Part 2

In the preaching of the gospel she took great delight, and never but once, during our nine or ten months among that people, do I remember her being absent from our meetings on the Sabbath. It was in the female prayer-meeting that Dinah was invaluable. Here all her tenderness of conscience, her desire for instruction, her delicacy and tact in eliciting it, not only for herself but for the benefit of others whose spiritual wants she had made her study, and above all, her meek and earnest supplications, rendered her a helper never to be forgotten, and I loved her for the image of my Master shining in her face.

"NO-ACCOUNT JOHNNY."

BY M. E. SANGSTER.

"No-Account Johnny" had had a hard time all his life. He was a poor boy, so homely, and dirty, and ragged, so nearly idiotic, that few people would look at him twice. He lived with a French dyer, who had taught him how to stir the vats at a certain time every day, and who gave him in return enough corn-bread and bacon to keep him alive. A damp, ill-smelling cellar was the place where he spent his days, and his nights were passed in an equally repulsive attic. To dodge a blow, to tell a lie, to eat, to sleep, to be glad in a vague sort of way when the sun shone on him warmly, these were all the accomplishments of poor "No-Account Johnny" Long.

Christmas, with its green boughs and its gifts, went by, and brought no gift to him. He did wish, as he heard the other boys tooting away on their tin horns, that he had one; but as he could not get one by wishing, he contented himself with turning somersaults on the pavement. By an unfortunate miscalculation, he lay bruised and unconscious at the foot of the cellar-steps.

Aunt Lizzie, the washerwoman, at the end of the court, took him home to her poor little house, and took care of him till he was well again, for in the fall he had broken his arm. Her children went to Sunday-school, and one of them brought his teacher to see Johnny.

"Well, my poor little fellow," said the gentleman, looking with pity on the thin face, clean now, through Aunt Lizzie's care, "I see you are sick; what's your name?"

"No-Account Johnny!"

"Johnny! well, Johnny, do you know that Jesus loves you?"

"Never hearn tell of the Mister, I'm no account. Reckon He don't know me! Missis says I'm no account nohow!"

"But that is a mistake, my boy. You are of great account. You have a soul that can never die. Did you never know that?"

"No," shaking his head; "I don't un'erstand, Mister."

"Was anybody ever good to you, Johnny?"

"Nobody but Aunt Liz. Aunt Liz been good."

"Well, Jesus is better than Aunt Liz. Jesus is God. He died for you! He lives up there among the stars! He loves you, poor No-Account Johnny. Think of that."

The teacher went away. At the door old Aunt Lizzie thanked him for coming, but said:

"It's of no use, sir, to teach that boy. He a'nt right here," tapping her forehead.

"Ah! Aunt Lizzie, our blessed Jesus can make him understand," said Mr. Allen, as he went away.

After a few weeks Johnny was able to go back to the dyeing establishment. The first Sabbath after, however, he lost his place, for he refused to work, and astonished his master by saying that he was going to Sunday-school. Thither he went, and walking up to Mr. Allen said:

"Here I am! Tell me more 'bout Jesus; I've found out a heap since you told me 'bout Him, and I'm going to be Jesus Christ's Johnny now. No-Account Johnny's gone off altogether."

Nobody could tell how it happened, but that magic word, "Jesus," had done wonders for the little heathen. "He loves me," he had said to himself again and again, and then he had listened, with that unlocked heart, to every word he heard about Jesus, and had learned a great deal. "No-Account Johnny" became one of the best scholars in the little mission-school.

ZACHARY AND THE BOY.

Zachary was an Indian of the Mohegan tribe, and belonged to the royal family of his people. He was one of the best of hunters, never returning empty-handed from the chase. But he was a poor, miserable drunkard. He had learned from the white man how to drink "fire-water," and had become so fond of it that he was drunk nearly all the time when he was not hunting. When he had reached the age of fifty years, several of his superiors in the tribe died, leaving only one person between him and the position of chief.

One day Zachary was returning from hunting, and while on his way began to think of his past life and of his future prospects. "What a fool I have been," said he to himself, "having lived so long to act so foolishly. How can such a drunken wretch as I ever hope to be the chief of my tribe? What will my people think and say of me? I am not worthy to fill the place of the great Uncas. I will drink no more!"

When he reached his wigwam, he told his wife and friends that he would never, as long as he lived, taste any drink but water. And he kept this resolution to the day of his death.

Many of the whites who heard this story could not believe it. They said Zachary had been so long in the habit of drinking that he could not live without it, and they had no doubt that he often took a glass slyly when no one was looking on. Among these was a young man, the son of the governor of one of the New England colonies; for this story I am telling you is about matters which took place many years ago, before America was a separate nation, and when what are now States were called colonies, and governed by rulers sent over from England.

Zachary had by this time become the chief in his tribe, and the governor invited him one day to dine with him. While they were seated at the table the governor's son thought he would try the temperance principles of the old chief, and offering him a glass of beer, said: "Zachary, this beer is excellent, will you taste it?"

The old man dropped his knife and fork, and leaning over the table, looked with a sharp eye upon the youth, and said: "John, you do not know what you are doing! Boy, you are serving the devil! Do you want to make me what I once was, a poor, miserable man, unfit to govern my tribe? John, the acorn grows into an oak; the cub becomes a bear; the brook swells into a river; and a single spark of fire will spread through a whole forest. So one drop of your beer would make me want more, and then I should want something stronger, and I would drink rum until I became as wretched as I once was. Do you not know that I am an Indian? I tell you that I am; and that if I begin to drink beer I cannot stop without tasting rum. _John, while you live, never again tempt a man to break a good resolution._"

The young man knew not what to say. He felt that he had done a mean thing in trying to get old Zachary to break his pledge. His parents were deeply affected at the scene, and often reminded their son of it afterward, charging him never to forget it; and he did not. For years after the Indian chief died, John made frequent visits to his grave, repeating to himself the valuable lesson he had learned, never to tempt a man to break a good resolution.

Men, and children too, who are trying to become better, ought to be helped, not hindered. Kind words and kind deeds will greatly encourage them; but to frown upon them, to sneer at them, or to make sport of them, is often a sure way of making them as bad as ever.--_The Christian._

TRUST IN PROVIDENCE.

On a bridge I was standing one morning, And watching the current roll by, When suddenly into the water There fell an unfortunate fly.

The fishes that swam to the surface, Were looking for something to eat, And I thought that the hapless young insect Would surely afford them a treat.

"Poor thing," I exclaimed with compassion, "Thy trials and dangers abound, For if thou escap'st being eaten, Thou canst not escape being drowned."

No sooner the sentence was spoken, Than lo, like an angel of love, I saw, to the waters beneath me, A leaflet descend from above.

It glided serene on the streamlet, 'Twas an ark to the poor little fly; Which, soon to the land reascending, Spread its wings to the breezes to dry.

Oh, sweet was the truth that was whispered, That mortals should _never_ despair, For He that takes care of an insect, Much more for His _children_ will care.

And though, to our short-sighted vision, No way of escape may appear, Let us trust, for when least we expect it, The help of _our Father_ is near.

THE WIFE.

Dr. Livingstone, in his travels in Africa, came one night to the house of Mozinkwa, a friendly man, with a pleasant-looking wife and fine family of children, very "black, but comely." Perhaps their hospitable, kind ways made them look handsome to the lonely missionary, so far from home and friends. He was caught in a heavy rain, but he and his companions received a warm welcome and plenty of food from this friendly couple, till they were able to proceed.

They had a large garden, cultivated by the wife, with yams, sweet potatoes, and other vegetables growing in it, and all surrounded by a fine hedge of the banian tree. Under some larger trees, in the middle of the yard, stood the huts in which they lived, and no doubt the fine-looking little children played many happy days under their mother's care in the shade.

When Dr. Livingstone took his leave of this interesting family, the wife asked him to bring her some cloth from the white man's country. When he returned, after a long journey, he was surprised to find the pleasant home silent and deserted; the garden given up to wild weeds, and the huts in ruins, and no sign of life in the spot where he last saw a large family of frolicking children. Poor _Mozinkwa's wife was dead_ and in her grave under the large trees, while the huts, garden, and hedge, of which she had been so proud, were fast going to ruin; for, according to the custom of that heathen country, a man can never continue to live where a favorite wife has died. He is so lonely and sorrowful when he thinks of the happy times they have had together, that he cannot stay where everything reminds him of his loss. If ever he visits the spot again, it is to pray to his dead wife and make some offering. So for want of a knowledge of the Friend of Sinners, who binds up the wounded heart, they must move from place to place, and can never have any settled villages in that part of the country.

How different would the scene have been on Dr. Livingstone's return, if poor Mozinkwa and his wife had been _Christians_. Then he might have been happy even in his loneliness, for he would have prayed to God for strength to bear his loss, and read the Bible, and taught his children to live so as to meet their mother in heaven. Instead of flying from place to place to forget their troubles, those poor Africans might have permanently happy homes, if they knew the peace the gospel gives.

A HOTTENTOT'S LOVE FOR HER TEACHERS, AND THE POWER OF PRAYER.

During the persecution to which the Moravian missionaries in South Africa were exposed some years ago, a woman, living about an hour's walk from the mission house, had a daughter who attended the school, and had become a Christian. One day this girl returned home in terror, bringing her little sister. Her mother inquired the reason; she replied: "We and our teachers are all to be shot dead, and I have brought my sister back, that you may at least keep one child; but as for me, I will return to my teachers and suffer with them."

"What!" said her mother, "do you mean to go and be killed?"

"Yes," replied the poor girl; "for it is written in the Bible, 'Whoever will lose his life for my sake, shall find it.'"

Her mother was much affected, and taking up her younger daughter, said, "My child, where you are there will I be."

The party then set off for Bavian's Kloof, weeping all the way. When they had arrived at the top of the hill which commanded a view of the settlement, they saw a number of the natives approaching it, as if to attack the missionaries. The Hottentot woman and her children fell upon their knees and cried fervently to God, beseeching Him to prevent the enemy from hurting their beloved teachers. When they again looked up, they saw the men going towards another plantation, at some distance from the mission. The woman and children went to Bavian's Kloof, and found the Hottentots there all in tears, some kneeling, some prostrate on their faces, crying to God, and their most urgent prayers seemed to be, "Preserve the teachers whom Thou hast sent us."

THE LIVING SACRIFICE.

Amid the forest's silent shades Where nature reigns supreme, A little band had met to hear The glorious gospel theme.

I gazed upon the dusky forms Of Indians gathered there, And thought how once the red man owned Those lands so rich and fair.

But now he roams throughout the plains Where once his fathers dwelt, A poor heart-stricken wanderer, For him none pity felt.

But hark! the preacher's solemn tone My wand'ring thoughts recall; He preaches Jesus crucified, Jesus who died for all.

He tells, with simple eloquence, How the Good Shepherd came To save the erring sheep He loved, From ruin and from shame.

He speaks of sad Gethsemane, Then tells the eager crowd, How Jesus Christ was crucified By cruel men and proud.

And at his words like forest trees Moved by the rushing blast, O'er the proud hearts of those dark men A wondrous change then passed.

They wept--nature's lone children wept At that sweet tale of love-- To think that Jesus died that they Might dwell with Him above.

And one of that wild forest's sons, Of tall and noble frame, While tears bedewed his manly cheek, Towards the preacher came.

"What? did the blessed Saviour die And shed His blood for me? Was it for _my_ sins Jesus wept In dark Gethsemane?

"What can poor Indian give to Thee, Jesus, for love like thine? The lands my fathers once possessed Are now no longer mine;

"Our hunting-grounds are all upturned By the proud white man's plough, My rifle and my dog, alas! Are my sole riches now.

"Yet these I fain would give to Him On Calvary's cross who bled; Will Christ accept so mean a gift?"-- The stranger shook his head.

The Indian chief a moment paused, And downward cast his eyes: Then suddenly from round his neck His blanket he unties.

"This, with my rifle and my dog, Are all I have to give; Yet these to Jesus I would bring; He died that I might live!

"Stranger! will Jesus Christ receive These tokens of my love?" The preacher answered, "Gifts like these Please not the God above."

The humble child of ignorance His head in sorrow bent; Absorbing thought unto his brow Its saddening influence lent.

He raised his head, a gleam of hope O'er his dark features passed, As when on some deep streamlet's breast The sun's bright beams are cast.

His eyes were filled with glistening tears, And earnest was his tone; "Here is poor Indian! Jesus, take, And make him all thine own."

A thrill of joy passed through the crowd, To see how grace divine Could cause the heart of th' Indian chief With heav'nly love to shine;--

Such love as made him yield with joy Body and soul to Him Whose watchful care can never fail, Whose love can ne'er grow dim.

SAAT.

Sir Samuel Baker and his wife made a dangerous and toilsome journey into the burning regions of Central Africa. From a book of travel and adventure published by him we glean such portions as relate to their faithful servant, Saat, the African boy.

When a child of six years old, minding his father's goats in the desert, Saat was captured by a hostile Arab tribe, and thrust into a sack, which was placed on a camel's back, and thus he was carried hundreds of miles from home. Every time that the poor child screamed or offered resistance he was threatened that he would be killed by his cruel captors. Saat shortly found himself in the hands of a slave-dealer, by whom he was offered to the Egyptian government as a drummer-boy, but being too small was rejected. A fellow slave told little Saat of an Austrian mission-house in the very town in which they were, that would protect and care for him if he could escape to it. Thither the little boy fled, and found shelter for some time, gaining such instruction as his mind could receive, together with other little waifs and strays, which the missionaries had received at different times.

Sickness reduced the number of the good men who had cared for and taught the children, and they found it necessary to turn adrift the friendless little ones, who apparently without result had been watched and tended, and little Saat, "the one grain of gold," was a second time without a home. But God guided him on a good way.

One evening Sir Samuel Baker and his wife were sitting in their courtyard on the Nile, when a starved, miserable boy crept up to them, and crouching in the dust, begged to be allowed to live with them and be their boy. They did not take him then, and he came again the next day, praying them to allow him to serve them. They endeavored to discourage him by telling of the long and dangerous journey they were about to take. Saat was firm; he would go with them to the end of the world. Touched by the boy's story they went to the mission to inquire the truth of it. There an excellent character was given of him, with the remark that he must have been turned out by mistake. This determined the traveller to adopt him. A good washing and a new suit of clothes made Saat quite respectable, and being well-disposed he soon made himself useful. Mrs. Baker taught him to sew, and Sir Samuel gave him lessons in shooting. When his day's work was done, he was allowed to sit by his mistress while she told him stories from the Bible and from the history of Europe. There was plenty of time for such talk, the long, weary journey in the Nile boat, which they had just commenced, enabling that gentle lady to instruct the poor ignorant boy thrown on her hands. Their native servants robbed, betrayed, and deserted the travellers at every turn, but among them little Saat shone as a bright star, honest, truthful, and devoted to those who had rescued him from starvation, and he daily won their love. To him they most probably owed their lives, as he detected and exposed to them a plan their servants had agreed on, to seize their master's arms and leave him in the desert, or murder him and his wife if they met with resistance.

This child of the sun seemed to have all the best points of a happy English boy; he delighted in active sports and shooting with his light gun. Through dangers and distresses he was always bright and cheerful. Saat was sometimes in mischief, too, and he spoilt two watches by trying to examine their inside works. He was very fond of a drum; but a camel which carried it rolled over and spoilt that musical instrument; then he destroyed a tin kettle and a tin cup by drumming on them. Neither watch nor tinware could be replaced when shops were thousands of miles away. Once, when he was not well, a powder was given him to take, and he asked if he should eat the paper it was in.

Sir Samuel followed his plans for his journey through all obstacles, and Saat's name is never mentioned, except in praise. He endured hunger and thirst, and rejoiced with his kind protectors in the success of their undertaking. During these years of travel, sickness and death had visited their little band, but as yet the boy had been spared; but on the homeward journey his time came,--that fearful sickness, the plague, attacked the vessel in which the party journeyed: first one was smitten, then another, and then it was Saat. Mrs. Baker herself nursed the sick boy with tender care, but he lay day and night in delirium. At last came a calm; he was gently washed and dressed in clean clothes, and laid to rest. He slept; his mistress hoped it was the sleep of recovery; but a kind servant presently covered the boy's face while tears ran down her cheeks. Saat was dead. The boat was stopped, and the faithful boy was sadly buried beneath a tree, the wonderful river Nile rolling by his grave.

Saat was converted from Paganism to Christianity, and reached his home and rest in heaven.

THE PSALM OF THE SLAVE.

_God heard it; and he is free._

Loud he sang the Psalm of David, He a negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory; Sang of Zion bright and free.

In that hour when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, In a voice so sweet and clear, That I could not choose but hear--

Songs of triumph and ascription, Such as reached the swarth Egyptian, When upon the Red-Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host.

And the voice of his devotion, Filled my soul with strange emotion; For its tones by turns were glad, Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

Paul and Silas in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen; And an earthquake's arm of might Broke their dungeon-gates at night.

But, alas! what holy angel Brings the slave this glad evangel? And what earthquake's arm of night Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? _Longfellow._

THE MISSIONARY BOX.

A few years ago two young Africans went to England to obtain an education, and then return to Africa to teach their countrymen the gospel of Jesus Christ. One of them, George Nicol, while staying near London, walked a considerable distance. In his walk he came to Hampstead Heath, from which he could see the city of London before him. The principal buildings attracted his attention. A laborer who was breaking stones on the other side of the road, kept looking at him; no doubt it seemed strange to him to see a colored man looking at the view he had himself seen every day for many years past; and in his eyes, perhaps, the wonder would be increased by seeing the African dressed like a respectable Englishman.

While George Nicol stood gazing on the scene the laborer kept peeping at him from time to time, but never thought of speaking. Presently George Nicol turned to him, and asked in good English, what a certain building was which he saw in the distance. The laborer answered civilly that it was St. Paul's Church; and then replied to several other questions, till he had pointed out the chief buildings of the great city, which could be seen from the hill on which they were standing.

When this was done, after a short pause the African said: "Well, my friend, you have here a very large and magnificent city; but, after all, it is not to be compared to the city of God, the heavenly Jerusalem, which I hope you and I will both see one day."

If the honest laborer was surprised before, his astonishment was much greater now.

"Why," said he, "do you know anything about such things?"

"Yes, thank God," replied the African, "I am happy to say I do. It was not always so. I was once in darkness, and knew nothing of the true God; but good missionaries from England came, and taught me about Jesus Christ; and now I live in hope of one day seeing Him in that beautiful city, the heavenly Jerusalem, where I shall dwell with Him forever."

By this time the good Englishman had thrown down the hammer with which he had been breaking stones. He came across the road, and grasping Nicol's hand exclaimed, "Why, then, you are one of them that I have been praying for these twenty years. I never put a penny into the missionary box without saying, 'God bless the colored man.'"