THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 701 Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling; Turns the long light that drops adown the wall; Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling; All are turning, all the day, and we And all day, the iron wheels are droning; .'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning) 'Stop! be silent for to-day!'" Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth; Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals; Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to him and pray; So the Blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word; And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door: And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children; "up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving; We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O, my brothers, what ye preach? For God's possible is taught by his world's loving, And the children doubt of each. And well may the children weep before you! They are weary ere they run; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun : They know the grief of man, without his wisdom; They sink in man's despair, without his calm; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, ND is there care in heaven? And is In heavenly spirits to these crea- That may compassion of their evils There is-else much more wretched were the case To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe! How oft do they their silver bowers leave, Of men than beasts: but O the exceeding They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward grace Of highest God! that loves his creatures so And all his workes with mercy doth embrace, That blessed angels he sends to and fro, And their bright squadrons round about us And all for love, and nothing for reward; ROM his lips THE MINISTRY OF JESUS. EDWARD BICKERSTETH. Truth, limpid, without error, flowed. Leaning upon his Father's might, he bent 704 SHOOTING PORPOISES. SHOOTING PORPOISES. T. DE WITT TALMAGE. B CUJ ANG, bang! went the gun at the side of the San Jacinto, after we "What are they doing?" We were A few innocents of the deep, for the purpose of breathing or sport, had lifted themselves above the wave, and a gentleman found amusement in tickling them with shot. As the porpoise rolled over wounded, and its blood colored the wave, the gunner was congratulated by his comrades on the execution made. It may have been natural dullness that kept us from appreciating the grandeur of the deed. Had the porpoise impeded the march of the San Jacinto, I would have said: "Dose it with lead!" If there had been a possibility that by coming up to breathe it would endanger our own supply of air, I would have said : "Save the passengers and kill the dolphins!" If the marksman had harpooned a whale there would have been the vil for use, or had struck down a gull, in its anatomy, he might have advanced science. If he had gunpowdered the cook it might, in small quantities, have made him animated; or the stewardess, there would have been the fun of seeing her jump. But, alas for the cruel disposition of the man who could shoot a porpoise! There is no need that we go to sea to find the same style of gunning. " After tea the parlor is full of romp. The children are playing "Ugly Mug," and "Bear," and "Tag," and "Yonder stands a lovely creature. Papa goes in among the playing dolphins with the splash and dignity of a San Jacinto. He cries, "Jim, get my slippers!" "Mary, roll up the stand!" "Jane, get me the evening newspaper!" "Sophia, go to bed!" Harry, quit that snicker!" "Stop that confounded noise, all of you!" The fun is over. The water is quiet. The dolphins have turned their Instead of getting down on his hands and knees, and being as lively as a "bear," as any of them, he goes to shooting porpoises. last somersault. Here is a large school of famous pretension, professors high-salaried, apparatus complete, globes on which you can travel round the world in five minutes, spectroscopes, and Leyden jars, and chromatropes, and electric batteries. No one disputed its influence or its well-earned fame. The masters and misses that graduate come out equipped for duty. Long may it stand the adornment of the town. But a widow whose sons were killed in the war opens a school in her basement. She has a small group of little children whose tuition is her sole means of subsistence. The high school looks with sharp eyes on the rising up of the low school. The big institution has no respect whatever for little institutions. The parents patronizing the widow must be persuaded that they are wasting their children's time in that basement. Women have no right to be widows or have their sons killed in the war. From the windows of the high school the arrows are pointed at the helpless establishment in the corner. "Bang!" goes the artillery of scorn till one of the widow's scholars has gone. "Bang!" go the guns from the deck of the great educational craft till the innovating institution turns over and disappears. Well done! Used it up quick! Ha! ha! ha! Shooting porpoises! |