SEEKING REST.

Thus saith my soul. "The path is long to tread.
Behind me far it stretches, far before;
Wearily, drearily, sight travels o'er

Leagues that have lengthened as the slow days sped.
And wearily o'er leagues untraversed

Which I must traverse ere I gain the door
That shuts not night nor day. What need I more
Than to find rest at last in that last bed?"

It is well said, O soul!

The way is long.

Weary are heart and brain and aching feet.
But 'mid thy weariness thou still art strong,
And rest unearned is shameful; so entreat
This one thing-that at last the conqueror's song
May echo through a sleep divinely sweet.

THE CATHOLIC PSALM.-ELIZABETH INGRAM HUBBARD. Bordered by bluff and meadow, reflecting a golden day, Placid and calmly deceitful, the lovely Lake Michigan lay. The sun had gone down in glory, and naught save one tiny band

Of cloud on the distant horizon, shaped like a ghostly hand With clutching bony fingers, that pictured the grim grip of Death,

Gave the crew on the good sail-ship "Hester" a warning. But still not a breath

That seemed in the least like a storm-wind blew over the tranquil blue deep.

The two children in charge of the Captain were safe in the cabin, asleep.

Captain William T. Brown was the skipper; a braver tar never trod deck.

He was standing but now by the helmsman, and anxiously scanning the speck

Of cloud as large now as his jacket, and above it, what looked like a head;

While below stretched long limbs, ghostly shapes, that made the heart heavy with dread.

And e'en as he gazed and shuddered, the arms stretched out more and more wide;

The face grinned down at the skipper, the limbs seemed to make a long stride

Toward the ship. Quickly gave he the word to the helmsman to make all secure,

Then laid his own hand to the sail-ropes, and pulled, and

tied all safe and sure.

The time could be counted by heart-beats, so quickly the

storm-fiend drew near;

Where a minute ago was clear blue sky, now stretched heavy cloud, dark and drear.

Each man watched the work of the skipper, each one tied a rope round his waist,

Each fastened himself to some stout beam, each man to his neighbor was laced.

For a minute they waited the storm-burst; and as the wind lulled to a calm,

Came up from the maid in the cabin, the sound of a Catholic psalm.

"O God! we've forgotten the babies! I promised for them with my life.

They're the children of Reginald Ashton, my old chum. He has just lost his wife."

PSALM.

Ave sanctissima, maiden mild,
Place watchful guards to-night

All round thy child!

In storms of temptation,

In deluge of rain,

Ne'er asked I thy guidance,

Mother, in vain.

Watch over me

On the sea!

I trust in thee

Ave! Ave!

All through the singing the storm-fiend waited, gathering strength

For a fatal blow;-up started the helmsman, as the words of the psalm died below

"Oh, Mary will certainly save us! I have often and often heard

say

That if, in the midst of the ocean, there be but a maid near

to pray

To Mary, the Mother of Sorrows, and she pray with a babe

on her knee,

The danger will sure be abated-run, Jemmy, you're nearest,

and see;

Holds she the babe to her bosom? if so, we are saved from our grave;

For Mary will surely answer the prayer of the maiden, and save."

Quick Jemmy severed the rope-knot that held him fast to a plank;

Just then, the dread blow came; it threw Jemmy over the ship-side-he sank

While the last "Ave, Ave!" was sounding, sweetly and clear, Over the din of the tempest. It reached his drowning ear. "Sh!" cautioned Timmy McGinnis, the priest says there be two ways of savin',

One, for to suffer more down here, the other, for the kingdom of Heaven.

Jemmy's found the last one, sure. Did ye mind the light that shone

Over his face, and out of his eyes as he signed the cross and wint down?"

Another blow--and harder. It wrenched away mast and

helm.

In came the deadly water that threatened to overwhelm. "Cut yourselves free from the ship!" the Captain shouted

aloud,

And ran with all speed to the gang-way, waved back the following crowd

66

"Sing that psalm again, girl! It's the prayerful wives and their lives.

Down on your knees, men! psalm,

Pray, men, pray for your wives! mothers to whom sailors owe

Sing, girl, give us the Catholic

That, at least, if there's storm about us and we die, in our hearts shall be calm,"

Knelt every sun-browned sailor, the girl's voice rang out

clear,

As she sang,

"Watch over us, mother! we trust in thee, hear! oh, hear!"

The storm-fiend shrieked in his fury and rage, but the song

rang on

Until the demon was vanquished, and the terrible peril gone. Then grouped the sailors together-there was nothing that they could do

The last blow of the tempest had swept the deck, through and through.

Without a helm or rudder, without a spar or mast,

Drifting, and drifting ever, the dreary night was passed. The wind more and more abated; the fog wrapped them close in its fold.

Huddled closely together all through the night, in the cold, They shouted, whenever the song ceased, "Sing, girl, to save our lives;

We owe our safety and blessings to the prayers of our mothers and wives."

So all through the night the song rose clear on the listen

ing air,

And from the lips of the sailors went up many an earnest

prayer

To the Holy Mother who watches over the babe and the maid, And as the hours wore on, they grew less and less afraid.

After hours and hours of drifting, the fog-bank dissolved

away;

The rays of the sun just rising, disclosed a beautiful bay.
They were riding safe in the harbor, though never an
anchor bound,

Nor yet a cable held them, they were riding safe and sound.
Men came down to them, sore hearted, and wondered at

the sight,

For on the shore, as on the sea, it had been a woeful night.
Not a house was left in the village, the tempest had leveled

the town;

Many a wreck lay on the beach, telling of sailors gone down.
"Ah! they had not a maid and a babe on board, to pray
To the Holy Mother Mary who hears their cry alway."
"A maid, indeed! Where is she? Let us see her; bring
her ashore."

They hastened down to the cabin, but paused ere they

entered the door.

Sitting, facing the gang-way, one child clinging close to her

side,

The other babe clasped to her bosom, the saintly singer

had died.

Her lips

She had sung, until, like the sailors, she into harbor passed. On the bluff, just up from the harbor, there stands a quaint

were still partly open, her glance was upward cast,

old tower;

A great bell swings backward and forward at night to tell

the hour.

And 'tis said that in a tempest, if sailors the shore are near
And listen, the words come to them "Hear! oh, hear!"
And then if they all kneel and whisper a prayer to the

Mother above,

They are saved from death by drowning, saved by the

Inaiden's love,

Which so moves the Mother of Sorrows that she spares the

Sailors' lives

For the sake of the sailors' mothers and the sailors' waiting

wives.

A MODEL SERMON.

Brethren, the words of my text are :

"Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard

To get her poor dog a bone;

But when she got there the cupboard was bare,

And so the poor dog had none."

These beautiful words, dear friends, carry with them a solemn lesson. I propose this evening to analyze their

meaning, and to apply it, lofty as it may be, to our every day life.

"Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard

To get her poor dog a bone."

Mother Hubbard, you see, was old; there being no mention of others, we may presume she was alone; a widow-a friendless, old, solitary widow. Yet did she despair? Did she sit down and weep, or read a novel, or wring her hands? No! she went to the cupboard. And here observe that she went to the cupboard. She did not hop, or skip, or run, or jump, or use any other peripatetic artifice; she solely and merely went to the cupboard.

We have seen that she was old and lonely, and we now further see that she was poor. For, mark, the words are "the cupboard" Not one of the cupboards,” or the “right-hand cupboard," or the "left-hand cupboard," or the one above, or the one below, or the one under the floor; but just the cupboard-the one humble little cupboard the poor widow possessed. And why did she go to the cupboard? Was it to bring forth golden goblets, or glittering, precious stones, or costly apparel, or feasts, or any other attributes of wealth? It was to get her poor dog a bone! Not only was the widow poor, but her dog, the sole prop of her age, was poor too. We can imagine the scene. The poor dog crouching in the corner, looking wistfully at the solitary cupboard, and the widow going to that cupboard—in hope, in expectation, may be→ to open it, although we are not distinctly told that it was not half open or ajar, to open it for that poor dog.

"But when she got there the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none."

"When she got there!" You see, dear brethren, what perseverance is. You see the beauty of persistence in doing right. She got there. There were no turnings and twistings, no slippings and slidings, no leaning to the right, or faltering to the left. With glorious simplicity we are told she got there. And how was her noble effort rewarded?

"The cupboard was bare!" It was bare! There were to be found neither oranges, nor cheese-cakes, nor penny buns, nor gingerbread, nor crackers, nor nuts, nor lucifer-matches. The cupboard was bare! There was but one, only one solitary