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So when I put my tools aside,

And homeward turned once more,
I passed with a determined stride
The public's open door.

But, ere a dozen yards my feet
Had passed along the way,

A friendly comrade stopped to greet,
With banter light and gay.

"Now, Joe," he said, "You'll never pass The Jolly Brewers Three,' Without a single social glass,

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Now come along with me.'
"No don't say nay, you needn't stay,
But anyone would think,
To see you turning tail to-day,

You feared a drop of drink.
"You're no such fool as not to know
Exactly where to stop,

Or else I would not ask you, Joe,
To taste a single drop."

The tempter's snare was spread with guile,
My feet were in the net,

I said, "I'll stay a little while, 'Tis very early yet.

"Only I promised little Rose, To take her out to-day,

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The afternoons so early close,

I must not long delay."

"Quite right, old fellow," Jack replied,
"For 'tis a shame, I think,
From wife and child to turn aside
To be a slave to drink.

"But you, and I are free and strong,
For no one, mate, can say

That drink has ever led us wrong,
Or tempted us astray."

So I, like poor, unwary bird,

Thinking its wings are free,

Was caught in snares of flattering words That Satan spread for me.

I felt my virtue too secure

To need the warning call,

"Let him that thinks he standeth sure
Take heed, for he may fall."

Yet still a voice I seemed to hear,
Gentle rebuke it gave,

"Let's take the snowdrops, father, dear, To little Willie's grave."

But louder far within my soul

The tempter's voice was heard,
And through the open door I stole
Without another word.

Within, a score of mates I found,
And there I lingered long,

And many a glass of ale went round,
And many a joke and song.

And thoughts of home, and child and wife
Were banished far away,

But memory, sadly, all my life,
Records that evil day.

When I by sin was captive led,

And conscience spake in vain;
The silken net by Satan spread
I found an iron chain.

I drank and sang, the hours flew by,
Then late I rose to go,

But all around-I wondered why-
Seemed reeling to and fro.

But when I strove with quickened pace
To hasten up the lane,

The cool March wind about my face
Refreshed my heated brain.

Again I seemed those words to hear,
And keen reproach they gave,
"I've kept my snowdrops, father dear,
To take to Willie's grave."

The garden gate is now in sight,
My little Rose I see,

Her hands all full of snowdrops white,
Come running out to me.

"Father!" she cried, "You've come at last, I've watched and wondered so,

Tis getting dark now, very fast,
But you will let me go?"

With eager words, and sparkling eye,
She sprang, as oft before,
Into my arms with happy cry,
Before I reached the door.

Alas! those arms their trust betrayed,
My head went swimming round,

I reeled, and with the little maid
Fell helpless on the ground.

One piercing cry that froze my blood,
Then pale and still she lay,

Her pretty snowdrops stained with mud,
Her face as white as they.

Sobered, I started to my feet,

My wife had heard the cry;
Ah! what a woeful sight to meet
A loving mother's eye.

I raised my darling in my arms,
And laid her on my breast,

I strove to check my wife's alarms,
And lull her fears to rest.
"The child is only stunned," I said,

"She'll soon revive and speak;
I stroked the sunny, golden head,
And kissed the pallid cheek.

But, as I spoke, a dreadful pang
Shot through me like a dart,
That short sharp cry of anguish rang
A death-knell in my heart.

Why does she lie so white, so still?

What means that crimson stain
That dyes the clustering snowdrops, till
The blossoms blush again?

Why is it that I cannot hear

Her soft and gentle breath?

My heart stands still with sickening fear;
This silence! is it death?

Yes, death, alas, had sealed those eyes,
Their lids might not unclose,
For, to her Lord above the skies
Had passed my little Rose.

Ah, they who sow such evil seed,
Its bitter fruit must reap,

And they who warning will not heed,
Repentant tears must weep.

"I am so strong, I see not why
I need beware," I said,

I drank-that day my wife and I
Sat watching o'er our dead.
But from that hour I flung aside
The tempter's fatal snare;

That God will be my guard and guide
Is now my daily prayer.

In bitter grief we sadly laid

Our darling down to rest,
Her snowdrops still the little maid
Clasped on her quiet breast.

And so we bore the blossoms white
Where bending grasses wave,
And laid them, weeping out of sight,
In little Willie's grave.

And did the children see us bring
The flowers, with sad lament ?
And did the angels gladly sing

To see a soul repent?

For Jesus Christ, the Scriptures tell,
Has shed His precious blood,

That we might join them where they dwell,
Bathed in that cleansing flood.

And oft I praise redeeming grace
That thus my sin forgave,
And 'tis to me a sacred place,
Rosie's and Willie's grave.

LUCY TAYLOR.

THE AURORA BOREALIS.

By the Rev. T. GILMOUR, M.A, Author of "Among the Mongols." FTER hundreds of miles of comparatively dull travelling on the plain, we found ourselves, late one night, at the foot of a high mountain, or range of mountains rather, which we had to cross. Some lesser heights earlier in the journey our camels had managed, with a good deal of difficulty it is true, but with no assistance beyond what the caravan itself furnished, to to struggle over; but this mountain was not to be so surmounted, and among the outfit of the company the Mongols had not forgotten to bring bricks of tea with which to hire

oxen from the inhabitants who live at the foot of the mountain, and make a trade of assisting travellers to cross. Even with the hired oxen it was a hard long struggle in the darkness up the steep rough road, which wound its way through the wood up to the summit. For a time we watched the slow, laborious process, and marked the fire that flew from the iron rims of the wheels as they dashed about among the great stones. Tired at length of the monotony and many stoppages and detentions, my fellowtraveller and I slowly drew ahead, and reaching the highest point of the ridge, and looking away to the north, we were entranced by the striking display of northern lights that played on the horizon. By and by the caravan came up, and the Mongols soon had their attention fixed on what we were gazing at. But their feelings were very different

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from ours.
What enchanted us with its
beauty, filled them with terror, and for-
getting everything else, they betook
themselves to their prayers and beads,
making many repetitions, and adding
boughs to the already immense pile of
branches raised there and decorated with
flags in honour of the local spiritual lord.
The Mongols, too, were shocked to find
us cheerful and admiring in the presence
of what they dreaded as the angry omen
of wrath and disaster about to come upon
them. "Learn not the way of the heathen,
and be not dismayed at the signs of the
heaven, for the heathen ARE dismayed at
them," said the prophet of old, and so it
is now.
The beautiful Aurora is an em-
blem of terror to them, and our guides were
panic-stricken when, about the middle of
the night they gained the summit, and
found these coloured lights streaming
away in all their beauty in the north.

Comets, too, with their "smoky tails," as the Mongols say, are greatly feared by the superstitious inhabitants of the plain. They "bode ill," they think, and are looked upon as partly causing the ill, and it is rather difficult to free them from the idea that there is some connexion between the phenomenon and the disaster when every evil such as drought, deep snow, or cattle plague, is looked upon as the ill-luck caused or foreshadowed by the last astronomical phenomenon they beheld, though years may have elapsed since a comet or an Aurora was seen. "Learn not the way of the heathen." "Bad luck" is believed in beyond the bounds of Mongolia.

One night I was startled at seeing a Russian lady suddenly make a dash at the table and snatch up a candle; then, as if a narrow escape had been effected, turn to her daughter and reprove her for removing one of the four candles, thus leaving the unlucky number of three on the table! Yet she was a well-educated lady!

One morning I found a mother, a welleducated British woman, distressed because the portraits of her absent children had been stolen, a fact which she feared boded ill to them.

And again, I have seen people alarmed at the whining of a dog in the night, or the crowing of a cock at unseasonable hours, or the spilling of salt, as if the things were unlucky or boded disaster or death. And this, too, in a Christian country! "Learn not the way of the heathen." God rules over all, arranges everything; nothing happens without His permission; in His keeping we are safe. Why then should we be afraid of omens, or alarmed at what people call ill-luck; afraid of accidents and sounds, as if we were heathen and had no God to trust to? Heathen know no better, but we should not imitate them. As a missionary I have sometimes felt myself helped to be patient with the superstitions of the heathen, by noticing how much superstition there is in the minds of people who have been born and bred in a Christian land. "Learn not the way of the heathen," but let superstitious fears be lost in loving, full trust of God.

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THE COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON.

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Later on, the Countess of Northesk and Hopetown, the daughters of Lord Leven, the Countess of Buchan, Lady Maxwell, Lady Glenorchy, Lady Ruthven, Lady Banff, Lady Henrietta Hope, and Sophia Countess of Haddington, all became devoted members of the same board of "elect ladies." Thus, while the great revival was drawing together its crowds in the east of London, it gathered in more select assemblies a few of the "noble" in the mansions of the west.

7T was the Countess of for Whitfield to preach in; and there, in Huntingdon who used her drawing-room, she assembled as to thank God for the many as could be gathered of the élite of letter m, since thereby society. Under such influence, as Lady her salvation was se- Huntingdon and her chaplain exercised, cured. "For," added many ladies of the highest rank became the good Countess, "the devoted Christians. The Marchioness of word does not read Lothian, the Countess of Leven, Lady 'Not any, but not many, Balgonie, Lady Frances Gardiner, Lady noble are called.' The Jane Nimmo, and Lady Mary Hamilton, influence of the little band united in establishing a meeting for of Methodists that sprung prayer and the reading of the Scriptures, up at Oxford, and which was so powerful was held at each other's houses. among the masses, reached upwards to the nobility. Lady Elizabeth Hastings and Lady Margaret, her sister, had conformed to the teaching of the Methodist preachers and become converts, and the influence of Lady Margaret Hastings upon her sister-in-law, the Countess of Huntingdon, led her, during a season of sickness, to devote herself to Christ. The Earl was alarmed at what he deemed his wife's religious insanity, and asked Bishop Benson, his former tutor, to restore her, if possible, to a saner mind. The Bishop tried his arts, but failed in his efforts. Vexed at the thought that he himself had ordained Whitfield, he expressed to the Countess his regret that he had ever laid hands on him. "Mark my words, my lord," replied the Countess," when you are upon your dying bed, that will be one of the ordinations upon which you will reflect with pleasure.' Those words came home. The Bishop, when he was nigh unto death, sent Whitfield a present of ten guineas to aid him in his work, and begged an interest in his prayers.

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Lady Huntingdon moved in the highest circles of aristocratic life, being remotely related to royalty. Yet she did not hesitate to frequent the Moravian societies with which at first Whitfield and Wesley and their friends associated. Afterwards Whitfield was appointed her chaplain, and she then opened her own house

Lady Huntingdon, who had now become a widow, took the foremost place in these gatherings. But beside this, she devoted herself and her property to the interests of the great revivalistic movement. She purchased theatres, halls, and other buildings of size in London and in some of the larger provincial towns, and had them adapted to the purposes of public worship. Many new chapels were erected by her orders, and some old ones were leased. In Bath, Brighton, Tunbridge Wells, Malvern, Worcester, and other places, the congregations thus gathered together continue to this day. To provide funds for her numerous undertakings, she devoted her private income, relinquishing her equipages, her stately houses, and her liveried servants, and living in the simplest fashion. It is estimated that she expended in her

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