The basement under the entire building gives the new office practically three complete stories. The top story is occupied by the editors and proof-readers, the church library, and offices of general church officers. The ground floor is occupied by the manager's office, the composing-room, mailing-room, bindery, etc. The basement is occupied by the press-room, repair shops, and storerooms. The power, heating, and lighting plant is in a fine building not shown in the cut. The new building is practically fire proof throughout, being built of brick, lathed with steel, and floored with mosaic tile, and for the further protection of valuable documents or other articles, a large fire-proof vault is found on each floor. Linotypes, presses, engines, sanitary arrangements, lighting arrangements, and all other appurtenances to the new building are entirely up to date. The manager moved into the new building November 5, just ten months from the date when he moved out hastily at the cry of fire. This is good time, considering that several months were lost waiting for General Conference to decide where the new building should be located.

HOLLY AND BITTERSWEET.

BY DOLLIE RODGER OLSEN.

The day is done. The peaceful night
Is welcome, for it brings repose;
The calm oblivion is sweet,

And Christmas time is at its close.

I never see a holly branch

Where dark green leaves and berries meet, But fancy pictures to my mind

Bright clusters of the bittersweet.

Ah yes! methinks that scarce there be,
In cottage low, or mansion fair,

In quiet, restful country home,

In village, town, or city's glare,

Where merry laughter fills the place,
And happy voices echo round;
But deep, down deep within some hearts
A subtle sadness reigns profound.

For thoughts of other years will come,
And though the day be very dear;
Their memory is sure to cast

A shadow o'er the Christmas cheer.
Sweet gifts of friendship oft we bring,
And words of peace we oft repeat
In tones of pleasure, mirth, or pain,
For Christmas joys are bitter-sweet.

It is not always death that causes

The tears unbidden quick to start;

For other sorrows keen, severe,

Can chill the once glad, merry heart.

Perhaps 'tis best that at this time

Some mem'ries from the past we borrow,—

Christ was a man well known to grief,

And thus he was a man of sorrow.

If we would follow in his steps,

Our lives would oft be filled with gloom;

For him earth held but little joy,

E'en from the cradle to the tomb.

So when I see the holly bright

That sometimes decks the Christmas treat,

In fancy nestling close I see

The berries of the bittersweet

Of bitter, bittersweet.

I

BY CHARLOTTE PEARSON.

AM STANDING in the shadow of magnificent, mighty Niagara, I say in its shadow, for indeed it seems to cast a shadow of awe and of sadness indescribable. It does not seem to me to speak of love and peace, but of ruin, death, and destruction, and of power

immeasurable.

"I am standing in the shadow of mighty Niagara. I say in its shadow, for indeed it seems to cast a shadow of awe and sadness indescribable."

How often it is that something we see, hear, or touch brings to our consciousness something we can not account for. Emotions will arise in us and almost overpower us at times when we gaze at some beautiful picture. There will come a responsive thrill that will bring us the most beauteous thoughts to lift our souls above the sordid things of earth. Sometimes a revelation of some grand truth will suddenly enlighten our minds when some particular scene or landscape opens to our view. Sometimes it is only a beautifully worded sentence we hear spoken, or perhaps only just the way a shadow falls. It not only brings a remembrance of the past but it often brings a sweet promise of things to be. But when I stood watching those foaming, turbulent waters, I did not seem to hear anything pleasant of the past, but much that was pleasant of the future. I heard some one say near me: "How long do you think those waters have been falling over there? How long since this deep chasm was rent for them to flow through? Don't you suppose it has only been since the Christ, the Savior, was crucified?"

I closed my eyes as a vision seemed to float before them, and that far away time, nearly two thousand years ago, came back to me, and I seemed to know some of those living then, and I could feel with them and for them in their fears and their griefs and their joys.

The water was flowing peacefully past rich, green meadows. A gently undulating prairie stretched away on the other side. Not many trees were there. The great trackless forests that the early settlers cleared away were not even sprouted. As I looked I saw two walking on the bank; brother and sister, they seemed to bethe same dark eyes that could flash love or anger, according to the mood of their owners-the same nobly formed heads and lithe, supple forms, they seemed a pair ordained of God to do and dare great things. God's crown of ordination rests upon all of us in greater or less degree, but upon those two it rested in no ordinary

way.

The boy was seemingly in deep thought as they walked along close by the water's edge. Ever and anon he swished the water at his feet with a willow switch he held in his hand. At last he spoke: "Naomi," he said, "I saw a strange thing last night; I saw instead of this smoothly flowing river that we could step out into, a deep, deep chasm, through which the water was roaring most frightfully, while away over there," pointing with his stick, "I saw it falling over a precipice. It was the grandest sight Í ever beheld, but awful in its beauty. As I gazed, spellbound, I heard a penetrating voice that seemed to come from no one place, but yet filled all things. It said, "This shall be when the Christ dies.' It was repeated three times, and then I heard no more. Can it be true? How could the Christ die when he surely shall possess all power? Naomi, how long is it since he was born? Do you know just the time?"

"Why, brother," she answered, "it is just about thirty-three

years. You know that the most of us reckon the time now from that wonderful miracle of having a night in which there was no darkness."

"Why, surely, how stupid of me to forget that was the time. I have been so much with my Uncle Laban that I have forgotten many sacred things, and methinks he labored hard to make me forget. He is ever departing from the faith and going into strange paths.'

"Well, brother," said Naomi, "there was no necessity for you to follow him, was there?"

"No, Naomi," he answered, "neither did I follow him, but you know constant intercourse with any one whom one loves and respects will naturally cause one to take up with his ideas. I believe our uncle is honest, however, and really thinks he is right, but I now see since I have returned home that he is much mistaken, and to-day, as never before, there comes to me a consciousness of a supreme power and knowledge, of something infinitely greater and better than our puny selves. Also I feel a power or warning in the air about us, a premonition of impending disaster, of judgment for sin, the earth mourning because of the transgression of her children. You know, sister, there was also a prophecy of terrible things to happen when the Savior should die, but I have always felt to reject it because I could not see the necessity for his death, and it really seemed impossible to me that the God of heaven and earth would allow death to conquer him."

"Yes, brother, but I have always looked upon that as a fight with death. It will seemingly conquer him, but in reality it will be completely conquered itself, for the same prophecy says that after the three days of darkness and destruction that he will again receive life in his body and will arise from the dead. Is it not an evidence of far greater power to restore life to a dead body than it would be to keep life in a living one?"

"Naomi," he answered, "I believe you are right. I feel the witness of the Spirit while you are telling me. It shall surely be, and soon, too; and may the great Father protect us through it all, for I desire to live to tell his truth to others. But listen, Naomi, what is that? It must be thunder. Look at that great black cloud gathering in the west. We must hasten home."

They turned, and hand in hand ran back along the path by which they had come. Blacker and more terrible looking the cloud became every moment. It seemed a huge bank of inky blackness stretcl ing from north to south as far as they could see. Lurid flashes of red, forked lightning lit it up every moment into awful grandeur. A deadly calm was upon everything. The birds forgot to sing, the very murmur of the river was hushed. It was as if all nature held its breath in fear of-it knew not what.

"Oh, brother," Naomi panted, “I am afraid. I never was afraid of a storm before. I can feel the earth tremble beneath my feet. This seems to be something more than a storm."