THE FAITHFUL WIDOW.

A LESSON OF MEEKNESS AND OBEDIENCE.

"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

A New England village nestled at the foot of a range of hills. In its full splendour blazed the sun, goldening the church-spire, so that one's eyes could not bear its brightness. The sky was of that fathomless blue into which it seems as if the eye could see deep after deep, each stretching along, intenser and brighter, and a soft, lambent radiance ran along the edges of the few white clouds floating here and there. The sombre gothic recesses of the modern little church glowed with a red glory, and like a molten stream of sunshine, the light ran down the vine-covered walls, and spread broadly over grave and mound,-down beyond, touching the little river with star-like dimples,-yet beyond to the hills, that stood in irregular outline in the distance, bathing their green slopes in that lustrous summer light. It was a sultry day in July, and the wheat-fields were burdened with their own ripeness, and stood ready for the reapers. It had been a golden season for the grain, and labourers were in demand. All the large farmers had "hired up every "hand" from miles around, and the fields were gladdened with the gleeful laugh and the jocund song. The sweat that beaded the brow of toil glistened in the warm noonrays like diamonds, as the strong arm swept to and fro, lifting and circling the polished sickles.

One field alone smiled blandly toward heaven, untouched by the sweeping blade of the farmer. A widow owned this wheatfield-and one of the meekest, sweetest, loveliest natures was hers that ever bowed to its Creator God. The dove was not more tender in its helplessness than she; indeed, many people said the Widow Willis was too meek to get along in this world, too meek to take her own part, too meek to live. Why, people might trample on all her rights, and she wouldn't resent it,-and they couldn't imagine how she was ever "coming out, with that large family on her hands."

"Well, Teddy," said the widow, one afternoon, as her little boy came slowly

riding home on an old spavined horse, "havn't you got anybody?"

"No, mother," replied the boy, springing from his lank steed, and entering the clean kitchen. "I went clear to Milton, and there's not one hand' to be had; what shall we do? Farmer Stetsen says there'll surely be rain before Sunday."

"Then the rain must come," said the widow, resuming her knitting; "I've done the best I could, and if the Lord seems fit to disappoint us, why, it's for some good purpose."

"Oh, mother," said Teddy, but looking full in the sweet smile on his mother's face, it was instantly reflected back in his own.

Tuesday passed, Wednesday, Thursday, and all the days of the week, and no hands to be had for love or money.

"Well," said Teddy, sitting down to his crust and milk, after the other children had been helped, "here it is Saturday night, and our wheat standing. Oh, dear, I wish I was a man, or anywhere near it ;" and he gulped another great sigh down with his bread. The widow did not answer; she was thinking, thinking, oh, how busily! There before her was the grocer's bill; there in the drawer of the little stand was the rent-bill. Five pounds were due for her cow; one or two for repairs on the little kitchen, and one for a new pump that had just been put in the well. All these she had expected the wheat would pay for; and now, if it should rain on the morrow, as the farmers all prophesied, and the almanack, too, what should she do? As she sat musing thus, one little thought flew straight up to heaven, like a bird, and returned with heaven's light upon its wings; it was the thought that God was her refuge, and he would never forsake the widow and the fatherless children that put their trust in him.

At that same moment, farmer Stetsen had gathered some of the neighbouring farmers about his door-step, and was talking at the top of his voice.

"I tell you what, boys," said he, "everybody knows that Widow Willis hain't bin able to git field-hands owin' to the press, and she's a poor body; what say, if it's pleasant to-morrow, let's all take hold and give her a lift; 'twouldn't be more'n doing a christian duty."

"Sabba' day, Bill," said a man, taking his pipe from his lips.

"Sabba' day, or no Sabba' day, a deed of mercy's always in season. She'll be mighty glad, don't you fear; besides that, she's too quiet to open her mouth to a body; she's feared to say boo to a mouse, she's that meek sort of a critter. Come, boys, she's been good to your's and mine in times of sickness, and one good turn deserves another; what say?"

"I'm for it-I'll go-so will I !" said one and another; and they parted with the understanding that, if it was pleasant, they would meet together at the widow's house, at nine o'clock in the morning.

The Sabbath came-calm, quiet, and beautiful. The fields, shorn and unshorn, smiled in their emerald lustre up towards heaven.

'Oh, mother, one more elegant day! I'm sure it must rain to-morrow," said Teddy, as he came out of his little bed-room.

"Can't you thank God for this, and wait till to-morrow comes, before you worry?" asked the widow, with that same smile.

"There's farmer Stetsen, and farmer Davis, and there's farmer Eddy, and,oh, there's lots of 'em coming here!” exclaimed Teddy, in astonishment, as he sat holding his little three-year-old sister, while the widow read aloud from her Bible, after their homely breakfast was over. The widow startled,-looked out of the open door, and there, sure enough, stood her neighbours, the well-to-do farmers of Dalesville.

"Good morning, widder!" spoke up farmer Stetsen; "we've got our wheat in, you see, and knowing how hard it was to git hands, we've concluded amongst us to git yours in for you without charge, seeing you're a widder."

"Shall we go at it now, boys ?" asked farmer Eddy, turning about.

"But it's Sunday," said Widow Willis, very gently.

"I know; better the day, better the deed."

"But it's Sunday," still persisted the widow, in her mild, soft way.

"Well, widder, don't we know that? Of course, we couldn't a come to-morrow, -too many other fish to fry; we come 'cause it's Sunday."

"Oh, but it's the Lord's holy day," said the widow, with a little quiver of the lip, "I can't break God's holy day."

"Don't be a fool, ma'am," responded a coarse-grained fellow, still whiffing at his pipe; "I tell you its going to rain to-morrow, and then what will become of

your grain ?"

"I don't know," replied the widow, meekly; "but if it should rain, I can't break God's holy day."

"It's my opinion, them as don't provide for their own households is worse than heathens," exclaimed one of the men, now thoroughly angry. "What, you going to do without flour, or money !-how's neighbour Wings to get his pay, I'd like to know, for groceries, or I mine for the cow ?"

Tears now stood in the widow's eyes, and she let them fall quietly.

"Don't let 'em speak so cross," said little Teddy, his face flushing scarlet.

"There's your children; what be you going to do with them? How are they going to get along without bread all this winter, and you in debt?"

"I don't know," replied the widow, lifting her meek eyes heavenward. "I'm sure I don't know; it looks dark, very dark. But God has commanded me to 'rest on the Sabbath in seed-time and harvest,' and I must obey God. As to the children, God will take care of them."

"You're a fool," said one of the men, turning on his heel.

"Oh, mother, mother !" whispered Teddy, "they shan't talk so to you."

"Hush, my son; they meant to do me a favour, and they can't understand. Neighbours," she continued, as they one and another spoke insulting words, "I thank you for your kind intentions towards me,may God bless you for them,—I am unworthy of so much kindness, indeed, I thank you; but I must obey my heavenly Father."

"What, if you starve ?"

"Yes, if I starve," replied the widow, solemnly, after a moment of silence.

"And if your children starve ?"

"God will not let my children starve," she answered, meekly, bearing all their insults with true christian sweetness.

"Oh, mother, how could you be so clever to them ?" asked Teddy, the tears of childish resentment pouring over his cheeks.

"Wipe your eyes, dear, and read the lesson where I left off; come, let us serve God, and think no more about the men, they have gone, and they will soon forget it."

So little Teddy, half-sobbing, read :— "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

"There, mother, that's you!" I know it is," exclaimed Teddy, earnestly. "Shall you inherit the earth ?"

"Not if it rains to-morrow," said his mother, smiling at his earnestness.

And now for the sequel. It did not rain on the morrow. Widow Willis, now that all the farmers had gathered their grain, had just as many "hands" as she required. Her grain was sold at a good price. The little bills and the large bills were all paid off, and a handsome balance left. Seed was bought for another season, and more land rented. From year to year the widow prospered, until to-day she is the honoured matron in her own house, dispensing blessings on every hand; while her sons live near her, each wealthy in land and cattle, and in all the neighbouring towns there is not a family so rich, so God-fearing, so prosperous. God's word never fails, and he has said, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

POOH-POOHING THE SUNDAY

SCHOOL.

There lived in a certain crooked little lane, in the city of London, a gentleman of the name of Bartlett. He was a man by no means careless of religion, so far as externals went, for he attended his place of worship twice every Sunday. He was a man, also, of strict integrity and punctuality, and one who prided himself not a little upon his being a very matter-of-fact kind of person.

"Pay as you go;" "Neither rob nor be robbed;" "Be hard and just;" these were some of the items of Mr. Bartlett's creed, and, indeed, they form a very fair specimen of what it altogether was.

There was one point on which Mr. Bartlett was very decided, and that was, that sentimentality, and spirituality, and such like things, had nothing to do with religion at all. He never would hear of them, but put them down at once with a "Pooh, pooh!" which generally announced that the matter was settled with him.

The minister, whose place of worship Mr. Bartlett was in the habit of attending, preached one Sunday for the Sunday schools. Yes,-a charity sermon for the Sunday schools! Had it been for the day schools, Mr. Bartlett would, in all proba

bility, have thought it quite right, and given five shillings.

There are many people who look upon the Sunday school as a kind of spirit, that can live on air. Mr. Bartlett was one of these individuals. He had never seen roll. books, or class-books, or Bibles, or Testaments, or cards, or reward-books, in a Sunday school; he did not know the cost of a summer treat by steamboat or railway train. When the preacher was asking, he talked to himself, and what he said was, "Pooh, pooh !" and when the plates were held, he put in sixpence,-that was Pooh, pooh " in coin.

That day, at dinner, Mr. Bartlett had a talk with his wife.

"When I was young, my dear, we heard nothing of these new-fangled notions about religion and education."

"People did not think so much about them then as they do now," answered his wife.

"School, school, Sunday as well as weekday! why, there seems no end of it. I expect that the children of the next generation will all be Methodists. I don't see what people have to do with so much of religion; they're beginning to drag it into business and amusement, and, by and bye, I expect it will come into what we eat, and drink, and wear."

"Well, I think it should," said Mrs. Bartlett, whose views, under a faithful ministry, had begun to change.”

"Pooh, pooh!" said Mr. Bartlett, and so he finished that.

For a while the husband was silent, and then he said, "Well, Mary, I've made up my mind. I shan't have any Sunday school boys about me in the warehouse. If a lad is honest, what more does he want? except, indeed, to be industrious. As to religion making him any better than that, 'Pooh, pooh!"" and, having expelled this sentiment, the gentleman went out for his usual Sunday walk.

About a month after this conversation, Mr. Bartlett required a lad to run errands in his office, and he inserted in a morning paper an advertisement to that effect. There were, of course, numerous replies, and the difficulty soon was, not to get a boy, but to get rid of all but one. Some of the lads came alone, and gave very flourishing accounts of themselves; some came attended by their parents, who gave very flourishing accounts also; and, at length,