THE MINISTRY OF CHILDREN.

WHO

BY MARGARET A. PAINE.

HO can tell of all the sweet life which bubbles up from the heart of a child? Can we measure the song of a bird, or define the aroma of flowers? And yet the bird enchants us, and the gentle flowers delight us. So we feel the sweet influence of children in our homes. Their buoyant and rosy health, their artlessness and glee, win for them a place in our hearts which would be void without them. How their wondering souls look confidingly out to ours from their earnest eyes! What glad surprise when new truths dawn on their minds! What strange meanings do their little brains conjure up! It is only in life's sunny dawning that the heart is most fresh, and frank, and confiding. Did you ever notice the introduction of children when they first meet each other? A look and smile, which lights up a returning look and smile from the little stranger, and they are friends. Love unites those artless souls, and happily it is sealed with a rosy kiss, and perhaps a gurgle of frank words "I like you."

Is it not a joy to think of the sweet trust they repose in us? How their little, loving hearts are swayed to grief or glee by one word or glance from us! Ah! the gentle mother knows this as she quietly soothes the impulsive, restless child, or sweetly approves of every little success. How many of us can revert to our childish days, as the time when all sweet affections bud and blossom in the home sunshine? How the dear sympathies of a loving mother have encouraged us in our school-tasks-in our varied little trials! The kind reproof; the patient bearing with our freaks and frolics; the words of cheer; the daily recognition of the divine Father; the little, trusting prayers which our childish lips were taught to repeat; the sweet "good-night"-all these, and more, are the scenes by which the young soul is fashioned.

Children, by their sweet sympathies and winning caresses, by their mirth and joy, their merry laugh and frolic, by all that completes the life of careless innocence, are earth's sweetest ministries to the pure life beyond. They give to the troubled and care-worn fresh gleams of a happy and cheerful life. They are earth's angels, winning us back to the heaven from which we have sadly strayed.

We never meet one of these little ones, not even the ragged children on the street, but we see the angel of love looking out from those bright eyes. God bless them! They are the sweetest episode of life's history. Would that none of human discords might mar them; then

would their life-song be one of angel sweetness. But the highest, holiest song which ever enraptured the living soul would be wanting-gratitude for redeeming love! With what passing loveliness has Jesus shown his love for children!"Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven." "Jesus took a little child and set him in the midst of them, and when he had taken him in his arms he said unto them, Whosoever receiveth one of such children in my name, receiveth me." Are they not ministers for good? "A little child shall lead them."

KITTY.

BY ANNIE E. HOWE.

WHEN the wild flowers bloomed
On the green hill-side,
And blushed by the sweet singing rill,
Sweet Kitty, I said,

Will you, love, be my bride?
And Kitty she whispered, I will,
I will;

Sweet Kitty she whispered, I will.
When summer with silver

Had tasseled the birch,
O! 't was with a rapturous thrill
We stole o'er the green

To the little white church,
Where Kitty again said, I will,
I will;
Sweet Kitty again said, I will.
When autumn had stolen

The breath from the flowers,
A shadow crept over the sill,
And Kitty went out

From that bright home of ours,
To the church-yard, so lone and so still,
So still;

So mournfully dreary and still.
Some time when the wintery

Wild winds blow,

And sweep the dead leaves from the hill,
I'll lay me down there

'Neath the cold drifting snow,
Where Kitty lies dreamless and still,
So still;
Sleeping so dreamless and still.
But up where the summer

Days never grow cold,
Nor zephyrs turn heavy and chill,
My sweet, sainted bride,

To my heart I 'll infold
With a holy and heavenly thrill,
I will,

And Kitty will love me there still.

WEEP not that the world changes; did it keep
A stable, changeless course, 't were cause to weep

OLD MEMORIES.

BY LILY LICHEN.

I SIT on the grass beneath the oak

And hear the river flow,

And watch the wreaths of curling smoke

Float up from the village below.

From the dim, old woods that skirt the plainWhere the sun goes up at morn

Through the fair, wide fields of whitening grain, And the ranks of tasseled corn,

Far up the slope of the sunny hill

There speaks to my listening ear

The summer wind with its tremulous trill,
The same I used to hear.

But not the same as of long ago

Are the words of the song it sings;
All the joy of life seemed hovering low,
Like a dove with half-spread wings.

And I stretched my hands for the radiant prize
In the warmth of my wayward glee,
And dreamed, as it flashed on my childish eyes,
That mine it should always be.

Alas! alas! for the weary years,

With their sad and sure decay, They have dimmed my eyes with dust and tears, And my bird has flown away.

My hands that were tireless through all the day,
Are hardened with labor now,

And the gold of my hair has turned to gray,
And wrinkles are on my brow.

I have climbed o'er long and rugged slopes,
With trembling and with fear,

And all along are the graves of hopes
I have buried year by year.

But not alone on my wearied frame

The touch of time has told;

In the fruitless struggle for wealth and fame
My heart has been growing old.

So the river may be as clear and bright,
As it flows to the far-off sea,

But it can not bring the vanished light,

Or waken the olden glee.

And the voice of the wind may swell as strong,

Or murmur as soft and low,

But it can not sing the same old song

It sang in the long ago.

A REQUIEM.

BY HON. HORACE P. BIDDLE.

THY soul its wings unfurled,
And we 're alone,
For thou art gone
To the still world!

This is thy place of rest,
Through hope and fear
Thou comest here
To be God's guest.

The seasons will return; Flowers will bloom Around thy tomb, Still we shall mourn!

We laid thee in the sod,

And lowly here, With many a tear, Left thee with God!

HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD.

BY MRS. H. C. GARDNER.

I SEE it still; long years possess no power
To blot the cherished memory from my heart;
I've pondered its lost beauties, hour by hour,
Until they of my being seem a part.
There's not a flower that fringed the garden path
But to my mind is living, blooming yet;
No humble daisy but its sweetness hath

A home-like charm that I can ne'er forget.
The hemlock bending o'er the garden wall,
The mossy stone beneath its tufted shade,
Where oft I watched the evening shadows fall,

And traced the forms the quivering branches made, The rose-trees that above the cottage door

Linked their green boughs all starred with fragrant bloom,

The very hue the dark brown homestead wore,

The cheerful light in every pleasant room-
All these are memories that with passing time
Grow stronger; happy memories that bring
The cadence sweet of many a household rhyme,

The merry strains that childhood loves to sing.
For me those songs have now a sad refrain;
An undertone blends with the music sweet,
Voices that I shall never hear again,
Smiles that, on earth, I never more shall meet.
A mother's love no more will haste to bless,

With welcome sweet, the weary child's return,
To soothe each pain and care with soft caress,
And gild with hope life's lesson sad and stern.
Often I sit, as daylight gently dies,

And call the happy hours of childhood back, Choosing alone the pleasures that arise,

The golden spots along life's varied track.

The plays, the task, the lesson learned at school,
The pranks mischievous that still make me smile,
The speechless dread of some forgotten rule,
The sports we tried, such terror to beguile,
The prayers around the hearth at morn and even,
The care that curbed our will at every turn,
The gentle hands that pointed us to heaven,
The catechism that we could never learn,
Rough tumbles 'mid the freshly-ripened hay,
Wild frolics 'neath the orchard's laden trees,
The long, cold search for flowers in early May—
These are among my childhood's memories.
Dearest of all, to me than life more dear,
The loved, loved voice that 's now forever still,
The fair, sweet face, the sympathetic tear,

The low, green grave beside the sheltering hill.

THE PRAYER AND ITS ANSWER.-" And the children of Israel cried out unto the Lord. And the Lord said unto Moses, Wherefore criest thou unto me? Speak unto the children of Israel that they go forward. But lift thou up thy rod, and stretch out thine hand over the sea, and divide it; and the children of Israel shall go on dry ground through the midst of the sea." Exodus xiv, 10, 15, 16.

If Moses had not had God to look to at this trying

juncture, when, after having led from Egypt the unarmed tribes, the waters of the Red Sea rose before

them, while the chariots of Pharaoh and his mighty men closely pursued behind-if he had been a stranger to prayer, in such circumstances Moses must have been miserable indeed! For through his agency the

children of Israel had left Egypt, and now they

seemed likely to perish in the desert.

The Israelites cried unto the Lord openly and audibly, and it was right they should. Public calamities ought ever to be met by public humiliation; but probably Moses, that meek man, did not lead the devotions of the people, for at the time he was the reverse of popular; nevertheless, his prayer went up with theirs, and, eminently typical of him whom "the Father heareth always," it was to his individual cry in the midst of that vast multitude that God responded. "Who touched me?" asked the Lord Jesus Christ, at a moment when the multitudes thronged and pressed him on every side; and "Wherefore criest thou unto me?" said God, at a time when the voice of a whole nation was loudly invoking divine assistance.

It is not here necessary to go minutely through the details of the mighty deliverance wrought by God on this occasion for his people. Every one conversant with Bible history is familiar with it; but every one may not have remarked its connection with the prayer the unrecorded but implied prayer of Moses. "Wherefore criest thou unto me?" said God; and that very night, for "he holdeth the wind in his fist," he sent a strong wind, and caused the waters of the Red Sea to recede on either side, so that Israel might go through on dry ground; and when Pharaoh and his host dared to pursue the favored people, they sank as lead in the mighty waters.

One idea particularly is suggested by the passage of Scripture just considered; it is this-the immense value of individual prayer in the midst of the congregation. Honored be the statesman who, when the sword of war or of pestilence is unsheathed, is not ashamed to counsel his country to place itself, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, behind the shield of the Almighty! And a goodly and an imposing sight it is to witness a whole assembly bowed before God; but in such an assembly what a large proportion of apparent worshipers merely go through a form, and leave the building in which they had congregated without having communed with God! Alas, that it should be so! Still-wonderful condescension!-answers are accorded to those public supplications; but chiefly, it is probable, with reference to those-known of God-who, thinly sprinkled through the crowd, and scarcely conscious of its presence, are there simply "to see Jesus"those who, isolated within themselves in that crowd,

hold secret, direct, individual intercourse with him, | spreading before him their own and their country's woes. They are the salt of that large assembly, and to the low "Abba, Father" of each of those subdued hearts the Father of spirits responds, "Wherefore criest thou unto me?"

LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.-" Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness: he is gracious, and full of

compassion, and righteous." Psa. cxii, 4.

A mother was amusing herself with her child, who

might be about two years and a half old. After giving it the breast, and fondling and kissing it, she asked, Shall I now die? and, suiting the action to the word, closed her eyes and lay motionless and still. The child gazed at her for a while, and then

began to weep bitterly, as if some dreadful thing had happened. On this she pretended suddenly to revive, addressed some sprightly words to the little one, kissed it more affectionately than before, and the consequence was, that now it sobbed and wept for joy, as it had previously done for sorrow. Gotthold was present and could scarce refrain from weeping too. He reflected: This is just what sometimes takes place between myself and God. Under outward and inward temptations I lose all sense of his comfort, help, and protection, and then it seems to my burdened heart as if he were dead. In the end, however, I always find that he has intended merely to try my faith, love, prayers, tears, and aspirations. And 0, how great is my delight when he once more sheds upon me the immeasurable flood of his loving-kindness and grace!

I recollect, proceeded Gotthold, on the same occasion, having been told the following story: A prudent and pious lady observing her husband deeply dejected on account of some misfortune which had befallen him, so that he could not sleep at night for care, pretended in the morning to be still more disconsolate than he, and gave way to lamentations and tears. As she had spoken cheeringly to him the evening before, and exhorted him to dismiss his sorrow, he was astonished and asked the cause of her sudden grief. Hesitating a little, she replied that she had been dreaming, and that it seemed to her that a messenger had come from heaven and brought the news that God was dead, and that all the angels were weeping. "Foolish woman," said the husband, "you know right well that God can not die!" "Indeed,” replied the wife, "and if that be so certain, how comes it that you are now indulging your sorrow as immoderately as if he really did no longer exist, or, at least,

as if he was unable to set measure and bounds to our

affliction, or mitigate its severity, or convert it into a blessing? My dear husband, learn to trust in him, and to sorrow like a Christian. Think of the old proverb,

'What need to grieve,

If God still live?" "

Verily, my Father, didst thou not live, I would not myself wish to live another hour! And if sometimes thou seemest to be dead, I will not cease to rouse thee with my prayers and tears till I sensibly experience again that thou art the health of my countenance and my God.