These five smooth stones I gathered from the brook, PRONUNCIATION.-Mo-las'ses 1b, ate 33, IN-STINCT IVE-LY, prompted by instinct, without thought or reasoning, unconsciously. MOOD, state of mind. pil'lowed 6, em'a-nate If, casc'ment 15, Cal-i-for'ni-a 7, bless'ed 33, trav'el 4b. THE WIDOW'S LAST LOAF. 1. THE following simple narrative is a sketch of real life. Every incident, all the details, to the minutest particular, are authentic. 2. It was evening—a beautiful autumn evening. The red leaves yet danced, rejoicing in the mild air; the yellow sunshine yet gilded the hill-tops, and the soft shadows were creeping silently up the valley, as the gentle widow Leedom, with her child in her arms, wended her way homeward. 3. She was tired, for she had toiled all day in a farmer's kitchen, and, though it was Saturday-evening, she had not been paid for her labor. The kind-hearted house-maid had urged her to wait for her supper, but she thought of her hungry little ones at home, and she could not stay. 4. She had no eye for the glory of that superb October sunset as she walked wearily on, her tired arms scarcely able to hold the little joyous creature that laughed and crowed, and ever and anon peered into her bonnet, lisping his sweet-toned "mamma, mamma.” She thought only of her expectant little ones, and the means of obtaining bread for them to last over Sunday. 5. As she approached the village she seemed irresolute whether to enter it or pass on; but a vision of her lonely, fasting children rose up before her in imagination, and she stopped. Her lips moved a moment or two as if in prayer; then quickening her step, and hurrying on like one who has nerved herself to a sudden resolution, she turned into the main street, and was soon standing before the counter of the baker's shop. 6. The baker was an austere man, but it was not in human nature to resist the widow's pleading tone and touching expression as she falteringly asked him to trust her for a loaf of bread for a day or two. With scarcely audible thanks she concealed the loaf under her tattered shawl, and, drawing her babe closer to her bosom, hastened home. 7. "Mother's come! mother's come!" cried a couple of young, cager voices, as she entered the gate, and her seven-year-old Robert and his little sister came running to meet her. They were pretty children. The little Mary inherited her mother's mild blue eyes and delicate complexion, and the boy his father's handsome face and honest brown eyes. 8. Poor children! they were accustomed to being left alone, for the widow went out to work daily, and the night was always welcome that brought their mother's loved return. They had a thousand things to ask and tell, which this time fell unheeded on the ear of the sad mother, though she instinctively answered them yes or no as occasion required. 9. She gave the loaf to Robert, and, taking little Mary's hand, entered the house with them. The table was already set out by the little expectant house-keepers; bút there was nothing on it that was eatable save a cup of molasses and some salt. The mother cut a slice of bread for each of her half-famished children, and sat quietly by, nursing the youngest while they ate it, for she had no heart to eat herself. 10. She was very sorrowful as she looked at those little dependent beings, and thought of her failing strength. She shaded her eyes with her hand, while the tears stole silently down her pale, patient face, and fell among the bright curls of the little unconscious head pillowed so peacefully on her bosom. 11. She had been sorely afflicted. The husband of her youth had been stricken down by a falling beam while attempting to save a sick child, that had been overlooked in the hurry and panic, from a burning building. The child was saved, but he who periled his life for it, the strong, brave-hearted man, had perished. 12. Of her four children, the eldest-born, the pride of her heart, the noble boy whose every movement and expression was the copy of his buried father, had left her some years before, and was now a wanderer she knew not whither. The three youngest were dependent on their widowed mother. 13. Now, as she thought of her utter inability to support her fatherless children even in the summer-time, and saw no better prospect before her whichever way she looked, and knew that the cold, drear winter was coming gradually on, her heart utterly failed her, and she could only weep. The wondering little ones tried by every endearing art to attract her attention, but in vain. Impressed by their mother's mournful mood, they ate their bread almost in silence. 14. When they had finished she arose mechanically, and, laying her babe in its cradle, put them to bed. She heard them say their prayers; she said "Good night," and "God bless you,” carefully and tenderly as usual, but with that subdued, spiritless tone that emanates from a heart without hope. She continued kneeling by their bed-side long after she had prayed with them, and wept. 15. Bitterly she wept, but there was no pitying eye to see her now, no tender hand to caress, no loving voice to soothe, as the cry from her overburdened, despairing heart, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" went up over the unconscious heads of the sleepers, in that hour of agony. No pitying eye, did I say? The Eye that never slumbers nor sleeps was there. In 16. The loving-kindness that has said, "I will be a Father to the fatherless," was about her even then, though she knew it not. the power of the Spirit came the blessed assurance, in answer to her despairing cry, "I will never leave thee nor forsake thee;" and her soul grew calm, all her old trusting faith returned, and she arose tranquil from her knees, feeling that "the Lord is a very present help in time of trouble." 17. She took down the old worn Bible from the mantle, and as she read on through the closing chapters of St. John an expression of peace ineffable," the peace that passeth understanding,"―settled serenely on her sweet face. Putting the Bible reverently back, she took some work from her basket, and soon the clear tones of a hymn sounded through the stillness of the little cottage. "How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, Is laid for your faith in his excellent word". when pealed from lordly organ, and echoed through vaulted dome, never ascended more acceptably to "Him who sitteth on the great white throne." 18. But other eyes beside the All-seeing had been looking in through the low casement at the lonely sufferer; and now the sweet tones of the holy hymn were interrupted by a knock at the door. The widow opened it, and saw before her a weary, travel-stained man, who asked only for a crust of bread and a sup of water 19. The widow glanced at the loaf which still lay on the table, and then at the sleeping children; she hesitated, but only for a moment. There was something in the tone of the stranger's voice that came gratefully to her soul, as the breath of spring over violets. She thought of her own beloved boy asking for charity in some distant land; and she hastened to place a chair for the stranger and reach him the loaf, trusting to Him "who causeth it to rain on the earth where no man is, to satisfy the desolate and waste ground" for her orphans. 20. "My mother! my own precious mother!" cried the familiar voice in broken tones; and springing forward, she was caught and strained to the beating heart of her long-lost son. The Lord had become a very present help in time of trouble. 21. "My son, my son!" she could only murmur, while he exclaimed: "I am rich, my mother, I have plenty for us all; I have been to California, and have come back rich beyond all I ever hoped or dreamed of—my poor famishing mother! I am just in time— thank God! thank God!" And mother and son knelt together in one glad, earnest prayer of thanksgiving. KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE. LESSON CCXIX. the same time. JEW'ELED, brilliant as if adorned with | OM-NI-PRES ́ENT, present in all places at jewels. LAIR, a place of rest. The den or bed ZONE, a division, or part, of the earth's of a wild-beast. surface. PRONUNCIATION.-Pres ́ent 1b, be-neath' 15, na'ture 17, bound'less le. GOD PRESENT EVERY WHERE. 1 THE Lord, the high and holy One, is present every where; 3. All nature speaks of Him who made the land and sea and sky; PARK BENJAMIN, LESSON CCXX. AB-SORBING, engrossing, superior to all | DU-ET', a piece of music performed by other feelings. BE-MOAN', to lament, to deplore. CON-GE'NI-AL, kindred, partaking of the saine nature. PRONUNCIATION.-Se'cret 1b, figʻure 17, sacʼri-fice (sac' re-fize), truths 14, con'. quer 24, world 9, hand'some 29, re'al-ly 3a, du-et' 1b, tune 18, sat in 3c. THE AMBER-COLORED SATIN DRESS. SCENE. Two very affectionate-looking young ladies walking in a beautiful garden. Jane. AH! Bessie, dearest, what happiness to have you so near! Before you came I used to wander about bemoaning my solitude, and pining for a congenial soul; but now everything is changed. The very birds sing more sweetly, and the flowers put on their brightest colors in compliment to you. Bessie. You are too flattering, my sweet Jane; but let us ever feel thus toward each other. It is the very balm and bliss of life to have such a friend as each of us may be to the other. Let us keep this feeling warm in our hearts. Let us meet often and tell each other all our secrets, all our sorrows, all our hopes. My only regret is that I am so little worthy of your love. I should like to be more perfect for your sake. J. Dearest Bessie, you are all, and more than all, my heart desires. You know you dance so well; everybody admires your dancing. Your figure is almost perfect. B. Ah! Jane-if I had your hair-those raven locks, how I do love to see them floating round your neck. J. Bessie, my darling, you make me quite ashamed. Hair, you know, is nothing. Hair comes by nature, but if I could play like you, that would be something. B. And if I could paint like you! -Those flowers which were at the exhibition!--I stood beside them all the time I was there; it was so delightful to hear the praises of my friend. J. Bessie, I feel that it does me good to talk with you. Let us meet often and try to improve each other. Let us correct each other's faults. Above all, let us speak the truth to one another. B. Ah! there I will go along with you. Your wish only echoes the desire of my own heart. There is there can be no real friendship without truth; and that which might offend from the lips of a mere acquaintance becomes sweet from those whom we love. J. We must defend each other, too, in absence. My idea of true friendship admits not of listening to the faults of a friend behind her back. |