Who holds you, above all the rest
Of men proved true from East to West,
The strongest, noblest, bravest, best?
-Your trusting little maiden.

Who asks for nothing, old or new,
Who cares for no one, false or true,
But only, only, only you?

My darling little maiden.

THE DAISY.

I'm but a little daisy,

The children know me well,

I blossom by the roadside hedge,
Within a little dell;

I'm but a flower of humble mien,

And little worth I know,

But still the Lord, so wise and great,
Hath bidden me to grow.

There's many a flower more stately far,
And many a one more fair,

And many a one whose fragrance floats
More sweetly on the air;

But since the Lord the daisy made,

I have my mission still,

No other flower in all the vale

The daisy's place may fill.

I'm but a little daisy,

And yet perhaps I may

Give pleasure to some humble child,
Or cheer some traveller's way;

Though I may not in gardens bloom,

I may by waysides blow.

And some poor heart may thank the Lord

Who made the daisy grow.

THOMAS DANKS, PRINTER, CRANE COURT, FLEET STREET, LONDON.

THE

LONDON RALPH FENWICK, 6, SUTTON STREET, COMMERCIAL ROAD, E.

CHARLIE AND THE OLD GARDENER.

THE old man you see in the picture with curious cap and big clumsy boots, is a native of Russia and a gardener by trade. His name is Peter Orloff. He belongs to a nobleman, who is the owner of extensive estates, and a good master. When I say that this old gardener belongs to his master, I don't quite mean that he is his slave, for slavery has now been abolished in Russia for a good few years. He was his slave once; but though now a free man there is very little change in the relations between him and his master. The little boy you see in the picture is the master's son. He is very fond of old Peter, and spends a good deal of time in trotting after him through the long grass, and assisting him in his small way to water the plants and gather the fruit in the garden. Peter takes much interest in his young friend, and often makes him curious things to play with. What is better still, he often tells him Bible stories, and talks to him about the happy world above, and how we should live to get there. Peter, though poor, is a good Christian, and he is trying to make his young friend a good Christian too.

A TALK TO CHILDREN.

I REMEMBER reading a story some years ago which I thought was well worth remembering. About ten years ago one of our large ocean steamships left Liverpool for New York. The weather was fine, and they were drawing near the end of the voyage. The people were walking about or sitting down on deck, talking about the countries they had left, or the new country which some of them had never seen. They had no thought of danger, for the sky was clear and the sea smooth. All at once there was a loud explosion, and volumes of blinding steam came rushing up from the hold of the vessel. Every one was frightened. Some screamed, some cried, some prayed, and some rushed wildly all over the vessel to find out what was the matter. Just then the engineer came up, looking almost as pale as a corpse. He said that, one of the main pipes had burst, and that in a few moments they would all be blown up unless some one would go below, in all that blinding steam, and turn a stopper in connection with that pipe. He did not dare go down himself, for he knew that it would be at the risk of his life. But it was his duty to go. People were now more

frightened than before. None of them dared go below, even if they had known just what to do, and every minute they expected to be blown up. Some rushed to the bow of the ship and some to the stern, trying to get as far as possible away from the steam. I suppose every minute must have seemed like an hour while they waited. But there was one man who dared risk his life for others. He was a fireman, and because he was only a fireman people did not expect much from him. His face was blackened with coal and smoke, but there was a good warm heart beating in his breast. Quickly he wrapped himself up in some heavy canvas, and went right through the steam down to the boiler-room. In a moment all was still. The sound of the escaping steam was hushed. Then, when the danger was over, the engineer and two volunteers went down to see why the fireman did not return. They saw the stopper turned, and there, lying right down beside it, was the brave fireman, quite dead. The steam had scalded him to death. All the passengers and ship's crew were saved by that noble man ; but it cost him his own life.

Jesus Christ did more for us even than that. This man was not sure that he would be killed if he went down, although the danger was terrible; yet he might escape, while he knew that if no one turned the stopper he would have to die with the others. Jesus knew well enough, years and years before his death, that He must die if man was to be saved. This brave fireman had little time to think of death -he acted on the generous impulse of the moment. But Jesus knew well, and had time to weigh carefully all the danger and pain before Him, and yet was willing to go on. This brave fireman had companions on board, and knew how grateful every one of them would be for his noble act. Christ died for those who cared nothing for Him, and who would many of them prove very ungrateful. If that fireman had lived, would not the people have been willing to do anything for him? and as he died, would they not be willing to do anything for his friends? Jesus died for you and me, children; shall we not be willing to show our gratitude by doing something for Him? He only asks one gift, which will really cost us nothing, but only make us richer afterward. He says, 'Son, daughter, give Me thy heart.' He wants us to love Him, and try to do what He commands us. Surely we cannot refuse Him this favour.

A BOY'S LAST HYMN IN A GARRET.

A FRIEND of mine, seeking for objects of charity, got into the upper room of a tenement-house. It was vacant. He saw a ladder pushed through the ceiling. Thinking that perhaps some poor creature had crept up there, he climbed the ladder, drew himself through the hole, and found himself under the rafters. There was no light but that which came through a bull's-eye in place of a tile. Soon he saw a heap of chips and shavings, and on them a boy about ten years old.

Boy, what are you doing here?'

'Hush! don't tell anybody, please, sir.'

'What are you doing here?'

'Hush! please don't tell anybody, sir; I'm a-hiding.'

'What are you hiding from?'

'Don't tell anybody, please, sir.'

" Where's your mother?'

'Please, sir, mother's dead.'

'Where's your father?'

'Hush! don't tell him, don't tell him! but look here!"

He turned himself on his face, and through the rags of his jacket

and shirt my friend saw that the boy's flesh was bruised and his skin was broken.

'Why, my boy, who beat you like that?'

'Father did, sir!'

'What did he beat you like that for?'

'Father got drunk, sir, and beat me 'cos I wouldn't steal!'

'Did you ever steal?'

'Yes, sir, I was a street thief once!'

'And why don't you steal any more?'

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'Please, sir, I went to the mission school, and they told me there of God, and of heaven, and of Jesus; and they taught me Thou shalt not steal," and I'll never steal again if my father kills me for it. But please, sir, don't tell him!'

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My boy, you must not stay here, you'll die. Now, you wait patiently here for a little time; I'm going away to see a lady. We will get a better place for you than this.'

'Thank

you, sir; but please, sir, would you like to hear me sing a little hymn?'