W BEFORE THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. HAT a happy time Christmas is! There is no season of the year in England when so many groups of friends are gathered together. On Christmas-eve we love to sit and think what thousands and tens of thousands of brothers, and sisters, and friends are sweeping through the country by rail in all directions. And as kindred and friends meet around the Christmas-fire, they snap their fingers at bad trade and wintry weather, and the joy is so great as to make up for weeks and months of trouble. If we think of it, we shall see that happiness does not arise so much from the place we are in as from the persons by whom we are surrounded. When a man blind from his birth was asked what he thought the sun to be like, he replied, "Like Friendship." Now, that was a very good answer. At any rate, it was much better than the answer of the blind man of whom Locke speaks, who when asked what he thought the colour of scarlet was like, replied, "Like the sound of a trumpet." Truly, friendship is a good deal like sunshine. When friends meet from afar, it is like the swift breakingin of sunshine into a forest, sending gladness to its very depths. In our first engraving we have a brother and sister running home through the snow, with the holly and the mistletoe which they have gathered in the woods, to hang up over the dinner-table. What happy faces they have! They seem as though they could already smell the roast goose and the plum-pudding. And then there will be Uncle John and Aunt Mary and Cousin Annie to dinner, and there will be lots of fun afterwards. Of course there will. But even in the midst of all these mercies and comforts some persons are not happy. Their minds are ill at ease. They are troubled on account of their sins. They are cankered by bad temper. They are greedy, "In palaces are hearts that ask, And all good things denied. Such rich provision made." Let our young friends remember this. A man never can be rich whose mind is filled with lust and greed, and a man never can be poor who is wise and good. Sometimes we hear it said that a man is ruined when he loses his property, but it is not so. He has not lost all. Jeremy Taylor represents a man in these circumstances as saying, "Let me look about me! They have left me the sun and moon, fire and water, a loving wife, and many friends to pity me, and some to relieve me, and I can still discourse: and, unless I list, they have not taken away my merry countenance, and a cheerful spirit, and a good conscience; they have still left me the providence of God, and all the promises of the Gospel, and my religion, and the hope of heaven, and my charter of them too; and still I sleep and digest, I eat and drink, I read and meditate, I can walk in my neighbours' pleasant fields and see the varieties of natural beauties, and delight in all in which God delights-that is, in virtue and wisdom -in the whole creation, and in God Himself. And he who hath so many causes of joy is very much in love with sorrow and peevishness if he loses all these pleasures, and chooses to sit down on his little handful of thorns." Now, these are very wise words. It is a great mistake to suppose that we cannot be happy without a deal of money and a fine house. We dare say that there has been as much happiness in the cottages of the working people during Christmas-time as in the mansions of the wealthy. What ever our station in life may be, let us strive to faithfully serve God, and then all will be well. "Seek we no more; content with these, CHILD'S SERMON. IMPY, Limpy! go home, or you'll lose your supper." A lame man, who was walking slowly with staggering steps, leaned upon his cane, and looked around to see who thus addressed him. But no one was in sight; and muttering an oath, he shuffled on. Again he heard the same words, and this time was quite sure they were spoken by someone in the field, from which he was separated by a high wall, and he made his way towards it. Very angry was he, and he shouted, "Who calls me names? I won't be called names by anybody." "Please, sir, I'm sorry if anybody calls you names," said a child; and, recognising the voice, he was more angry than before. "Then what do you do it for?" he growled, raising his hand as if to strike the beautiful child who looked wonderingly into his face. "I, sir? I wouldn't call you names for anything. Did you think I would ?" And little May Bemis went nearer to her companion. "I didn't hear anybody speak to you." "I did. Somebody called me Limpy." "Why, that's my lame chicken. I call him Limpy. I was trying to drive him home. He runs away ever so much, for all he's so lame. Please, sir, ain't you Mr. French? " "Yes," replied the man, although he could hardly remember when he had been addressed as Mister. "What of it ?" "I've seen a lame man go by Aunt Mary's, and I thought 'twas you. Aunt Mary said you used to be as straight as brother Harry. Please, sir, I'm sorry you're lame." "I expect I am, too. But then it don't make much difference to me." 66 Why don't it?" asked May Bemis. "Please, sir, Aunt Mary said you would be a good man if you didn't drink rum." And now a tiny hand rested on the poor man's arm. "Please, sir, don't drink any more. I wouldn't if I was you: you won't, will you ?" "What do you care, child? I'm nothing to you." This was not an encouraging reply, but May was so much in earnest that she did not mind it, as she said sweetly, "I want you to be good so that God will take you up to heaven when you die. Don't you want to go there ?" "Yes, child, I want to go there." And the hardened heart grew tender. "I didn't know that anybody cared for Tom French; but perhaps God hasn't forgotten me, after all. I'll think of what you've said." He did think of it. Many a sermon he had heard, yet none like this; and, when May Bemis grew to womanhood, she knew that an old man had died blessing her name. HO W SAYING LEASE. could help loving fair-haired, bright-eyed little Bonnell? He is one of those mischievous eight-year-olds that one must pet in spite of one's self. And yet he is not all mischief either. Now and then he makes one's eyes open with astonishment, and one's hands go up with the exclamation, "What a child!" Bonnell's papa is rather careless about religious matters, and sits down often at the table without thinking of the blessing. "Pa," said the little fellow the other "Ma says God made you. Did He, day, Pa?" your dinner and made it. God does not give it to you, does He, Pa?" "Well, yes; I suppose He gives me mine, too." Bonnel looked up with astonishment, and then fell to vigorously with his knife and fork. Suddenly he asked again : "Pa, does God want Uncle Charles to thank Him?" "Yes, child; I suppose so." More silence. 66 Pa, I'm very glad God is not like you, for if He was we would never get anything more to eat, and then we'd starve." "Why, Bonnell, what do you mean?" "I was just thinking. You would not give sister that apple 'cos she would not say 'please'; and if God is that sort of way, He never would give us anything more, because we do not thank Him like Uncle Charles." "Be quiet, Bonnell; you do not know what you are talking about." The rest of the meal was eaten in silence; but that very night at tea Bonnell's father astonished his family by saying "please" to God. BOYS, BEWARE OF THE BORERS. NE of the handsomest trees on our grounds is a mountain ash. It is our pet tree. Its lithe and graceful branches; its sprays of wavy leaves; its clusters of white June blossoms, like a young bride; its rich coronet of red berries in harvest time; its airy foliage, letting through the blue sky, yet dropping cool shadows on the grass. Year by year we watched its growth -from the parlour window, which it shaded from the hot breath of summer afternoons; from the kitchen window, where it stood in full sight on the green, sporting with the breezy air and slant sunshine; from the chamber window, from the time it first tipped our upstairs' view. Our mountain ash was the family pet. This year, gradually, day by day, week by week, we came to feel it did not look so well as usual. It leaved out fully ? yes, oh yes. Branches dead?-no. No bent, or toppling, or winter-killed, or lightning-struck ?-no, it bore no marks of injury. It was as green and as graceful, it had as much of heaven |