other, and this continued for a considerable time. When Bob went to the town with the milk cart, Prince would watch his opportunity and steal away after him, and not allow himself to be seen till he came to the town. Then his master would not send him home, and he showed the greatest delight in accompanying the horse through the town, and kept close beside him till they returned to the farm.

But friendships among the lower and higher animals sooner or later come to an end. Through some disease or other Prince lost his temper, which manifested itself in different ways, although he never quarrelled with his friend Bob. The farmer was at last obliged to part with his

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faithful dog, and he was sent to another farm to be kept on the chain as a watch. Away from his former companions and his old master, and kept under a restraint to which he was not accustomed, Prince ceased to take his daily food, and one morning he was found dead in his little house over which was painted, 'Beware of the dog.'

Bob seemed for a time to miss his little friend and faithful companion, but the work he had to do was quite enough to keep him from grieving at his loss, even had he been inclined.

Prince loved his master and his companions. The Lord Jesus is our Master as well as our Saviour. Let us show our love to Him by loving one another.

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Yet deep withal as the ocean fair,
When the midnight stars are mirrored there;
And when she smiles with those orbs of blue,
You might fancy an angel was peeping
through.

Yet all this beauty of form and face
Is as nought compared to her inward

grace;

For a heart of love, all blessing and blest,
Dwells in unselfish Connie's breast.

Oh! how we love our precious one,
So brimful of merry chatter and fun;
But her fragile health and her sayings wise,
With the far-off look in her deep blue eyes,
Oft thrill our hearts with a nameless fear,
And draw from our eyes the rebellious tear:
We tremble to think that a sudden blast
May blight our bud ere her spring be past.
No wild-flowers spring round Connie's feet,
For her home is laid in a dusty street,
Yet she revels in all things bright, and
flowers

Are her dearest treasure, as she is ours;

And she feels that the love of God is shewn
In the humble weed by the wayside strewn:
Yes, Connie knows that God is good,
And her heart is filled with gratitude.

One day she said, in her sweet, quaint way,
'Me means, when me goes to the 'ky to stay,
A big, big bunch of flowers to take
To Jesus, who died for Connie's sake.'

Then all at once a shade passed o'er
The features so full of joy before;

And she murmured, while tears began to fall,

'Me fordot; it was God who made them all.'

What a sad disappointment for Connie this

She had nothing that was not already His.
She pondered deeply a little while,
When, brighter than ever, the vanished
smile,

Like the clearer shining after rain,
Came back to the speaking face again;
And she clapped her hands and danced about,
As she cried with a little gleeful shout,

'Me know, me know,' in her baby talk ;
Me give Jesus some of His own flowers back.'
May this precious lesson to us be blessed,
In calming the anxious heart's unrest;
May we ask, like Connie, what we can give
To Jesus, who died that we might live;
And oh! should He claim what most we
prize-

Our heart's sweet flower, the light of our eyes

The Hand that smites can heal the pain; So we will not grudge Him His own again.

A. M.

THE BIRTH-PLACE OF JAMES MONTGOMERY.

M

OST of the readers of the Dayspring, I daresay, know the hymns begining:-'Hail to the Lord's Anointed;' Friend after friend departs;' 'For with the Lord.' They were written by James Montgomery, as

ever

you will see by referring to the list of authors in the hymn book; and some of you may wonder who he was, and where he belonged to. If any of you are curious to know a little about him, I shall ask you to accompany me in a short visit to his birth-place.

Irvine, the birth-place of James Montgomery, is a town of some size, situated at the mouth of the river Irvine, on the line of the Glasgow and South-Western Railway. Coming out at the Station, you find yourself in a long street connecting the town of Irvine with the Harbour. This long street is known locally as the Halfway,' and it was in the 'Halfway' that Montgomery was born.

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Turning towards the town, and proceeding a short distance, you come to a small, dark, narrow close on the right, up which you pass and stop at a low door. Tapping at the door, with a companion who acted as a guide, the owner made his

appearance, and at once informed us that this was Montgomery's house. The kitchen on the left was a low, dark room, and apparently much in the same condition as it was in the Poet's days; while the large room on right of the door, and which at the time of my visit (a number of years ago), was evidently used as a provision store-was the Moravian Chapel in which the Poet's father ministered.

What an humble beginning certainly! The poor Chapel-something like a weaving shop-told of the modest pretentions of the Brethren' of those days. And the low, dark kitchen formed the first playground of that bright dauntless spirit who did so much in after years to cheer Christian life by his song. Yet, so it was. We were on sacred ground. It was in this unpretending house, up this insignificant close, in the very common-place Halfway' of Irvine, that one of our best British hymn writers was born on the 4th of November, 1771.

I need not follow his after career, as that has already been told in the 'Dayspring,' but, while we are in Irvine, we might go to see the birth-place of another remarkable man which the little sea-port had likewise the honour to rear. This other distinguished man was John Galt—a writer of various books-a friend of Lord Byron-and altogether of a more aristocratic connection than the humble Moravian minister's son.

Continuing our course along the 'Halfway' till we reach the town, we find ourselves in High Street. Here, on turning to the left, we see before us one of the local Banks-a new house handsomely got up externally. Entering, which we are allowed to do during business hours, we notice a marble tablet inserted in the wall, intimating that this bank occupies the site of the house wherein John Galt was born on the 2nd of May, 1779.

Here, then, within the short space of eight years, were born two men destined to do good work in their day, and make their country famous. Of the two, of course, we prefer Montgomery. The other filled a greater space in the public eye in

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his day, but as time goes on, only true greatness lasts, and true greatness in the long run means true goodness. We read Galt's works occasionally and admire them, but we have never done turning to James Montgomery, whether it be to read that true song of human affection:

"There is a land of every land the pride,'

or some of his commoner hymns which are to be found in every collection, and sung by people who know nothing of the man who wrote them.

Will the readers of the Dayspring' sing James Montgomery's hymns with a little deeper interest now that they have visited with me the house of his birth, and seen the narrow close, and the dark kitchen, and the modest Chapel where a hundred years ago a godly family lived and laboured? May no one ever look down on honest poverty! Some of the greatest of the world's benefactors have been born poor. Nay, was not the GREATEST OF ALL BENEFACTORS born in a stable and cradled in a manger?

'I AM HIS.'

R. L.

OHN HARDY was in bed recovering from an attack of scarlet fever. The doctor had pronounced it one of his most favourable cases, and said that with a little care he would soon be about again. John had a comfortable home and a kind mother, ready in his now helpless state to attend to his faintest call. Yet somehow or other he did not seem to appreciate these blessings as he ought, for his face just now wore a very discontented expression, and every now and then he cried peevishly, 'Mama, I want to get up. I'm tired of lying in bed. I am quite well now.' 'Dear child,' said his mother soothingly, as she tucked the clothes in about him for the third or fourth time that morning, 'do try to exercise a little patience. If you fret and toss about so restlessly I am afraid you will have a relapse. Just a few days more and you may get up with safety.'

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'A few days' wailed John, 'oh dear! and I have lain here seven days already.'

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You think seven days a long time,' said Mrs Hardy seating herself by the bed-side and taking one of her little boy's hot hands in hers, but I could tell you of a boy named John like yourself, who has been ill for seven years. He is confined to bed, and has been for nearly the whole of that time.'

Do, please, Mama, tell me his other name, and all that you know about him, cried John, forgetting his own trouble in sympathy for this unknown sufferer. 'I will, my dear, gladly,' replied his mother, hoping it would do him good to know something of the sorrows and sufferings of others.

'His name is John Cochrane, and he stays with an uncle and aunt, his parents having both died long ago. He once had a dear sister, but she too is dead, and what makes it more sad for him, his sufferings at times are intense; yet under these adverse circumstances he is very patient, nay more, he is even bright and happy. He is very grateful too for any little kindness that is shown him, and so thankful when the doctor gives him any thing to ease his pain, even a little.'

'Poor boy!' said John, I wonder how he can be happy, I'm sure he must be very tired; but perhaps he expects to get well soon now, and that, after he has been so long ill, is enough to make him cheerful.'

That cannot be the reason,' replied Mrs Hardy, since he is well aware that he will never be better. He is gradually becoming weaker. Formerly he used to sing his favourite hymns when visited, and now since he became unable he sometimes gets the children who live on the same stair to sing to him. He is hoping that Jesus wont be very long in coming to take him to Himself."

Oh!' said John quickly, 'that will be because he has no father or mother. If I were ever so ill I would not wish to be taken away from you.'

Listen,' said his mother, and I will tell you the true source of John Cochrane's

happiness. He is seventeen years old now, but long ago when he was about your own age, John, he used to attend some Working Boy's Meetings. There he heard of the wonderful love of Jesus, and at once surrendered his young heart to Him. I saw a letter he wrote about two years since to a kind gentleman. In it he says,

I am sure the Lord will bless you for remembering the orphan." He then refers to his own weakness, "but God" he says, "is strong and will help me to bear my trouble, and oh! how sweet the thought is that I will get safe home at last and be for ever with the Lord." Enclosed was a card on which was inscribed these words, "I am His" Cant. ii, 16, "and this," said the gentleman is very true of John Cochrane, he has indeed given himself to Jesus. He has set his affections on things above, and this sweetens all below. He knows that 'Our light affliction which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.' How can he fret at the ills of this life, when he thinks of the glory and joy that is awaiting him? Try, my dear child' said Mrs Hardy earnestly, to follow the bright example of John Cochrane; like him give your heart to Jesus in your youth.'

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"They are blest, and blest for ever, Who in childhood's early day Seek the care of Him who never Turns the seeking soul away.'

A. M.

JESUS THE GOOD PHYSICIAN. 'N his address to Cornelius, the apostle Peter gave one of the briefest and yet one of the best summaries of our Lord's ministry, when he referred to Him as one who went about doing good, and healing all that were oppressed.' We love to think of Jesus as the Good Physician who healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds,' and to whom no poor sufferer ever appealed in vain. Let us see why He is called a Physician, and in what respects He is like earthly physicians

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