Imatges de pàgina
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and so the feast went on. Then Annie pretended to want apple, and exchanged thin golden strips of orange for bites out of the cheeks of Baldwins; and as I sat watching her intently, she suddenly fancied she saw longing in my face, and sprang over to me, holding out a quarter of her orange, and saying, "Don't you want a taste, too?" The mother smiled understandingly, when I said, "No, I thank you, you dear generous little girl; I don't care about oranges."

At noon we had a tedious interval of waiting at a dreary station. We sat for two hours on a narrow platform which the sun had scorched till it smelt of heat. The oldest boy, the little lover, held the youngest child and talked to her, while the tired mother closed her eyes and rested. Now and then he looked over at her, and then back at the baby; and at last said confidentially to me (for we had become fast friends by this time), "Isn't it funny, to think that I was ever so small as this baby? And papa says that then mamma was almost a little girl herself."

The two other children were toiling up and down the banks of the railroad track, picking ox-eye daisies, buttercups, and sorrel. They worked like beavers, and soon the bunches were almost too big for their little hands. Then they came running to give them to their mother.

"Oh dear," thought I, "how that poor tired woman will hate to open her eyes! and she never can take those great bunches of common fading flowers, in addition to all her bundles and bags." I was mistaken.

"Oh, thank you, my darlings! How kind you were! Poor, hot, tired little flowers, how thirsty they look! If they will only try and keep alive till we get home, we will make them very happy in some water; won't we? And you shall put one bunch by papa's plate, and one by mine."

Sweet and happy, the weary and flushed little children stood looking up in her face while she talked, their hearts thrilling with compassion for the drooping flowers, and with delight in the giving of their gift. Then she took great trouble to get a string and tie up the flowers, and then the train came and we went whirling along again. Soon it grew dark, and little Annie's head nodded. Then I heard the mother say to the oldest boy, "Dear, are you too tired to let little Annie put her head on your shoulder and take a nap ? We shall get her home in much better case to see papa if we can manage to give her a little sleep." How many boys of twelve hear such words as these from tired, overburdened mothers?

Soon came the city, the final station, with its bustle and noise. I lingered to watch my happy family, hoping to see the father. "Why, papa isn't here!" exclaimed one disappointed little voice after another. "Never mind," said the mother with a still deeper disappointment in her own tone; "perhaps he had to go to see some poor body who is sick." In the hurry of picking up all the

parcels and the sleepy babies, the poor daisies and buttercups were forgotten. I wondered if the mother had not intended this. May I be forgiven for the injustice! A few minutes after I passed the little group standing still just outside the station, and heard the mother say, "O my darlings, I have forgotten your pretty bouquets. I am so sorry! I wonder if I could find them if I went back. Will you all stand_ still and not stir from this spot if I go?"

"O mamma, don't go, don't go. We will get you some more. Don't go," cried all the children.

"Here are your flowers, madam," said I. "I saw that you had forgotten them, and I took them as mementoes of you and your sweet children." She blushed and looked disconcerted. She was evidently shy with all but her children. However, she thanked me sweetly, and said, 'I was very sorry about them. The children took much trouble to get them; and I think they will revive in water. They cannot be quite dead."

"They will never die!" said I, with an emphasis which went from my heart to hers. Then all her shyness fled. She knew me; and we shook hands and smiled into each other's eyes with the smile of kindred as we parted.

CHILDREN AT TABLE.

N the early training of our children, their silence at
table should form one of the family rules. If it
were a matter by itself it would not be worth dis-
cussing even in a casual way.
But it is not so:-

it connects itself with the training of the child at an important point. That point is the art of modesty; and one of the best ways of cultivating it is by teaching your children silence at table.

One of the rarest of beautiful things in our social life is to see children that know how not to talk. I have often, who has not? sat at table, as familiar guest, where the children, what with their various wants, unreasonably made known, or with their indulged interruptions of the conversation of their elders, have virtually usurped the occasion,-at least have rendered the occasion wholly useless as a social exchange for the adult members of the company. Now, at the table is your best opportunity to teach your children the peculiar secret of not talking. I think the rule which I propose for children at meal-time is good also for the care of a household in which only the parents sit at table with them. But its propriety is more manifest in the case of such households as muster several adults on the occasion. When guests are present the rule is of imperative obligation, that your children listen and not talk. Tell them, as we used to be told when children, "Chil

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dren have two ears and one tongue, that they may hear much and talk little." Accordingly, allow them to take no part whatever in the current conversation.

The rule of repression is no hardship for the children to observe. And from the invaluable lesson of reticence and modesty and attention and self-control that it will teach them, the observance of the rule will be an immediate blessing to them in other ways. It will rest them. Children get tired without knowing it. Their parents ought to know it for them. A season of silence will bring physical rest to your children. Besides, it will give them the rest and refreshment of a change. In addition to all this, a short period of repression gives à peculiar zest to the enjoyment of the freedom that follows. Your children will be much happier for having their liberty qualified with checks. The theory of indulgence upon which we now-a-days administer our family government is no true kindness to our children. What, above all things else, our children need for their present happiness, is to have their freedom spiced and seasoned with restraint; and much more for their future happiness should they learn to observe rules and bounds.

And then what an immense recreation to the tired and distracted parents to have their ears free at dinner, for the space of half an hour, from the noise of children's voices. I am writing now for the vast majority of families in our country,-families that have no nursery in the house to which children are banished to live with servants, but where young and old occupy the same rooms from morning to night. Charming as is the prattle of children, its continuance fatigues, nevertheless. And mothers ought not to wait all day long for that sense of repose which comes when Willie, and Mary, and Annie, and George, and Jennie, are all safe at last in bed once more; that comforting, balmy relief ought to be experienced, in a degree at least, three times during the day. Let it be at meal-time. On every account, parents, teach your children to sit silent at the table.

"TO EVERY MAN HIS TALENT."

No outfit of indiThis fact, as well as

O human life is complete in itself. vidual life and character is full. the fluctuation of our providential experience, affords the occasion and the opportunity of a mutual ministry among men, designed to hold the race in the bonds of a close and sympathetic union. We have, each of us, something which we can impart to render another life happier and more complete. And this something we are bound to ascertain and to communicate. We may say, as did the Apostle Peter to

his crippled suppliant: "Silver and gold have I none; " but we must add, as he did, "such as I have give I thee.'

This word of Peter makes the motto of a truly beneficent life, and rounds out the full ideal of social duty. Our responsibility does not extend to what we have not. No matter how large and sovereign the need which appeals to our charity, our response covers the whole breadth of our obligation when we can say, with willing heart and ready hand, "Such as I have give I thee." It is not whether we have ten talents or one that determines the plaudit of the Judge at the last. The right and diligent use of the smallest and humblest trusts will, as surely as the same use of the largest, secure in that day the "Well done, good and faithful

servant!"

Now, I cannot tell what that one personal gift is which each of you is to supply in these mutualities. It may be more than one; it is surely one. But such as you are, you are necessary to the comfort and happiness of your fellows. God has not made you in vain. You fill a sphere otherwise unfilled. You represent a personal force and ministry otherwise wanting, and the loss of which were a subtraction from human good.

A case of physical infirmity and want appeals to you. If you have "gold," you may give that. If you have "silver," and not gold, bestow that. If you must say with Peter, "Silver and gold have I none," still there remains to be drawn upon "such as you have." You may furnish a garment whose newest gloss is gone; you may offer a plate of food; you may at least give a kind look and speak a word of sympathy. The tender accents of your voice may be worth more to the sufferer than another man's shining gold.

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A case of sorrow is before you. You cannot restore the joys that are fled, nor bring back the bright face and dear form now for ever absent; but you can repeat some sweet promise of the Comforter, rehearse some grief of your own on which there fell a heavenly balm, or, if your tongue falter, give a loving grasp of the hand, and drop a tear of sympathetic grief.

In the life of the home it may seem to you that you are the humblest and least important element of the household circle. All right. You have not so large a power to guide and strengthen others as many another member of the group. But you can bring always a gentle presence upon the same, the light of a loving smile, the calmness of patience, the inspiration of hope, the charm of an unselfish spirit. You can take burdens, perhaps, if you cannot give gifts.

Rest assured, in the fellowship of the Church, that you have each a part to perform in the work of the Church. You may excuse yourself properly from one kind of demonstration, and another, and another; but something you can do, and such as you have you must give.-Dr. A. L. Stone.

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