• TABLE OF CONTENTS
HIDE
 Own the truth; or, who are...
 My mother knows best
 Be kind to your mother
 A mother's influence
 Arthur and Alice
 The one family
 The Lord's call to children
 Jerry and the voice
 Little Alice
 The child missionary
 Forgive us--as we forgive
 The blind girl
 Light in darkness
 Do your best
 The thorn in the pillow
 Keeping the Sabbath
 Why should we pray?
 I won't
 The stolen penny
 Edward and his sixpence
 Little Theodore's faith
 The deserter
 The slice of cake
 A little boy's repentance














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Title: Collection of tales
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Table of Contents
    Own the truth; or, who are cowards
        Page A-i
        Page A-ii
        Page A-1
        Page A-2
        Page A-3
        Page A-4
        Page A-5
        Page A-6
        Page A-7
        Page A-8
        Page A-9
        Page A-10
        Page A-11
        Page A-12
    My mother knows best
        Page B-i
        Page B-ii
        Page B-1
        Page B-2
        Page B-3
    Be kind to your mother
        Page C-i
        Page C-ii
        Page C-1
        Page C-2
        Page C-3
        Page C-4
        Page C-5
        Page C-6
        Page C-7
        Page C-8
    A mother's influence
        Page D-i
        Page D-ii
        Page D-1
        Page D-2
        Page D-3
        Page D-4
        Page D-5
    Arthur and Alice
        Page E-i
        Page E-ii
        Page E-1
        Page E-2
        Page E-3
        Page E-4
        Page E-5
        Page E-6
        Page E-7
        Page E-8
        Page E-9
        Page E-10
    The one family
        Page E-11
    The Lord's call to children
        Page E-12
    Jerry and the voice
        Page F-i
        Page F-ii
        Page F-1
        Page F-2
        Page F-3
        Page F-4
        Page F-5
        Page F-6
        Page F-7
        Page F-8
        Page F-9
        Page F-10
        Page F-11
        Page F-12
    Little Alice
        Page G-i
        Page G-ii
        Page G-1
        Page G-2
        Page G-3
        Page G-4
        Page G-5
        Page G-6
    The child missionary
        Page H-i
        Page H-ii
        Page H-1
        Page H-2
        Page H-3
        Page H-4
    Forgive us--as we forgive
        Page I-i
        Page I-1
        Page I-2
        Page I-3
        Page I-4
        Page I-5
        Page I-6
    The blind girl
        Page J-6
        Page J-7
        Page J-8
        Page J-9
        Page J-10
        Page J-11
    Light in darkness
        Page J-12
    Do your best
        Page K-1
        Page K-2
        Page K-3
        Page K-4
    The thorn in the pillow
        Page L-1
        Page L-2
        Page L-3
        Page L-4
        Page L-5
        Page L-6
    Keeping the Sabbath
        Page M-3
        Page M-4
    Why should we pray?
        Page N-4
        Page N-5
        Page N-6
        Page N-7
        Page N-8
        Page N-9
        Page N-10
    I won't
        Page N-11
        Page N-12
    The stolen penny
        Page O-5
        Page O-6
        Page O-7
        Page O-8
        Page O-9
        Page O-10
        Page O-11
        Page O-12
    Edward and his sixpence
        Page P-5
        Page P-6
        Page P-7
        Page P-8
        Page P-9
        Page P-10
        Page P-11
        Page P-12
    Little Theodore's faith
        Page Q-6
        Page Q-7
        Page Q-8
        Page Q-9
        Page Q-10
        Page Q-11
        Page Q-12
    The deserter
        Page R-7
        Page R-8
        Page R-9
        Page R-10
        Page R-11
        Page R-12
    The slice of cake
        Page S-7
        Page S-8
        Page S-9
        Page S-10
        Page S-11
        Page S-12
    A little boy's repentance
        Page T-9
        Page T-10
        Page T-11
        Page T-12
Full Text




THE TRUTH;


WHO ARB cOWAnRSt


spt~ -


T.NELSON AND SONS.X
LONDON AND EDINBURC






I


"Sn gding~ bo~ Tphe bve t knife, he tol watbadar
* I ~s~lld3Lam 0' : nntinfllfho
a MM













OR, WHO ABE COWARDSP


WmE little Frederic came home from
the Sabbath school, he found his father
reading aloud. He sat down on a stool
by the fire, and kept very still. He did
not mind what his father was reading;
he was thinking of his Sabbath school
lesson. It was about Peter.
Peter was one of the twelve disciples
of the Saviour. Peter had great reason
to love Jesus. Jesus loved him; he had
raised him from an humble fisherman
to be a disciple; he had cured his wife't
mother, who was near dying of a fever.


C'






OWN THE r ; OR,


Peter thought he would do anything for
Jesus; he said he was ready to die, if
he could but serve him. By and by a
mob of wicked Jews came out against
Jesus with swords and staves; they
rudely seized him, and bound him, and
led him away to be tried. Peter was
so frightened he did not know what to
do. He followed the soldiers that seized
Christ afar off till they stopped. As
he stood looking, hardly knowing which
way to turn, somebody came along and
cried, Here is one of Jesus Christ's
followers; here he is." Peter thought
they were going to seize him, and carry
him to court. don't know what you
say; I do not know Jesus," he cried in
a fright. Soon after, somebody else
said the same. Peter flatly denied it.
A third one came up, and, pointing to
him, said, Here is one of his follow-
ers." I am not," cried Peter angrily,
" I do not know him." Oh, Peter, Peter I






WHO ARE COWAnRDS


Jesus then turned round. Peter caught
his eye. That look went straight to his
heart. He went awayalone, and wept
bitterly. This was Fred's lesson.
After his father and mother had
gone out of the room, his cousin Helen
asked him what he was thinking of
"I am thinking of my Sabbath school
lesson, Helen. It was about Peter. I
do not like Peter, he was such a coward.
I hate cowards. Afraid to own he
knew Jesus, when Jesus had been so
very, very good to him! Afraid of
those wicked Jews I would not have
done so; I would have fought for him,
rather than deny him so cowardly."
Do you know there are Peters now-
a-days ?" asked Helen.
What do you mean?" asked Fred.
"I mean, there are those now who
have not always courage to own the
truth; who, like Peter, are afraid to
come honestly out on the right side






OWN THE TRUTH; OR,


Every time we are afraid to do right,
we are coarrds" said Helen.
"Like Peter?" asked Fred, looking
much surprised.
Yes, like Peter; afraid to do what
Jesus Christ expects of us," said his
cousin. He expects us to be on the
side of truth-that is Jesus' side. He
has done as much for us, for you and
me, as he did for Peter. He is your
master and mine; he expects us to own
him, and obey him."
This was a new side of the matter,
which Fred had not thought of.
Every time we are afraid to own
the truth, we are cowards, like Peter;
we are disappointing the Saviour."
Fred said this to himself two or three
times: it troubled him. Fred always
hated cowards, but he began to fear he
might be a coward sometimes; he could
not bear to think of it.
"You don't mean, do you, Helen,






wHO ARE COWADnnS


that any time when we do not own the
truth, we are denying Jesus, do you ?
Are we cowards to him 7" asked Fred,
looking very seriously.
Certainly, this is one way of deny-
ing him. He is the way, the truth,
and the life; if, at any time, we fail to
own the truth, we fail to take our stand
on the Lord's side; we are too cowardly
to do right."
"Well, I do not mean to be a cow-
ard; I hate cowards," cried Fred; "and,
besides, a coward to Jesus Christ, who
has been such a friend to us."
The two cousins talked together a
long while. felen loved the boy, and
was very anxious to see him a true fol-
lower of Jesus. The supper-bell at last
rang, and put an end to their interest-
ing conversation. Fred could not keep
the subject out of his mind: he thought
of it while he ate, he thought of it all
the evening. His heart was tender;






OWN THE TRUTa; OR,


there was nothing he loved so much to
read about as Jesus Christ. He often
wished he had lived in Judea when
Jesus was there; he was sure he would
have left all, and followed him. He
desired to know J3esus, and to have him
his friend now; to deny him seemed a
very dreadful thought.
Fred went up to bed earlier than
usual. His little bed-room was next
his mother's chamber. Before undress-
ing, he always kneeled and prayed.
This night he kneeled and prayed
longer than le had ever done before.
Many things which Helen had said
troubled him. He begged Jesus to
take away his sinful, cowardly heart,
and give him an obedient, courageous
heart-a heart not afraid to do right-
a heart fully set on the side of truth in
all things. At last he arose, and taking
off his jacket and trousers, jumped into
bed. He fell asleep thinking of Peter.






wHO ARE COWARnst


Fred was not like many other boys,
who think they want to do right, but
are loath to try; and fancy it must be
very hard to keep trying every day.
Perhaps it is hard at first; but Jesus
will surely help every child who tries,
and soon it will become a smooth and
peaceful way. It is the way of the
transgressor which is really hard. Fred
was for trying. As for himself, he
meant to keep on Jesus' side. He did
not sleep away all his good purposes;
no, he awoke with them in the morn-
ing as fresh and clear as ever.
Do you want to know how Fred got
on? One day his uncle Thomas lent
him his knife: it was a fine knife, with
two blades-a small one, very sharp,
to make pens with, and a large one.
Fred was mending the baby's carL
Be very careful of it," said uncle
Thomas, in handing it to him. I sup-
poseyou kno which blade to use,Fred?"






OWN THE TRUTH; O0,


Yes, sir; the large one. Thank
you, uncle," and he skipped away as
pleased as could be, with the prospect
of spending the afternoon in company
with a sharp knife.
Fred liked a good knife right well
George Cole came in. Together they
went to the wood-house to work. Fred
showed George the knife; they both
thought it was a beauty. Fred worked
for some time with the large blade. He
said it was a grand blade. Then he
shut it, and opened the small blade.
"You are not going to cut wood with
that, are you?" asked George; your
uncle will not like it."
No; I only want to look at it. See
how it shines," rubbing it across the
palm of his hand two or three times.
" Oh, is it not sharp? sharp enough, I
tell you."
He then tried the lower part of the
blade upon a piece of wood-just tried






WHO ARE COWARDS?


it, he said-snap; the sharp little blade
was broken
Oh," cried Fred, turning very pale,
" what am I to do The little blade is
snapped." How sorry was Fred; how
sorry was George.
You had better not have touched
it," said George; a great deal better
not."
"I know it," cried Fred; I know
it; what shall I do?" It proved a sorry
afternoon to Fred; he had no heart
either for more work or play.
As supper-time drew near, he trem-
bled at the thought of meeting his
uncle; he could not go in to supper;
he said he was not hungry; he would
play witthe baby in the baby in the kitchen.
After supper, he dared not enter the
sitting-room. He said he was tired,
and wanted to go to bed. His mother
was afraid he was sick. He forgot to
say his prayers, in his haste to tumble






OWn THE T=RTH; O,


into bed, and forget himself in sleep.
Ah, Fred had not courage to own the
truth.
The next morning he heard uncle
Thomas call him; his heart beat quick,
and away he scampered down behind
the barn. When he went to fetch the
milk, he stayed as long as he could, in
order not to appear at breakfast. Poor
Fred! did he not see that he was a
coward?
He could not get excused from family
prayers: he sunk into a corner, never
looking up. His father read and prayed.
One petition in his father's prayer went
to his heart: Lead us not into tempta-
tion, deliver us from evil, and give unto
each one of us, 0 Lord, strength to do
right." That's for me," thought Fred,
who always minded his father's words,
and tried to feel them; his cowardly
conduct burst upon him. I am a
coward, I am a Peter," and he felt as if






WHO AR" COWAnSt


he should sink to the floor with shame.
It seemed as if Jesus' eye was looking
right at him.
Fred prayed for courage to own the
truth. Soon the family arose; uncle
Thomas was going out the door. There
was room for Fred to escape telling
quite yet. No; I will go and tell
uncle now." He ran and twitched his
uncle's coat-sleeve. May I speak with
you, sir," said Fred, firmly. Handing
him the broken knife, he told what had
happened. "I am very sorry, sir; I
do not think I am fit to be trusted
again." I am sorry too," said his
uncle; it was a valuable knife. You
must be more careful the next time."
Fred was greatly humbled when he
saw what a coward he had been; he
blamed himself more than he did Peter.
" Peter had all the wicked Jews about
him, and I had only my dear uncle to
be afraid of." But it helped him to








see into his own heart; it made him
more careful in judging of other people
He found it was far easier to find fault
with others, than to do right himself.
" Oh," sighed he, I never thought
before that I was a coward." He felt
how weak he was. He felt the need
of praying often, Dear Saviour, give
me courage to own the truth, and to
stand upon thy side, which is the right
side."
Do not all the children who read
this, see the need of offering this prayer
for themselves Are not you apt to
prove a coward sometimes ? Look at
yourself, and see. Oh, be strong and
courageous on the side of truth.







MY MOTHER KNOWS


BEST.


WHY SHOULD WE PRAY?


T. NELSON
' LONDON AND


AND SONS
EDINBURC i



































gY fOTHEfL EfOWS BfIT.
"'rsoHart k*a. bet,"w Ell- .a.r, -d 1.
* bcautifal oIne. *er lip quirered a very Utti.tIor I Supoon
bhe ant ocd lUs m Suchb dsppoinied nte g- lec*.
-Pael.













A PARTY of little girls stood talking
beneath my window. Some nice plan
was on foot; they were going into the
woods, and they meant to make oak-
leaf trimming, and pick berries, and
carry luncheons. 0! it was a fine time
they meant to have I
"Now," said they to one of the num-
ber, Ellen, you run home and ask
your mother if you may go. Tell her
we are all going, and you must."
Ellen, with her green cape bonnet,
skipped across she way, and went into
the house opposite. She was gone
some time. The little girls kept look-
ing up to the windows very impatiently.






2 MIr MOTHER KNOWS BEST.
At length the door opened, and Ellen
came down the steps. She did not
seem to be in a hurry to join her com-
panions, and they cried out, You got
leave T You are going, are you?"
Ellen shook her head, and said that
her mother could not let her go.
Oh," cried the children, it is too
bad! Not go! it is really unkind in
your mother." Why, I would make
her let you." Oh, oh." I would
go, whether or no."
My mother knows best," was Ellen's
answer, and it was a beautiful one.
Her lip quivered a very little-for I
suppose she wanted to go, and was
much disappointed not to get leave-
but she did not look angry or pouting,
and her voice was very gentle, but very
firm, when she said 3"My mother knows
best."
There are a great many occasions
when mothers do not see fit to give






MY MOTHER KNOWS BEST."
their children leave to go and do where
and what they wish; and how often
are they rebellious and pouting in con-
sequence of it. But this is not the true
way, for it is not pleasing to God. The
true way is a cheerful acguieoscnes in
your mother's decision. Trust her, and
smooth down your ruffled feelings by
the sweet and dutiful thought, My
mother knows best." It will save you
many tears and much sorrow. It is
the gratitude you owe her who has
done and suffered so much for you.







E KIND TO YOUR ,

MOTHER.


SIsr BO S XRPETABCI.






*, 4*








1kt


SO KIND TO YOUR NOTPHL.
" WIN my Ual. elr resd abI f fe.w Wrer I her New
Tsuament f-Peh &t


ri






S


LrrnE Annie Grey was just eight
years old. She was a blue-eyed, curly-
haired, and generally pleasant and
happy child. But Annie's mother had
been for many long and weary months
confined to a sick room, with a pale
face and a deep hollow cough, which
often brought tears to Annie's eyes,
although she knew little of death to
which it might lead; and the indul-
gence which she received from those
who had the care of the almost mo-
therless child, as they called her, had
made her wayward and fretful some-
times.
Annie's mother loved her fondly and






2 BE KIND TO YOUR MOTHER
tenderly, and she gave her much good
instruction. She used often, when she
was well enough to walk in the fields,
to lead her out, and tell her of the
goodness of God in giving us the beau-
tiful flowers which so much delighted
her. She would tell her how he might
have made the meadows without a
single blossom, and the trees with but
one colour, which now wore so many
pretty shades; and after she was too
weak to walk out, she would take her
on her lap, and tell her of Jesus, how
he went about doing good while he
lived in the world-that he was good
and kind to everybody; and her eyes
would fill with tears as she told her of
his dying on the cross, and how he
prayed for those who were so cruelly
putting him to death.
Annie loved to talk with her mother,
but of late she had not been permitted
to see her much.








When she played with her ball, she
was sent to the further yard, that the
noise might not disturb her mother
and when she played with her doll in
the parlour, nurse would say, Be
very quiet, Annie, and not trouble
your mother."
But this was Annie's eighth birth-
day, and this day she was to spend
with her mother. The feeble mother
was too weak to say much to her
daughter, but she had in store for her
many beautiful presents, and among
others, one which pleased her more
than all the rest-a Chinese museum.
She thought she should never tire ot
looking through the little opening at
the curiosities within.
She had laughed and jumped with it
a long time, when her mother said,
" Will my little girl read to me a few
verses in her New Testament?"
But Annie had not done with her








museum. She chose, like many other
little girls I have known, rather to
please herself than her mother, and
she fretfully replied, I do not wish
to read now. Nurse will read you a
chapter."
Annie's mother said nothing, but she
looked sad-so sad, that Annie could
not love to look at her museum; so
she got her beautiful gilt-covered Tes-
tament, the birthday gift of her father,
and read a few verses, but in so low a
tone and so fast. and with so sour a
face, that her mother took no pleasure
in hearing her.
Soon Mrs. Grey said, I am very
sick, nurse; you may take Annie away
now."
Nurse took the little girl to the bed-
side, and then, for the first time, she
saw how pale that mother was, except
one spot on her cheeks, which was
very red; but the sad, sorrowful look








her mother gave her, as she received
her usual goodnight kiss, touched her
heart more than all the rest. But she
was still too fretful to ask for forgive-
ness.
After eating her supper, nurse put
Annie to bed; but she could not sleep.
The grieved, sad face of that dear
mother was before her eyes whenever
she closed them. She remembered how
kind her mother had always been to
her; she remembered how many times
she had read stories to her before she
had learned to call the hard words
herself, and she longed now to kiss her,
and ask her to forgive her; but she
must wait till morning. Oh, how she
longed for the first dawn of light! She
remembered, too, what God has told
us in his holy word: to obey our pa-
rents-to honourour father and mother:
and she knew that he was displeased
with her, and she wept bitterly.








There she lay, on her little bed in
the dark room, wishing morning would
come. Soon she hears a noise, like
many people going to and from her
mother's sick-room. Hark! some one
approaches her door. It opens, and
nurse enters in haste. Her eyes are
red, and she is weeping.
Nurse, why do you cry so; and
why have you come to my roomT is it
morning ?"
No, Annie, it is not morning. Your
mother is much worse, and asks for
you."
Still wrapped in her loose white
night-robe, nurse hurried her to the
dying bed; but 0, how shocked was
she, as she gazed upon that mother,
with whom she had parted but a few
short hours before. That bright red
spot upon her cheek was gone now,
and she was much paler than Annie
had ever seen her. Her eyes were







large and very bright; her long dark
hair, which Annie had twisted round
her fingers so often, lay in damp, heavy
masses on her forehead; and her breath-
ing was very quick and short.
Annie knew not what death was,
but she felt that her mother was going
to leave her, and wildly, sorrowfully
threw her arms around her neck, and
begged for forgiveness. Little strength
was left to the dying woman; but with
an effort, she said, just loud enough
for Annie to hear, "I do. Ask God;
for you have offended him-" and little
Annie never heard her voice again.
Her mother was dead.
Years have rolled away, and Annie,
no longer little Annie, still lives, but
lives to be kind to all. She has not
forgotten her mother's last words; and
the remembrance of her unkindness to
her has caused many a tear to dim her
eye, and imbittered many an hour; and








she says to all little children, do


sin against


God by being


your parents.
Are you ever fretful


your parents ?


nie, and


l honoa


unkind


or unkind


Remember
ir thy father


little An-
or and thy


mother."

My Saviour, guide me with thine eye;
My sine forgive, my wants supply;
With favour crown my youthful days
And my whole life shall speak thy praise.
Thy Holy Spirit, Lord, impart;
Impress thy likeness on my heart;
May I obey thy truth in love,
Till raised to dwell with thee above.








MOTHER'S

INFLUENCE. -


PIATLE THEOO E'S


FAITH.


Se. &&.


T. NELSON
LONDON AND


AND SONS.
EDINBURCI

































Notnma's oarraotxe.
^ UOTHKK'B DrIino
"Tfl with nbdr hi plin ponb hiA IA, and heatfuti
rof i nober'. oe, sh bthh prayer God's lin upb1
he Humnf lcilL"-?asa 1













PICTURE to your mind a young mother
with her little boy, her only child. She
lifts him from his bed in the morning,
talks to him of the good Father in
heaven, and of that dear Son of God
who came to bless the children, and
bids him kneel in prayer by her side.
He drops upon his knees, and with
clasped hands and closed eyes, prays,
" Our Father," &e. Then, with her
bands resting upon his head, and a
heart full of a mother's love, she breathes
a prayer for God's blessing upon the
young child. Sweet is the air of that
chamber; holy feelings swell the mo-
ther's bosom; obedience and love and






A MOTHER' INFLUENCE.


joy bubble up in the heart of the little
boy, as he kisses that beloved parent
when their morning prayers are over.
Evening witnesses the same hallowed
scene; and thus, day by day, this pious
woman strives to bring down a holy
influence upon her child.
When the child is seven years old,
this mother is called home to heaven
her earthly work is done; her earthly
care is ended; to other hands she leaves
her boy; she commits his eternal keep-
ing to her own God. The boy grows
up, and goes to sea. He is thrown
into the company of Sabbath-breakers
and swearers, and bad men of all
descriptions. Early impressions wear
away, and he is the bold and hardened
leader of his wicked companions; he
makes a mock of sin, and his blasphemy
terrifies even the old tars in the fore-
castle. Oh what a painful contrast to
the gentle and loving child. And is






A MOTHrER' I.UtNENCE.


this pious mother's influence all lost?
Have her prayers been all in vain
Let us look a little further.
When he was a little past twenty,
the vessel, of which he was mate, on a
return voyage to England, met with a
succession of terrible gales, which made
her almost a perfect wreck. For four
weeks she was at the mercy of the winds
and weather, and the men were con-
stantly at the pumps to keep her from
sinking. Provisions grew short; they
had no bread, hardly any clothes, and
the weather was very cold. Then the
bold heart of the sailor quailed at the
thought of meeting that God whom he
had rejected and blasphemed. Oh
God, save me or I perish," was his
agonizing cry. "The God of the Bible
forgive me, for his Son's sake," was his
constant prayer. My mother's God,
the God of mercy, have mercy on me."
The vessel at last made an Irish port.






A MOTHER'S ITLUENCR.


But though the temporal danger was
over, the young man's sense of danger
to his soul did not pass away until he
found peace in his Saviour Jesus Christ.
A thorough change came over his cha-
racter; his consecration to his mother's
God was entire and universal; and,
finally, after a few years, he became an
eloquent and devoted minister, an au-
thor, and a sacred poet. Through him,
Scott the commentator was led to Christ,
and his good and great commentary of
the Bible became the work of his life.
Another of his -converts was Wilber-
force, the champion of African freedom,
and the author of that Practical View
of Christianity," which brought Leigh
Richmond into the ministry of Christ.
Through his labours, Claudius Buchana
was converted, one of the first mission-
aries to India, and whose writings first
aroused the attention of Judson to the
wants of India.






A MOTHER'S INTLUENCE. 5
The little boy, the sailor, and the
minister, was the Rev. John Newton.
Was that mother's influence lost? Did
that little seed, planted by a mother's
love in the heart of her child, and
watered by a mother's tears, die out
For nearly twenty years it was indeed,
to all appearance, dead in his heart.
But it sprung up at last and bore fruit,
abundant fruit, blessed fruit for the
great Lord of the harvest. Mothers,
pray; mothers, teach, train up your
little ones for God, and your labours
shall not be in vain.







THUR AND


ALICE.


TE IODRD'S CALL TO


cnLDEE



































~PIAn AlaI
5vt itutu AU rmLrthn ant. heatol fo acS. 4 a
- mbrlrllaiM h& ttb. kfl4 ot, o ar thn
-ntELL














ARTHrR was a little boy who lived in
a large house on one of the widest
and cleanest streets in N- There
was but one small family in the house,
so they had plenty of room, and air, and
other like comforts. Arthur's father
had a horse and carriage, and he used
to give his little boy many a pleasant
ride into the country among the green
fields and fresh flowers and sweet sing-
ing birds.
Alice was a little girl who lived al-
most neighbour to Arthur, in a nar-
row dirty alley leading from the main
street near his father's house. Her
parents were very poor, and hired one
*








little room in an old rickety wooden
building for themselves and their five
children. There were five other fami-
lies in the same house, each having like
them only one apartment for washing,
cooking, eating, sleeping, and living;
so that it was a very crowded, bustling,
disagreeable place, and in the summer
a very hot and unwholesome one. No
wonder that the children liked to get
out of such dwellings into the open air.
One summer day, when her mother
was washing, and the stove was very
bot, and the room very wet and dirty,
Alice took her two youngest sisters, of
whom she had the charge, into the
street. The sun was oppressive, and
she soon grew tired of walking about.
The door-step of her house was already
crowded with children, so she went up
the little alley and sat down on the
shaded marble steps of Arthur's house.
She thought it was very pleasant there;








so did her little sisters, and Alice spoke
tenderly to them, and they were all
very happy. She did not wish for the
cool and elegant parlours near her,
which Arthur could enjoy; she was
satisfied with the seat upon the steps.
Just then, Arthur came home from
school, and as soon as he had caught
sight of them, called out, Go away
from there. Go, right away, you Pad-
dies." They went slowly down the
steps into the street, and stood there,
without saying a word. Arthur was
very thoughtless and selfish; he was
not pleased with the ragged and dirty
appearance of the poor little girls, and
without thinking whether they were to
blame for it or not, or whether he was
doing right or wrong, he drove them
back into the hot dirty alley. Wasn't
he a bad boy? Yes, he was. And yet
if you had seen him at home, you might
have thought him very good, for he was







affectionate and obedient to his parents;
and when with his companions, he was
obliging and agreeable; but he was
proud, and had a wicked dislike of poor
people, especially if they were Irish.
Alice returned to her mother's wet
and uncomfortable room, with a sense
of injustice and a feeling of discontent
in her heart. I can't have anything.
Why can't I? Can't I just as good as
others?" she said to herself. She felt
very angry with Arthur. Why should
he call her a Paddy with such contempt?
And surely he need not have pushed her
out of the pleasant street; she had a
right in it as well as himself
Arthur often went down the alley to
order his fathers horse, which was kept
at a stable there, and his manner to the
poor children was always very insult-
ing, so that after a while Alice grew to
hate him, and sometimes even to wish
him some evil.







One day a good lady met Alice in the
street, and took her with her to Sunday
school, and persuaded her to come again
Sabbath after Sabbath. She had not
gone there long before she heard the
blessed lesson which Jesus taught,
" Love your enemies; bless them that
curse you; do good to them that hate
you, and pray for them that despitefully
use you." It was new to her. Love
her enemies? Pray for them who used
her badly? She thought it was impos-
sible to do it; that she never could love
that proud Arthur; she should always
hate him. She was troubled by the
holy words, and at last ventured to ask
her teacher how people could love those
who hated them, and whom they hated.
She was told that they must ask help
from God; they must seek for a new
heart, a heart of love; and if they really
wanted to obey Christ, they would soon
find that it is not hard to do so. If they






ARTHUIM AfN A.tCt.


would do good to those whom they
had hated, their hatred would soon bo
changed to love.
But how can you do any good to
rich people?" asked Alice, still think-
ing of Arthur.
The very humblest can help the
highest. If we want to do good, and
watch for an opportunity, we shall al-
ways find one"
Alice did not forget this lesson; she
thought it over again and again. Her
conscience reproved her; she had felt
unkindly and revengefully towards Ar-
thur; she must learn to love him, and
she determined to do him some good, if
she could.
Once, when the wind was very high,
she saw his hat blow off; she ran and
picked it up, and handed it to him;
but the ungracious boy said in return,
Why didn't you let it aloneT Take
your dirty hands off from it."







Alice turned away disappointed.
How could she learn to love Arthur?
He would not even let her show him a
kindness. She told her teacher about
it, and learned from her the scripture
text, Let us not be weary in well-
doing; for in due season we shall reap,
if we faint not."
After this, she saw Arthur one day
looking for something he had lost.
S"What is it?" asked Alice. You
don't think I am going to tell you; for
then you would be finding it, and keep
it." "No,indeedIwouldnot; Ishouldbe
glad to give it back to you," said Alice.
Arthur was unsuccessful in his search,
and when he had gone away, Alice
looked carefully, and found a picee of
money. It was what Arthur had lost.
It pleased her very much to return it
to him, and though he did not thank
her, he said nothing unpleasant; he
even lookedaed hated. Alice found that







she had already come to feel kindly
towards him, and she was a great deal
happier than when she had hated him
and wished him ill. Oh, it is indeed a
very blessed, a very wise precept of our
Saviour, Do good to them that hate
you, bless them that curse you; pray
for them that despitefilly use you and
persecute you."
Arthur could not help being struck by
the honesty and good-nature of Alice in
finding and returning him his money;
and he felt so much respect for her, that
he no longer insulted her when she
came in his way.
At length a sad accident happened to
Arthur. He fell and injured his knee;
so that he was very lame, and could
not walk without a crutch. Now it
was easy for those whom he had ill-
treated to revenge themselves upon him,
if they were wicked enough to do so;
and as he was once going down the






ARTHUR A A LICE. 9
alley, a bad boy hastily snatched his
crutch from under his arm, so as to
throw him violently upon the pave-
ment, and then ran away with it.
Poor ArthurI Who would help him
now? He had no claim to any kind-
ness or compassion from the children
who gathered around him, for he
had shown them none; but Alice was
learning to be like Christ, and she
went to him, and gently helped him
up. He did not tell her to go away
then; he did not care for her poverty
and miserable looks; he needed help
from the poor then, as the rich very
often do.
How can I get home?" said Arthur;
I am so badly hurt, and so lame."
Lean on me," said the stout-hearted
Alice, I can almost carry you." There
was no other way for Arthur, and so,
tugging under his weight, with the help
of another child she got him to his fa-







their's steps and rang the bell Arthur
did not drive her off now. Wait,"
said he, as she was going away; you
are a good girl, and my mother will pay
you." I don't want any pay," she
answered. "But you must have some,"
said Arthur. That would spoil all,"
she said. am glad that poor people
can do good as well as others."
When Alice went back to her mo-
ther's wretched room, it did not seem
half so wretched to her as it used to.
There were comforts and pleasant things
there she once did not notice. It had
two good windows opening on the street,
while one of her poor neighbours lived
in an attie which had only one high
window, from which nothing but roof-
tops could be seen. They had seats
enough for all the family, while another
family near by had only two chairs.
The love which had grown up in her
heart had made a new light in her eyes,








to find blessings and pleasures around
her; and she was now not only content
with her lot, but thankful.




THE ONE FAMILY.
Gon of love,-before thee now,
Relp us all in love to bow;
As the dews on Hermon f&3,
May thy blessing rest on all
Let it soften every breast,
Hush ungentle thoughts to rest,
Till we feel ourselves to be
Children of one family,-
Children who can look above
For a heavenly Father's love;
Who shall meet, life's journey past,
In that Father's house t last.










THE LORD'S CALL TO CHILDREN.

Jss was once a child on caith,
And sat by household board and hearth,
Though many scorn and more forget,
He knows the heart of childhood yet.

How many snares beset its path
How much to learn and fear it hath I
And still his call i kind and free,
' My little children, come to meI"

" Come from the world,-within its bound
Is no abiding city found;
Come from the downward paths of sin,
At death's dark gates they enter in.

" For grace to walk in peace and love,
With man below and God above;
For life that will not fade or fee,
My little children, come to met"





IY AND THE


VOICE.


T, NELSON
LONDON AND


AND SONS.
EDINBURGC"k


W FI
^',



































*I must n't ke thba cake wtbhouL ther' 1e. 1 knt
nu ota Ilf la lUo eer se or ta ever, -o god.~.Pse













OiCE there was a little boy, whose
name was Jerry. He had a kind
mother and father, and two brothers
younger than he. Jerry's mother often
read the Bible to him, and told him
how to be a good boy; and Jerry, as
soon as he learned to read, used to read
about little Joseph, and Moses, and
Samuel; he thought no stories were
so pretty as Bible stories. He wished
he could be like Samuel; he wished
God would speak to him, and call,
"Jerry, Jerryj just as he did to little
Sa mel; then le would say, "Here
am I;" and he would mind everything
the Lord told him.








He thought it would have been a
great deal easier to be a good boy then,
than to be a good boy now, because
God talked to people in those days.
His mother told him that he had a
great many more helps to do right
than Moses or Samuel bad, and that
God had told him a great many more
things than he did them. God has sent
his son Jesus Christ to Jerry, who
made being good and doing good very
plain to every little boy and girL He
could not even forget what God, says,
because it is all written in the Bible,
and Jerry could go any time and read
it, and find out just what it meant.
Nobody can make the excuse now-a-
days, I cannot find out what God
wants me to do." I could not think
what it was he said to me." No, no;
because there is the Bible; it is all
down there as clear as can be. He
tells Jerry, and he tells every boy, and






JERRY TH VOICE.


every girl, and every man and woman,
just how he wants them to act.
"But, mother, if I could only hear
God speak to me," said Jerry.
Every time you think about doing
wrong, Jerry, if you listen, you will
hear a still small voice in your heart,
saying, Jerry, Jerry 1' That is God's
voice; it is bidding you to do no sin."
Shall I hear it with my ears, my
own ears?" asked he, taking hold of
his ears with his fat hands.
You will hear it with the ears of
your heart, perhaps," said his mother.
"If you ever are upon the point of
doing what is not right, stop a moment;
stop still, and listen in your heart, and
see if something there does not seem to
say, 'Jerry, Jerry, do it not.'
And that is God, mother, is it ?"
asked Jerry, looking very sober, tell-
ing me not to do it."
Yes, it is God."








And does he speak to everybody
so0"
Yes, he speaks to everybody just
so; he speaks very loudly to little chil-
dren, because he wants them to begin
right. It is not listening to him which
makes so many bad boys. By and by,
if they do not hearken at all, he speaks
no more, and leaves them to go on mn
their wicked ways. It is a very dread-
ful thing to have God leave off speak-
ing to us. When His still small voice
goes out of the heart, a great many
noisy voices come in, telling us to go
this way and that way; these ways are
very crooked, and lead to sin and sor-
row."
"Then God does speak to us now,"
said Jerry, after thinking a little while.
"Yes, both in the Bible and in our
hearts."
And did not Samuel love the Bible,
mother?" asked he.






JERRY AND THE VOICE. 5
"Not all the Bible, because it was
not all written. He did not have any
of the good things Jesus told about.
Jesus tells us what is right and what
is wrong plainer than any one else. If
any little child does not happen to think,
or is in any danger of letting it slip out
of his mind, God speaks in the heart."
"Pulling us back," said Jerry.
"Yes, pulling us back from sin. How
very good God is to think so much of
us."
Mother," cried Jerry, I mean al-
ways to hearken. I mean to be like
little Samuel. I mean to hear the voice
and mind it. I am sure I ought, God
is so kind, so good to us, mother, giv-
ing us everything. He gave me my
new shoes, didn't He? He made the
sheep grow. I should not have had
them, if it had not been for God,
mother."
His mother prayed in her heart that








Jerry might ever hearken and obey the
voice. Jerry thought a great deal about
the matter all day; he thought of it
when he went to bed at night, and
when he got up in the morning; and
he put in his prayer, as he knelt by his
mother's knee, "' 0 Lord, I pray thee,
let no naughty voices come into my
heart, and make such a noise that I
cannot hear thy voice. I am a poor
simple child, and I want to hear and
mind thy voice." This was a part of
Jerry's prayer. It showed that he
meant to try with all his might to be
a good boy; it showed he was in ear-
net. Oh, if every boy and girl were
only more in earnest to do right, they
would try to remember all their mothers
say, and not forget to ask God's help.
Not many days after this, when Jerry
came home from school, he found his
mother had gone out. I wish I hat
something to eat," he said.







You can go into the parlour closet,
and get one of the green apples that
are in the smallest basket up in the cor-
ner," said Nancy; "your mother will
let you have one of those."
Jerry skipped away after one. He
opened the closet and went in : it was
a deep, large closet, where the children
did not often go. The apples looked
good, and he took one. As he turned
to come out, he spied the little cup-
board door ajar, where he knew his
mother kept her nice things. A basket
of rich cake peeped out, with plums in
it, and sugar over it. "Oh," thought
Jerry, smacking his lips, Oh, how
good it looks; how good it would
taste; I should like a bite." Jerry
looked. Take a piece; your mother
need not know it," said a noisy voice
in his heart. "Take it; it's a good
chance; nobody sees you; snatch it!"
Jerry, Jerry!" spoke the still small







voice, Jerry!" It only seemed to
say, Jerry," and Jerry knew it. He
let it speak, and he minded it. In a
moment he shut the cupboard, and ran
away as fast as he could. I must not
take that cake without mother's leave.
I know I must not, if it looks ever so
nice, or tastes ever so good ; and he
tried to think no more about the cake,
while he went out into the garden and
ate his apple. Jerry was very glad he
had hearkened.
Saturday afternoon he asked his
mother if he might go out and play.
Yes," said his mother, if you will
not go near the water's edge. I do not
want you to go there, Jerry."
"No, mother; but anywhere else."
Soon we see him with Willie Cobbs,
walking pleasantly along on the sunny
side of the hedge. They seem to be
going over to the wood. Presently
they met a troop of boys at the corner.






JERRY AlD THE VOICE.


The boys were talking and laughing.
One of them had a ship, a fine little
ship, about as large as a hat, which his
uncle gave him. It was rigged, and all
ready for sea. He was showing it to
the others.
Oh, what a beauty it is," cried
Jerry; do let me take it in my own
hands a minute."
Be careful," said George. Oh, it
sails like a bird. Come, boys; come,
little Jerry; come all, down to the
water, and see her sail. We'll go to
the lower part of the pond, where the
water is deepest. Hurra! come;" and,
holding up his ship, he started in the
race, ho, ho, for my good ship!" with
all the rest at his heels. All the rest,
did I say? Yes, for Jerry was pushed
along among the great boys. Jerry
was listening to them, and looking up
to the ship, he hardly knew where he
was going. Soon he saw the sun shin-






JERRY AID THE VOICE.


ing on the pond. The boys all ran
down the hill to the hill to the wates edge.
Jerry stopped.
"' Jerry," the small voice spake.
" Jerry!" He heard it. Jerry," it
said. Jerry knew what it meant well
enough. Another voice began to speak
with it: Go, go; there is no harm in
going to the water's edge; your mother
won't know it; she can't see you."
Jerry!" The small voice was the
loudest.
Jerry," shouted the boys, turning
round, come; come, see the ship sail."
"Jerry!" "Ah, I will mind you,"
whispered Jerry to the small voice;
I will mind you." My mother
told me not to go to the water's edge,"
roared Jerry, and turning his back upon
the boys, he ran along again to the sunny
side of the hedge. Willie had gone
with the rest. The boys looked up on
the hill, but Jerry was gone.








He sat down and picked some sorrel
by the hedge. He was alone; but he
heard the echo of the boys' voices, and
they seemed to say, Come, come with
us." He was afraid the noisy voices
might come into his heart too, and stifle
the small one; he got up and ran far-
ther off. Seeing no others anywhere
around to play with, he went home and
sat down on the stone steps before the
door. By and by his mother came out.
Why, Jerry, are you here I
thought you had gone to play."
The boys have gone to the water's
edge, and you told me not to go," said
he; "and, mother, I have nothing to
do." His mother took him by the
hand, and told him he should take a
walk with her. I do not know where
they went; but Jerry was very happy
all the afternoon.
When his mother went to give him
the good-night kiss, as he lay in his






JERRY AD THE VOICE,


little bed, he whispered in her ear,
"< Mother, God seems to speak to me,
and say, Jerry," as he did to SamueL
I hear him, and I try to answer, 'Here
am I;' but, mother, there are other
voices too-bad voices. I am happy
when I mind God's voice." His mother
felt very thankful for the words of her
dear boy. Jerry is a great boy now,
and his good conduct shows very plainly
whose voice he still hears, and still
obeys.
Dear children, do you hearken to the
still small voice of God, speaking in
your hearts? Do, I pray you, stop and
listen to it, and obey it. How good
and gracious is God to care thus for
you, little children as you are.
This still small voice is ConwSccN.







TTLE ALICE.


TRE BICT OF CAKE '

- sacs or aCn'


T. N ELSON


AND SONS


LONDON AND EDINBURHC //


































InTTLf ALICO.
*Ce A.lis I rill o up with y, for mother s
you knw.' Aul t -a oB -u erick., looking down .ry
useiT."-P %e














ALICE was the youngest of a large circle
of brothers and sisters. She was the
pet; but she was not a spoiled pet, wil-
ful and selfish as pets are apt to be.
She had a mother who made her
children not only love, but revere and
obey her; she was a praying mother,
whose heart's desire was, both by pre-
cept and example, to lead her little
ones to the Lamb of God, who taketh
away the sin of the world."
Alice was now five years old, and
could you have seen her in company
with her cousin Ruth, her playmate and
school-mate, as they dressed dolls or
skipped off to school, you would have
M






2 LITLE ALICE.
said, Surely innocence and love dwell
in the bosoms of those little ones.
One night when it came Alice's bed-
time, she hadnomind to gotobed. Sarah
said, Come, Alice, I will go up with
you, for mother is engaged, you know."
Alice sat still on the cricket, looking
down very sadly. She had scarcely
tasted her bread and milk. I am not
a bit hungry," she said, shoving away
the bowl.
Do you feel sick?" asked Sarah.
No, I am not sick," she answered.
Again Sarah took her hand to lead
her up stairs. "I wish mother would,"
said Alice; I had a great deal rather
mother would, to-night."
Sarah told her that mother had com-
pany, and could not be spared; then she
was led away, but slowly and unwill-
ingly. As Sarah undressed her, she
saw small tears flowing down her cheeks.
"What is the matter, Alice? Tell me,






UTTLE ALICE. 3
child; what ails you?" cried her sister,
anxiously.
But Alice gave no reason, nor made
a complaint; she only sighed. When
it was time for her to kneel down by
her little bed to pray, as her habit was,
Alice knelt and bowed her head, but
no words issued from her lips. Sarah
thought this was strange. Then she
arose and crept into bed so silent, so
sad, so tearful, that Sarah became
frightened. When she went down stairs
and joined the company below, she
watched an opportunity of mentioning
the case to her mother.
I will run up directly and see what
ails the child," said she.
Why, she is not sick, mother," said
Sarah; only it seems as if something
was preying on her mind;" nor was it
long before the mother escaped from the
parlour, and went to the chamber of
her little one.








As she trod the entry softly, lest Alice
might then have fallen asleep, she
listened and heard a low crying. My
child," said the mother tenderly, stoop-
ing down to her bedside, "what troubles
you? tell me."
Oh, mother! I am so glad you have
come," cried Alice, uncovering her head
and seizing her mother's hand; I can
never go to sleep. Oh, mother! I hav
killed Ruth in my heart to-day;" and
the tears flowed afresh. She got
angry, and I wished she was dead. I
can't ask God's forgiveness till rve
made up with Ruth. He wont hear me,
for my heart had hate in it and not love,
which displeases God. Oh, mother!"
and the little child seemed broken in
heart.
Her mother tried to comfort her; but
there lay the cold, heavy weight of sin
upon her bosom. "c Oh, if I could only
see Ruth and we could make up, then








I could pray," she cried piteously;
" can't I go to Ruth's house ?"
The mother thought a moment, and
then said, "Yes, my child, you shall
go;" for she well knew no more impor-
tant business could claim her attention
thanhelpingherchild throughthethorny
passes of the narrow way."
Alice's father was called, who, wrap-
ping the weeping Alice in a blanket,
carried her to the home of cousin Ruth,
whose door was next their own. She
was taken to Ruth's bedside; it was
a touching scene, the confession, the
prayer for forgiveness, the kiss of re-
conciliation: then laying her head on
her father's shoulder, she asked to be
carried home.
Once more in her chamber, Alice
again knelt down and prayed God to
forgive her for the sin of hating Ruth.
" Give me love in my heart," she cried
earnestly, because God is love, and







because it was love that made Jesus
Christ die on the cross for us; give me
love, for I want to be like Jesus Christ;
keep me from hating and killing any-
body in my heart."
Thus prayed the little Alice. Oh,
what a prayer and conflict was that!
Sin and conscience, love and hate, had
been fighting in her bosom. Alas, in
the bosoms of how many children does
hate conquer love, does sin put out
the light of conscience. In Alice, love
gained the mastery. Love to God,
love to our fellows, love to do right, it
is this love which makes us children of
God; it is hatred, and anger, and strife,
which show us tobe childrenof the devil
How many children who read this
can remember hating and killing people
in their hearts? Have you been sorry
for it, and begged to be forgiven If
not, it shows you are far, far from God
and holy things. Think of this.







E CHILI

810NARY.


2 AND HIS SI P R


T. NELSON AND SONS-
LONDON AND EDINBURCH









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"ANIE, dear," said Mrs. H-- to
her little daughter, would you like to
be a missionary?"
A missionary, mamma, to the hea-
then? 0, no; 1 should not like that
at all."
Why not, Annie?"
0, mamma, I never could make up
my mind to go far away over the wide,
deep sea, and leave you and my
brothers. I often wonder how people
ever get to be good enough to go and
be missionaries to the heathen."
Were are the heathen, Annie?"
0, they are in India and China and








Africa, and the islands of the sea," she
answered.
SWAo aretheheathen, my daughter?"
They are the people who have no
knowledge of the true God, mamma."
Annie, did you see the little beg-
gar-girl who came here this morning?"
Yes, mamma."
"When I went down to speak to her,"
said Mrs. H---, asked her if she had
ever been to Sabbath school; she said,
SNo.' I asked her who made her, and
she said she did not know; and when I
asked her if she had ever heard of God,
she answered, No.' Now, here is a
little heathen at our own door, and I
propose that you shall be a little mis-
sionary to her."
How, mamma?"
"I have proposedto thispoor ignorant
child to come here to-morrow morning,
and every morning, to be instructed in
the knowledge of God: besides which,






THE CHILD MSSIONARY.


she has promised me that she will
regularly attend Sabbath school. She
seems a bright, intelligent child, and
was pleased with the idea of gaining
instruction; and you shall read to her
every morning from the Bible, if you
please."
0, mamma, I should like to be
such a missionary as that," exclaimed
Annie.
It was a beautiful sight to see the
little missionary seated on her low chair,
with the large Bible open across her
knee, and the little learner on another
low chair near her, her eager, bright
eyes gazing into the face of her young
teacher, who read slowly and in her
sweet voice the story of the birth of the
Babe of Bethlehem, of the life of the
Man of Sorrows, and of the death of
the crucified Saviour. These stories
are so familiar to us that we do not
always feel their beauty; but to this








poor little ignorant one, they come
with all the freshness of a first hearing.
Annie is thus sowing seed which
may spring up into everlasting life.
And even if the poor child to whom
she reads is not made better by her in-
structions, a blessing may return into
the heart of the little missionary; for
no effort is made to do good from a
pure and right motive, which does not
bring its own reward.
Perhaps my little readers think it
impossible that there should be heatken
almost within sight of their own dwell-
ings. But you may be sure they are
ther. Will you not look them out, and
lead their wandering feet into the path
to heaven, and point them to the
" Lamb of God, who taketh away the
sin of the world?"








GIVE US-AS


FORGIVE.


THE BLIND


GIOL.


T. NELSON


ADSONS.


LONDON AND EDINBURC:


I













ALMosT every child is taught to ofer,
night and morning, the Lord's Prayer;
but many, perhaps, do so without know-
ing for what they are praying. That
short prayer comprehends a great deal.
Loo at one petition: "Forgive us our
debts, as we forgive our debtors." Does
every child reflect, that when he offers
that prayer, he asks God to treat him as
he has treated his brothers and sisters,
his school-mates andcompanion s Have
you been unkind, given blow for blow,
or word for word? Then your prayer
implies a petition that God will not for-
give your sins, but punish you as you
deserve-that he will bring every act







2 FORGIVE US--AS FORGIVE."
and word into remembrance and give
to each its due reward.
A teacher once had twelve little
scholars, none of them over ten years of
age, and noneunder five. She had taught
them all the Lord's Prayer, and every
morning and night as she opened and
closed her school, all these children knelt
and offered with her this prayer. But
one day, as she was observing these chil-
dren at play, she saw them show unkind
and unforgiving dispositions, and thb
thought came to her mind, that for them
to pray that God would forgive them
as they forgive others, was to pray for
punishment rather than for mercy.
She had often tried to explain to them
the meaning of their prayer, but now
she must devise some way to make them
feel it. She said nothing then, but when
the time came for closing the school and
offering their prayer, she gathered them
around her, as she was accustomed to






FORGIVE US--AS WE FORGIVE." 3
do, and asked them the usual question,
"Have you been good girls to-day?"
They stopped, and thought if they
had whispered, if they had recited well,
if they had come in season, and then,
with very good-natured faces, they all
answered, "Yes; we have not whis-
pered, and have recited well." The
mark for good behaviour was put down,
for all that was true.
"And now you are all ready to offer
your prayer?"
Yes; we can say it all."
And you are ready to offer that one
petition, Forgive us our debts, as we
forgive our debtors?' Remember what
I have told you about it. Remember
what it means. Think if, through all
this day, you have done as you would
be done by -if you have fully for
given all the unkind treatment which
you may have received; think of all
that you have done, and then tell me






4 FORGIVE US-AS WE FORGTVt."
if you are willing to offer that peti-
tion."
The expression of every face was
changed, and tears started from the
eyes of some. They were silent, and
their teacher again said, "Are you
not ready to offer your prayer ? We
must ask our Father to forgive us as
we have forgiven each other; and he
knows all-all our lives and all our
hearts."
"Oh no; not now; not yet; not that
one," said the children. Let us say
some other prayer; let us say the other
one which you have taught us, 'God be
merciful to me a sinner.' "
Then you are not willing to say
'Our Father' to God, but each must
go alone to the throne of grace, and
say, God be merciful to me a sinner.
And why can you not pray the Lord's
Prayer? Have you been more wicked
to-day than usual?"






'P FORGIVE US-AS WE FORGIVE. 5
"No; but we cannot pray so; we
did not know that it meant all that."
From this night, my dear children,
you must think what this prayer means.
To forgive truly and sincerely an injury
is often very hard; but it must and can
be done. It should be forgiven, too,
when it is received, as fully, as freely,
and as promptly as we desire our sins
to be forgiven of God.
"True forgiveness also requires a
forgetfulness of the injury received.
We often hear the expression, I will
forgive it, but I cannot forget it.' This
is not right. No; true forgiveness
banishes the remembrance of the deed.
You could not one of you love and for-
give your playmate, if all the time you
were thinking of the blow or the unkind
word which she had given you. And
we do not wish God to remember out
sins. We pray him to blot them out,
to 'remember them not against us:'






6 FORGIVE US--AS W FORGIVILM
and so we must do, or we cannot in
sincerity pray, Forgive us our debts,
as we forgive our debtors.' Let us think
how many injuries our Saviour received,
how much he suffered for our sakes,
and how many sins we need to have
forgiven. Remember this, my dear
children; and now, to-night we will
offer the publican's prayer, God be
merciful to me a sinner.' May we all
be able to-morrow night to come to-
gether and offer the Lord's Prayer."
So both teacher and children offered in
tears this solitary prayer, "God be mer-
ciful to me a sinner."
Afterwards some of those children
were much changed; they were quiet,
loving, and forgiving; they had learned
to offer the Lord's Prayer-they had
learned to forgive. And I hope and
pray, that every child that shall read
this, may learn to do the same.





















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THE BLIND GIRL.


LrrriL MAS DALE was playing on the
side-walk before her father's house.
Ellen Green saw her, and running to
her, called out, "Mary, Mary, come
and play with me in the sand-bank."
No, Ellen, mother has forbidden me
to play there."
4" Oh, do come; we 'l have a good
time, and she never '11 know it."
"No; I can't disobey her. You know
it would be wicked."
"Well, go along, then. I don't want
you to play with me," said Ellen, quite
angrily, and giving Mary a sudden
push, threw her upon the side-walk,
and then ran away. Mary's bonnet
flew off, and the side of her head struck








hard against the pavement. She lay
still, as if insensible. Her mother saw
her from the window, and hastening to
her, took her up in her arms and car-
ried her into the house. She was soon
able to speak, but there was a great
pain in her head, and a mist before her
eyes, so that she could see nothing
distinctly. A physician came and pre-
scribed for her relief, but in vain; her
sight grew dimmer and dimmer, until
she could not see at all. She was
blind. When she had been quite blind
for several days, she asked her mother,
"Can I never see again?"
I fear not, my dear child," was the
answer.
Jesus could open my eyes, if he
was here. He made the blind to
see."
He is not on the earth to open
blind eyes now, but he is continually
giving sight to blind souls, which is a






THE BLIND GIRL


greater miracle to those who under
stand it."
I think I know what you mean,
mother; making those who didn't care
anything about God, and who never
thought anything about him, to see him
and feel him all the time, and love him
too for his goodness."
You understand something of what
I mean. If you should be blind all
your life, yet if you see God with your
heart you will be happy. The light of
his presence is better than the light of
the sun, and the smile of his love is
sweeter than the face of parents and
friends."
I think God does smile on me some-
times, mother, and then I feel a very
sweet peace in my bosom, and I love
everybody. I am not sorry, then, that
I am blind, because God made me so."
Do you love Ellen Green, then?"
"Yes, mother; and I am always sorry







for her. She must feel so badly for
what she has done, and I think she
don't know how pleasant it is to feel
that God loves her. Couldn't she come
and see me now sometime? Perhaps
it would do her good."
It was told Ellen that Mary wished
to see her. Ellen seemed very much
troubled when she went into the cham-
ber where Mary sat quietly holding her
hands, and whispering to herself little
verses that she had learned when she
could see. When she heard that Ellen
was come, she took hold of her hand
and spoke very kindly to her. I can't
play much with you, Ellen, but I wanted
you to see how happy I am. God is
very good, even to blind people."
The tears came to Ellen's eyes, and
one of them fell on Mary's hand.
Don't cry, Ellen. It is best for me to
be blind, or God would not have per-
mitted me to become so; and, perhaps,







when you see me blind, you will to
sorry for the bad temper that sometimes
makes you unkind, and will learn not
to get angry any more." Ellen still
wept, but she could say nothing.
A few days afterwards she went to
lead Mary out for a walk in the beau-
tiful sunshine; and it was pleasant to
see how careful she was that no harm
should happen to the little blind girl.
But 0, how sad and sorry she looked I
There was no peace for her till she had
sought and found the forgiveness of
God; and as long as she lives, she will
mourn over her sin and its sad fruits.










LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

O Thou, who driest the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be
If, pierced by sins and sorrows here,
We could not By to thee.
The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
Oh, who could bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy wing of love
Come brightly wafting, through the gloom,
Our peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touched by thee, grows bright.
With more than rapture's ray
As darlmess shows as worlds of light
We never saw by day.








"'DO YOUR BEST."


THE STOLEN PENNY


T.NELSON AND


SONS.


LONDON AND EDINBURCI






" DO YOUR BEST."


than gold. I never forgot his words,
and I believe I have tried to act upon
them. After reaching home, my uncle
gave Marcus and me some weeding to
do in the garden. It was Wednesday
afternoon, and we had laid our plans
for something else. Marcus, fretted
and ill-humoured at his disappointment,
did not more than half do his work-
and I began pretty much like him,
until grandfather's advice came into my
mind, and I determined to follow it; in
a word, I did my best.' And when
my uncle came out, I shall never forget
his look of approbation, as his eyes
glanced over my beds, or the fourpence
he slipped into my hands afterwards,
* because,' as he said, my work was
well done.' Ah, I was a glad and
thankful boy; while poor Marcus was
left to drudge over his beds all the
afternoon.
At fifteen, I was sent to the aca-






4" DO YOUR BEST." 3
demy, where I had partly to earn my
own way through the course. The
lessons came hard at first, for I was not
fond of study; but grandfather's advice
was my motto, and I tried to do my best.
As a consequence of this, though I was
small of my age, and not very strong,
my mother had three offers for me before
the year was out, and one was from the
best merchant of the village, a place'
in whose store store considered very de-
sirable. When I joined the church, I
tried to do the Lord's work as well as I
did my own; and often when I have
been tempted toleave the Sabbath school,
or let a small hinderance keep me from
the prayer meeting, or get discouraged
in any good thing, my grandfather's
last words, Do the best you can,' have
given me fresh courage, and I would
again try; for if we do what we can,
we can safely leave the rest with God."
Here then was the key to this man's






" DO YOUR BEST."


character. He is considered one of the
best business men, one of the best citi-
zens, one of the best officers in the
church, one of the best friends of the
poor, one of te best neighbours, fathers
husbands, friends; in a word, he is uni-
versally beloved and respected. And
what is the secret of it all? He always
tried to do to best he could. Let every
boy and girl take this for their motto.
Acted upon, it will do wonders for you.
It will bring out powers and capabili-
ties which will surprise and delight
yourselves and your friends. Do your
best," or, as the Bible has it, "* What-
soever thy hand findeth to do, do it with
thy might;" or, in other words, What-
soever you do, do it heartily as to the
Lord."







THE THORN IN TH


PILLOW.


THE DESERTER.


T. NELSON


AND SONS


LONDON AND EDINBURCU








reached her journey's end, about fifteen
miles off, her grandmother was sur-
prised and glad to see her; she had a
cherry-pie for Mabel: the cap fitted, it
was called a beauty," and Mabel was
very happy.
When it came night she was tired
and very thankful to go to bed, and
her grandmother put her into a nice
little chamber opening to hers. It had
white curtains, and a straw carpet.
After the lamp was put out, and all
was still, it might have been expected
that she would drop directly to sleep;
but it was not so. Mabel lay quite still
for a little while, then she grew restless,
twisting her head about, jerking her
pillow this way and that, and then
smoothing it down. However, before
grandmother came up to bed, the little
girl had gone to sleep; but when she
came to give a good-night look at Mabel,
she saw a tear-drop on her cheek, and








she thought, Very likely Mabel is a
little homesick," and she asked Mabel
the next day if that was so; but Mabel
laughed cheerily, and shouted, 0 no,
grandmother, I should never be home-
sick here."
It was just so the next night, and the
next. When Mabel was in bed she
tossed about, and there were the same
little tear-drops on her cheek. At last
her grandmother thought, as the little
girl seemed to be troubled, she would
take the lamp, and go and sit in her
chamber, which you know was next to
Mabel's, until she fell asleep. And
presently, although she had tucked
Mabel nicely into bed, she heard her
rustling the quilt, and fixing the pillow,
and then she thought she heard a little
cry, or a sob. So the good grandmother
went to the little girl's bedside, and
said, Mabel, my child, you have got
a thorn in your pillow; what is it?"








Then Mabel hid her face and began
to cry aloud. Her grandmother looked
very much troubled, and kindly asked
again what the matter was.
"0 grandmother!" at last the little
girl said, trying to be more composed,
"when I am alone here, I cannot help
thinking how I said, I won't,' to my
mother, and I can't unsay it; and
mother is so good, and loves me so,
and I-I was so naughty;" and the
tears streamed afresh down the child's
cheeks.
Here, then, was the thorn in the
pillow," the memory of a wicked, dis-
obedient, rebellious I won't," to her
mother. In the daytime, with every
body around, she could forget it; but
when it came night, and she was alone,
and tender thoughts of her happy home
and her dear parents came over her,
the naughty "I won't" came also. Oh!
how badly she felt. And she could




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