Clean and neat, and gentle too!

If you take her actions through, Just the same, I know, you'll think.

School or home, Tasks or play, Books or toys, Every way, Order keeps this loving girl, With her auburn hair a-curl.

Friend of Youth.

What boy or girl in the Sunday School has not heard of Grace Darling?

Are not these two women, whose n.o.ble deeds are told below, worthy to be called her sister-spirits?

THE HEROINE OF PILLAU.

A most interesting story is told, in a late German paper, of a remarkable woman in Pillau, Prussia, whose heroism of character certainly rises into the gigantic, or whose intrepidity, to say the least, appears to be unprecedented. This woman, by a truly generous daring, is the widow of a seaman, with whom, for upwards of twenty years, she made long voyages; and, since his death, she has devoted her life, for his memory's sake, to the n.o.ble and perilous task of carrying aid to the drowning. Her name is Katherine Klenfoldt.

Whenever a storm arises, whether by day or night, she embarks in her boat, and quits the harbor in search of ship-wrecks. At the age of forty-seven, she has already rescued upwards of three hundred individuals from certain death. The population of Pillau venerate her as something holy, and the seamen look upon her as their guardian-angel. All heads are uncovered as she pa.s.ses along the street. The Prussian and several other governments have sent her their medals of civil merit: the munic.i.p.ality of Pillau has conferred on her the freedom of her town. She possesses an athletic figure and great strength, seeming to be furnished by nature in view of a capacity to go through wild scenes and high deeds. Her physiognomy is somewhat masculine, with the expression softened by a look of gentleness and goodness.

A GENUINE PHILANTHROPIST.

The island of Rona is a small and very rocky spot of land, lying between the isle of Skye and the main land of Applecross, and is well known to mariners for the rugged and dangerous nature of the coast.

There is a famous place of refuge at the north-western extremity, called the "Muckle Harbor," of very difficult access, however; which, strange to say, is easier to be entered at night than during the day.

At the extremity of this hyperborean solitude is the residence of a poor widow, whose lonely cottage is called the "light-house," from the fact that she uniformly keeps a lamp burning in her little window at night. By keeping this light, and the entrance to the harbor open, a small vessel may enter with the greatest safety. During the silent watches of the night, the widow may be seen, like "Norma of the Fitful Head," tr.i.m.m.i.n.g her little lamp with oil, being fearful that some misguided and frail bark may perish through her neglect; and for this she receives no manner of remuneration--it is pure, unmingled philanthropy. The poor woman's kindness does not rest even there; for she is unhappy till the benumbed and shivering mariner comes ash.o.r.e to share her little board, and recruit himself at her cheerful and glowing fire, and she can seldom be prevailed upon to take any reward.

She has saved more lives than Davy's belt, and thousands of pounds to the under-writers. This poor creature, in her younger days, witnessed her husband struggling with the waves, and swallowed up by the remorseless billow, "in sight of home and friends who thronged to save." This circ.u.mstance seems to have prompted her present devoted and solitary life, in which her only enjoyment is in doing good.

Here is a pretty piece. It was written, thirty-four years ago, by a cla.s.s-mate and friend; but it sounds "as good as new." If he should happen to see it here, he will, I know, excuse the alteration of two lines, which, though quite proper for college-boys studying Latin and Greek, are not quite proper for children in a Christian Sunday School.

THE RAIN-DROP AND THE POET.

Come, tell me, little noisy friend, That knockest at my pane, Whence is thy being? Where dost end, Thou little drop of rain?

I come from the deep, Where the dark waves sleep, And their beauty ever the sea-pearls keep; I go to the brow Of the mountain-snow, And trickle again to the depths below.

But, wanderer, how didst win thy way From caverns of the sea?

Did not thy sisters say thee nay, Sweet harbinger of glee?

With his far-darting flame, The Day-king came, And bore me away in a cloudy frame; And I sailed in the air, Till the zephyrs bare Me hither to hear thy minstrel-prayer.

And why dost change that tiny form, Thou sweetest ocean-child?

Why art the snow in winter-storm, The rain in summer mild?

The breath from above Of Him who is Love, In the snow and the rain-storm bids me to rove, Lest the young-budding earth Be destroyed in the birth, And Famine insult over Plenty and Mirth.

And wilt thou, little one, bestow The minstrel's small request?

Wilt come when cares of earth below Press on his aching breast?

'Tis the minstrel's own To kneel at the throne Of Him who reigns in the heavens alone;-- The grief of the soul 'Tis His to control, Who bids in the azure the planets roll.

His couch when balmy slumber flies, In watches of the night, Wilt, soother, come, and close his eyes, And make his sorrows light?

I cannot come From my sea-deep home, Whene'er I list on the earth to roam: Who rules in the form Of the ocean-storm His will must the rain-drop, too, perform.

Thy gentle prattle at the pane Makes timorous Fancy smile: Then let me hear that tender strain; Blithe charmer, stay a while.

No: I cannot delay, But must quickly away Where the rills in the valley my coming stay; I haste to the dell Where the wild-flowers dwell, Then "Peace to thee, minstrel," is the rain-drop's farewell.

The poetry and prose you have been reading, children, thus far was most of it selected, when I was invited to a beautiful celebration, with some account of which you will be glad, I am sure, to have me close my collection. It was on

CHRISTMAS EVENING AT THE PITTS-STREET CHAPEL,

A very neat chapel, where Rev. Mr. Winkley, one of the Ministers at Large, preaches. On this occasion a platform was built up in front of the pulpit: most of the centre pews were filled with happy-looking boys and girls, and the rest of the room, even to the aisles, quite crowded with grown-up men and women. After the singing of two hymns by the children, and a prayer, a gentleman made a short address, telling how much better was the religion of the Jews than the religion of the Heathen. Then was spoken in a very pleasant way the following

DIALOGUE--PART I.

RACHEL, _a Jewess._--REBECCA, _Sister of Rachel._--EUDORA, _a Heathen._--JEZEBEL, _a Messenger._--RUTH, _friend of Rachel and Rebecca._

_Eudora._ Rachel!

_Rachel._ Eudora! welcome, thrice welcome, to Jerusalem.

_Eudora._ Right glad am I, Rachel, to be once more by your side. The sun has not shone so brightly, nor the birds sung so sweetly, since you bade me farewell at my father's; and every moment has increased my desire to be with you again.

_Rachel._ You have well done that you have come to me. And though I was not conscious of robbing your lovely home of its brightness, yet sure I am the remembrance of your true kindness and tender friendship has been to me ever since an increase of sunshine and song; and, now that you have come to me, the very temple itself shall look more beautiful, and the songs of David catch a new inspiration.

_Eudora._ Still faithful, I see, to your temple and Jehovah; and so may it ever be! But I trust you have more respect for the G.o.ds I worship, and will not, as of yore, p.r.o.nounce them false.

_Rachel._ Sorry should I be to pain a true heart, and, most of all, that of my much-loved guest; but, still I _must_ say, the G.o.ds that you worship are no G.o.ds. There is but one G.o.d, and that is Jehovah.

_Eudora._ As I came near Jerusalem, I remembered your earnest words on that subject,--as what that you ever uttered have I forgotten? I remembered, too, how nearly out of patience I often felt with you for claiming your G.o.d to be the only G.o.d; and, so as I drew near, I felt a desire to know him better. It being a time of worship in the temple, I went with a Jewish friend of mine up the hill, and entered the outer court, called, I believe, the Court of the Gentiles. And, verily, I saw _no_ G.o.d there. Perchance he was in the temple itself.

_Rachel._ Yes, in the holy of holies: in the farther apartment of that building which you saw rising amid all the courts, he dwells.

_Eudora._ I imagined that was his abode. But wherein differs your worship from ours? You have a temple; so have we. You have priests clothed in sacred robes; so have we. You have altars and sacrifices; so have we. You have an oracle and prophets; so have we. You go up to the dwelling-place of your G.o.d to worship and offer sacrifices; so do we. Wherein, then, do we differ?

_Rachel._ If in nothing else, Eudora, yet in this: we have but _one_ temple and one G.o.d for our nation; you have many. And again, you worship the work of men's hands,--images of wood and stone, that can neither see nor feel.

_Rebecca (coming forward--Jezebel approaches)._ My heart is moved within me; and though my sister, in her joy of seeing her friend, has left me standing apart, yet your voice has drawn me to you.

_Eudora._ Surely the sister of my friend shall be my sister: would that I could say her G.o.d shall be my G.o.d!