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February 21, 1919 ] THE]
Mary Rogers (stewardess of the Stella) and
all faithful servants.
Amy Clough and all true teachers.
Mary Somerville and all earnest students.
Susannah Wesley and all devoted mothers.
Women equal in merit to those in this noble
list of noble women can easily be found in American
history and present-day life. In this country
our queens do not derive their position from
their ancestry, but Victoria deserves the place in
this collection independent of her regal title.
?Christian Advocate.
CLEARING HIS CONSCIENCE.
Ther was once in Boston an old codfish dealer,
a very earnest and sincere man, who lived
prayerfully every day. One of the great joys of
his life was the family worship hour. One year
two other merchants persuaded him to go into a
deal with them by which they could control all
the codfish in the market, and greatly increase
the price. The plan was succeeding well, when
this good man learned that many poor persons
in Boston were suffering because of the great ad
vance in the price of codfish. It troubled hin<
so that he broke down, in trying to pray at tb?family
altar,and went straight to the men who
led him into the plot, and told them that hr
could not go on with it.
Said the old man: ''I can't afford to do any
thing which interferes with my family prayers
And this morning when I got down on my knecy
and tried to pray, there was a mountain of cod
fish before me high enough to shut out the
throne of God, and I could not pray. I tried my
best to get around it, or get over it, but every
time I started to pray, the codfish loomed up be
tween me and my God. I wouldn't have my
family prayers spolied for all the codfish in the
Atlantic Ocean, and I shall have nothing mor.to
do with it, or with any money made out of it.''
CARDS.
In the delightful suburban home of a Chicago
judge a group of neighbors "dropped in" one
evening for an informal call. A vivacious young
woman at once proposed a game of cards.
"Come, judge," she coaxed gaily, "play a
game with us to pass the evening."
"Indeed, I won't," promptly responded the
jurist.
"Judge, are you such an old fogy that you
won't play cards ?''
"No, I am not an old fogy."
"Why don't you play, then?"
"Well," blurted out the judge, crowded into
a corner, "I've watched you card players a long
wnne, ana I've nevpr yet seen a bunch of players
that could get through a whole game without
losing their tempers. There's always somebody
complaining of the way somebody else has played.
even in most friendly company. I won't
bother with anything that spoils one's temper
so."
"But, judge," still coaxed the young woman,
"you know we are your guests, and you ought to
play a game with us just because we want you
to."
"Yes, you're my guests," echoed the judge,
his spirit rising noticeably higher; "you're my
guests, and that's the reason why you ought to
think of my preference for spending my evenings.
"Why shouldn't you do what I want to?
sit down and talk about something sesiblet
"There' just one reason why you play cards,
and that's because you are so empty-headed that
you can't talk. You don't know enough to
spend an evening in any kind of conversation,
and so you have to kill time fingering over these
useless cards. You can do as you please. I'm
going to the library to read."
PRESBYTERIAN OF THE SC
Afterward the judge explained why he foreswore
cards:
"I never played much, and was always poor
at the business. One evening, however, I sat
down at home with my wife, my son, and a
young lady neighbor for a game of whist.
"Pretty soon I made some misplay. My son
groaned, 'Oh, father, that was wretched!'" I
turned toward the young woman. Iler face was
white with anger.
" 'Was that such a very bad play?" I asked.
" 'It was inexcusable!' she almost hissed.
"I laid down my cards. 'Here,' I said, 'is
where I quit. If this paltry, good-for-nothing
game can raise such a tempest as this over a
blunder that I'm likely to make any time, I'm
never going to touch it again. I know I can't
play very well; and I'm not going to put myself
in position to be scorned any more like this for
an ignorance that isn't worth curing.* "?Unidentified.
THE PATH THAT'S SOMETIMES DREARY.
John Richard Morelnnd.
There fs a path whose treading's sometimes dreary.
Whose shies are gray, whose days are sometimes
weary;
And every flower that blows is snowy white
i,iKe some aeaci race, or, like the frosts that blight
The onening bud. And O how straight the way!
F.ut t''oce who walk therein And endless day
And Heaven, where God's hand wipes all tears away!
There Is a path whose treadlng's never dreary,
Whose davs are never dark, nor never weary,
Whose smiling skies are turquols overhead
And everv flower that blows Is flam'ng red.
Wide Is the path?Its width no man can tell?
And thoFe who walk therein, some day will dwell
Within that awful place that men call Hell!
Friend, Is the path you're treading sometimes dreary.
Or are you walking In the path that's never weary?
And every flower you gather, is It white or red?
And sk'es?are they of gray or turquois overhead?
One of these paths we each must tread each day,
Which shall It be? The broad or narrow way?
The path to endless night, or endless day?
L'ENVOI.
What matters if the path is sometimes dreary?
What matters if its days are sometimes weary?
What matters if gray skies be overhead,
And every flower is white instead of red?
What if the path is thorny that we wend?
It Is the path that leads to Peace, my friend.
And God! and Heaven are at its journey'B end.
ABBOTSFORD AND DRYBURG.
(Continued from Page 3.)
hishnns mnnlre nrirl nrinro onnolo or/1 /lomonn
g y IUIOj uugwto UliU U^1UUU*3.
One window is, however, famous, "St. Katherine's
Wheel Window," it is called. To obtain
a better light on this window I climbed over
into an adjoining meadow. To my surprise I
found here a most excellent statue of King James
I of Scots, carved in high relief on an obelisk
of st ne, the whole in an unusually good state
of preservation. This was the monarch who
spent most of his life a prisoner in England.
He was the author of "The King's Quhair," and
he laid the foundation for the Scotch literature
which has flourished so abundantly even to this
day in the land of the misty north. I asked the
guide about the statue when he had finished his
stereotyped lecture. He was indignant that I
should have climbed into the neighboring field,
but he had no explanation for the obelisk. It
is queer that the guide books which make so
much of every detail of history and art make no
allusion to this statue.
We lingered to the last possible minute among
the ruined arches and in the shade of the matchless
trees, and then hurried hack to the station
in time for the southbound express for England.
Acrass the border lands we flew in ease and comfort
where every field and hilltop, every burn
and forest had been contended for a hundred
times by Romans, Picts, Scots, Saxons, Danes,
English apd modem Scotch these two thousand
years gone by. And ?nWv we landed under
the frowning walls of old Carlisle, the strong
corner fortress of England.
Norfolk, Va. . .c,..,
IUTH (IT*) i '
THE BURIAL OF PUNCHEON CAMPTwenty-one
years ago the editor passed up
this"little mountain stream in the wild Cumberlands.
It was a week day morning, but the
Highlanders, warned of his coming, filled a
vacant house to hear the Gospel, where there was
no church.
Among a score who occupied it were two
beautiful little girls, sisters, clad in Highland
plaid.
The years rolled by, and they grew to beautiful
womanhood, married, and made homes of their
own. But death, who "loves a shining mark,"
struck down one of them, and on Saturday morning
a great concourse of her kindred and friends
laid her to rest on a mountain brow, with a
beautiful babe on her breast, among hundreds of
her people.
By a strange providence, the same editor was
present, after twenty-one eventful years.
A multitude of mourners sat on the ground
hen eat h a great chestnut tree on that mountain
plateau and heard the gospel of love preached by
Dr. Bryan, of Birmingham, Prof. Manning and
the editor. "Proctor Bill" and Louis Hensley,
who taught the Sabbath school twenty-one years
before, were there, and led the singing in the
plantive melody of the Highlanders, which is
heard nowhere else.
The grief of these simple-minded people broke
forth in most pitiful cries, which moved the oldest
and hardest men. Indeed, I never witnessed
such an exhibition of sorrow, as they clung to
it-. 11* i .
me coinn ana Kissca tne cold, silent lips, still
beautiful in death.
On that wild mountain top, with God and the
dead generations of their ancestors, one felt
nearer to heaven than in the world below.
These poor people lack most of the blessings of
civilization, but they have more of God and
nature, which compensates for what they lose in
culture and comfort.
No people appreciate the Gospel more, for none
need it so much. It is light in their darkness,
strength in their weakness, joy in their sorrow.
To them it is really the "Good News of God."
Will you help send it to them??The Soul Winner.
THE AUTHORITY OF THE BOOH.
BY IAN MACLAREN.
If a preacher with the Bible in his hands is
not positive, he has fallen short of his vocation.
It is within his function to instruct and to
defend, but he is chiefly a prophet with a message
to the world from God. He is a witness to
the supremacy of the soul, the reality of the
unseen, the glory of the religious life?affirming
with unfaltering voice those things which all
men wish to believe and which they hold dimly
in their minds. For the preacher of the Gospels
the first qualification is not that he be learned
or eloquent, but that he believe; and whatever
be the case with other men, he must believe with
the marrow of his bones. If this be impossible,
let him become anything he pleases, but not a
preacher; and if doubt settles upon him, let him
face and master it in secret?in the wilderness
with God, and stand before his fellow men with
unclouded face. There are enough men to ventilate
doubts without the preacher's assistance.
From him the world expects faith, and the dynamic
of one man believing with all his mind and
all his heart, is incalcuable; it is a reservoir of
life in the midst of a bloodless and worn-out
society. Doubt can be got anywhere; faith
ought tobe supplied by the pulpit.
I will think of thee always, O Lord ; so it shall
be my joy to speak of thee often: and if T find
not opportunity, I will make it.?Bishop Hall.