LEARNING TO PRAY. Will the simple, trusting faith Shining in the childish breast Always be so clear and bright? Will God always know the rest, Loving little Margery? As the weary years go on, And you are a child no more, If your sweetest love shall fail, you bow to meet the blow, Owning all God's ways are just? Can you, sorrowing Margery? Should your life-path grow so dark Will the woman, folding down True, my darling, life is long, And its ways are dark and dim; But God knows the path you tread; I can leave you safe with Him, Always, little Margery. He will keep your childish faith, You have taught a lesson sweet 331 LEARNING TO PRAY. MARY M. DODGE. NEELING fair in the twilight gray, A beautiful child was trying to pray; His cheek on his mother's knee, His bare little feet half hidden, His smile still coming unbidden. And his heart brimful of glee. "I want to laugh. Is it naughty? Say, O mamma! I've had such fun to-day I hardly can say my prayers. I don't feel just like praying; "I can see the flowers in the garden bed, 332 A GLASS OF COLD WATER. Clasping his hands and hiding his face, His mother's nod and sanction sweet Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet, And his words like music ran: Thank you for making this home so nice, I thank you, too, for every day- 'Now, mamma, rock me-just a minute- When I get big, I know I can. The mother, singing, clasped him tight, For well she knew that the artless joy HERE is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his children? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench of sickening odors, and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green "FATHER, TAKE MY HAND." 333 glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play; there God brews it. And down, low down in the lowest valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high upon the tall mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun; where the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder-storms crash; and away far out on the wide wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar; the chorus sweeping the march of God: there he brews it-that beverage of life and health-giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of beauty, gleaming in the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain; shining in the ice-gems till the leaves all seem to turn to living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the setting sun; or a white gauze around the midnight moon. Sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail shower; folding its bright snow curtains softly about the wintry world; and waving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven; all checkered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of refraction. Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water; no poison bubbles on its brink; its foam brings not madness and murder; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep no burning tears in its depth; no drunken, shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the words of eternal despair; speak on, my friends, would you exchange for it demon's drink, alcohol! FATHER, TAKE MY HAND." HENRY N. COBB. T HE way is dark, my Father! Cloud on cloud Is drawing darkly down. My faithless sight Is gathering thickly o'er my head, Encompass me. O Father! take my hand, and loud And from the night Lead up to light The way is long, my Father! and my soul land, Keep me from wandering. Father, take my hand; And bleeding, mark the way. Yet thy The cross is heavy, Father! I have borne command Bids me press forward. Father, take my hand; Then safe and blest, Lead up to rest Thy child! FRENCHMAN once, who was a merry wight, Passing to town from Dover, in the night, Near the roadside an alehouse chanced to spy, And being rather tired as well as dry, Resolved to enter; but first he took a peep, In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap. He enters: "Hallo! Garcon, if you please, Bring me a leetel bit of bread and cheese, And hallo! Garcon, a pot of porter, too!" he said, "Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed." His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left, Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft, Into his pocket put; then slowly crept To wished-for bed; but not a wink he slept- Put on his cap and bade the world goodnight; But first his breeches, which contained the fare, Under his pillow he had placed with care. Under the pillow soon the cheese they found; nap; Who, half-awake, cries out, "Hallo! hallo! Vat is dat nibble at my pillow so? |
