OLD KNUCKLES.

I HAD been very busy writing one afternoon lately, and hadn't really noticed that the light which came in at the study window had gradually grown less and less till it had ceased to merit the name of light, and become a mixture of shades, which were slowly thickening into darkness. I found it out at length, however, and saw there was nothing for it but either to stop my employment or light the gas, and for two or three sufficient reasons I resolved not to do the latter.

So I dropt my pen, laid my head against the great hard back of my easy-chair, and let my eyes and thoughts fly out of the window. They didn't go far nor stay very long away, for it was growing too dark for them to be out without me.

At the back of my house there is what we call the flower-garden. Now, lest any person should form a false impression from this very pretty designation, I feel bound to state that no flowers are cultivated there with the solitary exception of a yellow dahlia, which came up of itself from somewhere, and which would very likely have bloomed where it stood in unrivalled beauty had it not been roughly broken off close to the ground by the wind, and since disappeared. Well, but it was not of the defunct dahlia that I was going to speak, so much as of one among a row of lofty trees which has grown up by the roadside beyond my garden wall, and takes the liberty of exercising a constant oversight of everything within the aforesaid limited area. There are not many trees, only some eight or nine in all, mostly elm. I have been familiar with them for a few months only. I have only seen them in their full feather of foliage, spreading, lifting, bending, and shaking, as sunshine, breeze, or shower spent itself upon them, and I had begun to think of them only as I had so often seen them, beautifully clothed in their scaly coat of leaves. But now behold what a change! They might have fallen among thieves who have coveted their goodly garments, and made off with them; for there they stand, all eight in a row, and never a leaf to cover themselves, and a chilling prospect of winter before them. All their rich, magnificent foliage, which hung in bunches, feathers, festoons, and arches is gone, all but about a dozen little withered things away up on the top branches, looking as if they never had either father or mother in the world, or as though they had lost their way and don't know if they ought to try to go up or down. All gone but them, and a few days will see their places forsaken.

has come

Well, I was just saying to myself, "Poor things! what a change over them! I almost pity them." And while I was indulging in this bit of sentiment, my eye was running over them from tree to tree, high and low, and ever in the midst of them, my eye turned back to a queer, ill-shaped little dwarf elm, which seemed to be looking back straight at me through my window. At first I looked away, but then I looked back, and couldn't help it, and really as the twilight thickened and clean lines grew more indistinct, it seemed as if that odd-looking little tree was actually forming a face of its own. There were the two eyes through the boughs, the mouth, and such a comical shifting laughing face as I never before beheld. Then there were two long, lank arms, with such elbows,

and one of them stretched out towards me, and positively the audacious thing was moving to me, as if it were saying, "How do, how do; fine evening, very fine out here, only rather cold;" and then it rattled its wooden fingers together as if to warm them. I started up from my chair, and came close to the window to look out at the old tree, and try if I could get to know what it meant. What surprised me most was when I found it could talk-and it did talk as I never heard tree do before-and I'll just tell you something of what passed between us during the half hour I stayed there. First I said, "How do ?" then it said "How do" back again; but instead of perpetuating the salutations I thought I would start something else, so I said, "Ah, so it's you, is it; let me see, what do they call you?"

"Oh, they call me anything, but nothing very grand, as you may suppose. You shall call me just what you like."

"Well, then, if you won't be offended "-"Oh, no, broke in, "not a bit."-" Then I'll call you KNUCKLES."

no," he

At that he rubbed his limbs against one another a moment or two, and then, looking out archly at me, he said, "Would you like to tell me why you thought of that name?"

"I have no objection at all. It is because knuckles seem to be the chief characteristic in your constitution. There is hardly a foot of straight timber in you-all joints, elbows, and angles, from bottom to top, while your neighbours are lofty and straight in trunk and limb. How is it?"

"Well," said he, "I'll tell you. In the first place, you must know, in order to understand me, that my life has a MORAL in it, or else I would not refer to it. I was unfortunately planted exactly on the top of a rock, and do all I could I never got anything out of it to subsist upon; yet by some means I have lived, only I don't grow much. That is what I call a bad start. Then when I got to carry a few branches, I was neglected and left uncared for. Then, again, before I had got firmly hold of the ground or twined my roots into the fissures of the rock, I got into trouble with a fearful storm which blew one night, and I was thrown over on my side and nearly killed. However, I held on with all the power I had left, cheered myself as well as I was able, and started to grow again, but from that moment there was a crook in my back which nothing can ever straighten. Then by the time I had grown pretty tall, the other trees had sent out their branches over my head, and wherever I went or turned they were in the way and stopped me. I tried all plans of getting through-twisting, bending, knuckling-but to no purpose. Every time I started to grow in a new direction I made another elbow, till by-and-by, as you see, I was all over and nothing else but angles and knuckles."

"That is a very sad and singular autobiography."

"Singular! no, no. There are thousands of trees like me in the world, and not only trees, but men and women, too. Perhaps you won't feel complimented by what I'm going to say, but I often think there is a very great similarity between people and trees. I have seen many a person go by here whose life I am sure has been very much like mine, all difficulties and drawbacks, and who have made

very little out in the world but crooks and angles. The circumstances of their birth were unpropitious; their education and training all hap-hazard and accidental; their first efforts in life ill-advised and unsuccessful; their after attempts hurried, fitful, impatient, and disheartening, till their resolution and ambition gradually died within them; their after efforts are all feeble, they shrink back on contact with the least obstacle, and only end in making another elbow."

"And do you think there are many like that in the world?" "I'm sure there are. I can own them as day by day they go along underneath me, though they don't think I am so much like them."

"Now, Knuckles, you are gloomy, and fancy things worse than they are."

On my saying this he smiled, rattled his elbows against his sides, made his queer eyes bigger, and said, "You don't know everything." "No, I don't profess to, but I should surely have some knowledge of such cases if there are so many."

"Perhaps you wouldn't. You didn't know me for a cross-growth till autumn came and carried away my clothes and I had to appear without a covering; and there are many people in the world who' have always grown across, only they keep it secret and covered, but it will come out by-and-by, when their winter comes and their leaves are fallen. You'll be amazed then to see the secret struggles and trials some people have had, and you'll wonder how they have managed to live at all, unless it is by the care of Him who acts as father to all of us, trees as well as men."

"Then you think there is one who acts the father to you, Knuckles."

"How can I think otherwise? Look at my life. How could I have existed, crooked, ungainly, and uncared for as I am, had it not been for Him? All that I get to subsist on comes from Him direct. The gentle showers which moisten my dry leaves, the sweet nightdew that softens my rigid bark, the teeming rain that cleanses me from dust and filth, the rich and glorious sunshine in morning, noon, and evening which draws out my poor strength to make another angle, the strong bracing wind which comes along thrusting and pulling at me pretending as if it would drag me out of the ground, but really only rousing into healthy exercise every power of resistance I possess, is all from Him. Oh, yes, I know He takes care of trees; and if of us, how much more of men? But I'll tell you where the great evil lies with men-they don't really believe these things. I have watched them go along this road here on a lovely sunny day, and they have kept on the shady side of the road out of the sunshine and warmth: there they go, looking so gloomy, hopeless, miserable, and cold, and then that side of the road is not intended for foot-passengers-it has no causeway, it is rough and uneven, yet for some strange reason or other they select it and go stumbling, limping, and groaning along, till I am out of all patience with them, and if my joints hadn't been so stiff and short, I would give them such a whisk as would make them jump out into the sunshine."

"So you would drive them out of the shade, would you ?"

Ah, that I would, and should think I was doing them a kind

ness.

There are shadows enough flung upon us in this world which we cannot escape, and I say there is no wisdom in people going out of their way to find more. Enjoy a sunbeam while you can.'

"Well, but, Knuckles, there is far more sunshine for trees than for men, isn't there?"

than trees.

"No, not a little. The boot is on the other leg. Men have more Is God more careful of us than of you? Impossible. Men have always some ray of light in their sky. Of course we know they have clouds at times, but even these cannot bury all the light; it will come and does, only frequently they don't notice it, because they have no eyes for anything but the clouds."

"But look here, old friend, do you not know that men have fearful trials which you never can experience?"

Knuckles bowed his head just the least bit, but didn't offer to interrupt me only by saying, "Well ?"

I said, "There are afflictions which hang over some families for months, dark, heavy trials which have a crushing effect, and then often these end in death. Some dearly cherished one is removed from the midst of a loving circle never to return, and there are sore and aching hearts all around that circle."

Poor Knuckles looked sad and brimful of sympathy before he spoke, but as he began to talk his face grew bright again.

"I know," said he, "that there are terrible trials allotted to men, but you must not forget there are extraordinary consolations sent along with them. If you are afflicted you have the promises of support and deliverance, like light around the cloud, only you often look just at the cloud where it is darkest and forget the margin. You should let your eye cover the whole, take in the lights and shades of that picture, and more than half the trial will be gone. Death, too, must be a very solemn and painful thing. Why I myself shiver whenever I see a tree fall, and I have witnessed several since I've stood here, but then I always think of this—it is going to be used for something, and that really is the reason after all why we grow. Now men die, and their friends mourn; but do they think that the fallen ones are going to be used for something, and that sometime they will see them again, and perhaps be side by side with them in the same service. Oh, that is a beautiful bright rim to the cloud of bereavement-a rim which gradually spreads inward over the face of the cloud, eating it up, tiil finally it takes its place and hangs in the sky a bright beaming cloud of light."

"But, Knuckles, your remarks about the bright margin don't always apply. I have known instances where the sky has been so full of trouble as to leave no room for the bright margin; there have been afflictions and death, failures in business, oppression and cruelty, estrangement from friends, and persecution on every hand; the sky has been one black mass and never a ray of light in all the thick horizon, though longing eyes have searched it round and round. What would you say to that?"

"Well, I should say that was a very greedy cloud to take up all the sky, and yet I can believe there have been such times. Now I'll tell you," said Knuckles, "I'll just tell you."

And here he opened his big round eyes and made them into all

shapes, as a slight wind shook his boughs, but he brought them back to the round again.

"I too have seen the heavens all over black, as black as a stormcloud could make them, and I have looked for a bright spot in vain. I have strained and stretched myself to look further in hope of catching some ray of light somewhere, but all to no purpose-not a stripe nor a break anywhere; and more than half alarmed I have begun to tremble and wonder how I should bide it through, when just at that moment I have looked right up into the midst of the cloud, right in the middle, where I expected its fury to be greatest, and lo! there it was the light had come, like a great bright eye looking at me; it had gone in vain all around the back of the cloud seeking a place to shine over, and then came right back to the dark, thick centre, and bored a hole through, and there it was, streaming out its blessed beams upon me; it wouldn't be kept back; if it could not get at me over the edge, it would burst through the middle. My advice is, if there is no light around the edge, come back and look for it in the centre."

During this last passage poor Knuckles seemed full of emotion; his limbs trembled, and dew-drop tears stood brimming in his eyes; but after a moment's pause, he resumed

"If I must tell the whole truth, I like the light in the centre best; it shows that the sun is stronger than the cloud where it is thickest and blackest. Oh, yes, I love to see him burst clean through the core; there is nothing can stand before him after that, for he will be through. Ah, and what the great sun is to me, the greater God is to you. When He suddenly appears in the midst of your trials, it is a proof of His power and goodness. No edge can keep Him in, no barrier hold Him back; He would break the very heavens down to get at His children. Then the light in the centre reminds us that the sun is still near-when it shines around the outside it seems further off, the rays slide over the edge anywhere, and when it is out of sight we are tempted to think it is gone altogether; but when it comes clear through the middle, it falls direct upon us-it is looking right straight down, and seems as if it were meant particularly for us, and it is just like that when God appears in the cloud-trials over you, it is for your comfort; that is what the good old Book means when it says, His eye is ever on the righteous.' Oh, friend, you have but to look up and behold it. People don't look up half as much as trees, though they have a thousand more reasons for so doing."

เ

"Really, I believe you speak truly."

Knuckles looked straight at me, and said, very significantly, "I wish I were a preacher."

How I would

I started a moment, felt nervous, and said, "Why?" "Why, because then I should preach to be sure. exhort men to look up, always look up in the eye of the sun or the frown of the cloud. Oh, that beautiful upland, that heaven of space above, so pure, noiseless, deep, and grand-look up and know that it is but as the polished area where glorified spirits hover around outside the palace of their king; look up to a bright land beyond, where the sun is but a diamond taken from the shining walls of the royal mansion to throw light on this poor earth of ours, and to