THE long June day had been one of perfect beauty, and, as soon as school was over, I hastened to enjoy all that remained of it, where only such days can be enjoyed in perfection—out of doors. For this purpose I went for a long to love, and all things richly to enjoy. All things praise the Lord. The very trees clap their hands to Him. You have seen them clapping their large hands many a time; and one of the psalms begins: O clap your hands, all ye people; shout unto God with the voice of triumph'; and another says All Thy works shall praise Thee, O Lord, and Thy saints shall bless Thee.' And surely if birds and trees and all the works of the Lord praise Him, how much more should His saints! But see, the lark is coming down! He has sung his evening song, and now He will cuddle down among the daisies with his little ones and mate, and sleep till dawn. And you know we can hear him, or one of his neighbor larks, sing almost any time we pass up the road during the day. But don't you think all this should teach us something? "
“Yes, governess."
“What—do you think?”
“That we should praise the Lord."
“Yes, I think so, and, as King David said, ‘at all times.' He was like the lark. My voice shalt Thou hear in the morning,' he says to God in one of his Psalms. ‘Seven times a day do I praise Thee; evening and morning, and at noon.' Indeed, he would have God's people to be like the nightingales, which sing, you know, by night as well, as day, for he says in the last Psalm but one, ‘Let them sing aloud upon their beds.' But there are few who say, ‘Where is God my Maker who giveth songs in the night... who maketh us wiser than the fowls of heaven?' But these night-songs are chiefly, though not altogether, for the sad and sick, and the grown-up, who are forced to lie awake while others sleep.
I should be well content if I felt sure that you rosy little maidens were but like the lark, and praised the Lord at ‘evening, and morning, and at noon.' The sweetest songs we can sing to Him are those which speak of Jesus, His beloved Son. Even in heaven the songs are chiefly about Him. You remember the new song, ‘Worthy is the Lamb that was slain '? But see! it is quite moonlight now, and time you were all in bed."
We soon ran down the hill, each to her little home, and as we said good-night I fondly hoped that God would receive from each dear child that night an evening sacrifice of praise. E. B—r.