continue as a carpenter, he should, without one shilling in his pocket, have to begin the world again.

At this very time, the difficulties and struggles of the young man came to the knowledge of Archdeacon Corbett, who immediately befriended Samuel, introduced him to learned men of his acquaintance, and got for him the post of master of the Blue school, Shrewsbury. When he was thirty, he entered Queen's College, Cambridge, and in three years afterwards, published his Syriac Testament. For this he was honoured with the degree of Doctor of Divinity, from the University of Halle, and a whole host of literary honours followed.

Although his great genius could have enabled him to excel in any branch of study, his greatest ambition was to have a thorough knowledge of the Bible, God's book for man. To this he applied himself with unflagging zeal, and found in it his rich reward. But knowledge such as this every Christian desires to share, and Samuel Lee's great joy was to tell others the truths he knew. To do good, and to communicate, he forgot not, knowing that with such sacrifices God is well pleased. Ere he died in his quiet Rectory at Barley, many had reason to be thankful for the life led by the clever carpenter, who grew up into the wise Doctor of Divinity. I wonder if any young tradesman among my 'Dayspring' readers will go and do likewise.

K.

75

'MOTHER, WHERE IS GOD?' ITTLE WILLIE was four years old,

L'

when one day he came softly into the room where his mother-who had long been an invalid-was lying. She saw at once by his flushed cheeks and hesitating manner that he was ill at ease. She drew him to her side, but he did not throw his little arms around her neck, or put up his sweet lips for a kiss, as was his wont. She was a good mother, and always encouraged her children to come to her in their little difficulties, therefore she knew that little Willie would soon tell his trouble to his dear mother; nor was she mistaken. After a short time he looked up, and said solemnly, 'Mother, where is GOD?'

'Dear Willie,' she replied, I thought you knew that God is everywhere.'

'But, mother, I dont think God is at our bleaching-green.'

'Why do you think God is not there, Willie?'

'Because,' replied he, 'I have been there just now, and I looked all over the green and up to the skies too, and I could not see God anywhere.'

No, my Willie,' returned his mother, 'you would not see God. The Holy Bible says, "God is a spirit;" and again, "No man hath seen God at any time." But though you cannot see God, God sees you. "He looketh to the ends of the earth, and sceth under the whole heaven."

Then, mother, God saw me when I was hiding under the hedge?'

'Yes, dear, "God is everywhere present."

'Can God see me here in this room?'

Yes, Willie.'

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'But if there were no windows God could not see me.'

'Ah, dear child,' said his mother, 'God has no need of windows. Darkness and light are both alike to God. He sees your little heart and knows what you are thinking this moment.'

Then, mother, God saw this berry in my hand when it was firm shut? Oh!' said he, bursting into tears, I dare not eat it. What shall I do with it?'

'Hush, my dear,' said his mother soothingly, and tell me where you got it.'

O mother,' he sobbed, I was playing with Dick Bold, and he climbed over the the fence and picked some of Mrs. Jackson's berries. He gave me one, and said if I did not tell, nobody would ever know. Oh, mother! I suppose he forgot that God saw him. Shall I go and give him back the berry and tell him that God was there?'

'Yes, my boy; but first kneel down and ask God to forgive you for His dear Son's sake; for you knew it was wrong to receive from another what you knew had been stolen. And never forget that God says in His book, "My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not."'

A BAIRNIE'S PRAYER.

A. M.

LORD, I'm just like some wee bairnie

Wha's an orphan wean,

Needin claes an' ilk providin—
Canna gang alane.

When I walk I'm sure to stumble,
Getting mony fa's;

But, ye ken, it's just through breakin
A' your ain gude laws.

Tak awa my rags o' doubtin—

Weeds, which ready bloom-
For they're neither braw nor dacent,
Made in Satan's loom.

Cleed me wi Thy garments holy,
Mak me, Lord, your ain;

Tak my wee hauus, grip them firmly,
For I'm but a wean.

CON

of creation, and see what pleasure and instruction we may there find. In order to this we must cultivate habits of observation, and encourage the spirit of reverence. Much beauty rests all about our daily path, but how few have eyes to see it, or lowly, loving hearts, whereby to rejoice in it.

It is not necessary to go in search of what is called fine scenery, for this our purpose. When I was a very little child, my dear mother used to call my attention to many of the common every-day beauties of nature. Now it would be the lowly 'gowan' at my foot, or the soft sweet music of the rippling stream with its fairy nooks and tiny waterfalls. Another unfailing source of interest was the deep blue sky with its glorious fleecy clouds or raking wintry blasts, resplendent each morning and evening by sunrise and sunset. Such objects may be seen by most people, if only they wish to.

But it is quite possible that even some little reader of the Dayspring' may be so circumstanced

as that these seem

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cage has to be padded in order to prevent the poor thing from injuring its wings. There is also a peculiarity in its mode of flying. It mounts as though drawn upwards by some law more powerful than the gravitation that tends to keep it down. This is so different from the darting movement of the linnet, the skimming gait of the swallow, or the heavy flapping wing of the crow.

On one occasion I was walking through a crowded and dirty part of the city, weary and perhaps a bit discontented in spirit, when suddenly there broke overhead the familiar song of the lark, calling to mind irresistably the green meadows and clear skies of the country. Far up in the many storied building, a cage hung from the window explained the mystery. Poor little warbler, you are far from home, but you have read me a lesson. Who had brought the bird there? Possibly some one to whom the song of the lark brought back sweet memories of the unforgotten past, and so I forgave the owner of the tiny prisoner. But as a rule it is cruel to keep larks in captivity: they, of all birds, should have freedom.

In order fully to enjoy the singing of the lark, we must seek him in his native haunts. Out by the pleasant meadow or in some quiet country road, while the sun shines brightly, and the soft south wind blows, the lark will often rise suddenly from your very side, and with a perfect burst of melody he soars away up, up into the clear blue sky, till he seems a mere speck in the heavens, which finally disappears altogether from our view. Where has the bird gone? Has he left this world for some serener clime? Have patience for a time, sometimes not very long, and you will see Mr Lark descending rapidly, almost like a stone falling, until he is within a short distance from the ground, when he will spread his wings and fly like any other bird. The lark delights in extremes. seldom find him sitting on a tree; he is either up amongst the clouds or near the earth. They build always on the ground; a nice tidy nest, but by no means the

You

elaborate structure of the chaffinch: just as though they did not mean to tarry long so low down. But come and let us get behind a hedge, so as unobserved to watch for the exact spot where the nest is, for Mrs Lark is wise. She alights a few yards off from her home and then runs rapidly amongst the tall grass till she disappears behind yon thickish tuft of bent or grass, Oh, the pleasure of such a discovery after having sought in vain for days! But we wont raise the bird just when she has got comfortably settled in her nest. Some other time, now that we know the exact spot, when she is not at home, you and I may take a peep at the neat little home, with its pretty brown eggs lying so cosily.

The male lark does not stop his singing during the breeding season, but is often to be found in the neighbourhood of the nest soaring up in the sky, although he does not go quite so far away then; for like a good husband he considers it to be his duty to assist his wife in the management of their young family, feeding them and teaching them to fly, and so set up in life for themselves.

There is a very beautiful line from an old song that says:

'Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings.' That is a fine idea, isnt it? Let us in this seek to imitate him, and rise above the cares and sorrows of earth to sing at heaven's gate. We can only do this by rising from sin, getting free of it; for that is it which clogs our wings. Sorrow and sadness will, I expect, remain with us all the time that we are outside 'heaven's gates,' but still we may sing like the imprisoned lark when we are able to rise in spirit nearer to God; and so like it we may thereby cheer some footsore and weary traveller, on the pavement far below, engaged in a turmoil of care and trouble even greater than our own.

Sing on then, sweet bird, by meadow or moor; and in thy upward flight take with thee the hearts of the children of men, up, up into the presence of God, where all is purity and joy and love.

A. W