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THE TELL-TALE LOOKING-GLASS. TE ELL-TALE!' how could it speak? I wonder what it told-just exactly what it saw; it was a true witness. I am an old man now, but when I was a little boy, like some of my 'Dayspring' readers, I wished one day to go out for a walk with my dear father, who is dead long ago. Ah! how I liked these pleasant rambles! it seems just like yesterday, since he used to take my hand and let me jump and skip by his side, as only the young who have no cares oppressing them can do.

I was all ready, as I thought, for setting out, when my father looked at me and said, 'Where has my little boy been? What a dirty face he has! he cannot walk with me till he is made fit to go.'

'I is fit to go, father,' I answered, and pouted as I said so; 'Mother washed my face.' Dear good man! he did not stop to reason with me, or to say, 'father knows better, my boy; ' he just lifted me up in his arms before the mirror, and there, to be sure, was the dirty unwashed face; there was no denying it; he knew the lookingglass would make me believe when he could not. Young as I was, I got a lesson that day, and when I was older and thought more about it, other lessons were learned too. Often when I have seen a frowning, pouting boy, or a cross passionate girl, with a scowl upon her face, I have wished they had a kind father as I had, who would lift them up, and let the looking-glass tell its tale.

But there are more looking-glasses than

clever scholar he sees a miserable cheat. What a tell-tale looking-glass is that! Another mirror is the Bible, 'the perfect

law.' A girl goes to school, at the beginning of the session, anxious to be at the very top of the class. There is no cheating, it is all fair, and no one can say that she has not honourably won the prize, when, at the examination, it is her own. But in the quiet of her room, she reads, 'Whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.' Holding up her heart to this mirror it is her own glory, her own praise, that she sees shining through all the hard work and well learned lessons of the past year. The companion whom she has outstripped in the race, rather a dull stupid girl, but who, as in God's sight and with all the energy in her power, has set herself heartily to the work, and has been beaten at last, sits down when it is all over, and opening her Testament, reads, "If there be first a willing mind, it is accepted according to that a man hath, not according to that he hath not.' " Accepted,' is the response of the Bible mirror to our young friend, and a peace very different from the exultant excitement of her rival fills her heart.

Will my young readers use the tell-tale looking glass, not only for the chubby, soiled little face, which soap and water can speedily put to rights, but for the inner man of the heart which the Spirit of God alone can renew ?

K.

WHAT WE SAW AT A LIGHTHOUSE.

mantel piece. There is a mirror within each of us, and if we look at it, we shall often see we are not quite so good as we thought we were. A boy at school copies from a book on the subject of the lesson. His teacher, knowing nothing of the copying, praises the exercise, and the class looks upon the copyist as so clever. But what says the mirror called 'conscience,' when the young scholar looks at himself in its light? In its light we say, but conscience needs no sunshine to show us ourselves. The little boy looks in, and instead of a

is, and that the various lighthouses on our coasts are of great value to the sailors who approach our shores. But some of them may never have been in a lighthouse, and may know little regarding all the care needed to keep up one of these friendly beacons. They may never have thought of the responsible charge undertaken by the lightkeepers, of the many privations they endure, or of the constant watchfulness required on their part.

Many of the lighthouses are placed on small islands of which the lightkeepers are

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Looking up we saw these, with their bright reflectors placed so as to concentrate the light and let it be seen at a great distance. These reflectors were so very bright that we asked the lightkeeper how he could keep them so, and he told us that they required to be cleaned every day-that no speck of dust must ever be allowed to remain on them, or it would dim and lessen the light they gave forth. The lamps, too, must be daily cleaned and trimmed and lighted exactly at the appointed time. The

lighthouse has another tower which, though not so high as the one we visited, contains as many lamps and reflectors; so the daily work of keeping them all clean and bright must be very great.

When we asked the lightkeeper, who kindly shewed us everything, how the lighthouse was attended to at any time when he required to leave the island, he told us that he and the other lightkeepers never left the lighthouse at the same time. The faithful lightkeepers would suffer any privation rather than neglect their duty. Often they are confined to that lonely island for weeks and months together; none of them dare leave in stormy weather lest they should be unable to return.

Lightkeepers depend much upon their friends on shore. Sometimes they need provisions, sometimes medicines or medical attendance, sometimes, as when we visited Pladda, water fails, and they need to have it brought to them. In every such emergency, they put up a signal, and unless prevented by a storm help is at once sent.

Yet notwithstanding all that is done for them, lightkeepers suffer many privations. In the long summer days they have many visitors, but through the dark winter months they seldom see any of their friends and are deprived of many comforts which others enjoy. Surely we owe these selfdenying men a debt of gratitude and may well take a lesson from their example.

Who can tell how many vessels are saved from shipwreck by the light of these friendly beacons? or what sad consequences might follow were even one lightkeeper to neglect his duty? Happily we scarcely ever hear

of a lightkeeper neglecting the charge entrusted to him. Only one case of such criminal negligence occurs to us, and the consequences were terrible.

About fifteen or sixteen years ago, a steamship named 'The Hungarian' was wrecked on the shores of British America and all on board perished. For a long time the cause of this shipwreck could not be ascertained, and no one could understand why the vessel had gone so near that dangerous part of the coast.

Some years afterwards the mystery was solved. The keeper of the lighthouse which should have warned and guided that ship, when dying, acknowledged that on that sad evening the lights of which he had charge had not been burning. That lightkeeper had known all the time that his own negligence had caused the loss of 'The Hungarian.' The thought of having caused the death of so many persons burdened his conscience with indescribable remorse, and. the near prospect of death compelled him to reveal the terrible secret.

Is not that lightkeeper's sad story a beacon to warn us of the danger of neglecting the work God has given us to do?

Christian churches are lighthouses placed in this dangerous world to hold forth the word of life to warn and guide those who are crossing life's sea. Every believer is a light, and his work is, like that of the faithful lightkeeper, to see that his lamp is constantly supplied with the oil of grace, that it burns brightly with love to God and man, and that no sin is allowed to dim its brightness.

Like the lightkeepers, believers constantly need help from without, but they can always make their requests known to Jesus, and no storm can ever hinder Him from supplying all their wants out of His abundant fulness.

'Jesus bids us shine

First of all for Him; Well He sees and knows it If our light be dim: He looks down from heaven To see us shine, You in your small corner And I in mine.'

BOYS

LIZZIE A TRUE STORY. OYS and girls like to hear stories! Many of the stories that are written are not true; but I want to tell you a true story about a girl whom I knew very well. Her name was 'Lizzie.' She was not pretty, neither was she rich; on the contrary she was very plain looking and very poor. Her home, too, was very humble; but she was very happy, far happier than many boys and girls who live in fine houses and have their every wish gratified.

The first time I met with Lizzie was on a bitterly cold day in the month of January. Snow was lying on the ground, and all walked as fast as they could to keep themselves warm. On knocking at the door of the house where Lizzie lived, I was asked by a little girl nine years of age to 'Come in!' She had in her hand a very small shovel full of coals, which she was about to lay on the dying embers of the

fire; and then she set herself to tidy up' the house, which looked desolate enough on that cold winter day.

On a

She told me that her mother had gone to Edinburgh 'to fetch home her father from the Infirmary,' where he had been for some time, undergoing an operation. chair, by the side of the fire, sat an elder sister, a girl of eleven: this was Lizzie. She smiled sweetly when she saw me, and seemed much pleased to receive a visit. I asked her if she had been ill? She told me that she was unable to walk, and had to sit constantly on her chair, except when carried about. I learned afterwards, that some time before this she had met with an accident. At school one of her companions had drawn her back, over a form, by which her spine had been injured; thus she was deprived of the use of her limbs, and was also deformed for life. I asked her if she had ever heard of Jesus? 'Oh yes,' she said, Sabbath school.'

at the

I felt much interested in this suffering child, and visited her very often afterwards. On these occasions I always spoke to her of her need of Christ to take away her

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sins. She delighted to hear of Jesus, and listened eagerly to everything I told her about Him and His wondrous love; and her mother told me that nothing gave her more pleasure, when alone, than to sit and sing her Sabbath school hymns. She was a very good knitter, so I gave her stockings to knit for me. She was much pleased at being able to earn a little money for herself, knowing that she was a burden to her parents; and her face used to beam with delight when I paid her for her work. Contrary to our expectations, she gradually gathered strength, and by the spring of 1865 she was able, with the aid of crutches, to move about, and once more attend the Sabbath school, which gave her the greatest delight. This improvement, however, did not last long. It was but a bright blink before a shower; and before the close of that year she was again unable to leave her bed.

It was during her last illness that she shewed, so decidedly, her interest in Jesus as her own Saviour. I asked her one day if she was happy? With a laugh which was peculiar to her, she said Yes!' I asked, What makes you happy? 'Jesus,' she replied; because I am trusting in Him, and He is always with me!' I asked her if she ever longed to be at school again? 'Sometimes!' she replied. But, Lizzie, you don't need to go to the Sabbath school to find Jesus, since you have Him always with you? With a bright smile she said, 'O no, He is here, in my very bed!'

At this time I had to leave home for a few weeks, and took farewell of Lizzie, thinking I might not see her again. On my return I found her still alive, but very much changed in appearance. She looked much older; her face was like the face of an old woman, not like that of a child. She was greatly pleased to see me again, and told me how very happy she was.

One morning, after a very restless night, she said to a friend, Go and ask Mrsfor a little wine (which the doctor had ordered) for me, and tell her it's all I'll need till I go to Jesus; and tell Mrsthat He is to me the chiefest among ten

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thousand, and altogether lovely." She also wished me to go and see her soon, as she did not think she would be long here.

Her father asked her if she would not like to get better and live a little longer? She replied, 'O, I am for no use in the world; I am just a burden to you and mother; I would rather go away!

'But,' said her father, we don't think you a burden; we would like to keep you!' If it's the Lord's will,' replied Lizzie, 'I am willing to live; but I would rather go!'

Her mother stood by the bedside weeping. With the greatest composure, Lizzie tried to comfort her, saying, 'Don't greet for me, mother; I am going to Jesus to be happy with Him for ever!

She then charged her father 'to be kind to her mother when she was gone, and never to "flyte" on her; for mind,' she continued, I will be looking down on you, and I wouldn't like to see you "flytin" on mother!'

She then spoke to her sister and brother, telling them never to quarrel with each other, but to seek Jesus now, and He would make them happy like her, when they came to die.'

Thus did this young disciple solemnly exhort all around her. The last evoning I saw her she was very weak. When I bade her good-bye, she beckoned me to come very near her, and then she whispered, 'I will tell Jesus to keep a bright crown to you, Mrs

for all your kindness to me: I will keep a bright one!' That same night the Lord took her to Himself; and now she is before the throne singing the new song with the ransomed of the Lord.

Now, dear boys and girls, if you would be truly happy, then, like Lizzie, you must know and trust Jesus as your own Saviour. It was Jesus who made Lizzie happy; and He will make you happy too, if, like her, you bring your sins to Him and get them all washed away in His own precious blood. Then, whether you live to be men and women, or are taken early like Lizzie, you will know the blessedness of having true joy here, and the gure prospect of never

ending joy in that home to which Lizzie has gone, and which Jesus has prepared for all who love Him.

A

H. L. G.

A SCENE FROM LIFE. YOUNG Man entered the bar-room of a village tavern and called for a drink. 'No,' said the landlord, 'you have had too much already. You have had delirium tremens once, and I cannot sell you any more.'

The landlord stepped aside to make room for a couple of young men who had just entered, and waited upon them very politely. The other had stood by, silent and sullen, and when they had finished, he walked up to the landlord, and thus addressed him; 'Six years ago, at their age, I stood where those young men now are. I was a man of fair prospects. Now, at the age of twentyeight, I am a wreck, body and mind. You led me to drink. In this room I formed the habit that has been my ruin. Now, sell me a few glasses more, and your work will be done. I shall soon be out of the way; there is no hope for me. But they can be saved: they may be men again. Do not sell it to them. Sell to me, and let me die, and the world will be rid of me-but for Heaven's sake sell no more to them!'

The landlord listened, pale and trembling. Setting down his decanter, he exclaimed, 'God helping me, that is the last drop I will sell to any one!' And he kept his word.

'Woe unto him that giveth his neighbour drink, that puttest thy bottle to him and makest him drunken also.'