Then the parents wept for joy,

And knelt on the sea-worn sod,

While a veteran of the ocean breathed

A heartfelt prayer to God,

Who holds the winds and the waves in his hands,
And rules them with his nod.

TRUSTING IN PROVIDENCE.

MUNGO PARK, the traveller in Africa, records of himself, that having been seized by banditti, plundered, and left almost destitute of clothing in the midst of a vast wilderness, five hundred miles from the nearest human aid, he was struck with the beauty of a small moss blooming near him. "I could not contemplate," he says, "the delicate conformation of its roots, leaves, and capsula, without admiration. Can that Being, thought I, who planted, watered, and brought to perfection, in this obscure part of the world, a thing which appears of so small importance, look with unconcern on the situation and sufferings of creatures formed after his own image? Reflections like these would not allow me to despair. I started up, and disregarding both hunger and fatigue, travelled forwards, assured that relief was at hand, and I was not disappointed."

ROSES IN SEPTEMBER.

IN September, I saw a tree bearing roses, while other trees of the same sort near it had none. I enquired the cause, and was told that this tree was clipt close in May, and hindered from blossoming at that time, now flowered in September. "Well," thought I, "here's a lesson for me. I had better be clipt of my sins in youth, if I may only blossom and bear fruits of righteousness in riper years." A. D.

THE BEST PLACE.-ANNA MARIA MUDD.

THE BEST PLACE.

HEAVEN is the best place. There are many good places, but there are none so good as heaven. The chamber where a child prays is a good place, but it is not so good as heaven. The house where a pious family dwell is a good place, but it is not so good as heaven. The school where the children hear the instructions of pious teachers is a good place, but it is not so good as heaven. The place of worship where the minister preaches the gospel of Jesus is a good place, but it is not so good as heaven. There is sin in all these good places, but there is no sin in heaven; therefore it is the best place. There may be sorrow in all these good places, but there is no sorrow in heaven; therefore it is the best place. Bad men get into all these good places, but no bad men can_get into heaven; therefore it is the best place. Bad thoughts may get into all these good places, but there are no bad thoughts in heaven; therefore heaven is the best place.

ANNA MARIA MUDD,

WHO died at Eye, on sabbath-day, June 25, 1848, in the twelfth year of her age, after a short but painful affliction, was much attached to the sabbathschool. On sabbath morning, June 11th, one of the teachers addressed the children on the subject of death and eternity, occasioned by the death of a scholar. The teacher followed up the subject to her class, and requested each little girl to select and commit to memory for the following sabbath a hymn on the subject. Anna made choice of that

"When blooming youth is snatch'd away,

By death's resistless hand,

Our hearts the mournful tribute pay,
Which pity must demand."

In the evening of this day, while attending the ministry of the word, she sickened, and left the house of God to return no more. She was visited by her teacher and often spoke of the love of Jesus Christ to sinners like herself. She requested her parents not to forget her halfpenny to the mission-box. taking farewell of her friends she exclaimed, “May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God and the communion of the Holy Ghost be with you all. Amen, and amen!"

In

It is pleasing thus to notice the inclination which this little girl displayed towards religious subjects. Doubtless, He, who is infinite in mercy, and who gathers the lambs in his bosom, has gathered this dear child into his heavenly fold.

But how soon she was called away! Young reader, think of this: and

"Let each one ask himself, am I
Prepared, should I be called to die?"

"WHEN IS THE TIME TO DIE?"

I ASKED the glad and happy child,

Whose hands were filled with flowers,
Whose silvery laugh rang free and wild
Among the vine-wreath'd flowers:
I crossed her sunny path, and cried
"When is the time to die?"
"Not yet! not yet!" the child replied,
And swiftly bounded by.

I asked a maiden; back she threw
The tresses of her hair;

Grief's traces o'er her cheeks I knew-
Like pearls they glistened there;

66 WHEN IS THE TIME TO DIE?"

A flush passed o'er her lily brow,
I heard her spirit sigh;

"Not now," she cried, "O no! not now; Youth is no time to die!"

I asked a mother, as she prest
Her first-born in her arms,
As gently on her tender breast
She hushed her babe's alarms,
In quivering tones her accents came-
Her eyes were dim with tears;
"My boy his mother's life must claim
For many, many years."

I questioned one in manhood's prime,
Of proud and fearless air;
His brow was furrowed not by time,
Or dimmed by woe or care.

In angry accents he replied,

And flashed with scorn his eye"Talk not to ME of death," he cried, "For only age should die."

I questioned age; for him the tomb
Had long been all prepared;
But death, who withers youth and bloom,
This man of years had spared.
Once more his nature's dying fire
Flashed high, and thus he cried-

"Life! only life is my desire !"
Then gasped, groaned, and died.

I asked a Christian-" Answer thou,
When is the hour of death ?"

A holy calm was on his brow,
And peaceful was his breath:
And sweetly o'er his features stole
A smile, a light divine;

He spake the language of his soul-
"My Master's time is mine!"

"COME LITTLE ONES TO ME!"
JESUS! in regions brighter far,
Than sun, or moon, or glitt'ring star,
Where angels bow the knee,
Children in glory all array'd

In raptures sing thy praise, who said,
"Come little ones to me."

Dear Saviour, I'm a sinful child,
My soul with guilt is all defil'd,
Yet Lord, I come to thee;

Thou wilt not cast me out I know,
For thou didst say when here below,
"Come little ones to me."

My heart is so disposed to pride,
And oft inclin'd to turn aside,

And wander far from thee;
But never let me slight the love
That whispers sweetly from above,
"Come little ones to me."

I come, Lord, pardon all my sin,
Create me clean and pure within,
From Satan's chains set free;
Then will I in thy love rejoice
And bless that kind inviting voice,
"Come little ones to me."

ROSES WITH THORNS.

WHAT is the world with all its store?
'Tis but a bitter sweet;

When I attempt to pluck the rose,
A prickling thorn I meet.

Here perfect bliss can ne'er be found,
The honey's mix'd with gall;

Midst changing scenes and dying friends,
May JESUS be my all.