Yea, monarchs have before it fell, And feared that they should sink to h.e.l.l.

But oft the sad have felt this power, And found, in trouble's darkest hour, Such friendly help that they have said They never more should be afraid.

And such as felt condemned to die Have been released and filled with joy.

Now, reader, search your Bible through, And tell us where these things you view.

THE greatest happiness of the creature is not to have the creature for his happiness.

"THE SENSE AND SENSES OF ANIMALS."

Sir John Lubbock, M.P., some time since, delivered an address in Queen Street Hall, Edinburgh, to the members of the Edinburgh Philosophical Inst.i.tution, on "The Sense and Senses of Animals." In the course of his remarks the lecturer said that one would gratefully admit that the dog was a loyal, and true, and affectionate friend, but when we came to consider the nature of the animal, our knowledge was very limited. That arose a good deal from the fact that people had tried rather to teach animals than to learn from them. It had occurred to him that some such method as that which was followed in the case of deaf mutes might prove instructive if adapted to the case of dogs. He had tried with a black poodle belonging to himself. He then went on to relate several experiments he had made with pieces of cardboards, with different words marked upon them. He had taken two pieces of card, one blank, and the other with the word "food" upon it. He had put the latter on a saucer containing some bread and milk, and the blank card he put on an empty saucer. The dog was not allowed to eat until it brought the proper card to him. This experiment was repeated over and over again, and in about ten days the dog began to distinguish the card with the letters on it from the plain card. It took a longer time to make the dog realize the difference between different words.

In order to try and discover whether the dog could distinguish colours, he prepared six cards, marking two of them blue, two yellow, and two orange. He put one of each on the floor, and tried to get the dog to bring to him a card with the same colour as one which he showed the dog in his hand. After trying this for three months, he found that his experiment in this direction was a failure.

He had always felt a great longing to know how the world appeared to the lower animals. It was still a doubtful point whether ants were able to hear. From experiments which he had made, he had come to the conclusion they had not the power of addressing each other. His impression on the whole was, that bees and ants were not deaf, but that they heard sounds so shrill as to be beyond our hearing. There was no doubt about insects seeing. He then went on to relate several experiments he had made with the view of discovering whether different insects could distinguish different colours, and had any preference for particular colours. The colours of objects must present a very different impression upon insects to that on human beings. The world to them might be full of music which we could not hear, colours which we could not see, and sensations which we could not feel.

BEWARE OF THORNS.

A hand encased in leathern glove, One pensive autumn day, Gathered some pretty wayside flowers, To make a bright bouquet.

With kind intent the flowers were culled, To please a loved one's taste; But ah! unconsciously, some thorns Were with the blossoms placed.

The hand that grasped the welcome gift Soon felt the piercing smart, And pain dispelled the grateful smile That rayed out from the heart.

Would we to spirits bowed and sad Convey a transient joy?

Let not the lack of tender skill Our kindly deed alloy.

E. D.

IF you pursue sin for profit you will never profit by your sin.

THE COST OF A BROKEN SABBATH.

A bright Sabbath morning in August, a young minister was on his road to a distant parish, where he had engaged to take the services. He overtook a group of lads, evidently bent on an excursion of amus.e.m.e.nt. A boy, coming from the opposite direction, was being alternately persuaded and chaffed to give up _for once_ going to Sunday School, and join the pleasure-party instead. Just then an old man, of venerable appearance, who had watched the group from his garden, came forward and addressed the boys in the following words--

"Lads, you may think lightly _now_ of what you are doing, but Sabbath-breaking leads to ruin--has led to the gallows. Ben"--turning to the boy on his way to Sunday School--"don't be ashamed of doing right.

The Lord saith, 'Them that honour Me I will honour, and they that despise Me shall be lightly esteemed.' Ah! boys, be warned in time. You cannot reckon _the cost of a broken Sabbath_."

Ben, strengthened thus, went on his way, regardless of the jeers of the other lads, who, turning over a stile, were quickly out of sight and hearing.

The minister also went on his way, but the earnest tones and sad expression of the aged man had made a deep impression on him, and he pondered if some personal experience lay behind that solemn warning, "You cannot reckon _the cost of a broken Sabbath_."

The evening of that day found him coming through the fields by a path which led hard by the door of the cottage of the old man. It had been pointed out as shorter and pleasanter than the dusty high road which he had travelled in the morning. The day had been hot, and an offer to go back to the rectory for refreshment had been declined, as it would lengthen the walk considerably; but now, tired and thirsty, he resolved to test the hospitality of the owner of the cottage.

The old man sat outside his doorway, with his big Bible on a round table. The wayfarer asked for a little water to drink. He was courteously requested to enter in and rest, and a draught of milk proposed instead, unless he could wait for a cup of tea. The kettle was boiling in the back kitchen, and the little table, covered with a snowy cloth, was already set for a solitary meal, which the visitor was invited to share. He accepted the kindly offer, not sorry to have an opportunity of converse with one whose words had lingered with him through the day.

Having explained how he had been occupied since pa.s.sing in the early morn, he remarked--

"You live alone?"

"Yes, sir, I am alone in the world, but yet not alone, for the Saviour is often with me in my humble dwelling, and I hope in a little while He'll come and take me to His home above."

"That is a blessed hope to cheer and make you patient to wait His time, my friend," was the rejoinder. "Have you been left long alone?"

"The last went home twenty years ago, come Michaelmas," said the aged host. "It has been whiles a weary waiting-time, but it's sinful to repine. His time must be the right time."

Whilst the old man went to fetch the tea, the guest looked round and observed some articles of carved wood--boxes, flat rulers, and leaf-cutters--and was struck with the frequent recurrence of short words of Holy Writ on the Sabbath. Some little books lay on the window-sill, many of which were on the same subject.

After impressively asking G.o.d's blessing, and whilst partaking of the simple meal, the visitor remarked--

"I see the sanct.i.ty of the Lord's Day is a strong point with you. I was struck this morning with the expression you used to those lads--'_the cost of a broken Sabbath_.'"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE OLD MAN SAT WITH HIS BIG BIBLE." (_See page 132._)]

No response came for some minutes, as if the host was debating some question with himself; and so it proved, for at last he raised his head and said, with a vast depth of pathos in his tones--

"None have had greater reason to know the bitter cost, sir, than myself.

It is not often that I speak of the past, but it may be the Lord has brought you here for a purpose to-day, and you may be able to use it as a warning to some within your influence."

"If your story will not be too painful to you, my friend, I should indeed feel grateful to you for it," was the response.

"I do not belong to these parts, sir," he began, "but I've been here over a quarter of a century. I lived in a large village in a midland county, where some extensive mill-works were carried on, and rose from a lad's tasks there to fill the place of foreman. I married happily, and had a home of comfort and peace with a loving, G.o.dly wife. Four children out of six born to us grew up--two sons and two daughters--and after the toil and din of the week, Sunday was a day of quiet enjoyment, in the midst of my family, spent in G.o.d's house and our home, with the aid of books and singing, for we all had fair voices. It had never been counted a dull day by the young folks. The lovely flowers and birds, and the wonders of the book of creation and the Book of grace, made the day of holy rest seem all too short. But our circle did not remain unbroken.

First, our eldest girl, poor Maggie, left home to take a situation in a neighbouring town, and soon after, our first-born, David, who had never taken kindly to mill-work, obtained employment in an office in the same town, within five minutes' walk of his sister. This seemed well for both, being much attached to each other. Ned and Mary still clung to the old home, and the other two frequently spent the Sabbath in our midst.

David almost always walked over in the early morn, or late on Sat.u.r.day night, returning, if alone, on Monday morning, or, if Maggie accompanied him, the same evening, as she was not allowed out at night. She could only, of course, take turns with her fellow-servants; but, unless weather prevented, we could surely reckon on the flown birds coming, when able, back to their nest on the Sabbath.

"But at last came just such a lovely summer day as this has been. We lingered before starting for church till long after the bells had been chiming, but neither of them came. We looked to find them on our return, and dinner waited long; but the night came, and we had not heard or seen aught of either. I overheard Ned in the garden speaking to Mary--

"'I shan't feel easy till I've run over to the town to-morrow, after work-hours. I hear there was to be a river excursion from the town to-day--a steamer calling for a lot of folks.'

"'But, Ned, you don't believe Davie or Maggie would go?' said Mary, half reproachfully.

"'I don't feel comfortable about it,' replied her brother. 'Maggie could be persuaded to go anywhere with David, and he and I had a talk not long ago on Sunday trips. He said folks could thus get out into pure country air, for a few pence, who were cooped up all the week in the smoke of the town, and those who desired it could go to a place of worship even twice, and get tea, before they had to start on the return voyage.'

"The fear expressed was, alas! too well grounded. David's master's son was one of these habitual pleasure-seekers, and had long tried to persuade him to join him. He had also become acquainted with Maggie, through meeting her out with the children to whom she was nursemaid, and often fell in with her on the Sundays she spent in the town. In vain had he tried to induce her to join the steamer trip, till one day he said--

"'If David went, you could not scruple about going under his care.'