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VOL. X. PLYMOUTH, N. C, FRIDAY, MAY 26, 1899. NO. 36.
"There hain't no summer comln'," said the
grumbler in dismair,
And he trudged throughout the woodlands
where the leafless trees stood guard,
Where the scene around him darkened and
all Nature'9 grace was marred,
By tho blasts of cold midwinter that had
sternly, held their sway.
Cut above a ruffled red-breast thrilled a
happy little song,
And a sparrow chirped with pleasure as he
winged his way along.
"There hain't no summer oomia'." Why,
since now the sky is dark,
Must the sun forever leave us just beoause it
Can't the frowns of bleak' December be re
placed by Maytime's smile '(
A A A: A. i
i THE SILENCE OF
BY J. L.
jjf "I wish to goodness, Simeon Sayles,
"that you would shut up and keep shut
( vup!" said Myra Sayles in a weary tone
, and speaking as if the words were
forced from her against her will.
"You do, hey?" replied her brother
Simeon, sharply and irritably.
He had been scolding about some
trifling matter for nearly half an hour,
and his sister Myra had listened in
patient silence. Now she spoke be
cause he had said something peeuliar
' ly annoying, and when ho had replied
so sharply she said:
"Yes, I mean it, Simeon Sayles. I
get so sick and tired of your . eternal
scolding and blaming that I just wish
sometimes you'd shut your mouth and
never open it again while you live."
"You do, hey?"
' "Yes, I do."
1 There was a sullen silence in the
r room for three or four minutes; the
wrinkles on Simeon's brow deepened,
and his lips were pressed more and
more lightly together. Suddenly he
opened them with a snap and a defiant
toss of his head.
"Very well, Myra Sayles, I will
'shut up,' and I'll stay 'shut up,' and
you'll see how you like it."
"I'll have some peace, then," re
plied Myra, shortly. Yet she looked
at her brother curiously.
The Sayleses were noted in the
country roundabout for rigidly adher
ing to every resolution they made.
The thought now came into Myra's
mind, "Will he do it?" She had not
meant him to take her remark literal
l ly. Simeon was as iron-willed as any
'of the family, and yet Myra felt that
he could not keep such, a vow long. It
was necessary for him to talk. So she
"I guess you'll be gabbling away
fast enough before night. There's no
such .good luck as your keeping still
Simeon made no reply, but took his
old straw hat from a nail behind the
door and went out into the barnyard,
walking very erect, but with little
jerks, indicating that the Sayles tem
per was high in him.
"Now he'll go out to the barn and
putch around out there a while and
maybe putch all evening in the house
and then talk a blue streak all day to
morrow to make up for the time he's
lost keeping still. I declare, if the
men-folks can't be the tryingest!"
She stitched away steadily on the
sheet she was turning until the clock
" struck 6, when sue jumped up hastily.
"Mercy," she exclaimed, "I'd no
idea it was so late! I hope to good
ness the tire hasn't gone out. I must
get the kettle on and supper ready. I
did intend making some of the flannel
cakes Simeon likes so much, to put
him in good humor, but I don't believe
I shall have time now.",'
Nevertheless, there was a plate of
steaming hot "flannel cakes" and a
lirwl of made sviup before Simeon's
plate when he came in to supper half
an hour later.
He ate the cakes in stubborn si
Are vou coins' to Seth Badger's
after supper," Myra asked, "to see
him about helping you cut that glass
After waiting in vain for the answer,
"I want to know it if you do go, be
cause I want to send Mrs. Badger a
waist pattern of hers I borrowed last
No reply from
Simeon. His sister
impatient toss, and
gave her head an
thAv finished the meal in silence.
. When it was done Simeon went to a
little table in a corner of the room,
pulled out the drawer and took from
it a scrap of blank paper and a stub of
4a lead pencil.
-Myra took the sapper dishes into
the kitchen; when she came into the
room again Simeon handed her the
scrap of paper. On it wa3 written:
"I'm a-going over to Badger's
Myra dropped the bit of paper on
the floor and stared hard at her
"Well, Simeon Sayles!" she said at
last. "I call this carrying matters
pretty far. Before I d make myself
eo ridiculous, I'd What you going
to do when you get over to Badger's?
You'll o"ok smart ' vriting out what
you're Rot to say over there, now won't
you? You'll make yourself the laugh-
InfT.strifk of u)f oountrv if ton so
Why, the songster.? are in training,and we'll
' soon hear from the lark.
Buds are peeping out o'er hillocks; trees are
smiling through the rain,
That will make them love the sunshine when
it comes to thorn again.
"There hain't no summer comln'," but
adown one storm-strewn dell
Bompod a playful squirrel, happy in the
knowledge of a day
That was soon to bring its blessings and the
violets of May. ,
While some stream in gurgling protest, as
' ' upon tho moss It fell,
Mingled mu3io of the sunshine with the
music of the rain,
And roused up a sleeping flower that for
months had lifeless lain.
W. Livingston Larned.
t jflt JVjfltj&A. A rfW A A A A A. jBk-A, A.
around writing out what you've got to
say when you've got as good a tongue
in your head as anybody."
Simeon made no reply, but picked
up the bit of pencil and wrote on
another scrap of paper:
"Whare is that patern?" ;
"I think you'd better learn to spell
before you go to conversing in writing
spelling 'where' withau 'a' aud 'pat
tern' with only one 't'! If you don't
get sick aud tired of this sort Oi tom
foolery before two days, I miss my
guess, Simeon Sayles!"
Whether he grew tired of it or not,
Simeon Sayles said all he had to say in
writing from that time forth. His only
reply to his sister's ridicule and re
monstrances was written in these
"You sed you wisht I'd shut up my
mouth and keep it shut, and I'm
a-going to do it."
He bought a little blank book, in
which he kept a pencil, and all his
communications to' the world and to
individuals were made through the
medium of this book and pencil.
The neighbors said that " the
Sayleses always were a queer lot, auy
how;" that some of Simeon's ancestors
had been rather eccentric, and that
Simeon himself had never seemed
quite like other men. No matter how
true this may have been, his sister
Myra was a thoroughly well-balanced
woman, with a large fund of strong
common sense, and her brother's freak
caused her great secret mortification
and distress, although she had de
clared at the beginning of it: "It will
be an actual rest to me to get rid of
your eternal scolding!"
But Simeon had not scolded "eter
nally," as Myra felt obliged to confess
to herself in her reflective moments.
He was, indeed, somewhat infirm of
temper and sometimes gave himself up
to prolonged fits of petulance, but
there had been' days and even weeks
at a time when Simeon had been as
serene of mind and as companionable
as any man.
He and his sister Myra had sat side
by side on the little porch over the
front door of their old red farmhouse
throughout many a peaceful summer
evening, quietly talking over the past
and the future. The loug winter even
ings had often been filled with a quiet
happiness and peace for them both, as
they sat at the same hearthstone at
which their parents had sat, Myra
with her knitting and Simeon reading
aloud or smoking his pipe in peace.
They had nearly always eaten their
meals iu harmony, and now, as they
sat at the table facing each other in
hard, cold silence, there were times
when, although neither would hUve
confessed it to the other, their food al
most choked them.
"This freak of his i3 harder to put
up with at the table than at any other
place or time," his sister confessed to
a sympathetic neighbor. "Sometimes
it just seems as if I'd fly. There he
sits as mum as a grindstone. Some
times I try to rattle away just as if
nothing was the matter, but I can
never keep it up very long. I've tried
all sorts of little tricks to catch him
unawares and make him speak once,
but he won't be caught. One day,
just when he'd come in from the field,
I smelt something burning so strong
that I said, 'I do believe the house is
on fire,' and he opened his mouth as
if to speak 'and then clapped it shut
again and whipped out that abominable
iittle book and wrote, 'Whare?'
"I was so put out that I flung the
book clear out into the gooseberry
bushes. I really doubt if he ever does
speak again in this world, and the
prospect is pleasant for me, isn't it?"
The two lived alone in the old red
farmhouse in which they had been born
50 years before. They were without
kith or kin in the world with the ex
ception of a much younger sister
named Hope, who had married a pros
perous young farmer aud had gone
out west to live. It had been a time
of great sorrow to them when this
pretty, young sister had married Henry
Norton and gone from the old house.
They rejoiced in her happiness, of
course, and were quite sure that Hope
had "done well," but it was none the
less hard to give her up.
She wa3 only 21 years old at the
timeand so much younger than her
brother and sister that their affection
for her was much like that of a father,
and a mother for an only child. They
had lavished ihe tenderost love of
their lives on Hope, and their affection
had not lessened by her absence. In
the years since they had seen Hope's
pretty face aud heard her cheery voice
they often talked of her.
Myra had always stood as a strong
wall between Hope and harm or trouble
of any kind, and this loving thought
fulness had kept her from writing a
word to her sister about their brother's
"I wouldn't have Hope know it for
anything," Myra had said; "it would
worry the child so. And there's no
danger of Simeon writing it. He'd be
ashamed to. "
During all the fall and through one
whole long, wretched winter the iron
willed Simeon kept his resolve not to
speak, and a decided shake of his head
or a written "No" was his reply to
Myra's often repeated question, "Don't
you ever intend to speak again?"
One day in May a neighbor, coming
from the town, brought Myra a letter
that gave to her troubled heart the
wildest thrill of joy it had known for
many a day. Hope was comiug home!
She had written to say that she would
arrive on Wednesday of the following
week with her little girl of three yews
and that they would spend the entire
summer in the old home.
Catching up her sunbonnet, Myra
ran all the way to the distant field iu
which Simeou was at work, holding
the letter out as she ran aud calling
out before she reaehed him:
"O Simeon! Simeon! A letter
from Hope! She's coming homo!
She'll be here next week with her lit
tle Grace, that we've never seen! Only
think of it Hope's coming home!"
Simeon was plowing. He reined up
his horses with a jerk aud opened and
shut his mouth three or four times;
but no sound came from his lips. His
face wore a half-wild, half-frightened
look, and his hand trembled as he held
it out for the letter.
"Simeon! Simeon!" cried Myra,
with quivering voice and tearful eyes,
"surely you'll have to speak now!"
He shook his head slowly and sadly
as he sat down on theplow to read the
letter. He handed it back in silence
aud turned away his head when he
saw the tears streaming down Myra's
cheeks, and he. bit his lip until it al
most bled when he heard her sob as
she turned to go back to the house.
When he came to dinner he read the
letter again, but he and Myra ate in
Hope came a week from that day.
Myra went to the railroad station three
miles distant to meet her.
"It'll be better for me to meet her
I than for you, if you are bound and de
termined to keep up tins nonsense
while she's here," said Myra. "She
doesn't know a thing about it; you
may be sure I haven't written a word
of it to the poor child, and I dread to
tell her of it now. It's a shame, a burn
ing shame.Simeou Sayles, for you to
spoil Hope's first visitho'me just to carry
out a silly vow that it was wicked for
you ever to make in the first place.
It's a piece of wickedness right
A visible pallor had come into Sim
eon's face at the mention of Hope's
little girl. No one knew how much
and how tenderly this little girl whom
he had never seen had been in his
thoughts. He was fond of children,
and no child in the world could be as
dear to him as this little girl of Hope's.
He and Myra had looked forward so
eagerly to the time when Hope should
bring her to them, and they read so
proudly of all her infantile charms and
accomplishments as 6et forth in Hope's
He stole softly into the seldom
opened parlor when Myra had gone.
Several photographs of Hope's little
girl, taken at different stages of her
"infantile career, were in the album on
the parlor table. Simeon took up this
album and gazed at these photographs,
one by one, with unhappy eyes.
He wandered round the house and
yard until the time drew near for
Myra's return with Hope and little
Grace. Then he went down the road
to meet them. He had gone perhaps
a quarter of a mile when he sat down
by the wayside to wait until they
should drive around a turn in the road
a hundred yards or more distant.
He had waited not more than five
minutes when he heard the sound of
wheels and voices around the curve in
the road. He heard the sudden.sweet
laugh of a child aud was on his feet in
At that same instant a man on a bi
cycle dashed past him. Bicycles were
still an almost unheard of thing in
that part of the country. Simeon had
never seen but three or four of them,
arid the appearance of this one whirl
ing along at such speed startled him.
- Its rider sent it flying on down the
road, and it whirled around the curve,
to the surprise of Miss Myra and to
the terror of old Hector, th9 horse she
wa3 driving. The reins were lying
loosely in Myra's hands, and before
she could gather them up old Hector
jumped aside, 1 earing and plunging,
and the next instant he was racing
madly down the road with the reins
dragging the ground on either side of
him, while Hope clung to little Grace
"Whoa! WhoaJIector!" cried Myra
in a voice so awful with terror that it
frightened old Hector the more.
"Whoa, Hector, whoa!"
This time old Hector pricked up his
! ears, for the voice that suoke was a
firm, commanding one, aud the next
moment a strong hand grasped his
bridle while the viice repeated:
It was a harsh, stern voice, but it
sounded like the sweetest music in
Myra'a ears. It was Simeon's, and
Simeon was holding to the bit. H
held it until old Hector came to a halt,
and then he turned aud said calmly:
"Don't be scared, Hope, child;
you're all right now. Give me th
He held out his arms aud Hope put
the little girl into them, saying as shi
"It's your Uncle Simmy, dear! Pn
your arms around his neck and give
him a kiss, aud let him hear how wel!
you can say 'Uncle Simmy.'"
A pair of soft little arms stole around
Simeon's sunburned neck; a soft littla
cheek was laid on his rough, bearded
one, and when she had kissed hiu?
twice she said:
"Dee Nuncle Thimmy!"
"The blessed little creetur!" he said,
winking his eyes and hugging het
close to his heart.
Aud when she and her mother were
asleep iu Hope's old room that night,
Simeon came into the kitchen whera
Myra was setting some bread to risa
aud softly humming a gospel hymn of
praise out of the joy of her heart, am
"Well er well, what did Hope
say, anyhow, when you told her?"
"Wheu I told her what? Oh, about
your your la,SiniBon, the minute I
clapped eyes on that blessed child I
knew there wasn't any use in telling
Hope anything about it. I knew you'd
just have to speak to that baby! Sd
I never lisped a syllable about it to
Hope, and she never shall know a
word about it if I can help it. I wish
you'd fetch me in a basket of nice, dry
chips. The moon shiiies so bright you
can see to pick them up. I want a
quick fiie in the morning, so I can have
hot biscuits for Hope's breakfast. Sha
always was so fond of them."
And Simeon took the chip-basket
and went out into the moonlight, his
long-silent lips softly humming tha
same song of praise Myra had been
singing. Youth's Compauion.
DEWEY POSES FOR A PRIVATE.
The Hero of Manila Bay Cheerfully Com
plies with a Volunteer's Request.
All the stories told of Admiral
Dewey from the earliest date of his
career in the United States Navy give
him credit for affability and a kindly
disposition. "While a strict discipli
narian, these pleasant traits in his
character always made him popular
with the men, aud while no one ever
ventured to trifle with an order com
ing from him, his orders are always sd
issued that they received a cheerful af
well as a prompt response.
, The l eaders of the sketches of Dew
ey as executive officer of the Colorado,
written by the ship'3 writer and pub
Iished in the San Francisco Chronicle,
must have noted that an affectionati
relationship existed between DeweJ
and his men. He is evidently th
same old Dewey today as amiabh
and kindly toward all as ever. Th
exulted station he now occupies ani
the conspicuous place he holds in th
public eye aud in the hearts
the nation through the glory aud
splendor of his achievements in
Philippine Avaters have not changed
him in the least. And an admirable
story is sent to the Chronicle from
Corregidor Island as proof of his pres
ent extreme kindliness and affability.
It is told by Ernest Johnstone, who
sends to the Chronicle a couple of
snapshots of the admiral, and it re
lates the mauner iu which the photo
graphs where obtained. He says:
"Admiral Dewey visited this island
(Corregidor), where I am stationed,
the other day to inspect the old dis
mantled Spanish fortifications. A
private in the hopital corps met him,
snapped the first photograph of
him, and then said: 'Would you
gentlemen mind standing still a mo
ment, I would like to take your pic
tures?" " 'Certainly, my boy,' he (Dewey)
said, and he buttoned his blouse, re
questing the two naval officers accom
panying him to do likewise, the three
standing as you observe for the second
photograph. 1 knew that this would
be interesting now that Dewey is the
man of the hour. The building in tha
background is part of the Corregidor
The first snapshot shows Dewey
coming down from the lighthouse, and
he is caught with his open blouse flap
ping iu the breeze. The second shows
him and his two companions posing
for the artist with whose request he so
cheerfully complied. How many of
ficers are there in either the army or
navy who would have responded sc
pleasantly and promptly to the re
quest of a private in the volunteer
, Trouhles of Their Own.
"You can't place any dependence
on a woman's word," moodily re1
marked the young man who had beeu
jilted. "Of course vou "oa't believe
- "Oh, yes I do," sail the married
man, "My wife has been threatening
to leave me for ten years." Indiana
DR. TALMAGFS SERMON.
SUNDAY'S DISCOURSE SYTHE NOTED
8ubject: "Looking Backward" It Is "Well
to Review the Fast and Arouse the
Soul to Keminiscences of Dangers Es
caped and Sorrows Suffered.
Text: "While I was musing, the Are
burned." Psalms xxxix.. 3.
Here is David, the psalmist, with the
forefinger of bis right hand against his
temple and the door shut against the world,
engaged in contemplation. And it would
be well for us to take the same posture
often, while we sit down in sweet solitude
In a small island off the coast of Nova
Scotia I once passed a 8abbath in delight
ful solitude, for I had resolved that I would
have one day of entire quiet before I en
tered upon autumnal work, I thought to
have spent the day in laying out plans for
Christian work, but instead of that it be
came a day of tender reminiscence. I re
viewed my pastorate; I shook hands with
an old departed friend, whom I shall greet
again when the curtains of life are lifted.
The days of my boyhood came back, and I
was ten years of age, and I was eight, and
I was live. There was but one house on
the Island, and yet from Sabbath daybreak,
when the bird chant woke me, until the
evening melted into the Bay of Fundy, from
shore to shore there were ten thousand
memories, and the groves' were a-hum with
voices that had long ago ceased.
Youth is apt too much to spend all its
time in looking forward. Old age Is apt
too much to spend all its time in looking
backward. People in midlife and on the
apex look both ways. It would be well for
us, I think, however, to spend more time
in reminiscence. By the constitution of
our nature we spend most of the time look
ing forward. And the vast majority of peo
ple live not so much in the present as in the
future. I find that you mean to make a
reputation, you mean to establish yourself,
and the advantages that you expect to
achieve absorb a great deal of your time.
But I see no harm in this it it does not make
you discontented with the present or dis
qualify you for existing duties. It is a U3e
lul thing sometimes to look back, and to see
the dangers we nave escaped, and to see the
sorrows we have suffered, and the trials
and wanderings of our earthly pilgrimage,
and to sum up our enjoyments. I mean, so
far as God may help me, to stir up your
memory of the past, so that in the review
you may be encouraged and humbled and
urged to pray.
Among tho greatest advantages of your
past life were an early home and its sur
roundings. The bad men of the day, for
the most part, dip their heated passions
out of the boiling spring of an unhappy
home. Wo are not surprised to And tnat
Byron's heart was a concentration of sin
when we hear his mother was abandoned
and that she made sport of his infirmity
and often called him "the lame brat." He
who has vicious parents has to fight every
inch of his wav it he would maintain his
integrity and at last reach the home of the
good in heaven. Perhaps your early home
was in a city. It may have been when
Pennsylvania avenue, Washington, was
residential as now It is commercial, aud
Canal street, New York, was far up town.
That -old house in the city may have been
demolished or changed into stores, and It
seemed like sacrilege to you for there wa3
more meaning in that small house than
there is in a granite mansion or a turreted
cathedral. Looking back, you see it as
though it wer,e yesterday the sitting
room, where the loved one sat by the plain
lamp light, the mother at the evening
stand, tho brothers and sisters perhaps
long ago gathered into the skies, then
plotting mischief on the floor or under the
table: your father with firm voice com
manding a silence that lasted half a minute.
Perhaps you were brought up in the
country. You stand now to-day in men
cry under the old tree. You clubbed it for
fruit that was not quite ripe, because j-ou
couldn't wait any longer. You hear the
brook rumbling along over the pebbles.
You step again into the furrow where your
father in his shirt sleeves shouted to the
lazy oxen. You frighten the swallows from
the rafters of the barn and take just one
egg'and silence your conscience by saying
they will not miss it. You take a drink
again out of the very bucket that the old
well fetched up. You go for the cows at
night and And them pushing their heads
through the bars. Ofttimes in the dusty
and busy .'streets you wish you were
home again on that cool grass, or in the
rag carpeted hall of the farmhouse.through
which there came the breath of new mown
hay or the blossom of buckwheat.
You may huve in your windows, now
beautiful plants and flowers brought from
across the seas, but not one of them stirs
in your soul so much charm and memory
as the old ivy and the yellow sunflower
that stood sentinel along the garden walk
nd the forget-me-nots playing hide and
seek mid the long grass. The father who
used to come in sunburned from the field
and sit down on the doorsill and wipe the
sweat from his brow may have gone to his
everlasting reat. The mother who used to
sit at the door a little bent over, cap and
spectacles on her face mellowing with the
vicissitudes of "many years, may have put
down her gray head on the pillow in the
valley, but forget that home you never
will. Have you thanked God for it? Have
.you rehearsed all these blessed reminis
cences? Ob, thank God for a Christian
father! Thank God for a Christian moth
er! Thank God for an early Christian altar
at which you were taught to kneell Thank
God for an early Christian home!
I bring to mind another passage in the
history of your life. The day came when
you set up your own household. The days
passed along in quiet blessedness. You
twain sat at the tatde morning and night
and talked over your plans for the future.
The most insignificant affair in your life
tecame the subject of mutual consultation
and advertisement. You were so happy
you felt you never could be any happier.
One day a dark cloud hovered over your
dwelling, and It got darker and darker,
but out of that cloud the shining messen
ger of God descended to incarnate an im
mortal sp rit. Two little feet started on
an eternal journey, and you were to lead
theci, a gem to flash in heaven's coronet,
and you. to polish it; eternal ages of light
and darkness watching the starting out of
a newly created creature. You rejoiced
and you trembled at the responsibility that
in your possession an immortal treasure
was placed. You prayed and rej6iced and
wept and wondered; you were earnest in
supplication that you might lead it through
life Into the kingdom of God. There was a
tremor in your earnestness. There was a
double interest aboist that home. There
was an additional interest why you should
stay there and be faithful, and when in a
few months your bouse was tilled with the
music of the child's laughter you were
struck through with the fact that you had
a stupendous mission.
Have you kept that, vow? Have you
neglected uny of these duties? Is your
home a much to you as It used to be?
Have those anticipations been gratified?
God heln vou ti tout bf-!"in rnmln'-
soul if your kindness has been ill required!
God have mercy on the parent on the
wrinkles of whose face is written the story
of a child's sin! God have mercy on tha
mother who, in addition to her other
pangs, has the pang of a child's iniquity!
Oh, there are many, many sad sounds iu
this sad world, but the saddest sound that
is ever heard is the breaking of a mother's
I find another point in your life history.
You found one dajt you were tn the wrong
road. You could not sleep at night. There
was just one word that seemed .to sob
through your banking house, or througn
your office, or your shop, or your bedroom,
and that word was "eternity." You said:
"I'm not ready for it. Oh, God, have
mercy!" The Lord heard. Peace came to
your heart. In the breath of the hill and
in the waterfalls dash you beard the voice ,
of God's love. The clouds and the tree?
hailed you with gladness. You came into
the house of God. You remember how
your hand trembled as you took up the cup
of the communion. You remember the old
minister who consecrated it, and you re
member the church officials who carried it
through the aisle. You remember the old
people who at the close of the service took
your band in theirs in congratulating sym
pathy, as much as to say, "Welcome home,
you lost prodigal!" And, though those
hands be all withered away, that com
munion Sabbath is resurrected to-day.
But I must not spend any more of my
time In going over the advantages of your
life. I just put them in one great sheaf,
and I call them up in your memory with
one loud harvest song, such as the reapers
sing.. Praise the Lord, ye blood bought
immortals on earth! Praise the Lord, ya
crowned spirits of heaven!
But some of you have not always had a
smooth' fife. Some of you are now in tha
shadow. Others had their troubles years
ago; you are a mere wreck of what you
once were. I must gather up the sorrows
of your past life, but how shall I do It?
Ydu say that it is impossible, as you have
had so many troubles and . adversities.
Then I will just take two the first trouble
and the last trouble. As when you are
walking along the street, and there has
been music in the distance, you unconscious
ly find yourselves keeping step to the mu
sic, so when you started life your very Ufa
was a musical time beat. The air was
full of joy and hilarity; with the bright.
clear oar you made the boat skip. You
went on, and life grew brighter, until, af
ter awhile, suddenly a voice from heaven
said, "Halt!" and quick as the sunshine
you halted, you grew pale, you confronted
your first sorrow. You had no idea that
the flush on your child's cheek was an un- -healthy
flush. You said it cannot beany- .
thing serious. Death in slippered feet
walked around the cradle. , You did not
hear the tread, but after awhile the truth
flashed on you. You walked the floor.
Oh, if you could, with your strong, stout
hand, have wrenched that child from tha
destroyer! You went to your room and
you said, "God, save my child! God, save
my child!" The world seemed going out
in darkness. You said, "I can't bear it, I
can't bear it." You felt as if you could not
put the long lashes over the bright eyes, .
never to see them again sparkle. If you
could have taken that little one in your
arms, and with it leaped tho grave, how
gladly you would have done it! If you
could let your property go, your houses
go, how gladly you would have let them
depart ;if you could only hava kept that
But one day there came un a 'chill bias'
that swept through the bedroom, and In
stantly all the lights went out, and thera
was darkness thick, murky, impenetrable,
shuddering darkness. But God did not
4eave you there. Mercy spoke. As you
took up toe bitter cup to put It to your
lips God said, "Let it pass," and forthwith,
as by the hand of angels, another cup was
put into your hands. It was the cup of
God's consolation. And as you have some
times lifted the head of a wounded soldier
and poured wine into his lips, so God puts
His 'left arm under your head and with.
Hi3 right hand He pours into your lips the
wine of His comfort and His consolation.
and you looked at the empty cradle and
looked at your broken heart, and you
looked at the Lord's chastisement, and
you said, "Even so, Father, for so it
seemeth good in Thy sight."
An, it was your first trouble. How did
you get over it? iGod confronted you. You
have been a better man ever since. You
have been a better woman ever since. In
the jar of the closing gate of the sepulcher
vou heard the elanginjr of theonenincr cata
of Heaven, and you felt an irresistible
drawing Heavenward. You have been
spiritually better ever since that night
when the little one for the la3t time put
us arms arouna your neck and said:
"Good night, papa! Good night, mamma!
Meet me in Hwaven!"
Perhaps your last sorrow was a financial
embarrassment. I congratulate soma of
you on your lucrative profession or occu
pation, on ornate apparel, on a commodi
ous residence everything you put you ,
hands on seems to turn to gold. But theru
are others of you who are like the ship on
which Paul sailed where two seas met, and
you are broken by the violence of the
waves. By an unadvised indorsement, or
by a conjunction of unforeseen events, or
by Are or storm, or a sen.seless panic, you
have been flnng headlong and where you
once dispensed great charities now yot
have hard work to win your daily bread.
Have youiorgottea to thank God for you
days of prosperity, and that through you
trials some of you have made investments
which will continue after tha last bankol
this world has exploded, and the silver anJ
gold are molten la the fires of & burning
world? Have you, amid all your losse
and discouragements, forgot that there was
bread on your table this morning, and thai
there shall be a shelter for your head from
tne storm, and ther? is air for your lungs,
and blood for your heart, and light for
your eye, and a glad and glorious and
triumphant religion for your soul?
Perhaps your last trouble was a bereave
ment. That heart which in childhood wa
your refuge, the parental heart, and wLicU
has been a source of the quickest sympathy
ever since, has suddenly become silent for
ever. And now sometimes, whenever in
sudden annoyance and without deliberation
you say, "I will go and tell mother," the
thought flashes on you, "I have no
mother." Or the father, with voice less
tender, but with heart as loving, watchful
of all your ways, exultant over your success
without saying much, although the old peo
ple do talk it over by themselves, his trem--bling
hand on that staff wbieh'you now keep
as a family relic, his memory embalmed in
grateful hearts Is taken away forever. Or
there was your campaaion in lite, sharer of
your joys and sorrows, taken, leaving the
heart an old ruin, where the ill winds blow
over a wide wilderness of desolation, the
sands of desert driving across the place
which ouce bloomed like the garden ot
God. And Abraham mourns for Sarah at
the cavo of Maehpelab. As you were mov
ing along your path in life, suddenly, right
betorw you. was an open grave. People
looked down, and they saw it was only a
few feet deep and a few feet wide, but to
you it was a cavern down which went all
your hopes and all your expectations. But
cheer up in tbe name oi tho Lord Jesus
Christ, tha Comforter.
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