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ONLY

ONLY A PIN.

LY two or three days ago, an overseer in one of the mills found a pin which cost the company about fifty pounds.'

Was it stolen?' asked Susie. 'I suppose it must have been very handsome. Was it a diamond pin?'

'Oh, no, my dear! not by any means. It was just such a pin as people buy every day, and use without stint. Here is one upon my dress.'

Such a pin as that cost fifty pounds!' exclaimed John. I don't believe it.'

'But mamma says it's a true story,' interposed Susic.

Yes, I know it to be true. And this is the way the pin happened to cost so much: You know that calicoes, after they are printed and washed, are dried and smoothed by being passed over heated rollers. Well, by some mischance, a pin dropped so as to lie upon the principal roller, and, indeed, became wedged into it, the head standing out a little way from the surface.

Over and over went the roller, and

at length upon still another roller, until the piece was measured off. Then another piece began to be dried and wound; and so on, until a hundred pieces had been counted off. These were not examined immediately, but removed from the machinery and laid aside.

When, at length, they came to be inspected, it was found that there were holes in every piece throughout the web, and only three-quarters of a yard apart.

'Of course the goods could not be classed as perfect goods, so they were sold as remnants at less than half the price they would have brought had it not been for the hidden pin.

Now, it seems to me that, when a boy takes for his companion a profane swearer, a Sabbath-breaker, or a lad who is untruthful, and a little girl has for her playmate one who is unkind, or disobedient, or in any way a wicked child, they are like the roller which took to its bosom the pin. Without their being able to help it, often the evil

For their own contributions.

THE DAISY.

HERE is a little flower,

A wild, uncared-for thing, That opes its eye in May-time, And blossoms in the spring.

It has a little golden eye,

With silver lining round; It grows upon the roadside, On every grassy mound.

The children love it dearly,

And chains of it they make, As they wander in the meadows By the river or the lake.

Now, this sweet little flower

Can teach a lesson sure, That tho' life's road be rough and drear, We can shew our blossom pure.

FLORENCE LESSELS.

He was born of a noble family at Ferrara, on the 21st of September, 1452, and was educated with great care; for very early his genius showed itself, and his father cherished high hopes that he would distinguish himself in his country, and some day be one of the great powers which would lead and rule his countrymen. And so he was yet to be, but not as his father dreamed.

From his youth, Jerome Savonarola was averse to the gaieties of court; its wickedness haunted him. He could not hear the light music, nor see the splendour of its feasts, for the thoughts of all that was beneath the falseness and the misery. And so he shrank into retirement, and spent the days and months at home in his father's house, soothing his thoughts as best he could with poetry and music. But his music was very sad, and his poetry as stern as his thoughts.

One of his poems was entitled 'The Ruin of the Church'; another, 'The Ruin of the World.' For in all the wickedness round him, he saw but the prophecy of ruin, and it burned into his heart and must find voice for itself.

One April day he sat with his mother. His lute was in his hand; he was playing a mournful melody. So sad, so expressive it was, that it touched his mother like a prophecy-touched her with a strange, keen pain, and she turned her face to her son.

'My son,' she exclaimed with all her sorrow in her voice,' the music is a sign— we must part soon.

Jerome Savonarola was then twenty-two years old. On the very next day he secretly left his home, and never returned to it again. He began his life as a monk in the Dominican convent at Bologna. But some years passed before his fame came. The first time he was sent to preach at Florence, he was received with coldness and neglect. The people would not listen to him; his voice was unmusical; he said nothing which interested them, and so they left him alone.

Could he do no good in the world so full of evil? Was all his life to be a failure? Very sad and depressed, Savonarola left Florence.

Seven years later it was in 1489-he was in the same city, preaching in the convent garden of San Marco, with breathless crowds listening. People were crowded together even on the garden walls, eager to catch every word which fell from the lips of the preacher. Such enthusiasm in Florence had never been seen before. Michael Angelo himself was a disciple of Savonarola. Fra Bartolomeo, another great painter, burned in the public market the pictures which the monk disapproved. It seemed as if the whole city was melted by his earnest eloquence. The listener who reports his sermons often breaks off his sentence, and writes:

'Here I was so overcome with weeping, that I could not go on.'

Another says, 'These sermons caused such terror, alarm, sobbing and tears, that every one passed through the streets without speaking, more dead than alive.'

And still Savonarola, from under his hood, with his deep sunken eyes and piercing voice, proclaimed the judgments of God, and his near vengeance on the sins of fated Florence; and not on Florence alone, but on Rome and Italy, and the whole world lying in wickedness.

He did not scruple with his burning words to reprove the Pope himself, to accuse him of wickedness, and warn him to turn from his evil ways. Such language was new indeed, to be heard in the court at Rome, but the Pope could not offer openly to show his displeasure. Savonarola was the idol of the people; the Pope would fain seem to be his friend. He dissembled his displeasure, and offered to make him a cardinal. But Savonarola rejected the offer.

'Rather would I have,' he answered, 'the red crown of martyrdom.'

And that martyrdom surely awaited him. Troubles gathered round him fast. The people began to doubt their prophet; and with all the fickleness of a crowd, turned from him in his hour of need.

Next day, after the funeral, the dog was missed from the house, and was found lying on the grave of his master. He was wet and cold, but the faithful animal could not be induced to leave the spot, and had to be forced away from it by fastening a cord to his collar. But he did not remain long in the house, and was again found lying on the tomb. He was brought home and treated with great kindness; but he refused to taste food, and on the third morning was found dead.

The Newfoundland dog is one of the most sagacious kinds, and is especially valuable on account of its power of endurance in swimming. Its paws are halfwebbed, and it is fond of the water. Many persons have been saved from drowning by these sagacious animals.

One which was kept at the ferry-house at Worcester was the means of saving, at different times, three persons from drowning. There is a celebrated portraitpainted by Landseer-of a Newfoundland dog who has been successful in saving life. It is called 'A distinguished member of the Humane Society.'

The little boy in our picture may well fondle the noble dog which has just saved his life. See how carefully he has brought him out of the water, holding him by the clothes, and not hurting him in the least.

Does not such a faithful animal well deserve to be called a member of the Humane Society? May not his devoted attachment to his master's child, and the tender care he takes of him, teach us a lesson of faithfulness to our Master in heaven? The following lines are by Mary Howitt :

And the dog is still the faithful,
Still the loving friend of man,
Ever ready at his bidding,
Doing for him all he can.

Let us take from him a lesson,
As the wisest of us may-
Learn a willingness in duty,
And be ready to obey.
Let us to our loving Master
Give our will, our hearts, our all,
And be ever, ever watchful

To attend His slightest call!

M. T. S.

WE

STORY OF A HYMN.*

E had spent a summer day amongst the Scottish hills, and had returned to the little railway station from which our train started on its southward journey. There was a detention. An accident had occurred further up the line; nothing serious, but it would be more than an hour after it was due before the train could reach our station.

Meanwhile, we were wearied after our long day of pleasure, and settled ourselves in the saloon-carriage to pass the time as best we might till the arrival of the train to which it was to be attached. My father was walking up and down outside, enjoying to the last the strong, sweet-scented breeze. Presently an old man came up to him, and they entered the carriage together; for there was one of our number whose name had gone far and wide through Scotland as a servant of God, and the old man desired strongly to see him. They took each other by the hand, the two fellow servants,' though the one had been blessed to preach the Gospel in many lands, and the other had scarcely ever left his native place. Then the younger spoke, asking the elder, simply and directly, the one important question: 'Are you a Christian?' and the old man in his deafness, catching dimly at the sense of the words, replied, slowly and honestly, 'I'm a Baptist.' There was a smile on some faces; but again the younger put the question: ‘Are you a Christian?' and the smiles changed from mirthfulness to deeply touched feeling, as the old man answered solemnly, I know whom I have believed these fifty years.'

I do not think that any of us who had passed that summer day together can have forgotten these simple words, nor another incident which happened later in the same evening. We had not yet reached our destination, but the train was moving swiftly onwards, and we had been singing, in gladness of heart, familiar Scottish strains and simple hymns that were new then, but yet to become familiar to *See last page of this number of the Dayspring.