Natural and spiritual nourishment grows into the child's being. She watches its growth with secret pleasure. E'er she expects it, the boy or maiden, is about becoming a young man or lady. The child has gone to school, learned a trade, perhaps, prepared for life's work. But just when nobly entering on its duties, the soul departs, the sapling breaks, with the life's work barely begun. The parents say: "Alas, what hopes are blasted, what plans defeated, what a melancholy life, that has no finish!"

The world is full of unfinished work. The good, though they reach the age of Methuselah, die at mid-task. John, the Apostle, lived to a great age. When he could no longer walk, his friends carried him to his work of love. But finish it, he never could. Neander, old and blind, wrought at his life-work to the end. Death found him in his lecture-room. After being gently laid to bed, he bade his sister a fond good-night, and fell asleep. But his Church History was left unfinished. When the angel of death summoned Olshausen to his reward, Ebrard had to complete the great commentator's work on the New Testament. How sadly Macaulay's career, as a historian, was arrested by death. This history of England is but a fragment of what he proposed to write. Is every such a life, then, a failure? Nay, verily. The good never finish life's duties. Their life here is but the beginning of unending action. And it is one with that hereafter. Out of Christ, every life is a failure. Every sapling breaks. And breaks because impaired by sin. It ends in wreck and

ruin.

We dislike this broken sapling over a Christian's grave. It speaks not the truth. A palm or cedar, full grown, yet ever growing and ever green, is nearer the truth. Twenty years of faith cannot end in death. They are the beginning of everlasting life. A good life is always complete, whether one dies at eighteen or eighty. The venerable Bede was singularly favored. Over a thousand years ago, he translated the Bible into Saxon. In old age, when his end approached, he was just finishing the great work. The last rays of the setting sun are lingering on the Convent of Janrow. He can no longer sit up. A scribe sits at his side, and tries to catch the words, as they fall feebly from his dying lips. He writes them down for Bede. Exhausted, the old man's head sinks back.

"There remains but one chapter," says the scribe, "but it seems very hard for you to speak."

"Nay, it is very easy," Bede replied; "take your pen, write quickly." Again, Bede seems to start for heaven. The scribe says: "Father, now one sentence is wanting."

Bede dictates it.

"It is finished," exclaims the scribe.

"It is finished," echoes the departing saint. Raise my head. Let me sit in the place where I have been wont to pray. Now: Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost;" and while thus praising, he fell asleep.

Washington Irving finished his work on Washington, when his life was fast ebbing to its finish. Although work had become a burden to him, he said: "I do not fear death, but would like to go down with all sails set."

One of the exploring expeditions to the Arctic ocean found a ship amid fields of ice. Its crew had perished fifty years ago. And yet they were still there. The intense cold had preserved their bodies.

They lay about

on their beds and bunks as if asleep, with faces and features full and fair, all dressed in the style of fifty years ago. The captain sat at the cabin table, with pen in hand, and the log, a ship record, spread out before him. The explorers shouted to the men, as they boarded their ship, but they neither heeded nor heard them. Death found the captain at his post, and there he sat and held his pen in hand for fifty long years.

To live and die at one's post, gives life a sacred and successful ending. There is One that died before mid-life. A friend to us, and more than friend. Pure, merciful, sorrowful and wise; who spake as never man spake; who loved as never man loved; who wrought and endured as never mortal or immortal had done before. Those he came to save, nailed him to the cross, whom, dying, he blessed. At thirty-three, his earthly life ended, and ending it, he cried, It is finished. And now we are complete in Him. And he that believeth in Him, shall never die. Unbelief calls His life a failure, His death a scene of mortal woe and weakness. Faith reveres it as the Victory of victories, the closing act of the world's redemption. No broken sapling this, but a life full and finished. Not an ended life, for He is with us alway, even to the end of the world. For us, he works, governs, and reigns. We live ourselves into Him, and He himself into us.

"Have you heard this tale-the best of them all-
The tale of the Holy and True;

He dies, but His life, in untold souls,

Lives on in the world anew.

His seed prevails, and is filling the earth
As the stars fill the skies above;

He taught us to yield up the love of life
For the sake of the life of love.
His death is our life, His loss is our gain,
The joy for the tear, the peace for the pain."

GENERAL RICE TO HIS MOTHER.

The following is an extract from the last letter written by Gen. James C. Rice. just before the battles in the Virginia Wilderness, in one of which he lost his life, to his aged mother, who lives in Worthington :

We are about to commence the campaign-the greatest in magnitude, strength and importance since the beginning of the war. God grant that victory may crown our arms-that this wicked rebellion may be crushed, our Union preserved, and peace and prosperity again be restored to our beloved country. My faith, and hope, and confidence are in God alone, and I know that you feel the same. I trust that God may again graciously spare my life, as He has in the past,—and yet one cannot fall too early if, loving Christ, he dies for his country. My entire hope is in the cross of my Saviour. In this hope I am always happy. We pray here in the army, mother, just the same as at home. The same God who watches over you, also guards me. I always remember you, mother, in my prayers, and I know you never forget me in yours. All that I am, under God,

I owe to you, my dear mother. Do you recollect this passage in the Bible-"Thou shalt keep, therefore, the statutes, that it may go well with thee and thy children after thee?" How true this is in respect to your children, mother. I hope you will read the Bible and trust the promises to the last. There is no book like the Bible for comfort. It is a guide to the steps of the young-a staff to the aged.

Well, my dear mother, good-bye. We are going again to do our duty, to bravely offer up our life for that of the country, and "through God we shall do valiantly."

With much love, and many prayers, that whatever may betide us, we may meet in heaven at last, I am your very affectionate son,

JAMES.

Now a prim old maid the paper espies,
And holding it carefully off from her eyes,
And frequently muttering "La!" and "Du tell!"
She manages some way to read very well
The marriages,
The robberies,
Accidents,
Murders,
Suicides,
All in

Deaths,

A breath.

And finishes, wonders what sort of a blunder
The whole community must be under,
To support a paper whose print is so small,—
She wonders how some people read it at all.

Next, an angry contributor, eager for fame,
Rushes into the sanctum to loudly complain,-
"I'm ruined, sir, ruined,—my success, sir, is o'er;
So many mistakes were never heard of before;
Look here, at this Sonnet Addressed to My Lady,
You've made it a Bonnet and Dress for a Baby;
Don't talk of my writing,
And say it was that;
You're an editor, sir,

But no gent-that is flat."

The farmer complains that his crop is neglected,
While so much time is spent guessing who'll be elected;
The minister says it should be sedate,

And not so much wasted in matters of State.

And thousands of other

Complaints are made known,
Which the editor's back
Has to bear all alone;

But the worst of it is, that they all join in saying,
Such a paper as this he can print without paying.

THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER.

You have all, doubtless, heard of Frederick the Second, of Prussia. He is known among the people of that country as "our old Fritz;" and his statue, on horseback, stands at the entrance of the noble Linden Avenue, in Berlin. Frederick had a wife, Queen Elizabeth Christina, of whom the following anecdote is related.

One beautiful summer day, as the Queen was pacing up and down the beautiful walks in her palace-garden, enjoying the perfumed air, and from time to time pausing to look at the lovely flowers, or listen to the singing birds, she saw upon the grass a little child, playing with the long stalks and the clover-heads. This was the daughter of one of the gardeners, a little girl about five years old.

The Queen approached the child, silently watched her play for a few moments, and finally spoke to her. The child replied modestly, but fearlessly, to all the questions asked her. She was, besides, a very lovelylooking little girl. The Queen was so much pleased with her, that the very next day she sent one of her ladies to bring her to the palace.

The parents were quite astonished, but they dressed the child in her Sunday clothes, and gave her into the charge of the Queen's waitingmaid.

When the little girl reached the palace, the Queen was just about sitting down to dinner. She, however, gave orders that the child should be at once brought to her. Stroking her fresh, rosy cheeks, she had her placed upon a chair by her side, whence she could overlook the whole of the glittering and abundantly-laden table.

The kind, good-hearted Queen wanted to hear what the child would say when she saw the costly gold and silver vessels, and all the other pretty things adorning the royal table. She enjoyed, in anticipation, the delight of the innocent girl, which she presumed would be displayed in ordinary childish fashion, by clapping of hands, and joyful, wondering exclamations.

But all turned out very differently from what she had expected.

The little one sat a moment quite still and solemn. Then she cast her eyes over the glittering scene before her. But no cry of astonishment followed this survey. On the contrary, the child looked quietly down upon the table, folded her tiny hands, and, in tones sweet and childish, but loud enough to be heard throughout the whole dining-hall, repeated the following little prayer:

"Christ's dear blood and righteousness

Be to me as jewels given,

Crowning me when I shall press

Onward through the gates of heaven."

Surely the good old custom of asking a blessing at table must still have been practised in the pious gardener's house, and this little verse have been the daily prayer of the good little girl. As the food was already placed upon the royal table, and eyes were turned upon her, the child naturally thought they wished her to say the blessing, and devoutly repeated her touching prayer.

When she had finished, no one spoke for some time. All present were greatly surprised. It really seemed as if God Himself, through her sweet lips, had spoken to this brilliant assemblage of high-born lords and ladies.

One very old lady was the first to break the silence, saying, "O, the happy child! How much may we learn from her!"

The whole company then began to talk about the little girl, and all felt kindly drawn toward her, especially the good, noble-hearted Queen.

From that day she was richly provided for. The ladies and gentlemen present sent her, from time to time, valuable gifts; and the Queen herself took pains to see that she received such an education, that the good seed sown by her excellent parents should not be lost.

PRAYER.-One has somewhat quaintly, but very truly said: "God looks not at the oratory of your prayers, how eloquent they are; nor at their geometry, how long they are; nor at their arithmetic, how many they are; nor at their logic, how methodical they are; but he looks at their sincerity-how spiritual they are."