Pike County Democrat, Volume 26, Number 15, Petersburg, Pike County, 23 August 1895 — Page 3

<Etu §f ilte County Democrat M. MeC. 8T00PS, Editor sad Proprietor. PETEESBDEG. - - - INDIANA. THE DEAR LITTLE PATH. 'There's a dear little path at the end of the road. And where do you think it (joes? It wanders away at its own sweet will, *Off through the woods and orer the hill. And down where the river flows. "The prim old road lies paved and curbed While the lamps at either side March out in a line by night and day To the noisy town so far away. Where never a flower can hide. "T*o at the end stand quits amazed At the little path’s careless ways; But. waiting beyond is the marguerite. The bluebird s nest and the springing wheat. And it never stops nor stays. Oh. the dear little path! I like it best. Springtime, summer and fall. Though it runs through the brambles or into the swamp. Is dearer to mo than the stately pomp Ot the road with its sentinels tali. —G. P. Du Bois. in Chicago Record. LASSOING A LOVER. BY MRS. hi. L RAY ME.

ITHIN a very short space of time — so short that few have noticed its disappearance — there stood a brick building in the suburbs of the city of Alameda,

"■which was a wagon shop and a stnitny ♦ combined. The place had more than a local reputation, on account of the excellence of its work, the smith being1 especially proficient iu his department, employing the art of a veterinary surgeon in a rude but successful way. Nor had he his equal in the country for putting a shoe on a horse, the most fractious animal submitting itself to his skilled hand without demonstration. Indeed, his sibilant “P-s-t!” whistled through his teeth in an indescribable manner, hcted like a charm on the most unruly equine spirit. So Steve Darner's forge was glowi ing when .others were dark and . silent, and his rivals expressed their dislike for him and his successes in many ways. They sneered at him for a half-breed and attributed his luck to the arts of savagery. The smith did not eaj?e. There was only one thing on earth for which he did ♦care—that was his beautiful daughter Pauline, the stately girl r who would have graced the most refined home in •the state, but who had returned from ♦school with no higher ambition than to serve in her father's kitchen. There was little else to the whole abode save "the loft above, but it was as neat and dainty as loving hands could make it. None of the neighboring houses had such quaint decorations. The wings ♦ of bright-plumaged birds crossed on the walls. Hows and arrows tied with •strings of wampum. Moccasins of soft skins, embroidered in rare patterns with many-colored beads, unlike any work done by skilled American hands. For why? Pauline Darner was the -daughter of an Indian princess, and 'inherited her right to do such work, for her instincts were those of her mother's picturesque people, the Tulticas, whose name means “art'’ and who are neither nomads nor idolaters, but a people who are postmasters in all the arts and industries. * When the dark-skinned young wife ♦ of Steve Darner died, he went back to •civilization to find himself an alien and his bright-eyed baby squaw, his little woman, an object of impertinent curiosity. ^ “A marriage with a squaw is no .marriage at all in the eyes of white law,” said the good people who sustain missions for Christianizing the Indians, and they then signified their willingness to receive the child-barbarian as ■a ward of the nation. Hut Steve Darner, was loyal to the memory of his dead wife and her people, and refused to part with his Paulfne, •or give her over everf temporarily to the despisers of her mother’s race. He •did, however, send her to school, where she was trained „well, even to "the extent of4 being admired and petted, for two reasons. One was that r-she was considered a sprig of nobility, however rough and rude the ^branch from whkdi she came; the other ^because phenomenal sums were paid ■sfor her expenses, hpd her father kept

“HAVE a SWALLOW.” I Jhimself out of sight. The money was Jier mother’s, a heritage her father >used to make her a scholar and a lady, 'which last she was by birthright. Darner was busy in his shop, for it was race week, and the horses needed -■careful preparation for the event on which so many thousands of dollars were staked. Bendemeer had been brought over from San Francisco to 'have his shoes refitted, and Nankipoo was being shod anew on all fours, while Son-of-a-Gun waited his turn. .Jockeys and hostlers and a few owners •accompanied the horses. All the talent -

was on hand and there was the usual acrobatic betting', the atakes being of unusual importance. Little Tough had won a fire furlong race in one minute and one second, the fastest time made by a two-year-old, and Jordan had been fouled at the head of the stretch. So the talk went on until all had taken their turn and gone, with the exception of one man, an owner who sent his jockey away and lingered to hare a confidential talk with the smith.. “Why doesn't Harlow Lincoln bring his chestnut here to Ik; shod?” \\as the first qaction when they were alone. “Ask him.” answered the smith Curtly; he knew his man and did not feell it was necessary to be civil. “Have a swallow,” said the other with a disagreeable smile, extending a handsome silver-mounted flask toward the smith. “How do I know it ain’t fixed?** asked Darner suspiciously. { “(ireat Cmsar's ghost, man, have you no common sense? I want you to have all your wits about you if—if Lincoln's Delight is to lose the race to-morrow. 1 should think you would want to be even with him for all his snubs and alights.” Darner took a long draught from the flask before answering. * The subtlety of the liquor entered into his heart and brain. As long as he let liquor alone -*-and he knew it for a fact—he was a decent man. When he drank he became ugly and morose, and easily offended. It was long since his last spree. He . had promised Pauline—ha! Pauline, the thought of her accelerted the work of liquor. Harlow Lincoln had slighted Pauliue in some way. Darner did not know how, but on her coming there the young ranchman had shown her much attention, and she had almost admitted to her father that she looked upon him as a king among men, and then he had staid away, and ever since Pauliue had lost her lightheartedness. Darner heard too often the taunting couplet of his own people: "The floods may pour from morn till night. Nor wash the pretty Indian white." lie hated Lincoln for not returning his daughter’s love, and this scheme to get even appealed to his worst nature. Put into speech, it me.aut that the smith should get access to Delight, the famous running chestnut booked for the morrow’s race, and cripple the animal so as to prevent him from going on the track. To the little honor he had left, he refused money tor the crime, ile was willing, in his cups, to do the dastardly deed solely for revenge. Neither of the conspirators saw a ■shadow cross the door-sill and speed away into the gatheriug night. It was Pauline, who had gone to the smithy to walk home with her father, as she often did, leaving the supper ready to eat on the table. Now, she did not go home, but, straight as an arrow flies, she sought the home of Harlow Lincoln. , No blush of maiden delicacy stained her olive cheek. She thought not of herself, but of the two men she loved, her father and Harlow Lincoln, who had stolen the sweet possession of her young heart from her. She knew how much he cherished the chestnut Delight, and that a fortune awaited him should he win—and—she would save her father from being a criminal. D\it Lincoln was away from home. The bafchelor menage was closed and no one about but the man who took care of Delight and the small jockey who; on the morrow was to ride him, as he confidently believed, to victory. The little jockey had heard of the Indian princess, but had never seen her. and he was so pleased with her beauty that he at once took her for his mascot, and begged a bit of ribbon to wear as his colors. visits? stnhlp nnrl

Pauline took a look around. “Does some one watch here all night?" she asked. “I do,” said the joekey proudh-; “I has my bed Tongside o’ Delight, and locks up, and I has pistols, and know how to shoot.” •» The girl stood by the favorite, who had been watched and admired every hour of the day aud was as nervous as a woman. Pauline touched the silky skin that shone in a hundred golden lights in the glare of the lantern which the jockey lighted. It was beautiful, but she belonged to a people that do not love the horse, except as an article of diet But she loved the horse's master. Not that she admitted it to herself. I, as a relater of facts, may state what I know. The native delicacy of her Indian nature was tempered by the reserve of her white blood. Not for worlds would she have given Harlow Lincoln a foretaste of that love which could have! made his heaven. She went, leaving no message, and much troubled about the-course she should pursue, filer father was not at the house, nor did he come later, and at last she could stand the suspense no longer. She determined to go back to the stable ai^d warn the young man if he had returned, and, if he was still absent, to caution t he little jockey. She waited long after coming to this decision, then taking down from the wall the coil of rawhide that hung there, she hide it under the serape she wore, and sped away, light of foot but heavy of heart, to the rescue of Delight and her father. There all was dark and still, except an occasional stamp of the impatient animal, or a low whinny, and Pauline called in vain for the boy or any attendant, and at last finding a window high up in the stable open, she scaled the wall, and groped her way through the gloom, to a place where she could see the floor below and Delight in his stall, with the jockey sleeping heavily beside him. The little fellow had been drugged, and would not awaken for some hours. Pauline was stricken with a horrible fear of the consequencs to her father. She was afraid of him, too, when he had been drinking, and knew he would not listen to reason. IVhat should she do? Seating herself on a bale of alfalfa she tried to think, when she heard a noise at a side entrance to the building. All th% possi

bill ties of the occasion rnshed into her mind like a torrent. What if her father did not come, and Harlow Lincoln did? It might not be necessary for her to incriminate her father, bnt how then could she account for her own presence there? And the condition of the boy? And then the door opened and the outline of a man appeared. It was her father! He crept in stealthily—so unlike his usual free step—and quieted the excited horse with the familiar “p-s-t!” Then he dropped on one knee and took up the left hind foot Bnt he had no time to wreak his will on the poor brute. ►Something whizzed through the air in a black, snaky circle, and descending with unerring certainty drew taut around the neck of Steve Damer. stretching him out on the floor where j he writhed black in the face. At the same moment the frightened horse | plunged ami snorted, and. screaming with fear, tried to break his halter. There was a moment’s commotion at the door in the front of the stable which was broken from its hinges, and Harlow Lincoln, followed by several excited men, burst into the place. It took but a moment to realize the true meaning of the scene, and then each man caught hold of the lasso, add gave it a twirl. But like a spirit, a form glided between them and cut the noose at the neck of the prostrate and unconscious man. “1 saved yotar horse—give me my father’s life,” said the girl, confronting the angry owner of Delight. “You-saved-my-horse?” he asked in scornful incredulity. “Yes. You do not know how to care for precious things. The boy has been drugged, and your enemy—not my father—is at your door. My father ! was the tool of another man. Give me his life for your Delight and win the race to-morrow. We will go where you can never hear of us again.” Damer had recovered his consciousness and was on his feet, but being sobered could not recall his part in the affair. “Take him,” said Lincoln, not unkindly, "and if you saved my horse I thank you, Pauline.” She looked like a young queen as she led the bewildered man away, and one of the men made a slighting remark about her ikInjuu blood,” giving her a good gait, and measured his length on the floor before the speech was well out of his mouth. * “Yon will please speak respectfully of Delight’s friends—and mine;” said Lincoln, with a fierce gleam in his eye. The next day the little jockey was all right and figured to win. He wore dfifitfil'iiifft! i f mm. i il wm

I SAVED TOUR HORSE." i the ribbon of the Indian princess, and Delight ran from start to wire in the good time of 1:13, distancing all competitors. When the owner of the winning horse counted up his gains he was satisfied to keep that which he had won and retire to his ranch a rich man. He thought much of Pauline in those days, as he had at another and earlier phase of their acquaintance. Her beauty, her maidenly modesty, her many graces of mind and character, had made an impression upon him, and he believed those very graces were derived from her heroic lineage. He felt it to be an imperative duty to call on her and thank her again for the good luck she .hrd brought him. Perhaps she would be hi£ mascot for life He rode Delight, who was proudly conscious of a new outfit, and pranced accordingly, setting off the figure of his young master to its best advantage. There was no sign of life about the cabin, the smithy was closed, but the owner of the wagon-making portion of the building said that the smith had taken his daughter and goite back to her mother’s people on llig river. To be foiled in his desire is the strongest incentive to a man to gain the object of his hope. Delight felt his toaster’s spurs that day as never Harlow Lincoln could hear that soft low voice saying: “You do not know how to care for precious things,” and he realized, as most of us do at some period of our lives, that blessings brighten as they take their flight. But he is a young man of enterprise, and the tightening of the lasso of love around his affections may yet lead him to the rancherio on Big river, which is not quite at the end of the world.—Detroit Free Press. The weary teetotaller riding along a dusty, white-hot turnpike in Kentucky came to a farmhouse with a well-sweep in the front yard and a man sitting in the shad* by the gate. “Good daj%” saluted the traveler. “Can 1 be accommodated with a drink here? I am very thirsty.” “Certainly,” was the hospitable response. “What would you like to have?” “Nature’s beverage, of course,” replied the teetotaller, somewhat shocked. “All right,” said the native, taking a bottle of corn juico from his pocket and handing it over. “There’s about a pint in there and plenty more in the house. Help yourself.”—-N. Y. Sun. bef< Nature’s Beverage.

TALMAGE’S SERMON. “Anri God Shall Wipe Away All Tears From Their Eyes.” Dm Hwmlr Comforter Who Is Always Hoar aad Brady to Aid the Afflicted—The Benefits of Earthly Trouble. Rer. T. DeWitt Talmage selected ms the subject of his sermon for publication this week, “Comfort,” basing it on the text: And God shall wipe all tears from their eyes. Ber. vlL, IT. Riding across a western prairie, wild flowers up to the hub of the carriage wheel, and while a long distance from any shelter, there came a sudden shower, anil while the rain was falling in torrents, the sun was shifting as brightly as I crer saw it shine: and I thought what a beautiful spectacle this is! So the tears of the Bible are not mid-night storm, but rain on pansied prairies in G<xTs sweet and golden sunlight. You remember that bottle which David labeled as containing tears, and Mary’s tears, and Paul’s tears, and Christ’s tears, and tire harvest of joy that is to spring from the sowing of tears. God mixes them. God rounds them. God show:; them where to fall. God exhales them. A census is taken of them, and there is a record as to the moment when they are born, and as to the place of their grave. y Tears of bad men are not kept. Alexander, in his sorrow, had tine hair clipped from his horses and mules, and uiade a great ado about his grief; but Jin all the vases of Heaven there is not one of Alexander’s tears. I speak of the tears of God’s children. Alas! me! they are falling all the time. In summer you sometimes hear the growling j thunder, and yon see there is » storm i miles away; bnt you know from the I drift of the clouds that it will not | come anywhere near you. So, though ; it may lie all bright around about you, there is a shower of trouble somewhere all the time. Tears! Tears! What is the use of them, anyhow? Why not substitute laughter? Why not make this a world where all the people are well and eternal strangers to pain and aches? What is the use of au eastern storm when we might have a perpetual uor’wester? Why, when a family is put together, not have them all stay, or if they must'be transplanted to make other hopoes, then have them all live? —the family record telling a story of marriages and births, but of no deaths. Why not have the harvests chase each other without fatiguing toil? Why the hard pillow, the hard crust, the hard struggle? It is easy enough to explain a smile, or a success, or a congratulation; but, come now, and bring alt your dictionaries and all your philosophies and all your religions, and help me explain a tear. A chemist will tell you that it is made up of salt an.d lime and other component parts; but he misses the chief ingredients—the acid of a soured life, the viperine st ing of a bitter memory, the fragments of a broken heart. I will tell you what a tear is; it is agony in solution. Hear, then, while I discourse of the uses of trouble.

1. It is the design of trouble to keep this world from being1 too attractive. Something1 must be done to ihake us willing to quit this existence. If it were not for trouble this world would be a good enough Heaven for me. You and I would be willing to take a lease of this life for a hundred million years if there were no trouble. The earth cushioned and upholstered and pillared and chandeliered with such expense, no story of other worlds could enchant ns. We would say: “Let well enough alone. If you want to die and have your body disintegrated in the dust, and your soul go out on a celestial adventure, then you can go, but this world is good enough for me!’’ You might as well go to a man who has just entered the Louvre at Paris, and tell him to hasten off to the picture galleries of Venice or Florence. “Why,” he would say, “what is the use of my going there? There are Rembrandts and Reubens and Raphaels here that I haven’t looked at yet.” No man wants to go out oi: this world, or out of any house, until he has a better house. To cure this wish to stay here, God must somehow create a disgust for our surroundings. How shall He do it? He can not afford to deface His ; horizon, or to tear off * a fiery panel from the sunset, or to subtract au anther from the water lily, or to t banish the pungent aroma from the mignonette, or to drag the robes of the morning in mire. You can not expect a Christopher Wren to mar his own St Paul’s cathedral, or a M ichael Angelo to dash out his own “Last Judgment”, or Handel to discord his “Israel in Egypt,” and you can not expect God to spoil the architecture and music of His own world. How. then, are we to be made willing to leave? Here is where trouble comes in. After a man has had a good deal of trouble, he says: “Well. I am ready to go. If there is a house somewhere whose roof doesn’t leak, I would like to live there. If there is an atmost phere somewhere that does not distress the lungs, I would like to breathe it. If #there is a society somewhere dwhere there is no tittle-tattle, I would like to live there. If there is a home circle somewhere where I can find my lost friends, I would like to go there. ” He used to read the first payt of the Bible chiefly, now he reads the last part of the Bible chiefly. Why has he changed Genesis for Revelation? Ah! he used to be anxious chiefly to know how this world was made, and all about the geological construction. Now he is chiefly anxious to know how the next world was made, and how it looks, anjd 1 who live there, and how they dress. He reads Revelation ten times now where he reads Genesis once. Tie

old story: “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.** does not thrill him half as much as the other story: “I saw a new Heaven and a new earth. ” The old man’s hand trembles as he turns over this apocalyptic leaf, and he has to take out his handkerchief to wipe his spectacles. That book of Revelation is a prospectus now of the country into which he is soon to emigrate; the country in which he has lots already laid out, and avenues opened, and mansions built. Yet there are people here to whom this world is brighter than Heaven. Well, dear souls, I do not blame you. ! It is natural. But after awhile you j will be ready to go. It was not until ; j Job had "been worn out with bereave- ! ments that he wanted to see God. It i was not until the prodigal got tired of ; living among the hogs that he wanted i j to go to his father’s house. It is the { ; ministry of trouble to make this world ! j worth less and Heaven worth more. Again, it is the use of trouble to j make us feel our dependence upon ; | God. Men think that they can do I anything until God shows them they j can do nothiug at all. We lay our great plans, and we like to execute ! them. It looks big. God comes and 1 takes us down. As Prometheus was ! assaulted by his enemy, when the I lance struck him it opened a great j swelling that had threatened his! death, and he got well. So it is the ' arrow of trouble that lets out great swellings of pride. We never feel our dependence upon God until we get' trouble. I was riding with my little child along the road, and she asked if she might drive. I said: “Certainly." I handed over the reins to her. and I had to admire the glee with which she droVe. But after awhile we met a team and had to turn out. The road was narrow, and it was sheer down on both side*. She handed the reins over to me and said: “I think you had better take charge of the horse.” So we are^ali children; and oh this road of life we like to drive. . It gives one such an appearance of superiority and power. It looks big. But after awhile we meet some obstacle, and we have to turn out, and the road is narrow, and it is sheer down on both sides; and then we are willing that God should take the reins and drive. Ah! my friends, we; get upset so often because we do not hand over the reins soon enough. After a man has had trouble, prayer is with him a taking hold of the arm of God and crying out for help. I have heard earnest prayers on two or three occasions that I remember. Once, on the Cincinnati express train, going at forty miles the hour, the train jumped the track, and we were near a chasm eighty feet deep; and the men who, a few minutes before, had been swearing and blaspheming God, began to pull and jerk at the bell rope, and got up on the backs of the seats and cried out: “Oh, God. save ns!” There was another time, about eight hundred miles out at sea, on a foundering steamship, after the last lifeboat had been split finer than kindling wood. They prayed then. Why is it you so often hear people, in reciting* the last experience of some

inrilUt aa t - uo tuaviu me iuuov ueautiful prayer I ever heard?” What makes it beautiful? It is the earnest* ness of it Oh! I tell you, a man is in earnest when his stripped and naked soul wades out in the soundless, shoreless, bottomless ocean of eternity. It is trouble, my friends, that makes us feel our dependence upon God. Wo do not know our own weakness or God’s strength until the plank breaks. It is contemptible in us when there is nothing else to take hold of, that we catch hold of God only. Why. you do not know who the Lord is. He is not an autocrat seated far up in a palace, from which He emerges once a year, preceded by heralds swinging swords to clear the way. No, but a father willing at our call, to stand by us in every Crisis and predicament of life. I tell yon what some of you business men make me think Oty'A young man goes off from hope to earn his fortune. He goes with his mother’s consent and benediction. She has large wealth, but he wants to make his own fortune. He goes far away, falls sick, gets out of money. He sends for the hotel keeper where he is staying, asking for lenience, and. the answer he gets is: “If you don't pay up Saturday night you’ll be removed to the hospital.” Again, it is the use of trouble to capacitate us for the office of sympathy. The priests, under the old dispensation, were set apart by having water sprinkled upon their hands, feet and head; and by the sprinkling of tears people are now set apart to the office of sympathy. When we are in prosperity we like to have a great many young people around us, and we laugh when they laugh, and we romp when they romp, and we sing when they sing; - but when we have trouble we like plenty of old folks around. Why? They know how to talk. Take an aged mother, seventy years of age, and she is almost omnipotent in comfort. Why? She has been through it all. At seven o’clock in the morning She goes over to comfort a young mother who has just lost her babe. Grandmother knows all about that trouble. Fifty years ago she felt it At twelve o’clock of that day she goes over to comfort a widowed soul. She knows all about that She has been walking in that dark valley .twenty years. At four o’clock in the afternoon some one knocks at the door, wanting bread. She knows all about, that Two or three times in her life she came to her last loaf. At ten o'clock that night she goes over to sit up with some one severely sick. She knows all about it She knows all about fevers and pleurisies and broken bones. She has been doctoring all her life, spreading plasters and pouring out bitter drops and shaking up hot pillows and contriving things to tempt a poor appetite. Drs. Abernethy and Rush and Hosack and Harvey were great doctors, but the greatest doctor the world ever saw is an old Christian wotuan. Dear me! Do we ---

not remember her abSui the room when we were sick ia oar boyhood? Was there any one' who conld ew w touch a sore without hurting' it? Where did Paul get the ink with which to write his comforting epistle? Where did David get the ink to write hin comforting Psalms? Where did John get the ink to write his comforting Revelation? They got it out of their own tears. When a men has gone through the curriculum, and has taken a course of dungeons and imprisonments and shipwrecks, he is qualified for the work of sympathy. When I began to preach, my sermon# on the subject of trouble were all poeticand in semi-blank verse; but God knocked the blank verse out of me long ago. and I have found out that I can not comfort people .except as I myself have been troubled. God make me the son of consolation to the people! I would rather be the means of soothing one perturbed spirit to-day than to play a tune that would set all the sons of mirth reeling in the dance. I am an herb doctor. I put into the caldron the root out of dry ground, without form of comeliness. Then I pnt in the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valley. Then I put into the caldron some of the leaves from the tree of life, and the branch that, was thrown into the wilderness marah. Then I poor in the tears of Bethany and Galgotha; then I stir them up. Then 1 kindle under the caldron a fire made out of the wood of the cross, and one drop of that potion will cure the worst sickness that ever afflicted s human soul. Mary and Martha shall receive their Lazarus from the tomb. The damsel shall rise. And on the darkness^sball break the morning, and God will wipe all tears from their eyes. Jesus had enough trial to make him sympathetic with all trial. The shortest' verse in the Bible tells the story; ‘•Jesus wept." . The scar on the back of llis either hand,the scar on the arch of either foot, the row of scars along the line of the hair, will keep all Heaven thinking. Oh, that Great Weeper is just the one to silence all earthly trouble, wipe out all stains of earthly grief. Gentle! Why His step is softer than the step of the dew! It will not be a tyrant bidding yon hush up your crying. It will be a father who will take you on His left arm. His face beaming into yours, while with the soft tips of the fingers of the right hand He shall wipe away all tears from your eyes. if trn xniilii mat flnr nnnrpf'i.

at ion of what God has in preserve for us, it would make us so homesick we would he unfit for our everyday work. Prof. Leonard, formerly of Iowa university, put in my hands a meteoric stone, m stone thrown off from some other world to this. How suggestive it was to me! And I have to tell you the best representations we have of Heaven are only aerolites flung off from that world which rolls on, Rearing the multitudes of the redeemed. We analyze these aerolites, and find the crystalizations of tears. No wonder, flung off - from Heaven! “God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.” Have you any appreciation of the ® good and glorious times your friends are having in Heaven? How different it is when they get news there of a Christian's death from what it is here! It is the difference between embarkation and coming into p8rt. Everything depends upon which side of the river you stand when you hear of a Christian’s death. If you stand on this side of the river, yon mouru that they go If you stand on the other side of the river, you rejoice that they come. Oh, the difference between a funeral on earth and a jubilee in Heaven—between requiem here and triumph thereparting here and reunion there! Together! Have you thought of it? They are together. Not one of your departed friends in one land and another in another-land; but together, in differ-5 ent rooms of the same house—the housf^frf many mansions Together! I never more appreciated that thought than when we laid away in her last slumber my sister Sarah. Standing there in the village cemetery, I looked around and said: “There is father, there is mother, there is grandfather, there is grandmother, there are whole circles of kindred;** and I thought to myself: “Together in the graven—together in glory.** I am so impressed with the thought that I do not think it is any fanaticism when some one is going from this world to the next if you make them the bearer of despatches to your friends who are gone, saying: “Give my love to my parents, give my love to my children, give my love to pay old comrades who are in glory, and tell them I am trying to fight the good fight of faith, and I will join them after awhile.” I believe the message will be delivered; and I believe it will increase the gladness of those who are before the throne.; Together are they, all their tears gone. My friends, take this good-cheer home with you. These tears of bereavement that course your cheek, arid of persecution, and of trial, are nog£. always to be there. The motherly hand of God will wipe them all away. What is the use, on the way to such a consummation —what is the use of fretting about anything? Oh, what an exhilaration it ought to be in Christian work! See you the pinnacles against the sky? It is the city of our God, and we are approaching it. Oh, let us be busy in the days that remain for us! I put this balsam on the wounds of your heart. Rejoiee at the thought of what your departed friends have got rid of, and that you have a prospect of so soon making your own escape. Bear cheerfully the ministry of tears, and exult at the thought that soon it is to be ended. - i There we shall mareh up the heavenly street. And ground our arm at Jesus’ feet. —“Sin not repented of makes believing impossible but those who heartily re Dent will have omver to bet lieve.”