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I from thee would know the reason,
Why thou singest out of season.

Come thou little would-be-wiser,
Since thou art not my despiser,
I will tell thee; in so doing
Learn thee something worth thy knowing.
Though I'm not a bird of fame,
Mine is not an empty name.
I obey my Maker's laws,
Thus insuring His applause.
As to singing out of season,
Here thy words are touched with treason.
God his bounty is bestowing,
While the stream of time is flowing.
When stern Winter sweeps the plain,
And all nature seems in paip,
He prevents me thus from dying
By my every want supplying.
Other thoughts too make me gay,
Winter soon shall pass away;
Spring again adorn the plains,
Calling forth a thousand strains.
Then you see, dear child, in reason,
Praise can ne'er be out of season.
Love to Jesus you should cherish,

For he died lest you should perish. 56

S. S.


THE MISSIONARIES. There is a kind of sacred charm in the very sound of the word “Missionary.” We are glad it is so, for we wish the Young to love and support this holy cause whilst they are boys and girls, and then when they become men and women, they will love and support it more and


Why should we love and support it ? Because it is the greatest work and the best work in the world. Inventing machinery—making railroads—and a thousand other things are all very good in their places, but they are not worth naming when compared with going to teach the poor dark, barbarous heathen the knowledge of the great God, and the love of Jesus Christ whom he has sent to save us.

See the Missionary leaving England and all his friends and comforts, He goes to the naked African roaming over his hills and vallies like the wild beasts around him. He collects a few of these scattered savages. He tells them wonderful things! They knew not God-had not heard of his word-never kept a sabbathnever saw a book-knew nothing of the world in which they lived-and as they were, their fathers had been for ages.

See them again, taught by the missionary they have built houses, and they have clothing, and books, and schools, and they meet on the sabbath for worship and prayer Is not this a great work then, to turn the savage into a man, the barbarian into a Christian! The missionaries are doing this great work. Help them. You may help them. Children may help them. Hundreds of pounds are given every year by children-given in farthings, half-pennies, and pennies, perhaps, but they soon make pounds-hundreds of pounds. Little Reader, do what you can, all you can.

A MISSIONARY HYMN. Rise, Sun of Glory, rise!

And chase those shades of night,
Which now obscure the skies,

And hide thy sacred light.
Oh! chase those dismal shades away,
And bring the bright millennial day.


Behold, how heathens dwell

In gloominess profound, Where sin, and death, and hell,

Spread their black horrors round; Behold, and chase that gloom away, And shed the bright millennial day. Yes, Jesus, 'tis thy will

To haste that sacred morn, Hear our petition still,

Nor leave the world forlorn :
Jesus! till that resplendent day,
Shine on our souls with powerful ray.
And we'll reflect that light,

Effulgent and divine :
As, mid the gloom of night,

The twinkling planets shine ;
Pleas'd to emit the feeblest ray,
Till Jesus pours the expected day.
Then as each plan et fades

Before the glorious sun,
We'll vanish with the shades,

Our little glimmering done;
Sink in obscurity away,
And fade before the rising day.
The winds are hush'd, the breeze is calm

Heavenly accents fall,
Like holy dew,-the spirit's balm,

imparting hope to all.
He reigns! to earth his peace is given;
He reigns! the light of all in heaven.



THE POOR WIDOW TO HER CHILD. Oh sink to sleep my darling boy,

Thy father's dead, thy mother lonely; Of late thou wert his pride, his joy,

But now thou hast but one to own thee. The cold wild world before us lies,

But ah! such heartless things live in it; It makes me weep—then close thine eyes,

Though it be but for one short minute. O sink to sleep my baby dear,

A little while forget thy sorrow, The wind is cold, the night is drear,

But drearer it will be to-morrow. For none will help, though many see

Our wretchedness-then close thine eyes love, Oh! most unbless'd on earth is she,

Who on another's aid relies, love.

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