horse is standing ready harnessed to a brilliantly decorated cart, also waiting the commands of its tiny proprietor; an India-jabber doll is lying nearly smothered, a box of bricks having been mercilessly emptied over it; and yet the queen of all these treasures is still, actually still; evidently the baby-mind is at work upon something, pausing to think. Ah! that is a good thing to do, and even our little miss, in the midst of much that goes to make up a very happy child-world, has ceased from her playing for a minute or two. Now, right away up, from little children to big children, and from big children to grown-up people, although, of course, I am talking especially to you little ones now, I wish to ask you all, in the midst of playing, between the hours of working, in the early morning, and as evening closes in, to get into the habit of stopping for a minute to think. Plenty of downright fun, eye fairly dancing with delight, young lives buoyant and glad, all that is right and healthy both for mind and body; yes! play away; youngsters, ring out clear and happy notes from the realms of childhood, till, it may be, older folks shall catch the spirit of it, and finish off the music with a good laughing bass of full-grown voices; and at school, work away with a hearty will, learn all you can and hold it fast, but, in the midst of it all, I say again; and say earnestly, stop for a while, now and then, and think. But hark! I hear a very musical chorus from a very large band of bright-eyed young questioners, asking what all the thinking is to be about, and a very good question too, for it meets at once the simple purpose of these few lines, my great desire being that each young heart thus appealed to should be occupied, and occupied not only at stated times and seasons, but continually, with One who walked this very earth of ours, a sorrowful and wearied man, born a homeless babe in a manger, dying a shameful death upon the cross; One who knew no sin, and yet in His own person bore all that sin deserved; One who made all things, and yet with words and looks of wondrous tenderness and love, suited even to the children, called the little ones around Him, and so blessed them; Jesus, Jesus the Saviour, what a beautiful name I and Jesus longs for His name to be precious to the children. His own life’s blood was shed, He gave himself, He rose again triumphant over death, and now from His home in the glory above He is looking for your whole heart’s love, your perfect trust, and for all your thoughts to be about Himself.

W. W.

The Negro and the Blood.

IN southern climes, some years ago,

Where dwelt unhappy slaves,

Ere Mercy’s hand had snapp’d their

chains —

Where freedom’s banner waves,

A negro for some slight offense

His master’s wrath incurr’d,

So in a shanty he was lodged,

With punishment deferr’d.

The shades of night had all enwrapt,

And silence reigned supreme;

The prisoner on the shanty floor

Layed there in troubled dream.

He dream’d the fatal morn had come,

He heard the dread command,

He saw a strong-armed negro there,

With the dreaded whip in hand.

He started from his troubled sleep,

And searched the shanty round;

Just then a star began to peep,

And lo I a flaw was found.

With bated breath he listened long,

But not a sound was heard

Until, while working at the roof,

The shanty rafters stirred.

A minute more he’s on the roof! —

He takes a fearful bound,

And risks the leap amidst the gloom,

But lights upon the ground.

And fear lends strength unto his feet

As onward still he speeds,

O’er barren waste, through tangled brake,

Through bogs of wiry weeds.

A swollen stream he bravely breasts,

Then mounts the rocky steep;

His wearied limbs awhile he rests

In slumber calm and deep.

The sun now gilds the eastern hills

And ushers in the day;

The negro wakes, regains his feet,

And hastens on his way.

Well-nigh exhausted though he be,

He does not heed the toil;

He knows that in a few more miles

He’ll be on British soil.

Can he but gain a well-known spot

Where Freedom’s waters lave

Its grassy banks, he knows full well

He’ll be no more a slave!

Once more he rests his wearied limbs

Full length upon the ground;

Why does he start? alas! he hears

A too familiar sound.

He springs upon his feet again,

His mind upon the rack;

He speeds as one who runs for life, —

The hounds are on his track.

They’re coming nearer — on he speeds,

Dread thoughts his spirit flood,

He knows the hounds will never rest

Till they have had his blood.

And now he bounds across the plain

With terror-stricken face;

He hears the baying of the dogs,

They gain on him apace!

A sudden thought comes o’er his mind

He stops — regains his breath;

The question soon must settled be,

Will it be life or death?

Again the dreaded sound he hears,

The dogs, upon his wake,

He knows, ere he can reach the stream,

Must surely overtake.

He has a knife somewhere concealed,

He open the keen bright blade,

And o’er his left extended arm

A deep broad gash is made!

And drop by drop lets fall the blood

Regardless of the pain;

Then takes a tattered bit of dress

And binds his arm again.

Once more he gathers up his strength,

And runs with all his might,

For lo! the master and his hounds

Have fallen on his sight.

He seeks the stream, he rushes on!

But ere he’s reached the flood,

The hounds (the master at their heels)

Have gathered round the blood!

The master coaxes, beats his dogs,

Persistently they stay

Beside that little pool of blood,

Nor will they move away!

The race is o’er! — the stream is reached!

He fears the dogs no more;

With one bold plunge he’s in the stream,

And soon he gains the shore.

His feet are now on British soil,

He’s under friendly care;

No wrathful slaver with his dogs

Can ever touch him there.

Christ’s precious blood has ransom’d me

From Satan’s mighty hand

And through each day where’er I stray

‘Tis by His grace I stand.

I cleave to Him with all my heart,

And take Him all my care;

For well I know the mighty foe

Can never touch me there!

Be this my joy, whate’er the trial

Of prison, fire, or flood,

Whatever foes beset my path,

My refuge is the blood!

DICKIE RHYMER.

The Stork.

NOT many of your country readers I dare say have seen the stork, which is spoken of in Scripture. But all who have visited the Zoological Gardens have no doubt noticed the melancholy looking bird as it stands in its little paddock of green, balancing itself on one leg, the only sign of life it gives is the blinking of its solemn eyes. But it is a remarkably beautiful bird, standing nearly four feet high, the deep black of its wings in such striking contrast with its white plumage and red beak and legs. In eastern cities it is valued on account of its eating up all manner of garbage, and I suppose this is why it is called an unclean bird, and forbidden to be eaten by the Jews (Lev. 11:19; Deut. 14:18); I find the stork goes all over Europe except the British Isles, and over the north part of Africa and Asia, The white stork is fond of man’s company, while the black stork is shy and keeps more to forests and marshy places. The white stork is fond of ruins, which, from the neglected state of drainage, give him an abundant supply of food, as he is fond of reptiles as well as refuse. He is fond of perching on the top of a ruined tower and building his nest and rearing his young, to whom he is greatly attached beyond the ordinary time of bird attachments. But in his meditative moments he evidently likes to get in a solitary place. Scripture says of this bird, “As for the stork, the fir-trees are her house” (Psa. 104:17), and I see there is an allusion to the bird in Zechariah 5:9. This short lesson I gained from thinking of the stork, as an unclean bird it is no pattern for the Christian, who has to be very watchful and careful in his walk and ways.

The Little Coal Black Kitten.

A PRESENT we had of a coal-black

kitten,

And a favorite it was, I may say,

with us all;

The youngest child called it the “dear little

‘itten,”

And delighted in watching it play with

her ball.

But sad was the fate of our coal-black kitten;

We shall ne’er see its play, nor again hear

its mew.

Could no one among us tell how it was smitten?

Whatever its faults, its affection how true!

What mischief soe’er did our frolicsome kitten,

It never was spiteful, ne’er scratch’d with

its claw,

Whether poison’d, poor thing, or a dog had

it bitten,

We were sorry when kitty no longer we saw.

One very dear girl, very fond of the kitten,

Who used to caress and to nurse it beside,

When the tidings to her, far away then, were

written,

Thought kit must in grief for her absence

have died.

R H. G. W.

The Young Cricketer; or, "He Did It for Me."

SOME boys were playing at cricket at one of the children’s treats in the green fields that dot here and there the approaches to London. The game was pursued with the usual spirit which boys always throw into their pastimes. The first side had had a “good innings,” and the most of the second batch had gone in, and were nearly “bowled out,” and the game seemed likely to remain in the hands of the first boys; for the last one who took the bat was a lame and sickly lad, and a good many runs had to be taken to get level even with what had been obtained, much less to get beyond. Of course there was but little hope expected, the game ‘being now in the hands of so poor a “batter,” especially as the “bowler” was such a proper one. There was standing by a stout-built youth observing with some interest the game going on, and seeing the “odds” against the poor boy who was standing timidly at the wicket, came forward, and asked to be allowed to take the little fellow’s place. Those who were out fielding being flushed with victory, and having but little fear of the result, gave instant consent, in the hope of having a good player to contend with.

The game went on; the little fellow who yielded his bat to his substitute lay down upon the grass, intent upon the game, and saw with great glee the ball go flying through the air to a considerable distance, so that the runners were put on their mettle; and run after run was obtained, till, to the surprise of both sides, the youth had scored beyond the winning number; then giving a final hit he sent the ball farther than ever, and laid down his bat amidst the cheers of his comrades. The game was won! but no sooner was victory declared, than the boy who had given up his bat, rose up with great animation, and claimed the game. How could that be? asked several, He had been lying down doing nothing, while his friend had been toiling and working right manfully, and won the game. “Ah!” the little fellow persisted with great earnestness, “but he did it for me! and it’s my game.” At first this was opposed by two or three, but the little fellow claimed the victory as his own, because his substitute had won it for him. And the emphatic words could not be gainsaid, “He did it for me!”

It is precious to see a little one laying hold of Christ by faith, and embracing Christ with all the fervor of a young warm heart. Young ones do die, and young ones need salvation; they need to be washed in the precious blood of Christ, or they will never go to heaven.

I occasionally meet with some who are “trying hard” to win the victory over sin and Satan, but they soon find out that he is too strong for them. I tried also, and did not give in till I saw the enemy was too strong for me, and that my puny arm could not prevent my defeat; and if the game rested with me, it would be lost without a doubt; and it was not until I found another was willing and able to take my place, that I gave up; and when I found it was no less a person than Jesus, the Son of God, I laid down my bat immediately, and let Him do it all; and in His hands all was done — and done to the glory of God. Satan was defeated, and a long innings he had, too: no arm was able to stand against his “bowling,” (I want to put the truth in a way that boys can understand,) till the blessed Substitute stepped forward, lovingly stepped forward, lovingly and voluntarily. He looked upon the beaten ones; He saw the triumph of the victor; and by His own right hand and His mighty arm did He get Himself the victory. Satan was defeated; sin atoned for; salvation brought in, when Jesus died upon the cross: that was the hour of victory, and heaven and earth took up the shouts of glory to the Victor’s name. When the work was finished, death lost its power, and the grave its hold, and the Conqueror was taken back to heaven by the glory of His Father, and honored with the highest name in heaven and on earth, and set down on the right hand of the Majesty on high (Heb. 1:1.) And there was I, a poor, wretched, helpless sinner, finding out how weak I was, and “without strength:” so, like the little lame fellow in the cricket-field, I lay down, glad to see another do what I could not accomplish; and then, while I thankfully own the work was all His own, like that same little boy, I could say, “He did it for me.” No doubt, others can say it too. But that’s how I feel towards, Jesus, in all that He has done, He did it for me.

Jonathan, the son of Saul, when he saw the mighty work which Jehovah wrought by the ruddy-faced shepherd boy, David, in overthrowing the great giant of Gath, stripped himself of everything, even to his sword and his girdle — things so dear to a warrior’s heart — because of his love to him. David had won, but Israel shared in the victory: he did it for them. He went out in the name of Israel’s God, to meet the man who had defied the armies of the living God.

I would say to my young reader, Give up trying; lay down your bat; the game is over — the victory’s won! It is an accomplished fact. If you are still “trying” to win, let me tell you, that you are in the wrong field; just look over the hedge, and see the true Victor receiving the homage due to Him; whilst the weakest amongst the whole company exclaims, “He did it for me!” Go into that field. — the gate is open — there is no ditch to hinder you getting close to the Victor’s side. You may be challenged again and again as to your right to say, I am saved! but if you believe on Him and His divine work, you shall be able to say, “He did it for me.”

Dot's Corner.

MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS, — I am glad to get in my Corner again to speak with you. William Branford has given us a good paper on our subject as you will see.

Aaron, The High Priest.

AARON, the brother of Moses, of the tribe of Levi. His father’s name was Amram, and his mother’s Jochebed (Ex. 6:20). He was three years older than Moses (Ex. 7:7). He married Elisheba, the daughter of Amminadab, by whom he had four sons, — Nadab, Abihu, Eleazer, and Ithamar. Of the life of Aaron, until he was more than eighty years of age, we know but little. He was born in Egypt, and lived there oppressed with his people. We first read of him in Exodus 4:14, where the call of Moses is recorded. At the same time Aaron received a Divine command to go and meet his brother, who was about to return for the deliverance of Israel. God said Aaron could speak well; but, more than that, God promised that he would be with Moses, mouth and Aaron’s. Aaron obeyed God, and went and met his brother on the Mount of God (Horeb, I think), and Aaron kissed Moses. They went at once to Egypt, and gathered all the elders together, and did the signs in the sight of the people, and the people believed, and they were pleased and whipped — the miracles confirmed what they heard. In Egypt Aaron was the chief speaker to Pharaoh. The Lord revealed to Aaron and his brother bow they were to bring out the people from their bondage; they obeyed God, and they were led through the Red Sea into the wilderness (Ex. 15:22). In the wilderness the people murmured (Ex. 16:2). Aaron was specially designed for the priestly office; he was the first high priest; it was he, therefore, who laid up the pot of manna (Ex. 16:33) to be kept as a memorial (Heb. 9:4. He, with Hur, held up the hands of Moses during the combat with Amalek. Aaron partly ascended Sinai, and saw the manifestation of Israel’s God when Moses went up to receive the law— he and his sons being named as the priests of Israel (Ex. 28:1, 40:13,14). But at the very same time that Moses was on the mount, Aaron was tempted to commit a grievous sin by making a golden calf for the people to worship; he was severely rebuked, but he repented, as he was not long after consecrated with his sons as the priests of the Lord (Lev. 8:2). This office was of Divine appointment. I think it was not Ione; offer this two of his sons took strange fire before the Lord, for which they were destroyed. Moses went to Aaron with a message concerning the priests, saying, “God will be sanctified in them that come nigh him.” “And Aaron held his peace.” Soon after leaving Sinai, Aaron was again tempted to transgress, and he joined with his sister Miriam against his brother (Num. 12:1); but he was again forgiven. He in turn had to bear the complaints of the people as well as Moses (Num. 14:1), when Koran, Dathan, and Abiram rebelled, and the people followed their murmuring, and the plague devoured them. Aaron was their intercessor before God (Num. 15), and the plague was stayed. He was surely of Divine appointment, as the budding, blossoming, and fruit-bearing of his rod proved (Num. 18), He was nevertheless excluded from the Land of Promise because he did not sanctify God at Meribah (Num. 20:12). Shortly after this Aaron was stripped of his robes by Divine corn mend on Mount Hor, where he died, being one hundred and twenty-three years old: the people mourned for him thirty days. His name is honorably mentioned later in the scriptures of truth, (Psa. 106:16), where he is called a saint, and in Ps. 133; mentioned in connection with unity. In the New Testament (Luke 1:5), the mother of John the Baptist is spoken of as “of the daughters of Aaron.” His faults are spoken of as well (Acts 7:40), for God’s word is always truth. Aaron was the first high priest according to God’s appointment. He was a type of Christ in that he stood between a holy God and transgressors. But what a very great contrast! Aaron was compassed with infirmity, but Christ is perfect (Heb. 5:9) and without sin (Heb. 4). There were many priests by reason of death; but Christ liveth to make intercession. The Aaronic priesthood needed daily to offer sacrifices; but Christ needed to make but one sacrifice for sins.

W. BRANFORD, aged eleven years.

Station Hill, Farnham., Surrey.

This is perhaps one of the most precious themes for our hearts to dwell upon, as it brings Jesus before us in the precious character of High Priest who entered the holiest of all by His own blood, and now lives for us.,. We have had some happy hours together in our Corner, and I, for one, am looking for the time when we shall see each other in heaven with the Lord. May we live for Him down here is the real desire of your affectionate friend

DOT.

54, Paternoster Row, E. C.

The Boy and His Cuckoo.

MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS, as I am sure, whether you live in “the town or the country,” you are all very fond of birds, I will tell you a story of a cuckoo. As I was born and, I may say, “brought up in the country,” I have had many opportunities of making friends with, and studying the manners and customs of, most English birds; and though it is some years since I was a little boy, I need not tell you that I still take a very great interest in all that concerns the feathered tribe. Nothing affords me greater pleasure than, when business is over for the day, to get out into the fields and hear the birds sing. It was on one such excursion in the fields near A―y that I heard the story I am now going to tell you. One beautiful evening in June I was taking a walk along a favorite path of mine, when I heard a noise as of boys quarrelling. I could hear angry words, mingled, as it seemed to me, with laughter and sounds as if someone crying. I could not see any boys, but as there was a deep dell about a hundred yards from the path (full of small trees, shrubs, and all those things which harbor birds) which was a favorite resort for birds nesters, I at once concluded from whence the discordant sounds arose. I hastened to the edge of the dell, and soon found out what was the matter. There were about a dozen boys, and they were quarrelling about a young cuckoo. It appeared that a young cuckoo had been discovered in a lark’s nest. A lad, named George Garnett, had managed to obtain possession of it, but his right had been disputed by several other boys, who all declare that they “saw it first,” and the result was a fight. I regret to say that if the battle was for a live cuckoo, neither of the fighters obtained what he fought for, for when I arrived on the spot I found the poor cuckoo had perished in the strife, and George Garnett was crying bitterly as he held the dead bird in his hand. On asking him why he cried so over a dead bird, he said that he had seen the cuckoo first; it had been hatched in a lark’s nest; it had had one of its claw’s hurt; and when he wanted to take it home and nurse it, another boy, in trying to pull it away, had killed it. He loved cuckoos, because he had kept and tamed one, which go killed “last year.” Here he again cried bitterly. I asked him to tell me about the cuckoo he kept “last year,” and this was his story: — “I have always been fond of birds nesting, and it used to be my aim and that of brother Joe, Jim Eames, and Ben Birch to see which could ‘take out’ the greatest number of eggs during the season. We often, however, used to feel sorry after we had taken a nest to hear the pitiful cries of the old birds; and at last we made a vow never to take any more eggs, and only such young birds as we found in distress, or that had been injured. Sometimes we found numbers of young birds hurt in the foot or in the wing, that would have died had they been left to themselves; and I need not tell you how pleased we were to become their nurses, tending them till they got quite well, sometimes keeping them all the winter, and giving them their liberty when spring came round again. We made it a rule to take all the young cuckoos we could find, because we thought they had no right in the nests of other birds. We had tried many cuckoos, but had never been able to keep one through the winter till last year. One Saturday last year we went out to see what we could find. As we sauntered by the side of a ditch we saw two hedge sparrows twittering and flitting round and round a small hawthorn bush. Sometimes they darted into the bush, and then flew off again, uttering plaintive cries. We looked into the bush, and soon saw the cause of this. By the side of a nest, stopped from falling into the ditch by a twig, and gasping for breath, lay a young hedge sparrow. In the nest was a most interesting sight—an unequal conflict going on between a fluffy young cuckoo and a young hedge sparrow. The cuckoo, a much stronger bird than its neighbor, had got underneath the hedgesparrow, and was trying with all its might to push it over the hedge of the nest, as it had evidently served the one we found lying on a twig. We at once thought that it was unfair of the cuckoo to do this—that it was a most unkind return for the fostering care of the old hedgesparrow; and so we captured the young gentleman, and having restored the bird that we found outside, left the two hedgesparrows to the undisturbed enjoyment of their own nest, to the great joy, no doubt, of their mother and father. A question arose as to who should possess the young cuckoo, and at last I was allowed to have him. My father, who did not object to my having the bird, said he was sure he would soon die. I made a nice comfortable place for him, took all the care I could of him, and by September, long after all other cuckoos had gone away from Buckinghamshire, he had become a beautiful plump bird. He also began to get very bold and knowing, and was so popular that every time I met a companion his first words were, ‘How’s the cuckoo, George?’ November and December passed by, and the cuckoo still lived. January came in, and very cold indeed it was. The second week in January cucky began to look a little dull. His eyes lost their brightness, his tail and wings began to droop, his feathers seemed as though they would all drop off, and I thought, ‘Ah! he’ll die, after all!’ We gave him the best food we could think of; we kept him in a nice warm room; but for a whole week he seemed to keep changing for the worse. I don’t know whether I was right; but as Thad been taught to ask God for what I wanted, I thought it no harm to pray for poor cucky. So every night and morning I used to say, ‘O, God, if it please Thee, spare my poor cuckoo! ‘In about a fortnight cucky began to mend, and at last, to my great joy, he got quite well. Then he began to get fat; he soon had a beautiful coat of feathers; and by March my cuckoo was quite a bonny bird. Oh, how many delighted boys and girls came to see my cuckoo! We had been told that cuckoos could never be tamed, but my cuckoo became quite tame, and he also became quite clever. He would settle on my hand, shoulder, and head, and sing, ‘Cuckoo!’ If I chipped one end of a large egg, he would perch on my hand and suck the yolk; and would do a great many more things which showed that kindness and care are not lost on a cuckoo. One morning, the first week in May, two cuckoos settled on a cherry tree in front of our house, and sang, ‘Cuckoo;’ I really believe they were the mother and father of my cucky, for cucky flew up on the house and replied, Cuckoo! They had sung Cuckoo’ to each other for a few minutes, when suddenly I and father, who were looking on, heard a great oo-oo-oo-ing; the cuckoos in the cherry tree flew wildly away, and my cucky started to fly down-from the house; but a dark spot appeared in the air—a spot that came straight down on cucky. Alas! the dark spot was a sparrowhawk. It took cucky in its strong claws, and flew to the cherry tree, and prepared to make a breakfast of him. Father fetched his gun and shot at the hawk, but I don’t know if the hawk was hurt. He dropped poor cucky, and flew away; but poor cucky could not get up—he was dead.”

My dear Little Friends, there are several useful lessons to be learned from this little cuckoo story. First, never cause grief and pain if you can help it to any creature in existence, not even to birds and animals; but do your best to assist, comfort, and protect all that may be in trouble and distress. Secondly, though it may seem a novel thing to you to ask God to spare the life of a cuckoo, remember that God loves to be consulted about the smallest things; that He listens to the sincere prayers of little children, hover humble they may be, and if it be for their good, He will certainly answer them. Thirdly, remember that, as the cuckoo’s life was a short one, so are all earthly pleasures short and fleeting. God may grant to us a large share of harmless pleasures in this life; but the best of them soon pass away. All earthly things must perish.

T. E.

The Sailor Boys of Old England.

’TWAS one fair summer evening, when the sun

was shining bright,

I sat beside a bustling throng, within a railway

car;

And watched their smiling faces, but my heart

thrill’d with delight,

As, leading his dear mother, came a blithe young

English tar.

A blithe young English tar was he, so fair, with

eyes of blue,

And with a bed, and fearless mien, yet thoughtful

and sincere.

“When I’m away in far off lands, I’ll often think of you,”

He said, then turned away his face to hide a falling

tear.

Nor cared he for the jeers and taunts his reckless

comrades gave,

But kissed his own dear mother, as she whispered

in the train, —

“Ye’ll soon be borne so far away, trust God, my boy, be brave,

I’ll pray Him speed your ship, and then, ye’ll

soon be back again.”

In all the deeds of daring, there’s but few more

brave than he

Who’ll dare to fear a mother’s tear, and scorn the

drunkard’s bane.

May God protect our sailor boys, my prayer shall

ever be,

And waft them back in safety, to their own dear

homes again.

W. GILKES.

The Puzzle Corner

Scripture Enigma.

A KING twice saved by prayer.

A name by which Jesus is called in the Revelations

A female musician.

A word only used thrice in the Bible,

An officer in the Syrian army.

Both the first and last initials form the name of a very wicked man.

The Winding Song.

BRIGHTLY, brightly shines the skein,

Golden yellow, small and soft:

But the slender silken thread,

Winding, see! ‘tis broken off!

Well, no matter, join the ends,

A little knot soon makes amends:

But watch the knotty place with care,

‘Tis apt to break again just there.

Like the silk our tempers seem,

Smooth and even till they’re tried:

But oft we see the thread of peace

Broke off by roughness and by pride!

Well, no matter join the ends,

Forgive, forget, shake hands, be friends!

But watch the knotty-place with care,

Tis apt to break again just there.

Thoughts on Reading the "Winding Song."

IF silken threads should break in two,

As silken strands are wont to do,

‘Tis true a knot will join the ends;

But ‘tis not this that makes amends,

The knot is there, a standing blot,

A very rough unsightly spot;

Its smoothness it cannot restore

Or make it as it war before,

And if it breaks again, again,

Thro’ roughness or unequal strain

We join the ends; but sad to tell,

The silken thread is short as well.

And we shall mourn with heavy heart

What caused the silken strands to part―

How short and rough the silks become

That seemed to us so smooth and long,

How many knots we have to mourn,

The place that marks where peace was torn,

The spot that tells to all who note

How dearly pride and anger’s bought.

And so I tell myself and you.

A maxim that may not be new,

A knot will partly make amends,

When peace is torn ‘twill join the ends;

But that is all a knot can do;

It cannot give the smoothness too.

So let us fear a-many knots,

For sure they’re naught but ugly spots.

A silken cord will bear a strain

Before it breaks or parts in twain;

At times we think ‘twill break at length;

But if ‘tis good, ‘twill prove its strength.

So love that’s worthy of the name

Will also bear a heavy strain

But oh, I would not break the cord

For all the wealthy miser’s hoard.

W. B.

A Little Pair of Shoes.

UPON the parlour table

With a basket running o’er

With bits of silk, and satin,

And such like nursery store,

There stands in striking contrast

To scarlets, whites, and blues,

In fine black polished armor,

A tiny pair of shoes.

The way in which they’re standing

Has such a saucy air,

That any one imagines

The little owner’s there.

They really are for service,

And not a useless toy,

For he who is their owner

Is a bonny bouncing boy.

And that’s his little wagon

And dolly in a fright

You see their lord and master

Is kissing ma— “Good-night.”

The ship with flying colors

That in our basins cruise,

Belong the little sailor

In that little pair of shoes.

From very early morning

Till nearly half-past six,

Those little shoes and owner

Play very funny tricks.

They toddle up the garden

And in and out the bowers,

And oft those shoes do mischief

To some of father’s flowers.

Then little eyes are downcast

But father can’t refuse

To give a free full pardon

To the wearer of the shoes.

They patter in the passage

So funnily along,

That grandpa often thinks them

As good as any song.

And smilingly he watches

The movements of those shoes

When they are slowly acting

Some little roguish ruse.

They slide along the fender,

And scratch the parlor chairs;

And sometimes after climbing

They slip down several stairs.

And then there is a scuffle

A kissing, and a bruise,

And all the house seem blaming

That slipp’ry pair of shoes.

I sometimes see dear mother

Is passing through a trial;

But those small shoes have music

To raise the dear old smile.

Such lots of gold and silver

Ma says she’d rather lose,

And many things she values,

Than the owner of those shoes.

You’d think those shoes are heavy

If you but heard the wail

That came one day from pussy

When they’d trodden on her tail.

But then in his compassion

He bade her not to stir;

And stroked her—but the stroking

Did ruffle pussy’s fur.

He got his little bottle

For milk, for little pet;

But pussy could not drink it

Through an india-rubber teat.

She saw it through the bottle,

And (if little kittens think)

She thought it very cruel

She could not have a drink.

Sometimes those shoes are naughty

And stamp upon the floor

Hands cannot reach the handle,

But feet can kick the door.

Beside them on the carpet

Puss takes a quiet snooze;

She seems to fear no kicking,

No antics, from those shoes.

Dear father in the evening,

When the work of day is done,

Fails not to ask a blessing

On his little loving son;

Prays ere he gets to manhood

The good way he will choose,

That God may bless the owner

Of that tiny pair of shoes.

DICKIE RHYMER.

"It's the Little one With her Arms out of Bed."

IN the Ormond Street Children’s Hospital a very little girl was dying, and the only chance of saving her life was to perform a very serious operation upon her. This was fixed for a certain morning. The night before the doctor and nurse came round, and the doctor, thinking the child was asleep, said to the nurse, “It will be a terrible job in the morning; I doubt if the little one can bear it,” When they had gone, the child called to the one in the next bed, and asked, “Are you awake?”

The other said, “Yes,” and she then asked, “Did you hear what doctor said?” Again the other said, “Yes.”

Then she said, “I know I can’t bear it. Oh! what shall I do?”

After a little while the other said, “I know what I should do.”

“What?” said the little girl.

“I should pray to Jesus to help me,” was the reply.

“Yes, I will,” said the little sufferer; “but there are such a lot of us here, how will He know which to come and help?”

After thinking a little, the other said, “I know, put your arms outside the clothes, and tell Him that it is that one that wants Him.”

So the poor little thing put her arms out, and, with her hands clasped together, prayed to Jesus to help her, and ended with these words, “Please, it’s the little one with her arms out of bed.” An hour or so afterward the nurse came round again, and found the little one with her arms out of the bed, and her hands held up together as in prayer. But she was dead; Jesus had come and helped her, and she had nothing more to bear. The child in the next bed told all that had passed between them, and the words she had heard the little dead child pray.

Extract.

A Mother's Hymn.

MY smiling babe, my darling child!

May He thy Guardian be

Who did in accents soft and mild

Bless little ones like thee.

Sweet praises may thy lisping tongue

Soon to thy Saviour sing,

As once were by the children sung,

To Him as Israel’s King.

The tender Jesus may’st thou love,

Who suffered so much pain,

And died for us, and pleads above

Till He shall come again.

O Thou whose smile didst often rest

On children brought to Thee,

May this dear child by Thee be blest,

And Thou its Keeper be

R. H. G. W.

The School Feast.

MY DEAR MR. EDITOR, — I am very anxious to tell you all about our Sunday-school feast which happened on the 17th of July last. It was not a very nice day, because the wind was so cold, and now and then it rained a few drops. At four o’clock my sisters and I all went to the Squire’s House, which is in a big park, and where all the school children had assembled. In a field which is close to the garden and house all kinds of games were played, such as running after each other in and out of a ring, at which we little ones played a good deal before tea, — for I must tell you, Mr. Editor, that I am six years old, and shall be seven next February. Then we each had a swing; there were also little paper bags full of sweets and flour on a line between two poles; and some of the children knocked at them with a stick, and then there was a scramble for the sweets amongst the grass, and their hair and clothes were covered with flour, which was great fun. The children had a beautiful tea: cake, bread and butter, and bread and jam which they liked very much. I and my sisters with others went into the dining room for ours. After tea, the bigger girls ran for prizes; books, print dresses, workboxes, and other useful things; the boys then jumped in sacks for their prizes; and then they each had a cup of milk and went home. It was nine o’clock when we got home, and I felt very cold and glad to go to bed. I must now say good-bye, and remain your little friend, PHYLLIS M. RAYMOND.

The Furlongs, Belbroughton,

Near Stourbridge, Sept. 10th 1877.

[We have had a number of good letters about the Sunday-school Treat, but think one little six-year-old writer must have the prize. Tommy and Fanny Atkinson, of Hornsey, deserve our thanks; so does Fanny Richardson, of Lane Head; but she forgot to put her age. Though we cannot name every writer, we trust they will accept our loving thanks for their letters. — THE EDITOR.]

A Young King.

Josiah was eight years old when he began to reign, and he reigned in Jerusalem one and thirty years. And he did that which was right in the sight of the Lord, and walked in the ways of David his father, and declined neither to the right hand nor to the left (2 Chron. 34:1, 2).

Dot's Corner.

MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS. — I would prefer giving the prize to a fresh writer every time, but it will not do to lay down an iron rule, as I wish to rule by love. It sometimes happens, however, that a previous winner sends me a good paper on another subject, and I can but say, “Please step into the corner again.” And it has occurred in Charles Tozer’s case. He has given us a simple and prettily-worded account of Daniel, who was a type of the holy, harmless, and undefiled One, who overcame the roaring lion when we were in his power.

Daniel the Undefiled Captive.

MY DEAR DOT— I will begin by saying Daniel the Captive was of the tribe of Judah, he lived in the time of the reign of King Jehoiakim. In the third year of the reign of King Jehoiakim, Nebuchadnezzar King of Babylon besieged the City of Jerusalem. The Lord gave Jehoiakim into the hands of Nebuchadnezzar. We find, 2 Kings 24:1, that Jehoiakim became Nebuchadnezzar’s servant for three years, and in 2 Chron. 36. that he was bound in fetters. The king said to Ashpenaz, the master of his eunuchs, to bring certain of the children of Israel, in whom there was no blemish, but well favored, and skillful in all wisdom, and cunning in knowledge, and understanding in science, and such as had ability to stand in the king’s palace, and where they might learn the language of the Chaldeans. Among these was Daniel. The name given to Daniel was Belteshazzar. The king appointed them a daily portion of the king’s meat and of his wine, so doing for three years. But Daniel would not partake of it. At this period God had brought Daniel into favor with the prince of the eunuchs. Thus after a time Melzar took away his portion. God gave to Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah knowledge and skill in all wisdom, and made Daniel to show and interpret dreams and visions. One day Nebuchadnezzar communed with the captives of Judah, and among them all none were found to be like Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah. Daniel continued unto the first year of Cyrus. In the second year of the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, Nebuchadnezzar dreamed dreams which troubled him greatly and brake his sleep: He called all the magicians, and the astrologers, and the sorcerers, and the Chaldeans, to come forth and tell him the dream. The king said unto them, I have dreamed a dream, and my spirit was troubled to know the dream. The Chaldeans said unto him in Syriac, O king, live forever, tell thy servants the dream, and we will show thee the interpretation thereof. The king told them that the dream was gone from him, and if they would not make it known unto him he would cut them in pieces, and their houses should be made a dunghill. The conversation continued till the king became angry and furious, and ordered all the wise men of Babylon to be slain. Daniel said to Arioch, Why is the decree so hasty? Then Arioch made the thing known unto Daniel, as you will find in Daniel 2:15.

Then Daniel went in unto the king, and asked him to give him time to think it over, and made the thing known unto Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who were then his companions. When Daniel had had his time in thinking it over, he went in unto the king, and made the thing known unto him. Then the king made Daniel a great man, and gave him many gifts, and also made him ruler over the province of Babylon. I am obliged to pass the next chapter. In the fourth chapter, Nebuchadnezzar dreamed a dream, which came to pass upon himself not long afterward. Daniel came in unto the king and told the interpretation thereof. You will see from the thirty-third verse to the end of the chapter all about the dream. In the next chapter you will read about the feast of Belshazzar, and how the writing upon the wall made his knees shake, and also how Daniel interpreted the writing, and how he prophesied that Belshazzar should be slain by the Medes and Persians. That very night Belshazzar was slain. The king’s name now was Darius, and he set several princes over Babylon, the chief one was Daniel. A law was passed that everyone found praying to God should be cast into a den of lions. One day Daniel was found praying; it was his habit to pray three times a day. They went and told the king, who was very angry with himself, — he was obliged to east him into the den. But an angel was sent to shut the mouths of the lions. Darius, when he heard of it, was very glad, and had him taken out, and cast the other men with their wives and children, that had accused Daniel of praying, into the den of lions, and were eaten up. His prayers are given in the seventh, eighth, and ninth chapters, and his prophecies in the eleventh and twelfth. Yours most faithfully,

CHARLES TOZER.

Aged eleven, years.

5 Park Terrace, Maidenhead,

Sept. 3rd 1877.

Next year we think of doing little differently about the prizes, but Mr. Editor, who has just stepped into my corner, says, I must not tell tales out of school, so we must wait till next month to see what the change will be. But if Jesus comes before then, ah I what a happy thought for us who belong to him. He will call us away to be with Himself; then He will have His prize, those for whom he shed His precious, precious blood. With much love to you all,

Your affectionate friend,

54, Paternoster Row. DOT.

Auckland, New Zealand.

I SHOULD wish to inform the Editor that these little papers are much appreciated by us, and I for one feel glad to have made acquaintance with him and “Dot.”

I remain, yours truly,

THEOPHILUSA B. HEATH.

Charlie and Sir Nimble in the Wood.

PLAYTIME; and our picture sets us thinking of playtime in the woods too. Who does not enjoy an unfettered ramble in some bit of grand old forest scenery, with its fresh green undergrowth, its weather-beaten oaks, and curiously twisted beeches? From the time of the early primroses to the falling of the last autumn-tinted leaf, it is the very place of all others for a thorough good game; so at least our young friend Charlie appears to think, as, with his surefooted friend, Sir Nimble, he seems to be “Monarch of all he surveys,” and quite enjoying the situation. And do look at that Sir Nimble the inquisitive, — of course he must be biting and pulling at something, or it would not be him; no doubt he is just like the rest of his family—quick, curious, and clever. Do you know that in some countries where there are very steep rocks and high mountains Mr. Goat is quite at home, and as to a good jump, well, even if two of them are yoked together, which they sometimes are, they will take the most tremendous leaps with ease and safety; and that really is clever, you will think. But the funniest thing of all is to see a goat grazing on the roof of a house, and Charlie’s particular friend may have done this, for such a sight is not very uncommon in some quaint, dear old English villages, where the cottages are low and thickly thatched over; but perhaps some of my little readers who live in the country are familiar with this novel grazing ground, which we can only put down to clever Billy’s prying ways, for he cannot find much to eat there. And now, you young ones, there is just one more thing that Charlie’s playmate brings to my mind, and that is very nice to close with, for it will set you searching your Bibles. A verse in the Old Testament speaks of a pillow that was made of goat’s hair. Can you find that verse?

W. J. W.

An Incident in the Lancashire Distress.

AN old woman, in humble life, who resided in the Manchester district, although not herself a “mill-hand,” found, from the general depression of trade, that her little means were getting less and less, until the pressure grew too great for her to bear. In her sore poverty she resolved to pack up the few articles she had left, and go to Preston, where she had a daughter, who was married, and with whom she might live. She went to take leave of the minister of a congregation of which she was a member; and on hearing her plan he endeavored to dissuade her from it, urging her, if possible, to remain where she was, in hope of better times, and adding that perhaps her daughter might be even worse off than herself. “That cannot be,” said the old woman, “for I am very poor, and have nothing left to live on; I will go to my daughter—for that will be shelter, for me, at any rate.” The minister, finding that she had so miserable a prospect if she remained in her old dwelling, kindly gave her the amount of her railway fare to Preston, and half-a-crown besides; and, with many thanks, she took her leave of him, and shortly afterward departed on her journey. When she reached Preston station a crowd of boys surrounded her, begging to carry her box, which she refused, as all the money now left in her purse was a half-crown and three pennies. One poor lad, with a piteous look, besought her very earnestly to let him take it for her, adding, I will carry it to any part of the town for twopence, — do let me, for it is the only way I can get a bit of bread, — and we’re clemming at home.”

Small as was the sum the old woman had, to begin anew her struggle with the world, she had a pitying heart—and the appeal thus made was enough. The lad shouldered her box, and followed her through the lamp-lit streets to a humble part of the town, where she knocked at the door of one of the houses, and after waiting a while and receiving no answer, she found it was locked. Supposing her daughter might be out on some errand, she desired the boy to put down the box; and, paying him for his services, she seated herself on it by the door to await the daughter’s return. After a time the latter came up, and, on finding her mother come to settle with her, burst into a lamentation, “Oh, why have you come, for we are starving. I have been out trying to get a morsel for the children, and I can’t. What can we do?” Her mother calmed her a little, and begged her to open the door. “Let us go in, anyhow; I have a half-crown in my pocket, and you can take that and buy something—and that will carry us over tomorrow, at any rate.” They entered, and the old woman drew forth her purse to take the half-crown, when, to her dismay, she found she had paid it to the boy, in the dim light of the evening, in mistake for a penny. This was too much to bear, and both the women sank down and cried long and bitterly over the prospect before them. The mother, however, was a truly Christian person, and when the first burst of sorrow was past, her faith rose triumphant over all. “Well,” said she, “never mind; we have twopence left, and let us be thankful to God for that, and for a roof above our heads. You take it—it will buy bread for you and the children tonight, and I will go on to bed, for I shan’t want anything; and let us hope that God will provide for tomorrow when it comes,” The daughter did accordingly, and that night passed away with its griefs and sorrows. With the early morning came a tap at the door, which the daughter opened. A boy stood before her, who introduced himself somewhat briefly with, “Didn’t I bring a box here for an old woman last night?” “Yes, you did!” “Where is she?” “Upstairs.” “Then tell her to come down, for I want to see her.” Very soon the mother made her appearance, and was greeted with, “Missis, do you know you gave me a half-crown last night instead of a penny? because you did; and I have brought it back. Here it is.” “Yes, my lad, I did—and I am very much obliged to you for bringing it back again. But I want to know how you came to do so, for I thought you told me you were clamming at home?” “Yea, we are very bad off,” said the boy, brightening up as he spoke; “but I go to Sunday-school, and I love Jesus—and I couldn’t be dishonest.”

This needs no comment. It is simply an instance of what one who loves Jesus can do, when put to the sorest test; for it was trust in Him that overcame the sorrows of poverty and the dread of starvation in the aged Christian, when no earthly help seemed near—and it was this that made the noble boy more than, a conqueror, in preferring to suffer the pangs of hunger rather than defile his conscience by a secret sin. “This is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith.”

I Want My Mother.

A CHILL November day, was done,

The working world home faring;

The wind came roaring through the streets,

And set the gaslight flaring;

And hopelessly and aimlessly,

The scared old leaves were flying,

When, mingled with the soughing wind,

I heard a small voice crying.

And, shivering on the corner, stood

A child of four, or over;

No cloak or hat her small soft arms,

And wind-blown curls to cover;

Her dimpled face was stained with tears,

Her round blue eyes ran over;

She cherished in her wee, cold hand,

A bunch of faded clover.

And, one hand round her treasure, while

She slipped in mine the other,

Half-scared, half confidential, said,

“Oh please, I want my mother.”

“Tell me your street and number, pet,

Don’t cry: I’ll take you to it.”

Sobbing, she answered, “I forget:

The organ made me do it,

He came and played at mother’s step, —

The monkey took the money;

I followed down the street because

That monkey was so funny.

I’ve walked about a hundred hours

From one street to another:

The monkey’s gone; I’ve spoiled my flowers;

Oh please, I want my mother.”

“But what’s your mother’s name? and what

The street? Now think a minute”

“My mother’s name is Mother Dear;

The street, — I can’t begin it.”

“But what is strange about the house,

Or new, — not like the others?”

“I guess you mean my trundle bed,

Mine, and my little brother’s.

Oh, dear! I ought to be at home

To help him say his prayers, —

He’s such a baby, he forgets;

And we are both such players;

And there’s a bar between to keep

From pitching on each other,

For Harry rolls when he’s asleep;

Oh dear! I want my mother.”

The sky grew stormy; people passed,

All muffled, homeward faring.

“You’ll have to spend the night with me,”

I said at last, despairing.

I tied a kerchief round her neck,

“What ribbon’s this, my blossom?”

“Why, don’t you know!” she smiling said,

And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street, and name!

My eyes astonished met it;

“For,” said the little one, “you see

I might some time forget it;

And so I wear a little thing

That tells you all about it;

For mother says she’s very sure

I should get lost without it.”

ELIZA. SPROAT TURNER.

A Wreath for Carlo.

HOW that trellis-work porch covered with climbing roses and Mary’s smiling face shadowed by a famous sun-hat speak to us not only of summer time, but of glorious summer weather (and we like to think of summer at Christmas)! and as Master Tom is there with his cricket-bat, and Mary is busy with a pretty flower-wreath, why, it must be holiday time too. Really our much valued friend Mr. Artist seems to know what young people like; and see knowing old Carlo, stretched at his ease, handsome, contented, and curly, taking it quite as a matter of course that his shaggy neck should have a wreath of beautiful roses round it. You are quite right, Mary, those faithful-looking eyes belong to a faithful friend, so we vote your Carlo well worthy of the honor. Now, suppose we let this same Carlo be a representative dog. “Oh, dear,” cry a lot of little folks, “that is a long word; we all know what a contented and what a curly dog is; but we are not at all sure what kind of dog that other word means.” All right, you merry young chorus, it shall be made quite plain, if we can manage it. Suppose, then, that Mr. Artist wishes to say, through his picture, that of all animals, one of the most deserving of the place of general favorite is the noble dog; he just draws one whom he considers equal to the occasion, and introduces him to us as appearing for the dog-world generally, and so he becomes a representative of every good and well-behaved member of his family; and we shall all be agreed that for his trust, patience, and obedience from which many a useful lesson may be learned, our fine friend Carlo well deserves his merit.

W. J. W.

Aunt Betsy's Museum.

WHEN we go in the country,

A many miles away,

‘Tis what our Harry reckons

A rare “red-letter day.”

And really we are happy

To spend a day or two

At Auntie’s country cottage,

And all her treasures view.

The treasured things are ancient,

And some are rather worn,

And many were quite aged,

I hear, when Aunt was born.

Such sober-looking tables

With funny twisted limbs,

And chairs both straight and formal,

Some ancient maker’s whims.

She has a set of china,

Of very ancient ware—

The cups scarce hold a spoonful,

But leave some drops to spare.

Such little ducks of saucers,

So beautiful and neat,

With pictures of some ladies,

With, oh! —such tiny feet.

And lovely birds a-cooing,

And fruit-trees all a-glow,

“That Chinaman,” says Bobby,

“Is Mister Chink-hum-Cho.”

She had such funny crackers,

With screws of wondrous power,

Reminding us of thumbscrews

In London’s famous tower.

And men made out of china,

And ladies made of delph,

And quaint, odd-looking glasses,

That magnify one’s self.

And little dogs and chickens

Aunt Betsy seemed to store,

Carved by some Russian prisoners,

Some fifty years and more.

That little horse in plaster,

That never saw a forge, —

A soldier stands and feeds him, —

Belonged to Uncle George.

Milk-jugs and sugar-basins,

So pretty, quaint, and wee;

As though some little children

Were coming home to tea.

A gallon-looking bottle,

Seemed quite a thing of strength,

Though when we came to measure,

‘Twas scarce an inch in length.

Aunt had a little storehouse

Of whole and broken toys;

They all were once her brothers’

When they were little boys.

One brother’s over sixty,

And getting very gray;

But still the toys look charming,

As when they used to play.

When Auntie’s stores want dusting

She does it all herself,

And puts them all in order,

On table, drawer, or shelf.

“What’s that in yonder bottle?”

“Ah! that you must not shake,”

Said Auntie, “now be careful,

For see—it is a snake!

‘Tis eighty years and over,

When in the fields of grain

My grandmother while gleaning

Her little babe had lain.

My mother was that baby

Who all one sunny day

Lay very snugly cradled

In some sweet-scented bay.

When, raising babe for nursing,

My poor grandma did quake

To find, beneath her baby,

That ugly little snake.

And so they got a bottle

And put the snake in there,

And in the bottle placed it,

And corked it up with care.”

Aunt Betsy has one treasure

That lasts when all are gone;

A comfort for the aged

When desolate and lone.

A guide, a lamp, a compass,

For childhood and for youth;

That treasure is the Bible,

And God’s most precious truth.

DICKIE RHYMER,

A Baby for Sale.

ONE day as I was returning to business after tea, I observed a pretty little girl, scarce two years old, She had a little red hood upon her head, whose lappets covered her neck and a little of the back. At once my fancy pictured a little Red Riding Hood, the foolish tale I read in childhood. But there was no grandmother present, and the nearest approach to a wolf was a little dog in the road, who was having a stone thrown at it by the little mite in the red hood, as though she were not going to listen to a two-eared seducer. Well, the funny thoughts that ran through my mind at the moment made me smile, and the mother, who was not far off, seeing it, exclaimed, “Will you buy a baby, sir?”

I was certainly not then thinking of purchasing any article, much less a living article, and still less the lively little creature in the red hood before me; and if I had been so inclined I was afraid to ask the price; for I remembered asking the price of a little chubby-faced, round-armed, dimpled-cheeked, blue-eyed baby once of a little girl who was the sister to the little autocrat of the cradle. And what price do you suppose Miss Eva asked me for it?

“I shall want five hundred pounds, seventeen shillings, and sixpence for him!”

Imagine that price!

“What,” said I, “so much money as that for a little fellow that does nothing but cry, and kick, and eat, and pull people’s hair and whiskers all day long?”

“Oh, but he’s a lovely little fellow for all that,” said the enthusiastic girl, “and I won’t take a farthing less.”

“Well, what credit do you give?”

“Oh, none at all,” said Eva. “Cash down, sir.”

“Any discount off so large a sum, and such an uncommon article?”

“No, no. Cash—cash down, sir.”

“Then I am afraid the baby must remain your property. But wouldn’t you like to get rid of him when he is cross?”

“Oh, we love him, very much, and we don’t mind his crossness a bit.”

As the bargain was not struck, I came away babyless; but though I could not buy him, I stole a kiss, and bade my little friend farewell. Ah, well, I thought, love does make a wonderful difference. Lots of things we could not put up with if there were no love in the matter. And how could God put up with His children’s naughty ways if He did not love them? And so Jesus tells us to love one another as He has loved us. In Eva’s estimation that tiny brother was above all price. She knew I was not worth so much as she wanted. It reminded me of what I read in my Bible, “Ye are bought with a price—not with corruptible things, as silver and gold, but with the precious blood of Christ.” And as I saw Master Baby at his bottle I was forcibly reminded of that other beautiful verse, “As newborn babes desire the sincere milk of the word, that ye may grow thereby.”

FRANK OPENEYES.

Dot's Corner.

DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS. ―I am going to have my “annual treat,” by having my corner all to myself. But you will not think me selfish, as I have only a little bit of the corner for eleven months. I wish to be a very little Dot all that time, as I invite you to occupy the place. The great pleasure I have had in reading and thinking over your letters is more than I can well express. How often I have had to say after reading some of your thoughts on Scripture, “That is something new to me.” In the gold-diggings little ones sometimes find large nuggets of gold, while big men may only get some grains after much labor.

When the heart is set upon a certain thing, the eyes are very sharp to discover, and if young hearts want to find out the preciousness of Christ they know where to find it.

There is no doubt that where there is an earnest desire in a young one to know the truth as it is in Jesus the Word of God is exceedingly sweet to the taste—more than we elder ones can understand—especially if we have been tasting all sorts of things—why then, the palate gets out of order. You see what I mean.

The first time “Dot, junior,” had a spoonful of honey given him, it was a pleasure to notice the expression of his face and eyes. He could not speak, but the language expressed as he looked in his mother’s face and then at the empty spoon was very forcible. The three things were so plain: — The giver, the spoon, and the honey —thanks to his mother; the way in which it was given; and a desire for more! And I do believe if we could see each other’s faces they would be a little like that—I can speak for myself, and I think for a great many others—but we have been enjoying that which is sweeter than honey, and more valuable than all the nuggets of gold that were ever found, for honey and gold perish, and cease to yield sweetness, but the Word of God abides forever.

If we are here to write another annual letter, may it be with increasing joy. The subject for January will be, “Naaman’s little maid. It is a beautiful subject, and I should like you to ponder over it and write your very best thoughts about it. Please let me have the papers by the 5th of January.

Another thing I wish to say to you. I often hear it said about your letters, “I think father or mother has helped them.” So please send your letters just as you write them—after having gone over them carefully yourselves without a bit of anyone else’s help; so that I can say, “Now, these are Tommy Trueman’s thoughts.” Because when the very big words come out, they do not seem natural, and remind me of a little boy I call Teddy Tall-look, who was walking on stilts, which made him taller than his father.

Next year, instead of putting the names of winners in full, I shall only put the initials—by which hard word I mean the beginnings of the names, — for instance, when it is Sarah Tryhard I shall put S. T. and for Charles Careful it will be C. C., and Peter Proudheart will easily understand what P. P. means and when the address s given the writer will know who it is.

I must tell you my reason for doing this is that I am afraid of a little pride springing up, and the Editor and I know how apt we are to be proud, and we ought to do all we can to prevent that which is hateful to God.

Now I have some good news to tell you. Our kind Publisher thinks that some of you may have been a little discouraged in not receiving a prize, so he is going to give a prize every quarter to those who for three months have not been successful, and whose papers are considered to come next. This will cheer you, I am sure, and we shall go to work again with fresh courage.

Well, may the Lord bless you and keep you to Himself, and for Himself, is the ardent and loving desire of Your affectionate friend,

DOT.

My Little Friend Annual: Volume 2 (1877)

Table of Contents

"Buy My Images?"

A Child's Resting Place.

Teddy and Scrub.

"Jesus Died for Me!"

Brotherly Love.

Little Daisy.

Dot's Corner.

Joshua and Caleb.

King Baby.

Little Bits.

The Puzzle Corner.

"Why Do All the Good Children Die?"

My Little Friend.

The Limpet on the Rock.

Luther.

"Bear Ye One Another's Burdens."

Dot's Corner.

David and Goliath.

"Shine Your Boots, Sir?"

Little Bits.

The Poor Man's Canary.

Blind Man's Buff.

Brave Benjamin.

"I Never Thanked the Lord Aloud."

Alice T.

Dot's Corner.

Gideon and the Pitchers.

Dicky at the Door.

The Good Shepherd.

The Puzzle Corner.

Nothing to Do.

The Pool of Siloam.

Elsie's Prayer Answered.

The English Drummer Boy.

Dot's Corner.

The Gladsome Spring.

The Pool of Siloam.

A Little Pilgrim.

Safe in the Tree.

Happy Bobbie.

The Young Fly.

Pictures in the Sky.

A Stormy Sky.

Sunset.

Dot's Corner.

Absalom.

By the River Side.

Tasting the Whip.

Nellie's Birthday.

Out in the Meadows.

The Little Orphan.

Puzzle Corner.

Little Goosie.

A Treat.

Too Old for Sunday School.

Dot's Corner.

The Little Stranger.

The Open Bible.

A Favorite Verse.

The Pardon.

The Scripture Dial.

Self Sacrifice.

A Very Poor Shelter.

The Cheated Fox.

Dot's Corner.

The Duchess of Nurseryshire.

Childlike Faith.

Scraps for Little Bible Readers.

Evening Shadows.

The Captain's Confidence.

The Defeat of Sisera's Army.

Sparrow Borough.

Dot's Corner.

Nebuchadnezzar and Babylon.

On the Beach.

Another Prize!

Self Sacrifice.

A Wet Day at the Seaside.