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REST.
In this world's turmoil, labor and pain,
This seems imperative, rest to attain;
As for thy body in health to abound
Labor is excellent. Dig in the ground,
But rest in thy spirit with sweet accord.
Rest, rest, I pray thee; rest in the Lord.
If here thy body racked be with pain
With the dread verdict, "Ne'er free again."
Or heart tormented with a sad lot,
Be silent and steadfast then murmuring not,
But rest in thy spirit with sweet accord.
Rest, rest, I pray thee; rest in the Lord.
Wear out thy body with labor divine;
While in HiB service, thy talents shine;
But fret not thy spirit with any lot,
Serenely above all ills, weary it not.
Rest, rest thy spirit, with sweet accord.
Rest, rest, 1 pray thee; rest in the Ix>rd.
Mary Esther Wirgman.
Romney, W. Va.
HIS OWN.
"Tell Joseph to saddle ray norse; 1 wisu iu
take a ride."
IIow the good Marie's heart bounded with joy
when she heard these simple words. Two long
months before, the angel of death had visited
that beautiful home, leaving it sad and desolate.
The good master, the loving husband, had been
called home, and two weeks later little Gracie,
the idolized pet and the one darling of her
mother's heart had been laid to rest on her
father's bosom.
Since then all the world had been dark and
dreary for Marion Lauthom. Her life was as
dark and desolate as were the darkened rooms
of the once happy, sunlit home. In vain her
old servant had begged her to go out for a drive,
a ride, or to see some of the many friends who
called. She would do nothing?see no one; she
only wished to be left alone to nurse her pain
and grief. One prayer was ever on her beautiful
pale lips?that she too might die. There
was nothing left for her to live for, and her
Ilife was so dreary, so dreary. No answer came
to her prayer, and her heart was full of bitterness.
But today she could stand it no longer.
She could not stay in the house where she listened
in vain for a beloved voice and the patter
of babv feet.
The day was damp and rainy, but what mattered
it to her? Just so dreary was her life to
be henceforth, she thought.
The house stood near a deep woodland. She
had never been far in these woods, for they were
considered dangerous; but today she felt reckless.
There.she could at least find solitude and
perhaps rest, and what mattered danger to her.
So she went forward into the shadow of the tall
pines.
As she rode on faster and faster a feeling came
to her that she was fleeing?fleeing from the sad
faces, the desolate home, and most of all from
the memories?the memories "that bless and
burn."
If she could only forget for a moment the ten
Ider lips, the longing eyes of the dear one she
had called husband; if she could only forget how
a little head had nestled on her bosom and baby
fingers stroked her face
"Sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering
happier days." So it was with her; life was
so long; she was so young, and yet henceforth
she must,live on memories of the past. Always
there would be that aching void in her heart
that conld not be filled.
Many miles were between her and home, and
| the shadows were growing thicker and faster,
?RESBYTERIAN OF THE S <
leadings
i i
r *
but lost in her sad and bitter thoughts, she
heeded not.
Suddenly her horse shied to one side. Marion
looked to see what had caused her fright, and
there by the roadside stood a little child. Involuntarily
Marion checked her horse. The
sweet blue eyes looked bravely up at the sad
brown ones, and a baby voice pleaded, "Please,
lady, did Dod send 'oo to dit me?"
"What is it, baby? What do you mean? Have
you lost your way?" asked Marion, as she slipped
from her horse.
"My mamma said 'at Dod would send somebody
to dit me. I's so glad 'oo come, taus I's
dittin' so hungry."
"Where is your mother, darling?"
"Don't 'oo know? Her's done to live with
Dod. Turn, I show 'oo." And the baby led
the way to the door of a small cabin which stood
not far from the road.
Marion entered the low doorway. On a rude
bed lay the form of a woman. "Dat's my
mover; dere her is. Her sleep now; de pretty
white angel tome down and dot her spirit and
took it up to Dod. I watched, but I touldn't
see 'em. Des dey tome when I was sleep."
"Baby, who told you this?" and Marion gathered
the tiny figure in her arms as she kissed
the rosebud lips.
"Mamma telled me." And sitting there on
the floor of that rude cottage, with the baby
clasped tight in her arms, Marion heard from
the sweet baby lips the story. How the woman
had sickened until at last she had to take her
bed. How, when she knew there was no hope
for her, she had called her little daiughter to her
and told the child how God wanted her mother
to go home; that he needed her, and that she
was going soon. That Jesus would send angels
and would take her spirit up to the better land.
How that Christian mother was not afraid to
leave her babe, even though the forest was dark
and dangerous and the bread in the cupboard
almost out. She asked God to care for her darling
and, resting on his promise that he never
leaves nor forsakes, she folded her hands in
the peaceful, trusting sleep that knows no wak
in gAnd
her little girl had listened to her teachings
and since early morn had been sitting on
a large stone by the roadside waiting for "someone"
God was to send to. take care of her.
"Bless the baby," Marion sobbed when she
had heard it all; "you shall go with me. "Who
knows?maybe God did send you to me to take
the place of my precious Gracie. Yes, he sent
you to me to teach me there is still something
for me to do, and that he will always take care
of his children."?Exchange.
One of the most signal proofs that the Church
is of divine origin and is divinely protected is
the fact that she has survived, in all the ages,
the vagaries of her supposed friends and apologists.
Here comes along the last specimen, a
minister who stoutly maintains, in an evangelical
pulpit, that the Jews did not crucify and slay
Christ, but that he was the victim solely of "the
spirit of the times." The Church's living in
spite of all such nonsense, and the nonsense
has not been limited to any single age of the
past nineteen hundred years, is undoubted proof
that her life and power are not in her people
nor in the advocacy of her supposed friends, but
in God.
) U T K [June 5, 1912
KEEPING ONE'S FRIENDSHIP IN REPAIR.
BY THE REV. C. A. S. DWIGHT, PH. D.
Sir Philip Sydney ascribed much of his
success in life to the fact that he "had
a friend." Friendships arc among life's most
precious assets, constantly yielding dividends
of inspiration and cheer. A rare friend whose
affection is won in early years and retained
all through life is a rich blessing. The greatest
care should be taken in the forming of
friendships, for while we make them they
make, or unmake us. There is great choice to
be had in the matter of companions, and not
c? ci j 111 uuitu, uj anj nicuiid, is wui iu^
to be enrolled in the circle of one's close intimates.
It is an old saying and a true that evil
communications corrupt good manners. There
are acquaintances who, unless we shake them
oif and keep them at a distance, will follow
us all our days like a malign influence, a peStilpntinl
aVinrlnw
A good frieud once made should be retained?grappled
to oneself with "hooks of
steel"?or, to use a pleasantcr figure, with
"bands of love." Friendships like all other
;good values in life, must be kept in repair.
It will not do to assume that because
one has for a time taken pleasure in the companionship
of a playmate or a schoolmate,
such a friendship will thereafter continue all
of itself without further attention. Friendships
are not like automatic machines, which
run themselves. They are rather like tides
which How and ebb, or like winds which blow
this way and now that. It is true that a perfect
friend could cling to the object of his affection
through thick and thin, no matter what
happened, but one ought not to put the love
and self-sacrifice of a benefactor to too severe
a test by lack of responsiveness, by ingratitude
or heartless selfishness.
The plant of friendship needs careful tending
and frequent watering in order that it may
develop and flower out to perfection. In the
garden of the slothful no growths mature in
beauty. Unless we provide for our human attachments
such conditions of thought and love
and u .selfish service as tend to foster them,
we must not be disappointed if in the course of
the years they wither and come to naught. It
is in a way a matter of give and take. We cannot
expect our friends to be always coming
to our point of view, satisfying our tastes, indulging
our whims, or waiting on our convenience.
A man to have friends must show
himself friendly?must, in his turn, spend and
he spent in their service.
Select your friends with great care, and
then keep the best of them in repair! Know
where your worthy friends are, inform yourself
as to the main outlines of their lives as
they are really living them, enter into their
experiences, visit them or send them a kindly
greeting every now and then, show them hospitality
as you are able, make with them a kind
of "reciprocity treaty," let them know in a
variety of ways that you think of them while
you hope they think of you. Above all, do as
that fine Christian gentleman, Paul, did?remember
your friends, by name, ofttimes in
prayer. And never forget that of all the
friendships, actual or possible, which it is of
consequence to keep in repair, the most valuable
is that precious fellowship with the Divine
Friend that sticketh closer than a brother, the
Lord Jesus, our Elder Brother, who condescends
to. clasp the humblest and weakest to
His heart, and from whose love nothing, either
in this world or the next, can ever separate a
true believer!?New York Observer.