SEEKING REST. Thus saith my soul. "The path is long to tread. Leagues that have lengthened as the slow days sped. Which I must traverse ere I gain the door It is well said, O soul! The way is long. 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, maideu mild, 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 "Sing that psalm again, girl! It's the prayerful wives and their lives. Down on your knees, meu! 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. Nor yet a cable held them, they were riding safe and sound. the sight, For on the shore, as on the sea, it had been a woeful night. the town; Many a wreck lay on the beach, telling of sailors gone down. 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 They then if they all kneel and whisper a prayer to the Mother above, 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, "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 |