Paisley: J. AND R. PARLANE.

Only a little gleaner;

And yet, in Heaven's great hall There may be a store of golden grain, Piled by those hands so small,

From the little gleaners here on earth,-

Kind words and deeds to all.

Then scorn not yet the humble name,

Nor lightly turn away,

When only a little gleaner'

Is passing on her way;

Kind words and deeds the minutes make

Of this, our earthly day.

THE SCOTTISH DAWN.

AMONG the wild Irish mountains, a

prince was born.

'Tis very long ago: there are endless stories told of him, yet stories so lofty, strange and sweet, they are worth hearing over and over. For we never can hear too much of the good and great men gone-the holy lives that have left their memories as dews for the world.

Let us take them gratefully, reverently. We are more than human if their footprints may be never guiding footprints to us.

And especially may little feet, that are but beginning the way, be led and lured by the feet now entered the golden city.

The blameless youth of the boy is spoken of by old story-tellers; his beautiful face, his princely bearing, his wisdom, his earnestness, his truth. He learned with a wonderful quickness all the learning of the time. His genius, his gift from God, was perceived in his first years. His tutor called him friend, instructed by his pupil's clear thought.

All the years of his childhood and youth, he may have had his own high dreams, his dreams of service to God, his dreams of blessing to the people. He may among his own lone mountains have nursed them prayerfully, while God was shaping his characternot in haste-but giving it years to grow in mellowness, wisdom, and strength, teaching in many ways him who was destined to guide a nation's faith.

Rock-bound in a stormy sea lies the little island of Iona, close to the land indeed, but the land is a stormy land, and the sea breaks in from far. The island of Hii it was called in the days of the Irish prince; the island of Iona now, it is known to the thousands of tourists who sail down the beautiful Clyde to the spot which this prince made sacred.

It was wrapped in thick darkness then. Some say there the Druids worshipped their horrible bloody worship of some dark cruel being, the creation of their own fierce imagination, whom they ignorantly called God. Others say that on this little island the Druids never raised a stone, that the sea-gull flapped its white wings above the lonely rocks, and the rocks had no other tenants in these misty ages of history.

Be that as it may, on the mainland near there were savages enough. Among the purple mountains of Argyll-further and further inland, savages and night.

And when the prince landed on the island

with his twelve faithful followers, it was the first dawn of morning in this terrible dreary dark.

History gives many reasons for this prince forsaking the Irish shore. Some say his overzeal for right had stirred up enemies at court, that his somewhat eager spirit rebelled against usages and wrongs. And so he was fain to put to sea, and because the isle of Hii was near and offered no obstructions of landing, there he and his twelve disembarked, and Iona became sacred to Columba.

For this Irish prince was St. Columba, one of Scotland's earliest teachers, one whose name may well be cherished down all ages among great names and good.

Columba had a kinsman near-Conal, king of Argyll. There is but a little strip of stormy water between the mainland and the isle; and Conal did service to Columba in rude ways of his own.

And here Columba and his monks began their simple laborious lives. Their convent was rough wooden huts; their church was also of wood-it had a little bell which called the monks to prayer. Three times daily, three times nightly, they gathered there and prayed. They were earnest men all, and Scotland lay before them, a savage and strange land to be taught the faith of Christ.

Two years they were raising their convent, their church, tilling and pasturing their land, preparing Iona to be church and school to the rude mainland.

Then their missionary work began. Columba, with some of his monks, departed on his famous journey to convert the northern Picts.

To Brude, the king, first they went; and Brude listened to those words, which, savage as he was, he thought were better than any words he ever heard before. The strong, the loving, the righteous God-the Creator, the Preserver-sin, and therefore sorrow; Christ the sacrifice. The king heard of these; perhaps scarcely understood through his ignorant depraved sense. But this he saw and felt, that Columba was greater and wiser than he and all the Druid priests; so he became his friend.

He gave as a token of his friendship, Iona, in possession to the teacher.

Then among the wild mountains, and the blue lochs, and the streams, wandered Columba and his monks, preaching the word of God. And wherever he preached he raised a little

church, till all the Highlands were covered with the missionary footprints of Columba.

Many perils they met with, for the Druids withstood the Christians. Many times they sought their lives. But God's hand was over his own, keeping them from all harm. And Columba had a noble presence, which constrained the reverence of men-so benignant, so wise, so bold-he showing daily in his own life all that he taught the people.

Once at worship with his monks in a lonely place, the Druids came suddenly upon them. Then up through the evening air shot a rich, loud organ-toned voice. 'Twas Columba chanting a psalm: 'Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight. My goodness, and my fortress; my high tower, and my deliverer.' For that voice, as tradition says, so powerful, yet so sweet, was carried over the hills as no other voice could be. A voice to command the heart, said the people, was the voice of St. Columba. And the words of the sacred psalm, although scarcely understood, had in them the power of God. The Druids quailed.

So Columba went on his way, teaching and blessing the people, and he reaped the fruit of his labours in the Christianising of half the Highlands of Scotland.

Besides all this, his busy life was occupied in founding colleges, in training his missionary monks-till this little Scottish isle became a centre of piety and learning, and its fame spread over Europe, and men came from far to learn at Columba's feet.

The sick also flocked to him, for Columba was a physician of renown, and never turned from the poor, nor the helpless, nor the sorrowful.

At length came the calm, bright evening of this life, so full of work and prayer.

Columba, for the last time, saw his monks at work in the fields; saw the hay fields growing yellow, and the granaries waiting their wealth, blessed the heaps that were stored there, then slowly, with his faithful servant, returned to his monastery home. When they came in sight of the monastery, he raised both his hands and blessed it, telling Diormit, his servant, 'twas the last time, that this night he must go.

When he reached his own hut, he finished writing a part of the thirty-fourth psalm. He paused when he wrote the words, They that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing.' And he never wrote more.

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He went to the even-song in the little island church. And then he returned to his hut, and gave Diormit his last charges, telling him to deliver them to the monks when he had passed from them. These charges were earnest entreaties that they should live in love, and steadfastness, and faith; and assurances that God would comfort them, and bless them, and abide with them.

At length the small bell rang out the hour for midnight prayer, and Columba, rising up quickly, was the first to enter the church. When the monks crowded in with their lanterns, he was prostrate before the altar; they fearfully pressed around him, and then one long wail arose. For in the saint's venerable eyes, a strange light of joy was shining, and they all knew the angel was come for whom he so long had prayed.

So Columba died amongst them, and was buried in his own little cemetery, within the sound of the sea.

The

But the work of his life did not die. church and schools of the Culdees, as they were called, flourished still, though their founder was gone. For one hundred and twenty years in the little island monastery, peace and prosperity reigned undisturbed.

At that time, Nectan third, king of the Picts, made an attempt to introduce some Romish practices. Now the pure faith of the Culdees had never been derived from Rome, and the monks resisted and protested, as they well might, against this royal usurpation of authority.

The monks might protest, but the king had the power, and so many of them were removed from Iona to Abernethy, which was also a Culdee college, but more under the influence of Nectan, than was the old seat of Columba.

Then again Iona was quiet, till the beginning of the 9th century, when it was desolated by Danes and Norwegians, and Columba's bones were carried off. They were buried again in the church of Dunkeld.

The Culdee churches and colleges were scattered all over the land-Dunkeld, Lochleven, Culross, St. Andrew's, Melrose. The college of St. Andrew's gradually came to be great among them all, and from that day to this has held its distinction as a seat of learning.

But slowly the pure Culdee faith was becoming choked and extinguished. The usages and corruptions of Rome were creeping over the land. And David I., zealous for the

Pope, carefully swept away from Scotland the last traces of Culdee teaching.

Yet Columba had done his work, and with all these centuries between, his name is a name to reverence-a saintly name. Sixty kings rest in Iona, yet the waves on the island shore are burdened with only one memory'tis that of her Saint Columba.

I

GEORGIE'S PRAYER.

KNOW a little boy, with large bright black eyes, and brown hair-George he is called a merry, mischievous little fellow, full of vigour and playfulness. But George sometimes has quiet thoughts; perhaps the angels whisper to him in his dreams. One night his mamma came to see her little boy after he had lain down to rest, to give him his good-night kiss, and see that he was warm. 'Have you said your prayers, Georgie?' she asked.

'No, mamma, but I'll say them now.'

As Georgie was a very little boy his mamma often said the words of his prayer before him, so she began, 'Lord Jesus, make me a good little boy.'

'Not that one,' Georgie said.

Then his mamma said the words of the pretty little hymn:

'Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,

Look upon a little child.'

But George objected again, 'Not that one either; have you no new prayers you could teach me ?'

'When you grow a little bigger, my dear wee boy, you will know what you want most yourself, and will be able in your own words to ask from God what you would like best to have.'

'But I may never live to be big,' said Georgie very eagerly, 'God may send his angel for me very soon; He may be even sending him just now. You know,' he added in an explanatory tone, 'He could not come for me Himself-he has not wings.'

Simple confiding little Georgie. The words made his mother smile, but she caught his meaning.

Little George trusted so fully in the love

of God; he was sure God would count nothing too much to do for him; He would even come from heaven on purpose to carry him there if it were necessary. But the angels, with their shining wings, were ready for all the messages of love. And Georgie thought of God as the human Saviour-the man Christ Jesus-the very same upon the throne above as He was when He lived here below.

The love and trust of a little child-how sweet, and fresh, and free from all misgivings!

Mamma,' said George, again pursuing his own thoughts, if I go to heaven first I'll show you all the pretty places when you come. It's far bonnier than here. And if you go to heaven first, you'll meet me and show it all to me.'

No fear on the little boy's mind, no thought of death or the tomb; dying to Georgie was going up to heaven with the shining angel. In 'Thy presence is fulness of joy, at Thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.'

Does not the Father of Spirits himself come near to the little children, and make to shine in upon their souls some bright beams of divine truth? Yes, perhaps truer visions of heavenly things are granted to these little ones than many of us favoured with, who are travel-soiled and weary, and our eyes dimmed with the dust of earth.

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How pleased Georgie's father was whon his little son's childish words were repeated to him. Perhaps they comforted him, for the shadows of the tomb were already gathering around him, and he felt their gloom. Ah! not the grave but heavenlook above-Christ hath abolished death.

Now Georgie's papa has gone, but George thinks of him always as in that happy land,

'Where everlasting spring abides,

And never-withering flowers,'

and feels sure he is waiting his arrival there, ready to welcome him, to walk with him on the green pastures of heaven, and to lead him beside its still waters.