LIFE SKETCHES, AND ECHOES FROM THE VALLEY. A Houseful of Children. "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, She had so many children she didn't know what to do." MANY people feel a pity for those women who are illustrations of that old rhyme. And there are plenty of them,. for among modern improvements large houses at small rentals are not yet known, so that in cases where the number of olive branches is the largest, the table at which they gather is often wonderfully small. Indeed in many English homes of to-day, among the working classes the children seem to fill the rooms from cellar to garret, and even then it is impossible to take many steps without danger of treading upon some of them. At Conway Church there is buried a man named Hookes, who was the forty-first child of his father, and he himself had twentyseven children. Such families are of course rare, but large families are as plentiful as blackberries in autumn. Still we confess we should like to have had a peep into the domestic arrangements of this family of Hookes, and to have seen where and how the children were disposed of. Had the house benches around the walls on which the children were set? Did they take their meals in separate companies? How did they sleep? In round beds, or in hammocks slung one above the other? It is a pity they have left no record of their ingenious contrivances, for it would have been helpful to many women to-day who, though more moderate than the Hookeses, "have so many children they don't know what to do." Is a large family a blessing or a curse? Public opinion in these modern times is, upon many points, greatly different from what it used to be; and upon this particular subject it has undergone a change. "Lo, children are an heritage of the Lord; happy is the man that has his quiver full of them." This was the ancient verdict. "It is impossible for him to rise, poor man; he is to be greatly pitied, for he has so many children." This is the modern opinion. There may be here and there a woman who prays, "Give me children or else I die," but probably they add to the words a mental reservation, “but not too many of them." And yet there is no doubt but that still as before children may be, ought to be, are intended to be, nothing but blessings. And that they are so is evident from the fact that the father-heart of the man who has to toil and save for them cannot bear to part with one. It is true that there are lines of care upon his face all the earlier for them, and his hair turns grey while he is yet young, but he would not give up one of them for all the world. If sickness should touch either of the little forms and change the bright eyes which are his delight, that would be a greater trouble than all his care for them has brought. As for the mother, upon whom necessarily the greater part of the work and wear must fall, her life is so full and complete that she would be exceedingly loth to give it up even for "the rest that remaineth." And though she works so hard, and has so much anxiety, she does not age so rapidly as those who were once her girl-companions, and who have remained in single blessedness. Perhaps we are old or young according as our hearts are. And the heart of the woman with a dozen children cannot grow old. It is warmed into youthful tenderness every day of her life by the little loving creatures who gather about her fect and nestle to her side. "Life is labour; but love is rest, And sweet to the feel of the brooding breast It is true that she has to keep at work from early morning until late at night, but when at last she sees the children safely tucked into their snug little beds, her evening prayer is almost certain to be two-thirds of it praise, excepting when some of the children have croup or measles, whooping-cough or scarlatina. It is true that the mountain of socks and stockings waiting to be darned is enough to frighten a timid woman; but it is ten to one that while she is gradually undermining it she is so busy crooning cradle-songs that she forgets to be discouraged. And if she is so happy amid her labours, and so gratefully content with her lot, there is certainly no need to pity her. And then there is that crown of a parent's joy, the hope of what the children may be. How many a day-dream, suggested by some manifestation of power or talent in a child, has the mother as she sits and ponders at her work. How often the father is cheered in the midst of his business as he looks on a few years and pictures his fair-haired girls in happy homes of their own, and his boys filling honourably honourable positions. Of course these may be castles in the air, and nothing more! But the probability is that at least some of them will be realised, and that the children will follow in the father's steps, and be a comfort to the declining years of those who so lovingly tend them in childhood. Sometimes it is thought that it is bad for the children themselves when there is a large family. In some respects it may be. They cannot be pampered and indulged so much, which is a good thing for them. But neither can they receive so good an education, nor be enabled to start in so good a position in life. Still, notwithstanding that they have to leave school sooner, and begin to earn their own living, and earlier learn the lessons of industry and self-reliance, it is, on the whole, a great advantage to belong to a large family. The tie which often is, and always should be, so strong between brothers and sisters may be of the greatest good to them. And it is well for the children to be obliged to form the habit of giving up to each other which must regulate the household if there is to be peace at all. It is from the large families that chivalrous lads and self-forgetful girls come. Let a boy have to take care of a frail little sister, and see how gentle and yet strong it will help to make him. The chances are that he will be a thousand times more manly and good than if he had himself been petted and thought of the most. And see what a sweet and noble woman the eldest daughter of a large family often becomes. She cannot well be given up to vanity and frivolity, for there are little ones to tend and care for and love; and though she may be steadied beyond her years, she has to make up for the loss of girlish light-heartedness, that which is woman's greatest reward, the appreciation and clinging love of those for whom she lives. Fathers, and especially mothers of large families, are apt to feel a little discouraged sometimes because they cannot do everything. They cannot exert all the influence they wish. There is so much to do for the bodies of the children that little time is left to give to their minds and the formation of their characters. But there is such a thing as silent, unconscious influence. Those who have little time to talk to their boys may yet be preaching constantly most impressive sermons by their lives. And, after all, this is the surest way. A man might lecture his boys every day about truth; but if they heard him tell a falsehood it would go for nothing. Or he might never say a word to them about uprightness, but if he were an upright man himself, his boys would know it, and imbibe something of his spirit. There is cause for anxiety where there is a large family. Different dispositions require different treatment, and there is certainly plenty to call out the parents' watchfulness and prayer. But Christian fathers and mothers have at least some words to encourage them. "I have been young, and now am old, yet have I never seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed begging bread." "Blessed is the man that feareth the Lord, that delighteth greatly in His commandments. His seed shall be mighty upon earth, the generation of the upright shall be blessed." "I will pour My Spirit upon thy seed, and My blessing upon thine offspring." "And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord, and great shall be the peace of thy children." "For the promise is unto you and to your children." Lost Links. WE are all our lives weaving chains. We begin while our baby fingers are as yet weak and unsteady, and we do not cease until old age has made them tremulous and feeble. As we live our years, link after link is added, sometimes with infinite care and painstaking by ourselves, oftener by an unseen hand far more skilful than our own. We are for ever gathering treasures. When the grass is wet with early dew, when the sun ascends and brightens the whole world with its noontide splendour, even when the silent night spreads its star-jewelled canopy over the cool earth, still do we continue our search, and still do we find what we seek. Sometimes we dive into dark waters, bringing up hidden pearls of joy and beauty; sometimes the diamond brilliancy of a far-off prize has quickened our steps and shortened the leagues lying between us and it; sometimes, unexpected and unsought, the treasures are presented to us, and the surprise of joy makes us glad. But always, by various means, we are collecting treasures of knowledge, love, and happiness. And yet what have we to show for it all? How long is the chain to which all our lives we have been adding links? How full is our cabinet of the treasures which we have been so industriously gathering? Year after year we have toiled, and, alas! even now the chain is short and meagre, and our casket is only half full. It is true we have wrought and gathered, but we have also loosed and dropped. We had our treasures, but the box that held them was insecure, and one by one they have been stolen away. We weaved our chain, but it was not strong, it has fallen to pieces, and we have dropped the links down in the valleys and upon the hills, among dead leaves, and in hidden graves; and the gifts which once we had are ours no longer. Is it not so? What has become of the knowledge which with such pains we acquired in youth? We have not needed a particular gem, so we let it lie by, and forgot it, and lo! when we want it and look for it, it has disappeared altogether. It is true we have gained others, our chain is not altogether broken up, nor our jewel-box |