SILVERLOCKS AND GOLDENHAIR.

SILVERLOCKS was one of God's tried

servants who had seen the snows of seventy-five winters and the suns of as inany summers-what a stretch of years! How great the love of our Father to hold up one of His children for so long, and for every step of the way! Think on that-the everlasting arms' of Jesus, bearing one up -far, far above the mere level of earth, superior to the saddening influence of care and trial for seventy-five years! Oh, you who are just looking out upon life, with anxious, enquiring eyes, who long to plume your untried wings for a limitless flight among the passing pleasures of this world, pause a moment and ask yourself' Is it worth while? what do I gain by it? will it bring me nearer Jesus?' for, remember, you must come back to Him at last, if you want to live. And what a mean way of treating Him-to get wounded and soiled and sick, by contagion with the unhallowed things of earth; and then, at the last moment, to come to Him for healing and cleansing. You would not treat your merest acquaintance thus. Do you then care so little for your Saviour? God forbid! And now I will tell you my story:

The aged Silverlocks was, as I have said, a servant of God; and one Christmas time, late in the evening, he was sitting by his fire reading the good old book, when he heard low cries at the door. He put down his Bible, and carrying a lantern went out to see from whence the sounds proceeded. He found a tiny creature wrapped up in a bundle of clothes on the door-step, crying with cold. He gently lifted it, for he was unused to babies, and carried it in to the warmth. It could only just lisp a few words, but it managed to say: G'an'pahung'y.' The words struck deep into the old man's heart tears came into his eyes; he had lived so long alone that the word 'grandpa' awakened strange emotions in his breast. The hungry little one was fed, and the question now was-'What was to be done with it? who did it belong to? why had it been left to him? It was a beautiful child: soft, pink cheeks; fine

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golden hair; but it was friendless. Henceforth old Silverlocks must care for it, and he called the lovely little creature his Goldenhair.

Some years passed--these two hearts, so very strangely brought together, were very closely knit to each other; the baby had become the useful girl; the old man could not do without her. When she was about six years old he fell ill, and the devotion of Goldenhair was of a most loving and consoling character. But they were poor, and the cupboard was nearly empty on Christmas eve. Goldenhair was but a small child, but she made up her mind to put something on the shelf for grandfather Silverlocks, for Christmas day-his appetite was very fitful. So she left Bray's court to see what she could do. She peeped longingly into the windows of the confectioner's shop, thinking that when she could, she would buy the very best cake they sold for dear old Silverlocks. On the opposite side of the street, she saw a little lady waiting to be led across, her mamma being perplexed with a number of packages: Goldenhair immediately saw a chance of earning something- an omnibus was coming along, she would rush acrossSilverlocks must have his treat, and he was so hungry. A thought-a rush from the kreb-stone, and Goldenhair was under the horses' feet under the omnibus wheelson the road to heaven.

When Silverlocks was told the sad story about his darling, he just quietly said: And I shall soon be with her, my little angel! She was asking Jesus before she went out to send us a gift, and now He has taken her to Himself!' And before long, for he passed away on the first day of the New-Year, old Silverlocks was again with his Goldenhair.

The substance of this story-told by one who knew the facts-is true. You will see, dear reader, how Goldenhair gave her life for Silverlocks-does it remind you of Him who gave His life for you? Will you think, in this coming year, of the sacrifice of Jesus? Will you just yield your whole life to Him, as a New-Year's gifit to the

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THE story of little Annie Grant illustrates

how God can make his children happy in the midst of the greatest outward suffering and misery; and that sometimes a bright, redeemed soul is to be found in a poor, deformed, diseased body.

When very young, Annie's spine was seriously injured, but nothing was thought of it at the time, and she went into one of the public works in Dundee soon after, where she wrought on in increasing weakness for a year or two. She gradually however became quite deformed, and her whole internal organism was displaced and diseased, and her sufferings were consequently very great. Though thus deformed in body, her face was remarkably sweet and gentle and interesting.

The first time I was asked to visit Annie, I was told she was very anxious about her soul's salvation. The Spirit of God sometimes works without any special outward means, and such had been the case with her. She was not under any religious influence, but quite the reverse. Thoughts of God and Eternity however, were coming into her mind, and she felt she was a sinner unsaved, and was very anxious and unhappy. From the first I found her quite open in speaking of the state of her mind. She felt her need of salvation, but could not see how she could be saved. God's way of salvation was very simply explained to her, and the Spirit opened her eyes to see it. The passage of Scripture in which she was first enabled to trust was in Ezekiel xxxvi. from the 25th verse. She was shewn how Jesus had finished the work for sinners upon the cross, where He died instead of them; and how He comes in the Gospel to every sinner with the offering of cleansing and pardon, and all we have to do is to trust Him and take Him at His word. This she was enabled simply to do,

and thus entered into rest. From this time she became a new creature in Christ Jesus. Her love for God's word was very great. All her comfort was derived from it. Jesus was everything to her; her life, her strength, and her hope. Her sufferings increased very much; she had to sit by the fireside almost constantly night and day, but she was wonderfully patient and uncomplaining. On calling to see her one day, she said, 'I'm very happy.' On being asked how she felt so happy, she said, 'Ye see, I've naething on my mind.' She meant that all her sins and fears were away, and she had no anxiety either about the past or the future. There was nothing between her soul and God. The light of Ilis countenance was shining upon her, and filled her with joy. She was asked if there was any special word of God upon which she was resting so quietly. She said, Yes, that one, "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." In the midst of poverty and suffering, she was unspeakably happier than many of those who have a full cup of worldly prosperity, but are destitute of the peace of God.

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Her distress was very protracted, but at length the time came, when her happy ransomed soul was to be set free. She had been lifted out of bed and was lying on her mother's knee, her end being apparently very near. It was not expected that her voice would be heard again on earth, when she suddenly looked up with a radiant smile, and said, 'IIe's come, Jesus is here -oh, they're all coming.' It was as if

some vision of glory were opened to her view, such as none of those around her could behold.

In a little while her mother asked if she would like Miss M-. to be sent for (a young lady who had often visited her and sang hymns with her and to whom she was much attached), but she was absorbed with a higher presence; and whilst her mother was speaking, with a tone mingled with awe and gladness, she said, 'stop, He's here.'

She still lingered for some hours, but at length the silver cord was loosed, and her happy spirit was at home with the Lord.

C. I.

We had lingered long among the gay shops, among the toys and the picturebooks. Neddy, my little friend, had not wanted much; for Christmas had been kind to him, and Christmas was past.

But when we came near the Abbey, I had said:

'Let us go in. There are grand pictures here, little Ned, and many strange stories.' Neddy said nothing, but he clasped my hand closer, and looked up, half fearfully, at the great, grey, lovely pile. Neddy has bright eyes, but eyes sometimes full of shadow, as they were now. I think you would like him, little Paul; I hope you shall sometime meet. Meantime let me tell you of his first walk in the great

Westminster Abbey. For Neddy had never been there before; and when we came within its shadow and its silence, he was quite still.

The lovely pointed arches, the great arcades, the dim coloured marble, the walls of flowered stone, the floods of light from the great windows, crimson and purple and blue, surely they enthralled Ned. He was quite still.

I thought, through the great sweet arches, God speaks to the young soul, as He does through the flowers and the sunset. Perhaps at this moment some vague thought of the glory and love of God is thrilling my dear little silent Ned. God shall speak alone through the loveliI too shall be still.

ness.

At last I heard Neddy draw a long, low sigh, as one very weary. And then I spoke. Neddy.'

He looked up suddenly, clearing his eyes as one brought back from a dream. Is it very beautiful?'

'Yes,' said Neddy, and no more.

But I would many times rather have had that low Yes' of little Ned's, than from any one else a thousand rapturous praises of the solemn loveliness.

Then slowly, slowly, without speaking a word, we went over the grey pavement, and the graves of the great dead.

Many names we saw of those that were lying there, waiting in quiet trust for the Resurrection day ::-men whose lives had blessed their people centuries ago, and whose names linger sweetly with a blessing in them yet. Men too lay there who had not done good, but evil, all their days; whom the people had not blessed, but feared; and who lay down, unhoping, in the silence to wait the coming of the Great Judge. God is Judge; not you or I, little Paul always remember that. Have you not in your life, and I in mine, done and said and thought what needs the mercy of God, even as those dark old sleepers? Daily we need it, daily we crave it, with that dear constant plea, 'for Jesus' sake.' Let our own lives be heedful and trustful, and leave the sleepers still.

But I did not say this to Neddy. We walked in silence.

How can I tell you all we saw?—the angels sculptured on the friezes; the knights with their folded arms; the kings lying crowned in stone; the queens in their quiet robes, their still, placid features kept in changeless brass; the Tudor roses and the lilies of France carved round the sixth Edward; the dim shrine which holds Edward the Confessor, with his crown on his head and his pilgrim ring on his finger, and his golden chain and his crucifix. How can I tell you of the tombs of the two queens, Elizabeth and Mary, whose effigies, cold and calm, are laid near enough now; of William of Windsor and Blanche of the Tower,' the baby children of Edward Third, in their tiny altar tomb, and the beautiful head of the warrior king himself, lying among the same calm shadows, with

all his wars and his victories dim in far-off story? Do you wonder, little Paul, that we were very still while we lingered in such a place?

And the light of the old year was dying fast away. Every recess was black in shadow, and the tombs, with their royal effigies, were coming out in ghostly relief. Neddy clasped my hand very tight. 'You are not afraid?

'No; I like to be here.'

I could not see his face. Neddy had no memories as I had to fill in the measure of his gloom. And it seemed as if the old year were receding among the tombs. I heard the echo of its footsteps, and its mysterious whisper, dying away and away among the old, old centuries. I thought of all the hearts that had once throbbed here in love and sorrow, and pain and joy, and how soon ours too should be still!

Suddenly a low music broke through the silence of the Abbey-then louder and louder, lovelier, higher, clearer a wave of solemn, ecstatic sound which carried my heart to heaven. I was sad no more.

And at night I opened my window, and heard the bells ring in the year-and with it a glorious gladness, a great hope. For see what the year brings:-days to be filled for God; burdens to be borne for those we love; work to be done steadfastly, tenderly, purely, with a quiet heart.

The sleepers in the great Abbey-they have done their work, they are at rest. We are coming up behind them to do something they have left undone. And I thought I would write to you, little Paul, on this first day of the year, to remind you with my greeting of what you must do and be. For each year comes bountifully, with its new opportunities of good, a good gift from God, which we must take thankfully and joyfully, and use well.

And if some we love have passed from us below, for them, too, let us give thankstenderly through our tears; for surely, brighter than ours, their year is begun in heaven.

Good-bye, little Paul, with faithful love. Yours,

H. W. H. W.

THE BLACKBIRD AND SPARROW. EAR minstrel of the dusky coat,

DE

Though silent now thy silver note
That still in fancy loves to float;
We bid thee welcome to our door,
Where, long as winter hovers o'er
We'll share with thee our frugal store.
Yet, sad, we see thec stooping low
'Mong petty sparrows to and fro,
Who nought of thrilling music know.
Thy wonted haunts look drear and chill,
When winds are sweeping loud and shrill
O'er withered mead and hoary hill.
Thy brethren of the minstrel throng
Have ceased, with thee, the choral song,
And silent wait the woods among.
The lark and linnet on our shore,
Whose soul subduing praises pour,
With thrush and mavis, move no more.
Some, guided by an instinct strange-
Some secret law of life and change-
Earth's warmer regions wildly range.
We blame them not whose Maker, wise,
Hath drawn to clearer, kinder skies,
But watch their flight with weary eyes.
We heard, on one sweet Sabbath eve,
The last lone warbler softly weave
His farewell, as if loathe to leave.
And now the sparrow's chirp alone
Is all that on our ear is thrown:
Hie! warbler, wake another tone.
Say, birdie, dost thou speak to me
Of want and woeful penury,
When riches from their owners flee,

When stooping to the callous crowd,
They toil for bread with spirit bowed,
Who mingled with the gay and proud?
Or dost thou mark the truly great,
Who, when oppressed by adverse fate,
Bend nobly to a low estate?

In vain we seek to move thy mind,
Bold brother of the minstrel kind,
To silence soberly resigned.

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Stay! till another crumb we bring,
And when awakes the welcome spring
Thou'lt higher sit, and blythely sing. . . .