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chair and going to the basket of peaches,
“I shall take a ‘fruit-lunch,’ for I am
sure that both apples and peaches will
taste better since I know so much about
them. Ho! my pretty peach,” she said,
as she took up a fine red one, “do you
know that your great-great-great-grand
ma came from Persia ?”
The clock just then began to strike
twelve, and Mrs. Hollis said: “I would
advise somebody not to spoil her appetite
with fruit, for there is papa coming to
dinner.”
And sure enough Mr. Hollis and a neigh
boring gentleman were coming up the
walk that leads to his house. Mrs. Hollis
told Minnie to go and get ready for din
ner, and so, laying down her peach, the
little girl ran off, with Berne at her heels,
to her pretty little bed-room, where she
laid off her apron and gloves, washed her
face and hands, and brushed her hair.
Then she came out and talked to papa
and the gentleman about the big apple
until mamma sent for them to take din
ner.
Macon, Ga.
To Sabbath-School Teachers.
SEMEMBER you are deal
ing with souls which are
to live eternally; that
they are now like the
melted silver, capable of
g impressions which will
ever. Then stamp upon
tie image of Christ, and
it may show but faintly
now, God will bless your faithful, prayer
ful efforts, and bring out that image to
shine as a star in glory. Remember that
Christ, the Great Teacher, is your pattern,
and that in order to be a faithful teacher,
pleasing God, you must be like Him.
Like Him in prayer. The stillness of
night and early morn witnessed his ear
nest supplications for his disciples.
Like Him in knowledge. Possessing the
knowledge of the life that now is, and of
that which is to come.
Like Him in teaching. The hearts of
His hearers burned within them, and
their souls were quickened by His words.
Like Him in spirit. Peaceful, meek,
humble and pure in heart.
Like Him by the way. Ever uttering
words of comfort and kindness to all who
came to Him troubled.
Like Him at all times. Doing the will
of your Father in Heaven.
Compliments, however agreeable,
should be taken cautiously. It is some
distance from the tongue to the heart.
BURKE’S WEEKLY.
Written for Burke's Weekly.
Mariana.
ft* me she walked alone the way,
II yl My constant joy and pride;
CxJkf Yet Heaven I thanked not day by day,
To see er a * my s^e *
Like bright mahogany, her hair
Threw back the sunny rays ;
Her gentle sac it not fair ?
I mourn —I may not praise.
I took the blessing as my own,
Nor deemed the blessing lent;
But now I sadly walk alone,
And muse on God's intent.
Oh ! gay and golden was the hour
That gave that blessing birth;
And jasmines, in a fragrant shower.
All golden made the earth.
But what to me were fragrant flowers,
Their beauty, or their grace ?
I looked and looked, for hours and hours.
Upon that baby face.
I thanked the kind All-Father then
For that dear comfort sent;
And ever turned to gaze again,
With grateful, soft content.
Months passed away; the baby grew;
One day—a lovely sight!
Musk roses, mixed with ribbons blue,
Bedecked her robe of white.
I held her to my loving heart —
We at the chancel stood ;
Then placed the little one apart,
In solemn, reverent mood.
The holy hands received the child,
Bright drops bedewed her brow,
A sacred sign—methought she smiled —
“ She’s God’s forever now 1”
“ She’s God’s ! she’s God’s!” I murmur soft,
“ Sealed with that sacred signl”
But while my lips repeat it oft,
My heart cries, “ She is mine 1”
Years fled; and while we idly strayed
In famed and foreign lands,
Disease approached, and on her laid
His cold and clammy hands.
But Death, relenting, left the place,
Perhaps with eyelids wet;
And said, with half-averted face,
“ I cannot touch her yet!”
Disease unloosed his tight’ning bands,
Then, with a fearful nod,
Withdrew his cold and clammy hands,
And stood rebuked of God 1
She blossomed like a fragrant flower;
Oh ! what if she had died ?
Why thanked I not the Lord each hour
To see her at my side ?
She grew beside me like a vine,
With tendrils round my heart;
“0, God!” I said, “ the gift is thine l
Thou canst not let us part 1”
She seemed a bright and joyous bird,
That loves, and loving sings ;
My heart had broken had I heard
The rustling of her wings.
Her heart she bowed before the Cross,
Renouncing self and sin ;
And counted all things else but loss,
So she might Jesus win.
And fruits of faith and love mature
Were in her temper seen ;
Humility, and meekness pure,
Sweet hope, and joy serene.
Her childish fancy oft built up
A palace all for me;
Where plate, and spoon, and dish, and cup.
Were gems from out the sea.
And topaz was the winding stair,
And amethyst the rails ;
The turquoise ceiling, rich and rare,
Bestud with golden nails.
A stately opal colonade
Adorned with ample hall;
And precious stones of every shade
Flashed from the jasper wall.
The amber roof and crystal floor
Were glorious to behold ;
And garnet gate and sapphire door
Were hinged with radiant gold.
The window frames of malachite
Rose arching from the ground ;
And through the diamond panes, the light
Shed rainbows all around.
And mirror, table, sofa, chair,
Were gems of purest sheen ;
Nor steel, nor brass, nor silver-ware,
Within those walls was seen.
An amber pleasure boat was there,
With sails of purple silk ;
And song-birds thronged the rosy air,
With plumage white as milk.
And there were fields of fairest flowers,
And groves of foliage rare;
With founts, and streams, and blooming bow
ers,
And music everywhere.
The dream is o’er, the bright brown eye
Is sobered down to truth ;
We speak of matters grave and high,
Scarce meet for early youth.
And yet I wonder, as I hear
Such wisdom from her tongue;
“ Has she grown old ?” I ask with fear,
M Or is it I grown young ?”
“ Or speaks she from another sphere,
That spirit half Divine ?”
Then more I tremble still with fear.
Lest she should not be mine.
Sometimes the mild reproof was given—
Unconsciously it came;
And less it seemed of earth than Heaven,
And more of love than blame.
When on my couch, in suffering drear,
I lay, a lute unstrung.
How sweetly fell the words of cheer,
Like jewels from her tongue.
How much a joy she was to me,
I measure by my pain ;
And Heaven itself it were to see
That dear face once again !
“But she is God’s 1” I murmur soft,
“ No more can she be mine 1”
“ 0 weary heart! look, look aloft 1
Forever God’s and thine!”
“ Perhaps thy palace she prepares,
With jewels fair to see :
Perhaps upon the topaz stairs
She stands and waits for thee!”
Enough to kill us all. —The Marquis
de Spinola asked Sir Horace Mere what
his brother died of, Sir Horace replied :
“ He died, sir, of having nothing to do.
“Alas!” said Spinola, “ that is enough
to kill any General of us all.”
Nothing to do—enough to kill an) of
us all? Undoubtedly. Then let us be
ware of it, or what is the same thing, 0
doing nothing. Either one is fatal to
health and happiness.
Labor—having enough to do and doing
it well—is the law of our being.
Recorder .