cry unto a God mighty to heal and to save, went up from that low house in the woods. The minister felt no wants of the body-ate nothing but the bread of life from heaven, remembered nothing but the needs of this poor, famishing soul beside him, until, at last, as the sun went down, another sun arose the Sun of Righteousness. Black Jake understood what it was to be as a little child, God's child.

Through the silent woods, moist with falling dew, under the far, still stars, the minister walked home. Heavenly peace was in his soul; and he felt no sense of fatigue or hunger, for the bread of life sustained him. That day he felt God had spoken to his soul, and rebuked his discontent. He had asked for a sign from heaven, and it seemed to him that heaven itself had opened, and revealed a glimpse of the eternal glory.

He went home in a mood of exaltation and thanksgiving as natural to his sensitive temperament as the deep depression of the morning; but he had learned thoroughly one lesson. In after years, when from Sunday to Sunday he saw Black Jake, clothed and in his right mind," waiting eagerly for his words, he never dared again to dream of going away from his work. Enough for him to sow his seed beside all waters, for who could tell by what sun or shower the Father would see fit to give the increase?

WHAT IT DID FOR HIM.

A REGIMENT of French soldiers, on their march to the Crimea, halted for some days at Toulon, in the south of France. While there, a colporteur came among them. A young soldier, pretending to be much moved by the good man's exhortations, asked for a book, which was, of course given to him. The soldier and his comrades roared with laughter, telling the poor colporteur that it was all a joke; but the soldier refused to return the book, saying "it would do to light his pipe

with." The colporteur replied, "It i a fearful thing to fall into the handse the living God!"

Fifteen months afterwards, the same colporteur stopped for a night at an inn more than three hundred mile from Toulon. The landlady was great distress, having just lost her son of whom she spoke in terms of th most tender affection. He convers with her for a few moments, when s withdrew, but soon returned, bringin a little book which her deceased s had left to her as his precious legacy

It was much mutilated, many page having been torn out. But on the i side of the cover, written in large let ters, was the following inscription:Received at Toulon, on the

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1855. Despised at first, and badl used, but afterwards read, believed and made the instrument of my sal vation. J. L., fusilier of the company of the line."

regiment of the

From the condition of the little volume, it was plain that the you soldier had made use of the missing leaves to light his pipe, as he ha boasted he should. But, as he re lated to his mother, this work o destruction was stopped on the ev before a battle, in which his regime was to occupy the perilous post the advanced guard. He stated tha at this juncture serious thoughts can into his mind in a very strange man ner; and all on a sudden the word of the man whom he had tricked ou of the book came to his recollection like a thunderclap-"It is a fearfu thing to fall into the hands of the living God!" "And if I should fall into his hands!" This thought haunt ed him, he said, without intermission the whole of the night; and, in con sequence, as soon as it became ligh in the morning, he took from hi knapsack the book which appeared have become his accuser. The verse which he had read in the dim gra light of that morning had been brough home to his heart by the Holy Spirit In the battle which ensued he was se

rly wounded.

Old things had wed away, and he now realized the th of the faithful saying, "Verily, ly, I say unto you, he that heareth word, and believeth on Him that t me, hath everlasting life, and l not come into condemnation; but passed from death unto life." ater removal from one hospital to er, he was brought back to his about six weeks before the visit the colporteur. The mutilated tesIt was scarcely ever out of his during his waking moments. is the only one he ever possessed perhaps the only one in his native are. His mouth was full of tender treaties that his dear mother and iends might embrace Christ and His alvation. To his very last breath

eased not to exhort them all to copt God's offered mercy in Jesus, ad not to run the risk of falling, in 1 Converted state, "into the hands the living God."

THE SNOW-STORM.

FOR THE YOUNG.

Ir was a dark December night, wild ad stormy. Ever since mid-day the wow had fallen with unwearying perverance, and now lay deep on the pound. I had been detained at my

later than usual, and had to a dreary moor for some two miles reach my home. I confess I felt hled at the prospect of such a walk such a storm; but wrapping my ind around me, and staff in hand, I et forward, thinking of the bright le home I should soon reach, and e dear ones who were waiting my with a loving welcome. Soon ft the busy town with its many ights behind me, and stepped out into the dismal moor. The snow lay much de perhere on the untrodden footpath,

seemed to fall more heavily than fore-so thick and blinding, that I und myself perpetually straying from proper roadway, and with difficulty

retraced my steps; the cold felt keener also, and a sharp east wind had risen. At times I grew almost breathless with the struggle, and had to pause for gathering strength ere I faced the storm once more. At length I rejoiced to see the guiding-post, which was placed where three roads met and against which I was thankful to lean for a few seconds, until I had recovered breath. I was just on the point of starting off afresh, when a faint sound of a human voice caught my ear. Startled, I listened, but all was still. I shaded my eye with my hand, and stared anxiously into the surrounding darkness; but nought could I discern beyond a wilderness of snow, and I was just concluding my imagination had deceived me, when again the same murmur came floating through the air.

Feeling that, with the guide-post so near, I could scarcely lose my way, I hastened forward in the direction of the sound, and soon distinctly heard a child's voice repeating the Lord's prayer. It had a strange effect in such a storm at such a place, and my heart beat high when the gentle "Amen" was said.

I called out, "Whose voice is that?" but there was no reply. I called again more loudly than before, and then the timid answer came, "Johnnie's," and a few steps brought me to a boy some eight years old, standing shivering in the snow.

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'My poor little man," I said, are you all alone?"

"No," he replied, "Nelly is here, but she grew so cold and tired I could not get her on, and now she is fast asleep. I felt sleepy, too, but thought I would say my prayers first;" and as I stooped down to the bundle of snow he had indicated as being "Nelly," he whispered softly, "Has Jesus sent you?

"Surely he has," I answered, "had you not said your prayers, Johnnie, you might both have perished. But how came you here, my boy?"

"We went into town this morning to see grandma--it was snowing ther

he said innocently, "when we left home."

"And where is your home?" I asked, "and who is your father?" "Farmer Rutland," he replied; "we live at High Farm."

"High Farm" happened to lie on the road to my own house, so I told Johnnie we would all go home together. He rejoiced when he heard my name, and remarked to himself, "How well it was I said my prayers!"

I found Nelly indeed half asleep, wrapped in a heavy cape, which the devoted little fellow had divested himself of in his endeavour to keep her warm. Nor could I induce him to put it on until he saw me raise Nelly tenderly in my arms, and wrapping her in my great plaid, gathered her close to my bosom, prepared to carry her.

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Now, Johnnie," I said, " you keep hold of the skirt of my coat, and we shall soon be at High Farm."

The cold seemed to have become more intense, the falling snow more dense than ever. Manfully the little fellow kept up to my side, though the snow by this time reached above his knees. I tried to cheer him as we trudged along, but I felt the drag upon my coat becoming greater, and it was evident his strength and heart were failing him-then a suppressed sob broke from him, and he clung more closely to me as I bent down trying to soothe and comfort him.

"You are a brave little man," I said, "we will soon reach the farm now; think of the bright fire there, the nice warm milk and bread, and mother's loving kiss all waiting for you.

"I cannot walk farther," he sobbed. "Oh, take Nelly home, but let me lie down here. I will say my prayers again, and perhaps Jesus will send some one else to help me."

"No, no," I answered cheerily; cannot leave you behind, Johnnie you must just make a horse of m and mount my back. There you a now, hold me fast round the neck, an whip hard to make me go better. And again I started forward, ende vouring to keep him awake with que tions and little sallies; but I felt t additional burden in such a storm w becoming beyond my already exhaust strength, when suddenly a waveri speck of light shot out of the darkne then vanished, then appeared on more, becoming nearer and bright I hallooed loudly, and my shout w answered, and Johnnie called out in faint and glad voice, "Oh, tha father!" And happily so it was; t poor farmer becoming alarmed at t lengthened absence of his childre had started with his two men and lantern in search of them, and gre tears of thankfulness fell from his eve when he beheld his loved on Johnnie was at once taken into hi loving arms, and a quarter of an hour walk brought us to the farm, whe the anxious mother received us. Nel was soon aroused by the warmth a light of the great fire, little or no the worse for the night's adventu but poor Johnnie was sadly fro bitten, and it was long before he r covered.

Deep was the gratitude of the hone couple for the aid I had afforded the beloved children, who, doubtless, ove powered with sleep, would have he hidden in the snow ere their father ha reached them, and must inevitabl have perished, but for the prayer whic Johnnie's trusting, simple heart ha prompted, and had been the mean with God's blessing, of my savi them.

HE FAILURE OF FAMILY
RELIGION.

I father prays in the morning this children may grow up in the and, and calls it even the principal ond of their life that they are to be tians, living to God, and for world to come. Then he goes out do the field or the shop, or the house trade, and delving there all day in is gains, keeps praying from morning night, without knowing it, that his armly may be rich. His plans and Forks, faithfully seconded by an fectionate wife, pull exactly conary to the pull of his prayers, ad to all their common teachg in religion. Their tempers are rldly, and make a worldly atmohere in the house. Pride, the amtion of show and social standing, envy what is above, jealousy of what is elow, follies of dress and fashion, and e more foolish elation felt when a is praised or a daughter admired the matter of personal appearance, what is no better, a manifest preng and foretasting of this folly, en the son or daughter is so young be the more certainly poisoned the infection of it. Oh, these unpan damning prayers! how many they, and how totally do they fill the days! The mornings open with reverent fervent-sounding prayer of ords, and then the days come after ding up petitions of ends, aims, temers, passions, and works, that ask for ything and everything but what ords with the genuine rule of re

The prayer of the morning is that the son, the daughter, all the

all the daughters, may be Christians; and then the prayers that low are for anything but that, or ything, in fact, most contrary to Is it any wonder, when we con

sider this common disagreement between the prayers, even the fervent prayers of the family, and all other concerns, enjoyments, and ends of the common life beside, that so many fine shows of family piety are yet followed by so much of godless and even reprobate character in the children.-Dr. Bushnell.

DISSATISFACTION.

A MAN in his carriage was riding along,

A gaily dressed wife by his side; In satin and laces, she looked like a queen,

And he like a king in his pride.

A wood sawyer stood in the street as they passed,

The carriage and couple he eyed, And said as he worked with a saw on a log,

"I wish I was rich and could ride."

The man in the carriage remaked to his wife:

"One thing I would give if I could— I'd give all my wealth for the streng t and the health

Of the man that saweth the wood."

A pretty young maid, with a bundle of work,

Whose face as the morning was fair, Went tripping along, with a smile o delight,

While humming a love-breathing air.

She looked on the carriage-the lady she saw

Arrayed in apparel so fine, And said in a whisper, "I wish from my heart

Those satins and laces were mine."

The lady looked out on the maid with her work,

So fair in her calico dress, And said, "I'd relinquish possession and wealth,

Her beauty and youth to possess."

And thus, in this world, whatever our lot.

Our minds and our time we employ, In longing and sighing for what we have not,

Ungrateful for what we enjoy.

We welcome the pleasure for which we have sighed ;

The heart has a void in it still, Growing deeper and wider the longer we live,

That nothing but heaven can fill.

THE RELIGION OF THE AGE. THE religion of the age is an easyminded religion, without conflict and wrestling, without self-denial and sacrifice; a religion which knows nothing of the pangs of the new birth at its commencement, and nothing of the desperate struggle with the flesh and with the devil, day by day, making us long for resurrection deliverance, for the binding of the adversary, and for the Lord's arrival. It is a second-rate religion; a religion in which there is no largeness, no grandeur, no potency, no noble-mindedness, no elevation, no self-devotedness, no all-constraining love. It is a hollow religion, with a fair exterior, but an aching heart; a heart unsatisfied, a soul not at rest, a conscience not at peace with God; a religion marked, it may be, by activity and excitement, but betraying all the while the consciousness of a wound hidden and unhealed within, and hence unable to animate to lofty doings, or supply the strength needed for such doings. It is a feeble religion, lacking the sinews and bones of hardier times; very different from the indomitable, much-enduring, storm-braving religion, not merely of apostolic days, but even of the Reformation. It is an uncertain religion; that is to say, not

THE WORLD OF THE
CHRISTIAN.

THIS world is not yours; thank God, it is not. It is dropping away from you like worn-out autum leaves; but beneath it, hidden in it there is another world lying as the flower lies in the bud. That is you world, which must burst forth at las into eternal luxuriance. All Fu stand on, see, and love is but the husi of something better. Things are passing; our friends are dropping of from us; strength is giving way; mu relish for earth is going, and the worl no longer wears to our hearts the radiance that once it wore. We have the same sky above us, and the same scenes around us; but the freshness that our hearts extracted from everything in boyhood, and the glory that seemed to rest once on earth and life, has faded away for ever. Sad and gloomy truths to the man who is going down to the grave with his wo undone! Not sad to the Christian: but rousing, exciting, invigorating If it be the eleventh hour, we have time for folding of the hands; we wil work the faster. Through the changefulness of life; through the solera