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What quaint, queer conversations we used to hold! He had never been much loved by either of his parents. They had buried several children, "all fine healthy boys," the father had said, regretfully, to the doctor: "they could have helped me some. This one never can. He's just a helpless burden." And Boots had heard it all. Doubtless, he had heard it often before. "He's looked to me like an unlucky chap ever since he let the baby fall and get its death," the father added. And Boots heard that too. There

was small grieving done at the parting. The “unlucky chap" shed no tears of regret for the parents who had endured but never loved him. The baby, the puny little sister, he had truly loved, and her memory was yet green in his affections. "I wish you had a baby," he would say again and again. "I would nurse is just as careful! It shouldn't trouble you a bit." And when I laughed, and told him he was baby enoroh for me, he shook his head, and answered only: "I do wish you had a baby. I'm sure I wouldn't fall again." Poor little soul! How I have exerted myself to comfort him concerning that unlucky fall and its sad consequences!

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'Little Boots," said I, one day (he would never answer to any other name: "You called me that first," he said, "and it sounded so nice. I like it now, always"), "shouldn't you like to learn to play upon the piano ?”

I had been resting myself by running over a few simple melodies on the children's piano in the nursery. His face flushed with a pleased surprise. Without further ceremony, I lifted him to the pianostool, and taught him the notes on the keyboard, and gave him a fivefinger exercise for both hands. It was wonderful how he learned. Every day, when I grew weary of desk writing, I rested myself by giving little Boots his lesson. What

pleasure it gave the child! He talked less and less of the baby and the fall, and of the baby he longed to nurse. The piano lesson was his dream, his sweet and pleasant duty. How delighted he was when for the first time our merry brood gathered around the instrument to hear little Boots play "Blue Bells of Scotland," and father promised to bring him, next day, a box of paints, as a reward for his diligence in piano practice!

After the box of paints came we had nice times, little Boots and I. There were ideas in that head of his. He wrought them out in crude forms in water-colours, and held them up to the sun and air of my criticism. When it sometimes happened that my criticism was more than usually severe, and I desired to make some reparation, I used to read little bits out of my stories to him. Often I found myself unconsciously simplifying the written words of my manuscripts, adapting them to his comprehension. And frequently,

upon getting the little lad's entire approval of the text as I had read it to him, I have gone over the manuscript, altering it to the very style and phraseology I had used for my little friend. And none of the little far-off folks who wrote me those pretty, thankful letters, praising my printed stories, ever guessed that the stories they most praised were the very ones that had been thus filtered through the simple intelligence of a tiny street-waif. But so it came to pass that we helped one another, little Boots and I. day (shall I ever forget it?) I was very busy, and I rose from my desk and tried first the piano and then the sewing-machine; but there was no virtue in them. Wearily I flung myself into a low rocking-chair.

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Come, little one," said I, "climb up into my lap, and let us take a rock." How the pale cheeks flushed, and the great, mournful eyes grew luminous with emotion! He came

timidly to my side. I lifted him to my lap and folded my arms around him, and, drawing his head down upon my shoulder, rested my cheek upon the soft masses of his sloeblack hair. How long I rocked him there I do not know. I think I must have sung the half of Mother Goose's Melodies to him and one or two old Scotch ballads, and had drifted into, "There is a happy land," and, "Jesus loves me," when father walked into the room. And still the little fellow lay quiet and happy in my arms. I could not bear to put him down and end his blissful experience; for somehow I felt then that he had never known a child's privilege and a child's pleasure of mother-love and motherpetting and coddling. He had been defrauded of childhood's inheritance. Father took him on his knee and asked him of the paintings and the piano lessons, and of what he had learned new through the day. How animatedly the child answered him! How gleefully he recited a few of the precious bits of nonsense I had sung to him! I remember that day So well because, as little Boots sat on the doctor's lap, I noticed for the first time the deformity that afterwards grew so rapidly upon him. Ah! that fearful fall! Poor little Boots!

Gradually it came about that the stuffed arm-chair was less and less in use. My little companion gazed on me from among the heaped-up cushions on the sofa. I read the stories oftener. In time the piano lessons were dropped, the paint-box seldomer opened. By-and-by our only mutual recreation came to be these readings, and readings from a dearer, sweeter page than any I could ever hope to write. Ah! I trust he learned the "old old story in those quiet days, upon the threshold of the valley. In those days we sang together sometimes of the "Happy Land," and of Him who said, "Suffer the little children to come

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unto me." More frequently the doctor came home earlier, that he might bring some pretty toy or dainty fruit or flower to the patient little sufferer. And the noisy, romping children came in tiptoeing through the halls, and, toning down their voices as they asked: "Is little Boots no better?

And every, every day and hour the great, solemn, mournful eyes followed me with that look of worshipful affection I had never seen in any other eyes.

And every day the frail bark drifted silently and surely nearer and nearer to the other shore.

It came at last-that day when the loving eyes turned away their worshipful gaze from my face, and looked unto Jesus. The little clinging arms loosed their hold about my neck. The tiny bark was drifting into port.

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Good-bye, little Boots," I sobbed. "Good-bye till we meet again."

Back from the shadows of the dark valley he flashed a glance of ineffable affection. "God bless you," murmured the white lips, struggling up from the cold waters of the river of death to waft back a message of love to his one dearest friend, and my little lover was gone. The frail bark was moored in the haven of eternal rest.

And something very sweet and precious had faded out of my lifesomething the memory of which remains a perpetual benediction to lighten and soothe a perpetual grief.

But oh! little Boots, dear little Boots, I am glad that you are dead. I am glad that your hands were folded away in their innocence beneath the coffin-lid. I am glad and grateful that your guileless feet have ended their journey beneath the violet-sodded mound in the peaceful cemetery, before they learned to wander in the devious paths that lead to ruin. Oh! I am glad and thankful for you that you are safe within the fold, and that n

thing can ever ever harm the dear little child who loved me so, and whose last fond words to me, whis

pered almost from heaven's gate, seem less a farewell than a benediction.

THE LAST ENEMY.

BY THE REV. W. P. WILLIAMS.

"The last enemy-death-shall be destroyed."-1 Cor. xv. 26.*

THE text refers to the consummation of our Saviour's mediatorial reign. The last act-the last conquest of Zion's King as such-is here foretold, namely the destruction of the last enemy-death. In the preceding verse it is stated that the Saviour "must reign till He hath put all enemies under His feet." How foolish of men to say, "they will not have this man to reign over them." They must have Him— whether they will or not, they must acknowledge Him King. If they do not honour Him as their Saviour, they must honour Him as their Judge. For He must reign till He hath put all enemies under His feet." Not only men must be subdued, but all enemies shall lie prostrate at His feet: even death, that terrible last enemy, shall be destroyed. From the text we notice:-Death as an enemy-the last enemy and an enemy that shall be destroyed.

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I. DEATH AS AN ENEMY. "The last enemy-death.”

1. Death is a common enemy—an enemy of all. When men are at variance with each other, their enmity does not extend to all. Our most bitter enemies are the best friends of some; but death is the common enemy of all mankind. Most of the evils our flesh is subject to, are not, thank God, common evils. Afflictions visit the poor from which the rich are altogether exempt, and trials befal the rich which the poor never experience; certain fevers are prevalent in one climate which are never known in other climates; the young are subject to attacks and diseases which those of riper years know nothing of. But all are subject to the tyranny of death. This common enemy attacks the young as well as the old; steals into the king's palace as well as into the poor man's cottage; reigns in terror among the comforts of civilization as well as among the rude huts of the Esquimaux; and sways his sceptre under the burning heat of the tropics as well as in the intense cold of the vicinities of the poles. Both young and old, rich and poor, civilized and uncivilized, godly and ungodly, feel the dreadful pangs of death. None are exempt: death is the common enemy of all.

2. Death is a most cruel and unrelenting enemy. There is such a thing as coming to terms with almost all other enemies; but by no means can this common enemy be prevailed upon to swerve from his purpose. Could riches bribe him, the rich and wealthy would be

* Greek Text.

immortal; could tears and supplications move him, all would escape his fatal blow. But no: death will not enter into negotiations with the children of men; but will execute his commission without regard to age or sex, state or condition. Our mourning habits and bleeding hearts; our vacant seats in the sanctuaries of God and empty chairs in our own homesteads; our grave-yards and our monuments, all testify to the fact, that death is the most unrelenting of enemies.

3. Death is an unavoidable enemy. There are many enemies, if you cannot appease them, you can keep out of their way; but you cannot keep out of death's way. There are many evils that, by properly attending to the laws of our nature, we can avoid : for instance, if a man be regular in his diet and exercise, the probability is he will never suffer from indigestion and similar constitutional ailments. We have also preventatives of fevers and other deadly plagues. But do what we will-use all the preventatives in the world-attend to all rules conceivable, we cannot stay away the stroke of death. "For it is appointed unto men once to die." Many a human appointment in the course of time becomes void and obsolete; but this appointment stands good from one generation to another: it is the irrevocable appointment of Heaven. Every generation, from Adam till now, has had to succumb to it; and so shall we. May God in His grace prepare us for the solemn occasion!

II. DEATH AS THE LAST ENEMY. "The last enemy-death."

You will notice that, in the text, this designation refers to death as the enemy of Zion's King. Though he is the common enemy of all mankind, as we have already stated, he cannot be properly styled the last enemy of any but Christ and His people. For the ungodly there is reserved a host of other enemies, which shall join death to torture and torment him to all eternity. But for Christians this death will be the last enemy. Note here,

1. The Christian's enemies are numerous.

ease.

Death is the last on the list. It is a great mistake to think that a Christian life is a life of The good man is surrounded on all hands by the most bitter and inveterate foes. It is customary to divide these enemies into three armies, namely, the world, the flesh, and the devil: and each of these battalions contains an innumerable host of would-be soul-destroyers. The godly man has to sustain a continual warfare throughout the whole of his homeward journey: he has to take from the hands of his enemies every inch of ground in his heavenward progress with his sword and with his bow. Think not that it is an easy matter to get to heaven. “We must strive to enter in at the strait gate," and through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God."

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2. Another thought which suggests itself is, that the Christian's enemies assail him in succession-they do not all come upon him at the same time. This fact I attribute, partly to the bad management of hell, and partly to the presiding grace of God. We know that good generals, if it be practicable, reserve a portion of their armies for a final decisive blow; but there is a possibility of overworking that

policy. An army may be so divided as to insure its defeat. And this, I think, is the case with Satan. It seems he has not a proper estimate of the strength of inward grace, and so is continually dividing his forces, and consequently continually defeated till at last all his forces are routed and there is but this last solitary enemy-death, left on the battlefield. But we should not forget the presiding and restraining grace of God. Ah! there is a Father in heaven watching the progress of the conflict, and restraining the power of the enemy. He who, of old, caused the wrath of man to praise Him, and restrained the remainder of wrath, will not suffer His beloved ones "to be tempted above that they are able.”

3. Another thought that suggests itself is, that there is a possibility for a Christian to obtain a victory over all other enemies ere he encounters death. I cannot see otherwise how death could be his last enemy. I know, full well, this is no common attainment: most of the valiant sons of Zion have to sustain the conflict to the last; still, I can see no reason why a victory over self and all the machinations of hell may not be obtained on the borders of the land of Moab, as well as on the bank of Jordan. However, be that as it may, brethren, let the thought of death as our last enemy inspire us to fight and conquer-battle and triumph over all other enemies.

III. THAT THE LAST ENEMY SHALL ULTIMATELY BE DESTROYED. "The last enemy-death-shall be destroyed."

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We hear a great deal of Christians conquering in death. I find it always needful to approach this subject with caution. Be it far from me to disregard or treat lightly the joyous death-bed scenes of God's holy ones. There is a reality in their experience. We have seen the placid countenance and the heavenly serenity of many a weary traveller as he entered his eternal rest; we have watched many a vessel of mercy under full sails, as it entered triumphantly into God's harbour; we have witnessed a foretaste of the joys of those realms above, in the songs and praises of many a dying saint: we believe all this to be real; still it is not a victory. It is a conclusive evidence of the inestimable value of religion, and of the almost omnipotent strength of God's sustaining grace; but a victory it is not. It is death that conquers that struggle-death reigns-death triumphs in that gloomy valley. Still, death shall be destroyed and swallowed up in victory. This, the apostle tells us, will take place at the second coming of the Son of man, "When He shall have delivered up the kingdom to God, even the Father; when He shall have put down all rule and all authority and power. When this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, THEN shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory." Ah, yes! though it may be a long time ere it shall be accomplished, death must relinquish his prey, and the grave must deliver up its captives; and then shall the sons of Zion shine as the stars in the kingdom of their God, and reign triumphantly in life everlasting, God grant that we may be made partakers of that victory!

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