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TRACT ANECDOTES.

THE SICK BOY.

"I CANNOT let one post go," a correspondent at A— writes to a friend," without returning my grateful and sincere thanks for your highly esteemed favour, containing tracts and books. I fear that the utility of tracts is not sufficiently known. One fact I will notice. At a village in S-, I called at a cottage, and offered a woman a tract; she refused to take it, saying, she could not read, when the following conversation took place: Are you married?'-'Yes.' 'Can your husband read?' No, sir.' 'Have you any children? Yes, sir, we have four.' Can any of them read? No, sir, except one, and he is ill in bed.' 'Then take him this little book, and tell him to read it, and I will call again this day fortnight.' I did so, and when the woman saw me, she burst into tears. What is the matter?' I inquired. My little boy, sir, is dead.' 'Did he read the book?'-' Oh yes, sir, he read it till he could say it off by heart. He was continually repeating it (the title of it was "Christ the only Refuge”). The day before he died he said, " Mother, don't give the man the book when he calls, give him a halfpenny, he will take that for it; and tell father he must learn to read, and then this little book will be sure to do him good. I am going to heaven, Jesus Christ is my only refuge." His last words were, "I am going to Jesus Christ, I am going to heaven," and then he died. I sank down into a chair, for I could stand no longer. Here is the halfpenny, sir.' 'No, no, I will give you another book.'

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"I do assure you, sir, I expect to see this little boy in heaven. Let us not be weary in well-doing, the end will soon come."

ONE TRACT.

A CLERGYMAN furnished a tract for the American Tract Society, entitled, "What is it to believe on Christ ?" which the Society published. At a tract meeting, the author stated, that he had heard of more conversions from that one tract, than from all his preaching besides.

Who would not have a tract in circulation, going perhaps to "earth's remotest bounds?" While he is toiling away in one language, with a congregation or two of some two or three hundred, he may send the printed page in many languages to congregations of many thousands.

But who knows that he can furnish a tract which shall be

adapted to extensive good? Truly indeed, who knows? God only knows; and any man may try what he can do; and when he least expects it, guided by an ever-living, moving Spirit, the work may be done. Little did John Bunyan suppose he was writing such a book as the " Pilgrim's Progress" proved, when in Bedford jail he took up his pen. Hear what he says:

"When at the first I took my pen in hand,

Thus for to write, I did not understand
That I at all should make a little book
In such a mode: nay, I had undertook
To make another; which when almost done,
Before I was aware I this begun."

And after it was written it came very near never seeing the light, through the indifference of his friends, as often happens to books; for he says

"Well, when I had thus put mine ends together,

I showed them others, that I might see whether
They would condemn them, or them justify;
And some said, let them live; some, let them die;
Some said, John, print it; others said not so;
Some said it might do good, others said no.
Now I was in a strait, and did not see
Which was the best thing to be done by me;
At last, I thought, since ye are thus divided,
I print it will; and so the case decided."

He who would do good must often "draw the bow at a venture," trusting to God to guide the arrow in its flight. God only knows which shall succeed, "this or that." American Messenger.

GEMS.

ROBBERY.-Whoever withholds from God what belongs to him, robs God. Do you withhold your heart?

HELP. To direct a wanderer in the right way, is to light another man's candle by one's own, which loses none of its light by what the other gains.

THE WASTED FLOWERS.

WHEN Sycamores were throwing
Their arms across the stream,
The cadence of whose flowing
Like a Naiad's song might seem,

A rosy child was playing,

A child of face so fair,

She might have seemed a being straying
From the brighter realms of air.

On her grassy couch reclining,
By the streamlet's margin green,
A rose-bud wreath entwining

Her fair young neck was seen;
And many bright-hued flowers,
In field and wild-wood sought,
Culled in her gladsome hours,

That little child had brought.

And as the stream went dancing
In all its gladness on,
Its silver ripples glancing,
Like mirrors in the sun;
Anon, a beauteous blossom

From out her lap she drew,
Which on the water's bosom,
In her childish glee she threw.

Nor noted she the measure

Of the loss her store sustain'd, "Till of all her pretty treasure,

Nor bud nor flower remain'd;
Then for those blossoms sighing,
Which she no more might see,
She to the stream stood crying,
"Bring back my flowers to me."

But onward, nothing caring

What the weeping child might say,
The waters flow'd, still bearing
All her blooming gems away;
And oft in after hours

Came back such words as these, "Oh bring me back my flowers," Borne on the fitful breeze.

Thou gay one, who art wasting
Thine hours in idle mirth,
Who from thee time art casting,
As a thing of little worth,
She who sat thoughtless, throwing
Her treasure on the stream,
Is but thine emblem, showing
What thou to others seem.

The moments in their fleetness,
Are flowers of rich perfume;
Waste not their precious sweetness,
While yet for thee they bloom;
Lest when thou seest the hours,
Receding swift from thee,

Thou cry "Bring back my flowers,
Oh, bring them back to me!"

W. Bowen.

HAVE you seen the eagle on the wing, strong and steady in flight, wheeling round the rocky head of the snow-topped mountain, or heard his wild scream in the wintry sky? He has life and energy in his feathery frame; keen is his sight, strong are his talons, and powerful are his wide-stretched wings.

"Have you been in the land of the mountain and flood,
Where the pine of the forest for ages hath stood;
Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm,
And her young ones are rocked on the high Cairngorm ?"

Eagles are found in most mountainous countries, from the frigid to the torrid zone, and some, it is said, have lived a hundred years. There are ring-tailed, common, and bald eagles; white, rough-footed, and black eagles; osprey, sea, and golden eagles; and the strong and fierce, and untamable eye of the latter is a striking object. To the human eye the sunbeam is unbearable, but the soaring eagle seeks the blaze, and revels in the intense light.

Eagles are still found in the north of Scotland, though there they are not numerous. You would look for them in the Lowlands in vain.

SEPTEMBER, 1848.

K

The fields and waving crops are fair
That in the Lowlands grow;
But he who loves a wilder scene
Must to the Highlands go.

The eagle screaming in the sky,
Lone lochs and antlered deer,

And the dark and dreary forest ground,
And the gloomy glen are there.

The sky is clear and tranquil. Not a cloud rests on the vast vault above, and not a breeze is stirring the leaves of the trees. The eagle is whetting his beak on a crag, a thousand feet above the level of the loch; now he is sailing majestically round the cliff; and now, again, he has alighted on the projecting rock. Lone bird of the mountain! King of the feathered race! Undisputed monarch of the upper realms of air! Not thine the waving wood, the tangled coppice, the running brook, and the flowery mead; thy haunts are desolate and dangerous; thy place of repose is on the brink of the precipice, and thy pathway is in the clouds.

A change is come over the mountains, the storm is abroad, and the tempest-driven clouds are hurrying wildly to and fro in the sky. How the hurricane goes crashing through the woods; and how the thunder shakes the everlasting hills. Other birds have sought a shelter, but the eagle is ready to brave the hurricane, and to wage war with the storm.

He rushes in wrath from his eyrie on high,

Though the land-howling tempest is blackening the sky;
And defies with a scream the fierce lightning below,
As he soars o'er the summit of proud Ben y Glow.

How wondrous are the works of the Most High in the mighty deep, on the earth, and in the air! The shrimp and the whale, the ant and the elephant, the creeping worm and the soaring eagle, all declare his goodness, his wisdom, and his power. Fear him, O man, love him, obey him, and magnify him for ever. He is your God, and in Christ, your Saviour. The fool that saith in his heart, "There is no God," shall be cast down in his pride; "but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint," Isa. xl. 31.

M.