have been heard two miles. This was more than Jack could bear and he started up the rope like a monkey. "Blame your pictur' I'll give you fits; I'll make your ears ring worse an that bell." Neal took to his heels and ran like a quarter horse, and the last that was seen of him he was a half a mile from the well, with two big dogs grabbing at his coat and Jack close behind him.

THE NEGLECTED CALL-HANNAH LLOYD NEALE. When the fields were white with harvest, and the laborers were few,

Heard I thus a voice within me, "Here is work for thee to

do;

Come thou up and help the reapers, I will show thee now

the way,

Come and help them bear the burden and the toiling of

the day."

"For a more convenient season," thus I answered, “will I

wait,"

And the voice reproving murmured, “Hasten, ere it be too late."

Yet I heeded not the utterance, listening to lo! here, lo!

there

I lost sight of all the reapers in whose work I would not

share;

Followed after strange devices, bowed my heart to gods of stone,

Till like Ephraim joined to idols, God well-nigh left me aIone;

But the angel of his patience followed on my erring track, Setting here and there a landmark, wherewithal to guide me back.

Onward yet I went, and onward, till there met me on the

way

A poor prodigal returning, who, like me, had gone astray, And his faith was strong and earnest that a father's house would be

Safest shelter from temptation for such sinful ones as he. "Read the lesson," said the angel, "take the warning and

repent;"

But the wily tempter queried, "Ere thy substance be unspent?

"Hast thou need to toil and labor? art thou fitted for the

work?

Many a hidden stone to bruise thee in the harvest-field doth

lurk;

There are others called beside thee, and perchance the voice may be

But thy own delusive fancy, which thou hearest calling thee

There is time enough before thee, all thy footsteps to retrace."

Then I yielded to the tempter, and the angel veiled her face.

Pleasure beckoned in the distance, and her siren song was sweet,

“Through a thornless path of flowers gently I will guide thy feet.

Youth is as a rapid river, gliding noiselessly away,

Earth is but a pleasant garden; cull its roses whilst thou

may;

Press the juice from purple clusters, fill life's chalice with

the wine,

Taste the fairest fruits which tempt thee, all its richest fruits are thine."

Ah! the path was smooth and easy, but a snare was set therein,

And the feet were oft entangled in the fearful mesh of sin, And the canker-worm was hidden in the rose-leaf folded up, And the sparkling wine of pleasure was a fatal Circean cup; All its fruits were Dead Sea apples, tempting only to the sight,

Fair yet filled with dust and ashes,-beautiful, but touched with blight.

"O my Father," cried I inly, "thou hast striven-I have willed;

Now the mission of the angel of thy patience is fulfilled;
I have tasted earthly pleasures, yet my soul is craving food;
Let the summons thou hast given to thy harvest be re-

newed;

I am ready now to labor, wilt thou call me once again?
I will join thy willing reapers as they garner up the grain."

But the still small voice within me, earnest in its truth and

deep,

Answered my awakened conscience, "As thou sowest thou

shalt reap;

God is just, and retribution follows each neglected call; Thou hadst thy appointed duty taught thee by the Lord of all;

Thou wert chosen, but another filled the place assignéd thee, Henceforth in my field of labor thou mayst but a gleaner be. "But a work is still before thee, see thou linger not again; Separate the chaff thou gleanest, beat it from among the grain;

Follow after these my reapers, let thine eyes be on the field, Gather up the precious handfuls their abundant wheatsheaves yield;

Go not hence to glean, but tarry from the morning until night;

Be thou faithful, thou mayst yet find favor in thy Master's

sight."

THE OLD, OLD STORY.

The pastor's little daughter
Sits smiling in the sun,

Beside her on the old stone bench
The story-book just done,—

And lurking in her wine-brown eyes
A story just begun,

For yonder, pruning the apple trees,
Behold the farmer's son.

Slowly adown the pathway

The pastor comes and goes,

And settles with his long, lean hand
The glasses on his nose.

Bore ever dry brown branch before
So beautiful a rose?

Ah, he thinks his blossom only a bud
Though he watches it as it blows.

Is it the story of Moses

In his rush-wrapped cradle found,
Or of Joseph and his brethren

He thinks as he glances round?
"You have finished your volume, Amy.
Is it something scriptural and sound?"
And his little daughter blushes and starts
And her book falls to the ground.

Go on with your walk, good pastor,
You do not yourself deceive;
It has been a scriptural story

Since Adam first kissed Eve.
And never blush, little lassie,
The tale was written above,
No other so speaks of heaven
As the old, old story of love.

THE FADING LEAF.—GAIL HAMILTON.

"We all do fade as a leaf." The sad voice whispers through my soul, and a shiver creeps over from the church-yard. "How does a leaf fade?" It is a deeper, richer, stronger voice, with a ring and an echo in it, and the shiver levels into peace. I go out upon the October hills and question the genii of the woods. "How does a leaf fade?" Grandly, magnificently, imperially, so that the glory of its coming is eclipsed by the glory of its departing;-thus the forests make answer to-day. The tender bud of April opens its bosom to the wooing sun. From the soft airs of May and the clear sky of June it gathers greenness and strength. Through all the summer its manifold lips are opened to every passing breeze, and great draughts of health course through its delicate veins, and meander down to the sturdy bark, the busy sap, the tiny flower, and the maturing fruit, bearing life to the present, and treasuring up promise for the future.

Then its work is done, and it goes to its burial,-not mournfully, not reluctantly, but joyously, as to a festival. Its grave-clothes wear no funereal look. It robes itself in splendor. Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. First there is a flash of crimson in the low lands, then a glimmer of yellow on the hill-side, then, rushing on, exultant, reckless, rioting in color, grove vies with grove, till the woods are all aflame. Here the sunlight streams through the pale gold tresses of the maple, serene and spiritual, like the aureole of a saint; there it

lingers in bold dalliance with the dusky orange of the walnut. The fierce heart of the tropics beats in the blood-red branches that surge against deep solemn walls of cypress and juniper. Yonder, a sober, but not sombre, russet tones down the flaunting vermilion. The intense glow of scarlet struggles for supremacy with the quiet sedateness of brown, and the numberless tints of year-long green come in everywhere to enliven, and soothe, and subdue, and harmonize. So the leaf fades,-brilliant, gorgeous, gay, rejoicing, as a bride adorned for her husband, as a king goes to his coronation.

But the frosts come whiter and whiter. The nights grow longer and longer. Ice glitters in the morning light, and the clouds shiver with snow. The forests lose their flush. The hectic dies into sere. The little leaf can no longer breathe the strength-giving air, nor feel juicy life stirring in its veins. Fainter and fainter grows its hold upon the protecting tree. A strong wind comes and loosens its last clasp, and bears it tenderly to earth. A whirl, an eddy, a rustle, and all is over,-no, not all, its work is not yet done. It sinks upon the protecting earth, and, Antæus-like, gathers strength from the touch, and begins a new life. It joins hands with myriads of its mates, and takes up again its work of benevolence. No longer sensitive itself to frosts and snows, it wraps in its warm bosom the frail little anemones, and the delicate spring beauties that can scarcely bide the rigors of our pitiless winters, and, nestling close in that fond embrace, they sleep securely till the spring sun wakens them to the smile of blue skies, and the song of dancing brooks. Deeper into the earth go the happy leaves, mingling with the moist soil, drinking the gentle dews, cradling a thousand tender lives in theirs, and springing again in new forms,--an eternal cycle of life and death "forever spent, renewed forever."

We all do fade as a leaf. Change, thank God, is the essence of life. "Passing away" is written on all things;