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PRAYER AND POTATOES

Amid their crowding and confinement, the human mind finds its fullest, freest expansion. Unlike the dwarfed and dusty plants which stand around our suburban villas, languishing like exiles for the purer air and freer sunshine that kiss their fellows far away in flowery field and green woodland, on sunny banks and breezy hills, man reaches his highest condition amid the social influences of the crowded city. The mental powers acquire their full robustness where the cheek loses its ruddy hue, and the limbs their elastic step, and pale thought sits on manly brows; and the watchman, as he walks his rounds, sees the student's lamp burning far into the silent night.

As aerolites are supposed to catch fire by the rapidity of their motion, as they rush through the higher regions of our atmosphere, so the mind of man fires, burns, shines, acquires its most dazzling brilliancy by the very rapidity of action into which it is thrown amid the bustle and excitement of city life.

A

30. PRAYER AND POTATOES.

N old lady sat in her old arm-chair,

With wrinkled face and dishevelled hair,
And pale and hunger-worn features;

For days and for weeks her only fare,
As she sat there in her old arm-chair,
Had been nothing but potatoes.

And now they were gone: of bad or good
Not one was left, for the old lady's food,
Of these her stock of potatoes;

PRAYER AND POTATOES.

And she sighed and said, "What shall I do?
Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go,
To get some more potatoes?"

And she thought of the deacon over the way,
The deacon so ready to worship and pray,

Whose cellar was full of potatoes;

And she said, "I will send for the deacon to come; He'll not mind much to give me some

Of such a store of potatoes."

And the deacon came over as fast as he could,
Thinking to do the old lady some good,

But never thought once of potatoes;
He asked her directly to tell her chief want,
And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,
Immediately answered, "Potatoes."

But the deacon's religion went not that way;
He was more accustomed to preach and to pray
Than to give of his hoarded potatoes;
So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,
He rose to pray with uncovered head;

But she only thought of potatoes.

He prayed for patience, for wisdom, and grace;
But when he prayed, "O Lord, give her peace,"
She audibly sighed, "Give potatoes; "

And at the end of each prayer that he said,
He heard, or he thought that he heard, in its stead,
The same request for potatoes.

The deacon was troubled - knew not what to do;
'Twas embarrassing, very, to have her act so
About "those carnal potatoes."

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PRAYER AND POTATOES.

So ending his prayer, he started for home;

As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan,
O, give to the hungry potatoes."

And that groan followed him all the way home;
In the midst of the night it haunted his room

"O, give to the hungry potatoes;
He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed,
From his well-filled cellar taking in haste
A bag of his best potatoes.

Again he went to the widow's lone hut;
Her sleepless eyes she had not yet shut;
But there she sat in her old arm-chair,
With the same wan features, the same sad air;
So entering in, he poured on the floor
A bushel or more from his goodly store
Of the very best potatoes.

The widow's heart leaped up for joy;
Her face was haggard and wan no more.

Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?"
"Yes," said the widow, "now you may;
And he knelt him down on the sanded floor,
Where he had poured his goodly store;
And such a prayer the deacon prayed
As never before his lips essayed.
No longer embarrassed, but free and full,
He poured out the voice of a liberal soul;
And the widow responded aloud, "Amen,"
But said no more of potatoes.

And would you who hear this simple tale
Pray for the poor, and, praying, "prevail,"

THE POWER OF HABIT.

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Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds;
Search out the poor, with their cares and their needs;
Pray for peace, and grace, and heavenly food,
For wisdom and guidance; for these are all good;
But don't forget the potatoes.

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31. THE POWER OF HABIT.

REMEMBER once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gentleman, "What river is that, sir?" "That," he said, "is the Niagara River." Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I, "bright, and fair, and glassy. How far off are the rapids ?" "" Only a mile or two," was the reply. it possible that only a mile from us we shall find the water in the turbulence which it must show near to the Falls?" You will find it so, sir."

"Is

And so I found it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never forget.

Now launch your bark on that Niagara River; it is bright, smooth, beautiful, and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the silver wake you leave behind adds to your enjoyment. Down the stream you glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper trim; and you set out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly some one cries

out from the bank,

"What is it?"

"The rapids are below you."

Ha, ha! We have heard of the rapids; but we

are not such fools as to get there. then we shall up with the helm, shore; we will set the mast in the

If we go too fast, and steer to the socket, hoist the

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THE POWER OF HABIT.

sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys; don't be alarmed; there is no danger."

"Young men, ahoy, there !" "The rapids are below you!"

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"What is it?"

Ha, ha! We will laugh and quaff; all things delight us. What care we for the future? No man ever saw it. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. We will enjoy life while we may; will catch pleasure as it flies. This is enjoyment; time enough to steer out of danger when we are sailing swiftly with the current."

"Young men, ahoy!' "What is it?" ware! beware! The rapids are below you."

"Be

See

Now you see the water foaming all around. how fast you pass that point! Up with the helm! Now turn. Pull hard! quick! quick! quick! pull for your lives; pull till the blood starts from your nostrils, and the veins stand like whip-cords upon your brow. Set the mast in the socket! hoist the sail ! Ah ah it is too late! Shrieking, cursing, howling, blaspheming, over they go.

Thousands go over the rapids every year, through the power of habit, crying all the while, "When I find out that it is injuring me, I will give it up."

We see sometimes, on our city streets, placards posted, "Lost! Lost! Lost!" And I stop sometimes to think of the cherished treasure that is gone, the heartache at its loss, the longing for its return. On those same streets we hear sometimes, in the calm of the evening's deepening twilight, the ringing of the crier's bell, and his shrill voice, shouting, "Child lost! Child lost!" Yes! a child lost, away from the comfort and brightness of home, gone from the father's