he's studied so much. It's so easy for him to account for every thing, but I can't understand them as he does. LEAF THIRD. "God said, Let there be light, and there was light." Have I solved the mystery? Is this life clear and solemn? I know what the expression means now, "God is love." How strange that I should have been so long in finding it out! Why, the groves are whispering it! The trees are waving it from branch to branch; the great sea is echoing it from world to world, and the vast universe chants it as it circles forever around the eternal throne of God. There is no mystery with Tom now. Remembering his early dreams, he said to me on that morning, "I shall never paint a Madonna, but I shall soon stand in the presence of mother and child." He knows now the expression of the sad mother-face. Tom is dead. I shall never be an authoress, and make common things seem uncommon, but my life will be full of what I used to call scornful service, but it doesn't seem this now. Life is sweet, and I think if it were full to the brim of services ever so small, God would be pleased with it. So would I live, so would I wish my friends to live, that when the conviction of what we have been, and what we are shall flash across us, this which was written here of a pure soul, shall be penciled in words of living light on heaven's arches. "First a jasper, second a sapphire, third a chalcedony; the rest in order, and last an amethyst." PERFECT THROUGH SUFFERING. BY REV. E. DAVIES. CHRIST, in his Divine nature, possessed the perfection of God; but as a man he was made perfect through suffering. It seems that such is the constitution of human nature, that perfection in the physical, mental, or moral deportment of man, can only be attained by a process of suffering. Christ suffered from hunger, endured poverty, was subject to temptation of the devil forty days and forty nights; he was rejected and persecuted by the very persons he came to save, till, having clamored for his blood, they nailed him to the cross, and thus he suffered, the just for the uniust; but such was the perfection of his patience and love, that with his dying breath he prayed for his murderers. And thus it was suitable or became the nature of Him, "for whom are all things" as their ultimate end, and "by whom are all things" as their sole Creator, "in bring-, ing many sons unto glory, to make the Captain of their salvation perfect through suffering." And now it is a great consolation to the suffering saint, that we have a High-Priest over the house of God who can be touched with the feeling of our infirmities, for he was "in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin." In the Scriptures it is plainly taught "that many are the afflictions of the righteous," and "whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth;" and "if ye endure chastining God dealeth with you as with sons." So that our suffering is a sign of our sonship. For "if ye be without chastisement whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards and not sons." But experience plainly teaches the same. By this process Noah became perfect in practical obedience in preparing an ark for the saving of his house. By this Abraham became the father of the faithful, and the mighty soul of Moses became an embodiment of meekness, by the provocations he endured of the children of Israel. The poverty and persecution of Elijah led him to such perfect communion with God, that he could shut or open heaven at his pleasure, till he was translated soul and body to his glorious home. The bitter pains of his fierce tormentors tended to perfect Daniel in his piety and fidelity. And in the eleventh chapter of Hebrews we have an inspired summing up of the perfections and sufferings of the Old Testament saints. "They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheep skins and goat skins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented; (of whom the world was not worthy;) they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth." In the new dispensation the saints, like their Master and model, are made perfect in the same manner. These are the means that Infinite Wisdom takes to fit his people for usefulness here, and for glory hereafter. Luther's experience was of the same import. Who could suffer more than this mighty man, from either earth or hell? Kings, princes, popes, cardinals, and councils, were at war with him, still through the whole he suffered on, and attained a degree of perfection which few have realized. St. Chrysostom, the golden-mouthed Homer of orators, was sent into exile by the sanction of Arcadius, and at the will of the Empress Eudoxia, but he returned with new arrows in the quiver of his eloquence. Bossuet, one of the greatest pulpit orators of France, in the . seventeenth century, excited by contradiction, communicated the agitation of his genius to his writings. He took the thunder from the hands of the Most High, and overturned at his feet monarchs and empires." Young, the author of the celebrated "Night Thoughts," "bending under the weight of his sorrows, formed the whole universe into a mountain of ruins, and eclipsed the august luminary of nature before the gloomy torch of death." But we shall find that secular history affirms this truth. Homer penned his marvelous, if not unequaled, poetry amid a life of wretchedness; Lucretius, the Roman knight and poet, "published his thoughts amid a life of most terrible misfortunes," Cicero, the most celebrated Roman orator, had his eloquence kindled by the torch of discord; Demosthenes, the Grecian orator, "launched his thunders because he heard them around him," Tacitus, "the greatest painter of antiquity, and the first historian who applied the science of philosophy to the study of facts," "felt his genius awake at the sound of the chains under which the universe groaned from the time that Rome acknowledged tyrants;" Tasso, the great lyrical poet, attained a higher perfection by the death of his father, and his numerous misfortunes; Milton, "amid the engagements of earthly factions, transports to the hights of heaven those combats which depopulated his country, and the faction of the citizen produced the sublime poet." The same truth holds good as to the perfection of philosophers. Descartes, the reformer. of philosophy, while in persecution, "broke the old machine of the universe and formed a new one;" for he set aside the empiric philosophy of England and the Aristotlian scholastics, and adopted the mathematical method of reasoning: Galileo, a Tuscan mathematician, "weighed the elements in the bottom of his dungeon, and astonished nature received his laws," for he brought forth the Copernican system. It has well been said, "Genius alone is free in the midst of fetters. Peace corrupts people and precipitates them to sleep. Agitation renews the youth of empires, and conducts them toward their grandeur. The majesty of virtue appears then in the eyes of the people." Let Christians remember that "heavy afflictions, when sanctified by the grace of God, are the best benefactors to heavenly affections; and where afflictions hang heaviest corruptions hang loosest, and grace that is hid in nature is then most fragrant, when the fire of affliction is put under to distill it." THE TWO WORLDS. Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain- Intoxicating air Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of Nevermore. The lover there drank her delicious breath The irreclaimable dead: The merry song some maiden used to sing- It is perpetual Summer there. But here For tender hearts and truer, Upon the frontier of this shadowy land, Of valleys hushed in sleep, Very far off its marble cities seem- Howl on its very verge.. They whom we loved and lost so long ago Eternal peace have they: Thither we hasten through these regions dim: Dublin University Magazine IT deceit has been taken, the second ever comes easy; so when her mother entered the room, hildren's Repository. although Mary was very unhappy at heart, she THE BROKEN DISH. BY CAROLINE S. THORPE. T was a bright sunny morning. A gentle shower had fallen during the previous night, clothing all nature in garments pure and new. Each tiny flower, glistening with crystal drops and rustling in the breeze, seemed whispering, "our Father clothes the lilies of the field." Blithely the birds sent forth glad songs as if in thanks for tender care through the night that was passed. Surely they knew God careth for the birds, and not a sparrow falleth to the ground without his knowledge. Surely, the world so full of love and beauty, was no fit place for fretfulness and discontent just then. Yet little Mary Austin thought otherwise, judging by the ugly scowl which disfigured her face, and by the rough manner in which she cleared the breakfast table, rattling the cups and plates in a way which threatened destruction to some of them, twitching off the cloth so as to scatter crumbs upon the nice clean floor, and even giving puss a kick with her foot, when, unmindful of her young mistress' sulky mood, she rubbed against her dress, purring and coaxing for a pleasant word. Poor kitty was glad to escape from so cloudy an atmosphere, out into the bright sunshine. Could Mary have done so too, the cloud of sulks hanging over her would quickly have been scattered. But her mother requiring assistance in her morning's work, had desired her to remove the dishes from the table and wash them before going into the garden, as she had planned to do. We shall see what came of so reasonable a request. All that was unamiable in the little girl's nature seemed to spring up and rebel against it; nor did she try to check the evil spirit, but shutting out all the sunshine from her heart, went about her work muttering, "T is too bad, I wanted so much to weed my pinks this morning, and now I must stay in the house and wash these hateful old dishes." Presently she carelessly let fall one of these same hateful dishes as she termed them, and it was broken in many pieces upon the floor. Instantly the sullen, angry look gave place to one of fear, for Mary greatly feared her mother's displeasure. What should she do? She gathered up the scattered fragments, and hearing some one approaching hastily thrust them into her pocket. Now, when the first step in put on a most cheerful face; and moving very softly that the rattling of the fragments might not call her mother's attention to her pocket, soon finished her task, and received the desired permission to go into the garden. But the pinks which so much needed her attention were entirely forgotten now. She gave not even a passing glance to the pretty bright flowers. All her thoughts were centered upon one thing, what she should do with the broken dish. She wished she had told her mother all about it in the first place. But now it was too late, for Mrs. Austin would surely ask why she had concealed it in her pocket, and what answer could she make? At last she resolved to say nothing about it, but hide it where it would never be found. So digging a hole in the corner of the garden she placed the fragments within, and carefully covered them with the sod. Well would it have been for the little girl's peace of mind if she could have buried the memory of it also. But when we allow ourselves to be led into sin, its haunting shadow ever hovers around us till we confess and seek forgiveness. Mary had buried the dish deep under ground, but all day long it seemed to follow her wherever she went. At school she could not forget it; in consequence her lessons were imperfect, and she was obliged to stop and study alone, while all the other children were having a nice game just in front of the windows. O, how she did long to be out there with them! But before the half hour was over they had left the common. It was with a sad heart that Mary returned home at night, for the broken dish still hung over her like a dark cloud. Her mother had missed it, and when she asked her if she could tell her where it was, Mary answered, "no," but she trembled, and looked so pale, Mrs. Austin was alarmed, and asked, “Why, what is the matter, are you sick?" "No," answered Mary, "only tired." Alas! poor child, she was tired of bearing a sin-sick conscience; she had borne it all day, and now when night came made the burden heavier by adding falsehood to it. Darkness, which hid from her eyes God's beautiful world, could not hide her sin, it seemed to stand out clearer before her. As she lay upon her bed, conscience whispered, "Go and tell mother all about it, you will feel so much better." "I can not," sobbed Mary. "O, what shall I do! I wish I could go to sleep and forget all about it.” But sleep, the friend of the innocent, ever shuns the guilty. An hour later, when her mother, according to her custom, looked in upon her, she was surprised to find her with eyes wide open, and traces of tears upon her cheeks. "Why, what is the matter?" she asked, are you sick?" "No," answered Mary, "I'm not sick." "Something is the matter, for you have been weeping; will you not tell mother all about it?" said Mrs. Austin. Mary hid her face in the pillow and burst into tears. Mrs. Austin seated herself by the bed, and, soothing her with gentle words, soon drew from the repentant child the whole story. Mary begged her mother to forgive her, adding, "O, I have been so unhappy! All day the broken dish has been before me." goes, follow who can;" and one after another off went all the peas. What became of the other four is of no consequence to us; but the fifth pea was shot up high in the air, and then it came down and lodged in a little crevice filled up with moss, just under a garret window. There it lay imbedded in that soft green moss. God knew where the tiny seed lay, and he had special work for it to do. If you could have looked inside that garret window you would have seen a small, humble room; very comfortless you would have thought it, with its sloping roof and bare floor; but it was very clean and tidy for all that. A widow woman lived there, who earned her living by cutting up wood for ovens; but she was very poor, and had to work hard, going out at early dawn and not coming back till evening. Mrs. Austin, thinking the unhappiness she had suffered a sufficient punishment, freely forgave her, but asked, "Is there not some one else you have sinned against? What commandment did you break in concealing the accident, and by the fretful, careless manner in which you performed the duties I had desired of you?" "Honor thy father and mother," answered strength, till at last she had grown so weak she Mary. "Yes," said her mother, "and in breaking God's commandment you have dishonered him. Let us ask his forgiveness." So, kneeling down, she prayed that God would forgive her erring child, would help her to walk in the strait and narrow path, that the lesson she had that day learned might not be in vain, but might lead her to shun the thorny road of falsehood and deceit. This was Mary's first and last lesson in falsehood; learned at the sacrifice of so much happiness, she never forgot it. By it, too, she learned to perform, carefully and cheerfully, whatever duties were assigned her. Dear children, we have told this story of the broken dish, hoping that by it you too may learn to shun the road of sin. If once you enter the rough path, thorns instead of flowers will spring to meet you. THE PEA PLANT AND WHAT IT DID. ONCE NCE upon a time there lived a little boy in one of the towns of Germany. I do not know his name; but that does not matter, as it is not about him that my story is to be told. All I have to say about him is that he had a pop-gun. One day he went into the garden and gathered a pod of peas; then he opened it, and inside were five peas, ranged side by side as peas are found. "Now, for my pop-gun," said the boy; "here All day long, while she was away, her one child, Gretchen, lay sick upon her little bed. She had had a little sister once, but she had died about a year ago, and ever since that Gretchen had been losing her appetite and her could not rise from her bed. Her poor mother began to fear she should be left altogether childless. She did not know that, pent up in that small, close room, her child was pining for fresh air and sunshine, and she would say, "Ah! she is going to her sister in heaven; she can not be happy apart, and so God will take her, too; but I would like to keep her with me if I might." Yet still the little girl lived on. I do not know what she thought about all those long hours while her mother was away; whether she thought of the blue sky and the green fields where merry children were playing, or whether she had ever been to a Sunday school, and could say hymns and texts to herself to beguile the time; but I think they must have been happy thoughts, or she would not have lain there so quietly and peacefully. She looked such a pale, patient little creature, you would have loved her if you had seen her. One fine Spring morning, when her mother, as usual, was stirring early, and the sunshine was getting as much of itself as it could through the narrow window, Gretchen turned her head wearily toward it, and as she did so something caught her eye. Mother," she said, "I see something green peeping in at the window. Look! it moves in the wind; what is it?" We know how it was, so we are not so surprised as they were. "Here is a tiny garden for you to tend, my child," she continued; and then she drew the sick daughter's bed close under the window, where she might see the plant; and away she went to her daily work. "Mother," said Gretchen, in the evening, "do you know, I feel much better? I have been watching the little plant all day enjoying the sunshine, and I think I shall get well and be able to lie in the sunshine too." "God grant it, my child," said the mother; and she thanked God in her heart for sending the plant to put such a hope into her child's heart; but she did not hope herself. Yet she put a little stick to support the plant, and she tied a piece of thread across the window for its tendrils to twine round; and this was for Gretchen's sake. Gretchen day after day lay at the window, eagerly watching the plant as it grew and thrived in the balmy air, till by degrees the anxious mother could not but see the child was stronger; yes, she was certainly stronger. O, how anxiously she watched lest the improvement should not continue! 66 Well, who would have thought it?" she cried one morning, when she went as usual to look at the seedling; "there is a blossom upon it. It will soon be in the flower;" and Gretchen clapped her little hands with delight. A week after this she sat up for the first time a whole hour. The window was open, the warm sunshine streamed in, and in full blossom outside stood the tended flower. "God has given thee back thy life, and has given me hope and joy, my blessed child," said the thankful mother. And, while the maiden bent down and kissed its tender leaves, the flower seemed to smile back lovingly upon her, as if it knew that God had sent it. It was a happy day in that humble home. And before the flower had faded Gretchen stood at the garret window with beaming eyes, the roses blooming upon her once pale cheeks; and as she spread her gentle hands over it she thanked God, who had given the fragile plant to restore health and life. Now, as you have read this pretty story, I think one thought must have risen up in your minds, "Who would have supposed such a small lowly plant could have been so useful?" and that is just what I wanted you to think, for that will lead us on to another thought; namely, that not one of you is too lowly to be a help to others. I am sure if the plant had had a voice it would have said, "What good can I do? 1, a poor, weak, clinging thing; why, I can VOL. XXVI.-36 not even stand up by myself; how is it possible that I can ever help any body else?" And do you know you are just like the pea plant, just as weak and helpless; but for all that, God can make you useful to others, and he will show you how, if you will only ask him. You know God does not expect grown-up people's work from little children, but he does expect that you should begin to do something to show your love to him. Are there no sick people you can cheer by a smile or a kind word, or some little act of love? It is wonderful how much these little things cheer the sick, yea, and the strong ones too. You do not know what a help a bright and lovely child is to the elders of a family. I think God gives to every child a special work, and that work is to be a little bit of sunshine in the house. Dear children, when you think you are too small to be of any use, ask yourselves whether you are sunbeams to your fathers, and mothers, and friends. That was what God meant you to be. WORK FOR ALL TO DO. BY MERIBA A. BABCOCK. THERE'S work for e'en the tiny stream Through sunshine and through shade; There's work for all in Nature's hall, For bird and bee, that, ever free, The heathen lands to busy hands From those who kindly went, In kindly deeds of love, Forgiveness from above, Will never stray from virtue's way, |