Sunday-school times

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VOLUME VI.
PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY AT ONE DOLLAR AND FIFTY CENTS A YEAR-PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST 13, 1864.
NUMBER 33.
THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL TIMES,
A Weekly Religious Paper.
Price One Dollar and Fifty Cents a Yearinadvance
For the Sunday-School Times.
Philadelphia subscribers who wish the Paper si
•t their residences, will be charged 60 cents additional.
T»ose who call at the office will receive it for One Dollar
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She Postage ts 20 cents a year, which must be paid in
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Lotters containing articles for publication, should be
Addressed . •
Editors Sunday-School Times,
Philadelphia, Pkkh'a.
Letters containing   subscriptions   to  the Paper, or
orders for books, should be addressed
J. C. GARRIQUES & Co.,
148 South Fourth Street,
PHrLAnELPHTA, PKNN'A.
For the Sunday-School Times.
The Festive Sunday-School.
By thb Rev. Alfred Taylor.
A STEAMBOAT full of children. Upper
deck lower deck, cabin, inside and out¬
side, crowded with ornamented juvenile hu
manity. All sorts of fine apparel, of every
«olor in the rainbow, and some of colors, and
combinations of colors which the rainbow
would hardly recognize. Several flags flying,
musicians making the air vocal with large
brass horns and other sonorous instruments.
Arms, heads and legs stretched over the
steamboat railing, or poked through the aper¬
tures between the bars. The grand affair of
the year is coming off. Hopes, fears, anxieties
and pleasures of many weeks are now con¬
densed and concentrated into this, the annual
pic-nic. Let us not try to repress the joyful
enthusiasm of the youngsters. Let us not
make a long face at th<-m, and tell them that we
believe the boiler to be defective, the engineer
to be drunk, and that we think the whole
thing will blow up before they come back. Nor
let us mourn in advance over the possibility
that half a dozen children may be drowned
before the day is over. Neither tell them how
miserably tired they will all be when they
come home, nor how sick they will be on the
morrow, from a surfeit of the good things
provided for their refreshment on the festive
occasion.
The steamboat may blow up ; the children
may be smashed, drowned, or otherwise in¬
jured; they may become tired or sick. But,
on the other hand, there is a possibility that
by careful management these things may be
avoided. Let us hope that everything will go
right, and that everybody will return in good
spirits and in sound health.
The fact is, that a steamboat excursion, on
which a multitude of children are taken, is a
troublesome and somewhat dangerous enter¬
prise. A railroad car expedition is, perhaps,
worse; for it is smoky and dusty, if steam
power is used, and cramps the children more
than a steamboat ride. Something of the
kind is a necessity, however, if city children
are to be indulged with a day of rural recrea¬
tion. The recent introduction of horse-rail¬
roads into most of the large cities is a help to
this branch of the. Sunday-school work. The
street cars afford the safest and the most com¬
fortable means of public conveyance for a
company of children. If a child happens to
tumble off, there is better opportunity to pick
him up than if he goes overboard from a
Steamboat, or falls under the wheels of a
twenty-ton locomotive engine.
The idea of a day of retention is a good
one. Tbe diy can be well spent. The time,
labor, and cost of the festivities are not thrown
away, provided they are kept within moderate
bounds. It is the extravagance in dressing,
eating, parading, and such thing-), which has
brought these pic nic pleasures iato dispute
in some quarters. And in many of them there
has been a degree of frivolity, sometimes even
running into vulgarity and rowdyism, which
should never have been allowed in connection
with a Sunday-school. The children should
have all the fun tbey want, but should be
taught tbe difference between good natured
mirtbfulness and sinful mischief. The chil¬
dren who are taught to regard fun as some¬
thing wicked, are the ones who, when license
is allowed them, get into all manner of mis¬
chief.
And the day can be made not only a day of
pleasure to the children, but of religious profit.
Not tbat they will sing psalms, read the Bible,
pray, or listen to speeches all the day. But if
a proper amount of religious exerci&e is thrown
in at the right time, the children will enjoy
it. If six long-winded men make six tedious
harangues, beg nning, "My dear children, I
really don't know what to say," the "dear
children" will pronounce such speech-making
a bore, and slip off to the woods, or the edge
of tbe creek. Have one or two short epeeches,
of tbe very best kind, a little prayer, as much
good singing as you choose, and never forget,
under any circum-tances, to have a little
reading of the Bible. A portable melodeon
will add to the excellence of the singing, and
to the general attractiveness of the occasion.
Like almost every other good thing about a
Sunday-school, the festivity business can be
carried to an unwholesome extreme. If it is
made tbe leading feature of the school, the
result will be bad. If kept within proper
bounds, and administered in doses of appro¬
priate size, we need not be afraid of it.
Bristol, Pa.
Who are the saints of humanity? Those
whom perpetual habits of goodness and of gran¬
deur have m*de nearly unconscious that what
they do is good or grand: heroes with in¬
fantine simplicity.
The Child's Disappointment.
FRANKIE was a dear little boy about four
years old. He was a brght, chubby child,
and his father and mother thought there never
was quite so smart and pretty a boy before.
They were poor people, and lived in a small,
unfinished house, a little out of the main part
of the village. They were not Christians,
and seldom went to church. At one time,
Frankie's mother did resolve to go to church
regularly, for her solemn charge, in having a
little soul committed to her care, made her
feel as if she ought to know more about the
way to heaven herself So she hired part of
a pew in the back part of the church she pre¬
ferred, and commenced attending. For a year
she was usually in her place on the Sabbath,
but at the end of that time she fell back into
the old indifference. It was hard to hasten
through her morning work so as to be ready
in time, and then take the long walk alone,
for her husband would but seldom accompany
her. It was harder than all to go, Sabbath after
Sabbath, and never meet a smile of recognition,
or hear a friendly word. Not one of the ladies
ot the church ever called on her, and probably
not more than half a dozen of them ever knew
of her existence. The minister did notice her
and spoke kindly.to her once or twice; but
he never found out where she lived, or what
were the wants of her soul. So she did not
enjoy her church going as much as she had
hoped, and when the year came round she did
not rent ber pew again, and was seen in it no
more. This was when Frankie was about two
years old. When he was four, a new neighbor
moved into the house opposite them, and there
were two little boys in the family. Johnnie
and Ezra Chase went to Sabbath-school every
Sabbath, and they brought home such beauti¬
ful books and papers, and their black eyes
sparkled so, as they told of their pleasant
teacher, and of the songs they sang, that little
Frankie caught the spirit and longed to go to
the beautiful Sabbath-school too. His mother
thought he was too small, but the little boy
was so grieved and disappointed, that she re¬
solved to let him go as soon as the warm
spring days came. Then-she commenced teach¬
ing him the little verses and questions she
thought he would be expected to know. The
first man, the meekest man, and the strongest
man, were soon familiar names to him, and
several hymns were also stored in his memory.
Never was the first introduction to Sabbath-
school anticipated with more eagerness than
by Frankie. He would repeat his little
catechism to himself that he might be sure of
not missing a word, and would stand up and
say " Now I lay me down to sleep,'' in a
solemn, earnest way, just as he expected to
say it in Sabbath-school.
At last the happy day came,—when Frankie
went with Ezra and Johnnie to the long
wished for Sabbath-school.
The superintendent spoke kindly to the little
boy and led him up to a seit near the pulpit,
in which were six little children of about his
age, and one or two larger ones. He sat very
quietly with them—and soon tbe a> hool was
opened. After the singing and the prayer,
the books were returned and new ones
selected, and then lessons began. ■ Little
Frankie's teacher turned to her class, and
began to teach them their letters from a large
card. After employing about fifteen minutes
in this way, she laid the card down, and turning
away from the class, began to read to herself
The children left to themselves, soon became
uneasy. Little Frankie was very tired, and
began to wish for his mother. For awhile
he watched the boy Dext to him putting straws
down the neck of one of the little girl's dresses,
but when the boy grew tired of that, and turn¬
ing to Frankie, began to torment him—it was
too much—and he burst into tears. "I want
to go home 1 I want to go home !" was all he
could say, and when Johnnie Chase came
hastily up, he seized his hand and went out
with him, sobbing all the way. He waited at
the door for the boys to get their books, and
then they all went home. His mother missed
the bright, smiling face in a moment, and
wondered to see such a tearful one; so she
asked him if he did not like to go to Sabbath-
school. " She did not hear me say my
questions,".said he with a fresh burst of tears.
His mother tried to comfort him, but it was
weeks before he ceased to grieve over his dis¬
appointment, and no persuasions could induce
him to go again to Sabbath-school.
Oh! ye teachers—be faithful to the little
ones.   Beware how you neglect them 1      K.
MR. MILLION DOLLARS.
THE following from the address of Henry
Ward Beecher at the recent meeting of the
Tract Society in Boston, is characteristic and
pertinent:
A man may make a million dollars and be—
a man. For a man who has got a million
dollars, you know, is a man—in New York,
and I suppose, in Boston. Everybody takes
bis hat off to Mr. Million Dollars. He is con¬
ciliated, he is respected ; and if there i3 any
prospect that the dew will be shaken off his
branches he is invited everywhere. «If a man
has a million dollars he is a man; but he dies,
and his million dollai-3 is cut into four quar¬
ters, and four persons carry it off their several
ways. Mr Million Dollars, after an appro¬
priate funeral, i3 buried, and there he lies;
and in a few years nobody talks about him,
nobody thinks about bim, nobody hears about
him. In fifty years the shrewdest man might
go and read his gravestone, and find " Mr.
Million Dollars." " Who was he and where
is his money ?"    And it would puzzle an an¬
tiquary to tell what those four heirs did do
with it. It puzzled them after a few years to
tell where it had gone to. He made bi3
money; it gave him power and influence; be
distributed it among his heirs; ye3, he dis¬
tributed it, and they squandered it; he died
and went to dust, and that was the last of
him, so far as this world is concerned; I don't
know what became of him beyond.
But suppose that instead of that he had
made himself his own executor, and had put
fifty thousand dollars behind a printing press
and said, " As long as interest lasts on that
fifty thousand dollars, work, press, work I"
Suppose he had taken some treatise written
for liberty, based upon the Bible, and carry¬
ing out the vital power of the gospel, and had
taken another fifty thousand dollars and put
it into the hands of the Tract Society, saying,
"I consecrate to the printing of that book
this fifty thousand dollars; work with that
money as long as it can bear interest." Sup¬
pose he had taken five»hundred thousand dol¬
lars and appointed them his sentinels—sta¬
tioning fifty thousand dollars there, and there,
and there—they would go on working until
the last trump sounds; and when a hundred
years had passed oyer his grave his name,
through that society, would still be fresh, and
hi3 influence potent for good. Every tract
would bear hi3 name upon its imprint, and a
million tombstones could not make it so
illustrious.
For the Sunday-School Times.
My Teacher's Penciled Notes.
THEY lie before me—three little penciled
notes. Carefully have they been trea¬
sured through all the changing scenes of
twenty years—precious ever, and, oh, how-
precious to me still!
Precious are they not only in themselves,
but as mementos of her who wrote them—my,
gentle teacher, whose spirit, fourteen tyears
ago, took its joyful flight from earth to
heaven.
Penciled letters. Why does the thought that
they are penciled thrill through my heart, and
till my eyes with grateful tears ?
Too weary to wield a pen was the dear hand
which traced these earnest lines. In the eve¬
ning hours, when a teacher's work was done,
when the aged and the young, who knew her
loving offices at home, bad gone to their
nightly sleep, when tired nature demanded
rest, and every selfish instinct bade her call
her duties dene, her time. her own, tbei;-
her never weary heart remembered the soul
of her little pupil—whom others deemed too
young to know a Saviour's love—and ber
weary hand traced these lines to win me to
bis bosom.
I had no special claims for such watchful¬
ness ; no ties of kindred bound us; our only
relation was that of teacher and scholar.
Yearning and praying for my salvation, she
sowed in tears the precious seed—these pen¬
ciled notes. Those prayers were heard, those
seeds sprang up, the penciled.lines awakened
longings and anxieties, which gave me no
rest till I found it at the feet of Jesus.
Her work for me was quickly done. A few
fleeting months and sbe was no more my
teacher; our paths diverged, never more to
meet on earth. Short for others, too, was her
earth-work; her rest was early won. A few
orief years circled away, and the devoted
teacher, the dutiful daughter and grand¬
daughter, the precious sister, the adored bride
of two fleeting months, passed to her glorious
and eternal home.
As I have said, no ties of kindred bound us ;
only as my teacher, and but for a brief season
I knew her. When she breathed out her
sweet, young life, in her far-off western home,
they sent me no tidings, nor reckoned me
among those who would grieve. The sorrow-
stricken mourners knew not that my heart was
bound to hers with ties of love and gratitude
which even death could never sunder. They
saw not—as did, perhaps, the hovering spirit
of the departed—tbe tears, wrung from my
very heart by her early death, which fell like
summer rain upon these penciled notes.
Many years of change have passed since
then, and the remembrance of scores who
deemed themselves nearer and dearer to me
than she, is now but a shadow of the past.
Yes, the memory of others have faded; why is
my teacher's so vivid and precious still?
These time-stained, tear-stained penciled
letters are my answer. Had she not written
them, my soul might now have no fellowship
with hers in the heavenly rest, and her me¬
mory might be to me only a vision of the
past.
These line3, traced in weariness by the
hand that has long been dust, are the golden
links which bind my heart in eternal union
with her, whom I knew on earth as Hetta
Chadwick.
That they directed my childhood's thoughts
to Jesus, is not their only service. Through
all these following years; they have urged me,
,with mute but strong appeal, as from Ue
sweet dead lips of her who traced them,
" Write—write for Jesus I"
Not to myself alone would I limit the pre¬
cious fruits of these penciled letters. In the
hope of extending their appeal to purer hearts
and abler pens than mine, have I written this
brief record.
May it encourage the beloved teachers who
iead these columns to write many letters of
Christian entreaty to their dear scholars,
which, like these, on which my grateful tears
are shed, shall be a bond of eternal union be¬
tween teacher and pupil.
Herbert Newbury.
For the Sunday-School Times.
The Seamless Coat.
" Now the coat was without seam, woven from the top
throughout. Th«y said therefore among themselves,
Let us not rend it, but cast lots for it whoso it shall be."
John 19: 23, 24.
The "seamless coat!"   Long centuries have past,
Since lots were for that woven vesture cast;
The record tells not' here the garment fell	
Perchance 'tis thine ! mark thou the tokens well.
This vesture hath a straight, unbroken thread;
Truth seeks no tangled skein, no knotted shred;
No hearts oblique her folds transparent screen;
Throughout her work a perfect thread is seen.
What honored hand that ancient shuttle threw ?
What honored hand the nice dimensions drew ?
Did thirty silver pieces buy the vest?
What form now dares within its folds to rest ?
We must not rend it; we must find it whole;
It girds " the stature of the perfect" soul;
The hallowed raiment can alone abide
On forms most like the Sacred, Crucified.
Where secret steps frequent tho place of prayer,
Where gentle tones beguile the heart of care,
Where self is governed, sacrificed, forgot,
Where brows aro placid, look ye for "the lot."
Not there where swelling hearts no ill can brook,
But right the wrong at once by deed or look;
Not there, mid envy, strife, and wassail glare,—
Rude patches, rents, and cart-rope seams arc there.
Does care elaborate, with cunning skill,
Adorn thy garb, thy brother naked still ?
More naked thou!   Draw close thy costly shreds,
Thy raiment lacks the priceless "woven" threads.
Thine alms ?   We know them!   For thy trumpet
free
Hath not one secret kept 'twixt God and thee!
But learn, the hand that hath his vesture won,
Tells not its fellow of the deed well done.
Lift ye askance the eye of pride ?   Lift ye
The cry, "The temple of the Lord are we ?"
Ah! did ye boast ?   Then not on ye doth rest
That lowly garment, the Redeemer's vest.
A bridal f«ast is ready; who are there ?
Alas, one palsied tongue is "speechless !" Where,
Oh where the " wedding garment ?" Ah, the " lot!"
That pure, meek, seamless vesture was forgot!
That bridal feast! there each accepted guest
Is draped in glory with the seamless vest.
That wondrous web, from Calvary wide thrown,
With light eternally enfolds its own ! H. S.
SPECIAL PRAYER.
jrjlHE testimony which has been frequently
n L given to the divine blessing following the
offering up of special prayer for special per¬
sons, by pastors, Sabbath-school teachers, and
others, is not only remarkable, but sometimes
almost startling.
And yet its unusual character—if it be un¬
usual—may ari3e wholly from a lack of the
faith in the common mind and heart, pro¬
ducing such prayer, and so gaining such re¬
sults.
It is beyond doubt, a fact, that the philoso¬
phy and theology of prayer involve, and are
perfectly consistent with, not merely, but pro¬
phetic of, special answers to special petitions
It is no miracle, then, when a friend for whom
special supplication has been earnestly offered,
becomes the visible subject of renewing grace,
and comes out on the Lord's side. It is no
miracle, but simply the normal result of the
common law of prayer. That it is not a com¬
mon result, is simply because tbe process is
not a common one, and the faith lying behind
it, a common faith.
It would be, doubtless, a great good gained,
if Christians at large could be brought to un¬
derstand their privileges in thi3 regard, and to
act upon them. You want to do more for
Christ 1 But your position is a humble one,
and you have few or no gifts ; so that you feel
that you cannot hopefully undertake to sav
much to others. Still you desire to do more
for him who died for you. And you ask, what
shall I do? Try this. Select some one per¬
son, and—not probably letting him dream oi
any such thing—make him specially, continu¬
ously, patiently, fervently, the object of yout
prayer. If the blessing tarry, wait for it. Try
it faithfully, and see if the Lord will not give
you that soul for your hire. This you can do.
—Christian Intelligencer.
For the Sunday-School Times.
RUTHERFORDIANA.—No. 28.
Drink of Christ's Cup.—In the great work
of our redemption, your lovely, beautiful, and
glorious Friend and well-beloved Jesus was
brought to tears and strong cries, so as his
face was wet with tears and blood, arising
from a holy fear and the weight of the curse.
Take a drink of the Son of God's cup, and
love it the better that he drank of it before
you.    There is no poison in it.
Hold on to the Branches.—In your temp¬
tations run to the promises. They be our
Lord's branches hanging over the water, that
our Lord's silly, half-drowned children may
t«ke a grip of them. If you let that grip go
you will go to the ground.
As Ever.—Ye never knew one in God's
book who put his hand to the Lord's work for
his kirk, but the world and Satan did bark
against them and bite also when they had the
power. Ye will not lay one stone on Zion's
wall but they will labor to cast it down again.
Hope to the End.—When all these strokes
are over, what will you say to eee your well-
beloved Christ's white and ruddy face, even
his face who is worthy to bear tbe colors
among ten thousand. Hope and believe to
the end.
A Sweet Cross.—I am filled with joy in
my sufferings, and I find Christ's cross sweet.
A Clouded Christ.—The sun is gone down
on tbe Prophets, and our gold is become dim,
and the Lord feedeth his people with the wa¬
ters of gall and wormwood. Yet Cbrist stand-
eth but behind the wall. His bowels are
moved: he waiteth that he may show
mercy.
Pisbah.—I am well and my soul prospereth.
I find Christ with me. I burden no man. I
want nothing. No face looketh on me but it
laugheth on me. Sweet, sweet is tbe Lord's
cross. I overcome my heaviness. My Bride¬
groom's love-clinks fasten my weary soul.
W. P. B.
LITTLE BLIND JIM.
VISITING a mission Sunday-school, the
superintendent turned my attention to
a boy who was bending hia head earnestly
towards his teacher, as if eager to catch every
word she said.
" Why," said I, "that little fellow seems to
be blind." His eyes, I noticed, were almost
closed.
" That is so," said the superintendent; "he
is almost blind, yet we have no scholar more
eaeer to learn, and none better behaved. I
wish you to notice him particularly; he is a
very interesting child.
"He was plajing on the Fourth of July
with powder, which he and some other boys
were endeavoring to explode. Little Jim put
his face down to blow the match, when the
powder went off, and- terribly disfigured his
face and put out hi3 eyes. Imagine the dis¬
tress of his parents when their boy was led4 in
lacerated and blind.
" Tbe little sufferer bore it patiently, and
the doctor was in "daily attendance; but no
light came to hi3 eyes. There he sat, in the
corner, hopelessly Wind. At length, after
trying every means ia vain, the doctor said,
' I can do no more; the eye is beyond my
skill.' The poor parents' hearts sank within
them. But the little patient had been to Sun¬
day-school, and had there learned soma very
important lessons. Among these was the fact
that Jesus opened the eyes of the blind. ' Well,'
said he to himself, meditating on his forlorn
condition, 'if Jesus cured blindness then, why
can he not now? What the doctor can't do,
Jesus perhaps will do.' And so faith began to
stir in his heart.
" Little Jim, in carrying out this faith, goes
into one corner of the room and kneels down,
and in a low tone is heard to say, 'OLoid
Jesua, when thou wast on earth thou didst
make the blind to see. Have pity on me, a
poor blind boy, and open my eyes. The
doctor has tried, and can't. O Jesus, open
my eyes and have mercy npon me.    Amen.'
" Hearing th s little prayer, the parents
were tenderly affected, and could add their
hearty amen—not supposing, however, that it
would be of any avail. But their unbelief
did not ' make the faith of little Jim of none
effect.'
" The boy seemed to expect that his prayer
would be answered. He said to himself, 'Jesus
has commanded us to pray—to ask, that we
may receive. He won't say no to my prayer.'
So he seemed to be greatly comforted. His
gloom passed in a measure away, and his
darkened face seemed lit up with the smile of
hope.
"After weary days and weeks had gone by,
gradually there came a faint streak of light,
and Jim began to wok his way around wiih-
put the helping hand. He could now see a
little. By and by he could see a little more,
until at length he resumed his place in the
Sunday-school, 'where,' said the superintend¬
ent, ' you may see him.' "
Of course I looked at Jim with increasing
interest. I watched his countenance, observed
the interest he took in his lessons as given
through the ear instead of the eye, no'iced the
varying expression of his face, and said to
myself, " There is a beautiful illustration of
rbe power of faith."
Sweet is the example to all children who
ire sufferers by disease or by accident. When
r.he parents and the doctor can't help them,
let them imitate the faith of little Ji-u, and
look to Jesus. And oh, let all who are blind
of heart—the worst kind of blindness—go to
Jesus, and say, " Lord, that our eyes may be
opened." None but Jesus can cure soul-
blindness.
" Oh that all the blind but knew him,
And would be advised by me,
Surely they would hasten to him ;
And he would cause them all to see."
—American Messenger.
But One Sabbath-in the Week.
A PERSON being invited to go on an ex¬
cursion for pleasure on tbe Holy Sabbath,
replied, "I should like an excursion very
well; but I have but one Sabbath in the week
and I can't spare that."
This expresses an important truth in an
impressive manner. When we have but one
day in the week exclusively devoted to the
concerns of eternity, while six are devoted to
*he affairs of time, can we spare that one day
for pleasure ? It is the best day of the seven.
It is worth more than all the rest. If rightly
employed, it will bring us a richer return
What we can earn in six days is perishable;
but the frmts of a well spent Sabbath will
endure forever. The Sabbath, when properly
spent, is the day for the highest kind of em¬
ployment, or rather enjoyment. If, therefore,
you would sei-k mere earthly pleasure, you
can better afford to tak* any rther day in the
week for it than to take the Holy Sab¬
bath.
For the Sunday-School Times.
NED LONGEARS.
BY THE  REV. JOHN   TODD, D. D.
New Series—No. 23.
IT is beautiful to see how God has given to
each creature a nature just fitted for the
place it is to occupy. And as all his creatures
are designed to fill some niche in his great
world, so be fits it jast for its place, by its
nature.
A poor little donkey stood by tbe side of
the road, harnessed to a small cart, filled with
coal, which he had just tugged up a long hill.
Hia driver had gone off with a companion, to¬
ft small beer-shop close by. As he stood still,
with his head down, a large, beautiful bay
horse came prancing along. His long, round
body, heavy mane, a tail that swept the
ground, his high, arching neck, his small,
sharp-pointed ears, his bright eye, and hia
elean, tapering legs, showed him to be no
common horse. And then he had been
groomed, rubbed and brushed, till he shone
Hke glass. His feet hardly seemed to touch
the ground. As he came gallopiDg up 1o the
donkey, he stopped, snorted once or twice, and
then looked on him with a look that seemed
to say, " I wonder if you belong to the race of
horses I" This Black-hawk horse was full
fifteen- and a half hands high, and every way
beautifully proportioned.
" Who are you?" says Black-hawk.
" My name, sir, is Ned Losgears."
" Well, you are a small, contemptible fellow.
I don't suppose you can draw more than a
good sized cat can."
" I have just drawn this load, a full ton of
coal, up. this hill."
" But you can't run and bound. You can't
snuff th* morning air and look over all the
fields, and see things as I c-an."
" Perhaps not; but I Jan see my path and
keep in it; and I can find my crib, and I can
see my master." *
" But they don't give y©u oats and fine laay
and a aice bed as tbey do me.'
"True, but I love the thistle, and the brier,
and tbe bramble, and the coarse hay. These
tickle my mouth, and I could grow fat on
thistles. I don't whine and call for oata. I
don't think of them."
"•Yes but you are never saddled and ridden
for your beauty. You never draw ladies in a
silver-mounted "carriage. You are not used
on the battle-field. You never run races and
win silver cups, and make the dust fly on the
race- ground. I don't see what you were made
for, do you ?"
" Why, sir, I was made for the poor, the very
poor, who cannot own and feed a horse, and
who need help. My master is too poor to own
and feed a hor3e, and yet he cannot cart this
coal around alone, and so I help him."
" What long ears you have I Ned Longears
truly I"
" I was 'saying, sir, that I was made for the
poor man. He has not alwavs education and
self-control, and so I am made stupid that I
may not be worried by him. Your little, short
ears catch sounds quick, because you are ner¬
vous. My senses are all dull, and my ears
must be long in order to allow me to hear at
all. If my master swears at me in a passion,
T hardly hear it, and it don't worry me. If he
thra-hes me, my skin is so tough and my sen¬
sibilities so blubt, that I hirdly feel it. If he
has no good hay for my supper, I can contrive
to pick up some briers, or something coarse
that is left by other creatures. If I can't have a
bedding of strav, my body is so light that I
don't get weary by my own weight. My mas¬
ter would not know how to appeal to my pride,
and self-respect, if I had any. And I am glad
I have none. You have a nice, warm stable
and a world of care, but how often you get
lame or sick, while I was never lame in my
life nor was I ever sick a day. You are old
and worn out and cast aside at about fifteen
years old, while I am not old at three times
that age, and some of my race have been
known to live to seventv years. You feelhurt
unless you are petttd and flattered, and even
to you they have to take the whip when they
drive, and the spur when they ride on your
back. Why, Mr. Black-hawk, though your
akin is so glossy and your heels so light, I be-
beve in my way, and in the course of my
longer life, I enjoy as much as you do. I don't
want to run races, and then after almost kill¬
ing myself, feel envious or jealous of others.
I think, sir, I am just in the right place—the
friend of the very poor man—for which I was
designed. If I were larger, he could not sup¬
port me; if I were more tender he would let
me suffer through neglect; if I hid nerves and
smartness like you, I should chafe myself to
death ; if I were sensitive, I should pine and
die in my bondage; but as it is, I quietly do
my duty. I eat when I can get anything to
eat, and I pass along a real donkey, but none
the less contented for that. I am a philoso¬
pher, sir, for I don't know what pain or plta-
aure mean I"
THE SAFE TRUST.
Leave God to order all thy ways,
And hope in him whate'er betide;
Thou'lt find him in the evil days
Tby all-sufficient strength and guide;
Who trusts in God's unchanging love.
Builds on a rock that nought can move.
Loss of Time.—The greatest 'oss of time
that I know is to count the hours. What
good comes of it? Nor can there he any
greater dotage in the world, than for one to
guide aud direct hia courses by the sound of a
bell, and not by hia «wn judgment and dis-
cretion.—Rabelais.