Part 13

One who does not believe in immersion for baptism was holding a protracted meeting, and one night preached on the subject of baptism. In the course of his remarks he said that some believe it necessary to go down in the water, and come up out of it, to be baptized. But this he claimed to be fallacy, for the preposition "into" of the Scriptures should be rendered differently, as it does not mean into at all times. "Moses," he said, "we are told, went up into the mountain; and the Saviour was taken up into a high mountain, etc. Now we do not suppose either went into a mountain but went unto it. So with going down into the water; it means simply going down close by or near to the water, and being baptized in the ordinary way, by sprinkling or pouring." He carried this idea out fully, and in due season closed his discourse, when an invitation was given for any one so disposed to rise and express his thoughts. Quite a number of his brethren arose and said they were glad they had been present on this occasion, that they were well pleased with the sound sermon they had just heard, and felt their souls greatly blessed. Finally, a corpulent gentleman of Teutonic extraction, a stranger to all, arose and broke the silence that was almost painful, as follows:

"Mister Breacher, I is so glad I vash here to-night, for I has had explained to my mint some dings dat I never could pelief pefore. Oh, I is so glad dat into does not mean into at all, but shust close py or near to, for now I can pelief many dings vot I could not pelief pefore. We reat, Mr. Breacher, dat Taniel vos cast into de ten of lions, and came out alife. Now I neffer could pelief dat, for wilt peasts would shust eat him right off; but now it is fery clear to my mint. He vash shust close py or near to, and tid not get into de ten at all. Oh, I ish so glad I vash here to-night. Again we reat dat de Heprew children vas cast into de firish furnace, and dat always look like a beeg story too, for they would have been purnt up; but it ish all blain to my mint now, for dey was shust cast py or close to de firish furnace. Oh, I vas so glad I vos here to-night. And den, Mister Breacher, it ish said dat Jonah vash cast into de sea, and taken into de whale's pelly. Now I neffer could pelief dat. It alwish seemed to me to be a beeg fish story, but it ish all blain to my mint now. He vash not into de whale's pelly at all, but shump onto his pack and rode ashore. Oh, I vash so glad I vash here to-night.

"And now, Mister Breacher, if you will shust exblain two more bassages of Scriptures, I shall be oh so happy dat I vas here to-night! One of dem ish vere it saish de vicked shall be cast into a lake dat burns mit fire and primstone alwish. Oh, Mister Breacher, shall I be cast into dat lake if I am vicked, or shust close py or near to--shust near enough to be comfortable? Oh, I hope you tell me I shall be cast only shust py a good veys off, and I vill pe so glad I vash here to-night. Do oder bassage is dat vich saish blessed are they who do these commandments, dat dey may have right to de dree of life, and enter in droo de gates of the city, and not shust close py or near to--shust near enough to see vat I have lost--and I shall pe so glad I vash here to-night."

THE FAST MAIL AND THE STAGE.

BY JOHN H. YATES.

Lay by the weekly, Betsey, it's old like you and I, And read the morning's daily, with its pages scarcely dry. While you and I were sleepin', they were printing them to-day, In the city by the ocean, several hundred miles away.

"How'd I get it?" Bless you, Betsey, you needn't doubt and laugh; It didn't drop down from the clouds nor come by telegraph; I got it by the lightning mail we've read about you know, The mail that Jonathan got up about a month ago.

We farmers livin' 'round the hill went to the town to-day To see the fast mail catch the bags that hung beside the way; Quick as a flash from thundering clouds, whose tempest swept the sky, The bags were caught on board the train as it went roarin' by.

We are seein' many changes in our fast declinin' years; Strange rumors now are soundin' in our hard-of-hearin' ears. Ere the sleep that knows no wakin' comes to waft us o'er the stream, Some great power may be takin' all the self-conceit from steam.

Well do we remember, Betsey, when the post-man carried mails, Ridin' horseback through the forest 'long the lonely Indian trails, How impatiently we waited--we were earnest lovers then-- For our letters comin' slowly, many miles through wood and glen.

Many times, you know, we missed them--for the post-man never came-- Then, not knowin' what had happened, we did each the other blame; Long those lover quarrels lasted, but the God who melts the proud Brought our strayin' hearts together and let sunshine through the cloud.

Then at last the tidings reached us that the faithful post-man fell Before the forest savage with his wild terrific yell, And your letters lay and moldered, while the sweet birds sang above, And I was savin' bitter things about a woman's love.

Long and tedious were the journeys--few and far between, the mails, In the days when we were courtin'--when we thrashed with wooden flails; Now the white winged cars are flyin' long the shores of inland seas. And younger lovers read _their_ letters 'mid luxury and ease.

We have witnessed many changes in our three-score years and ten; We no longer sit and wonder at the discoveries of men; In the shadow of life's evenin' we rejoice that our dear boys Are not called to meet the hardships that embittered half our joys.

Like the old mail through the forest, youthful years go slowly by; Like the fast mail of the present, manhood's years how swift they fly; We are sitting in the shadows; soon shall break life's brittle cord-- Soon shall come the welcome summons by the fast mail of the Lord.

STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN.

BY MRS. WHITNEY.

Well, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould country, livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be herself, a little rid hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did no kind o' harrum in her life. An' there lived out over the hill, in a din o' the rocks, a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, and he prowled around shly iv a day-time, thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the little rid hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up for his shupper. But the wise little rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a house, but she locked the door afther her and pit the kay in her pocket. So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he git at. But at lasht there came a shcame intil his wicked ould head, an' he tuk a big bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an' he says till his mother, says he, "Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll bring the little rid hin to-night for our shupper." An' away he wint, over the hill, an' came crapin' shly an' soft through the woods to where the little rid hin lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very minute that he got along, out comes the little rid hin out iv the door, to pick up shticks to bile her tay-kettle. "Begorra, now, but I'll have yees," says the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides behind the door. An' in comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, with her apron full of shticks, an' shuts too the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in her pocket. An' thin she turns round,--an' there stands the baste iv a fox in the corner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her shticks, and fly up in a great fright and flutter to the big bame acrass the inside o' the roof, where the fox couldn't git at her!

"Ah, ha!" says the fox, "I'll soon bring you out o' that!" An' he began to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, an' fashter, on the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox whipped her up and popped her intil his bag, and stharted off home in a minute. An' he wint up the wood and down the wood, half the day long, with the little rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know she knowed where she was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate up, an' finished shure! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her hand in her pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped a big hole in the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door.

An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big stone at his back thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little rid hin was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in sight iv his din in the rocks' and shpied his ould mother awatchin' for him at the door, he says, "Mother! have ye the pot bilin'?" An' the ould mother says, "Sure, an' it is; an' have ye the little rid hin?" "Yes, jist here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in," says he.

An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid o' the pot, an' the rashkill untied the bag, and hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the big, heavy shtone. An' the bilin' wather shplashed up all over the rogue iv a fox, an' his mother, an' schalded them both to death. An' the little rid hin lived safe in her house foriver afther.

ONLY A SONG.

It was only a simple ballad, Sung to a careless throng; There were none that knew the singer, And few that heeded the song; Yet the singer's voice was tender And sweet as with love untold; Surely those hearts were hardened That it left so proud and cold.

She sang of the wondrous glory That touches the woods in spring, Of the strange, soul-stirring voices When "the hills break forth and sing;" Of the happy birds low warbling The requiem of the day, And the quiet hush of the valleys In the dusk of the gloaming gray.

And one in a distant corner-- A woman worn with strife-- Heard in that song a message From the spring-time of her life. Fair forms rose up before her From the mist of vanished years; She sat in a happy blindness, Her eyes were veiled in tears.

Then, when the song was ended, And hushed the last sweet tone, The listener rose up softly And went on her way alone Once more to her life of labor She passed; but her heart was strong; And she prayed, "God bless the singer! And oh, thank God for the song!"

THE BICYCLE RIDE.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

[Whether bicycle riding on Sunday be sinful or not, depends entirely upon the spirit in which it is done and the associations of the ride.]

You have read of the ride of Paul Revere, And of Gilpin's ride, so fraught with fear; Skipper Ireson's ride in a cart, And the ride where Sheridan played a part; Calendar's ride on a brazen hack, And Islam's prophet on Al Borak; The fateful ride to Aix from Ghent, And a dozen others of like portent, But you never have heard of a bicycle spin Which was piously ended, though started in sin.

Tom was a country parson's son, Fresh from college and full of fun, Fond of flirting with bright-eyed girls, Raving, in verse, over golden curls, Sowing a wild oat, here and there, In a way that made the parson stare And chide him sternly, when face to face, While, in private, he laughed at the young scape-grace. But the wildest passion the boy could feel Was the love he bore for his shining wheel.

He rode it by night and he rode it by day, If he went two rods or ten miles away; And Deacon Smith was heard to remark That he met that "pesky thing in the dark And it went right by with a glint and a gleam And a wild 'hoot-toot' that made him scream; In spite of the fact that he knew right well That evil spirits were all in--well-- He wouldn't meet that thing again For a corn-crib full of good, ripe grain."

One Sunday morning, the sun was bright, The bird's throats bursting with glad delight, The parson-mounted his plump old bay And jogged to the church, two miles away, While Tom wheeled round, ten miles or more And hid his wheel by the chancel door, And he thought, as he sat in the parson's pew, "I wonder what makes dad look so blue," Till it came like a flash to his active mind, He left his sermon and specs behind.

Now the parson was old and his eyes were dim And he couldn't have read a line or a hymn, Without his specs for a mint of gold, And his head turned hot while his toes turned cold, And right in the midst of his mental shock, The parson deceived his trusting flock, And gave them eternal life and a crown From the book he was holding upside down. Tom, the rascal, five minutes before, Like an arrow had shot from the chancel door.

The horses he frightened I never can tell, Nor how the old church folk were shocked, as well, And they said they feared that the parson's lad "Was a-gettin' wild" and would go to the bad, For 'twas wicked enough to set folks in a craze Without "ridin' sech races on Sabbath days," And they thought the length of the parson's prayer Had something to do with his fatherly care. While the truth of it was, which he afterwards dropped, He didn't know what he could do when he stopped.

Of course you know how the story will end, The prayer was finished and duly "Amen'd," When Tom, all dust, to the pulpit flew And laid down the specs and the sermon too. Then the parson preached in a timid way, Of sinful pleasure on Sabbath-day, And he added a postscript, not in the text. Saying that, when they were sore perplexed, Each must decide as he chanced to feel. And Tom chuckled: "Sundays, I'll ride my wheel."

THE LAND OF OUR BIRTH.

BY LILLIE E. BARR.

O! where is the land that each mortal loves best, The land that is dearest and fairest on earth? It is North, it is South, it is East, it is West; For this beautiful land is the land of our birth.

'Tis the home of our childhood; the fragrance and dew Of our innocent days are all linked with the spot; And its fields were so green, and its mountains so blue, That our hearts must be cold ere that land is forgot.

We have wandered, perchance, far away from the place, But how often we see it in thought and in dreams! Feel its winds, as of old, blowing cool on our face, Hear the songs of its birds, and the plash of its streams.

We may build grander homes than the home of our youth, On far loftier objects our eyes may be cast; But we never forget all its love and its truth; It has charms that will hallow it unto the last.

We may learn other tongues, but that language is best That we lisped with our mothers in infancy's days-- The language she sung when she rocked us to rest, And gave us good counsel and comfort and praise.

We may love other lands, but wherever we be The land that is greenest and fairest on earth Is the one that, perhaps, we may never more see-- The home of our fathers--the land of our birth.

May its daughters and sons grow in beauty and worth! May the blessing of God give it freedom and rest! Be it northward, or southward, or eastward, or west, The land of our birth is of all lands the best.

THE TEACHER'S DIADEM.

Sitting 'mid the gathering shadows, weary with the Sabbath's care; Weary with the Sabbath's burdens, that she dearly loves to bear; For she sees a shining pathway, and she gladly presses on; 'Tis the first Great Teacher's footprints--it will lead where He has gone; With a hand that's never faltered, with a love that's ne'er grown dim, Long and faithfully she's labored, to His fold the lambs to bring.

But to-night her soul grows heavy; through the closed lids fall the tears, As the children pass before her, that she's taught these many years; And she cries in bitter anguish: "Shall not one to me be given, To shine upon my coronet amid the hosts of heaven! Hear my prayer to-night, my Saviour, in Thy glorious home above; Give to me some little token--some approval of Thy love."

Ere the words were scarcely uttered, banishing the evening gloom, Came a soft and shining radiance, bright'ning all within the room; And an angel in white raiment, brighter than the morning sun, Stood before her, pointing upward, while he softly whispered, "Come." As he paused, she heard the rustle of his starry pinions bright, And she quickly rose and followed, out into the stilly night;

Up above the dim blue ether; up above the silver stars; On, beyond the golden portals; through the open pearly doors; Far across the sea of crystal, to the shining sapphire Throne, Where she heard amid the chorus, "Welcome, child; thy work's well done." Surely 'tis her Saviour speaking; 'tis His hands, aye, 'tis His feet; And she cries: "Enough! I've seen Him; all my joys are now complete."

All forgot earth's care and sorrow; all forgot the starry crown; 'Twas enough e'en to be near Him; to behold Him on His Throne. "Not enough," the Saviour answered; "thou wouldst know through all these years, If in vain has been thy teaching, all thy labor and thy prayers; That from thee the end was hidden, did thy faith in me grow less? Thou hast asked some little token, I will grant thee thy request."

From out a golden casket, inlaid with many a gem, He took--glist'ning with countless jewels--a regal diadem; Bright a name shone in each jewel, names of many scholars dear, Who she thought had passed unheeded all her earnest thought and care. "But," she asked, "how came these names here--names I never saw before?" And the Saviour smiling answered, "'Tis the fruit thy teachings bore;

"'Tis the seed thy love hath planted, tended by my faithful hand; Though unseen by thee, it's budded, blossoming in many lands. Here are names from darkened Egypt, names from Afric's desert sands; Names from isles amid the ocean, names from India's sunny strands; Some from Greenland's frozen mountains, some from burning tropic plains; From where'er man's found a dwelling, here you'll find some chosen name. When thine earthly mission's ended, that in love to thee was given, This is the crown of thy rejoicing, that awaits thee here in heaven."

Suddenly the bright light faded; all was dark within the room; And she sat amid the shadows of the Sabbath evening gloom; But a peaceful, holy incense rested on her soul like dew; Though the end from her was hidden, to her Master she'd be true; Sowing seed at morn and even, pausing not to count the gain; If her bread was on the waters, God would give it back again; If the harvest she had toiled for other hands than hers should reap, He'd repay her for her labor, who had bade her, "Feed my sheep."

TOBE'S MONUMENT.

BY ELIZABETH KILHAM.

It was "after taps," a sultry, Southern-summer night. On the extreme edge of the encampment, on the side nearest the enemy, a sentinel paused in his walk, and peered cautiously out into the darkness. "Pshaw!" he said; "it's nothing but a dog." He was resuming his walk, when the supposed quadruped rose suddenly, and walked along on two feet in a manner so unmistakably human, that the sentinel lowered his musket once more, and shouted, "Halt! Advance, and give the counter-sign!" A faint, childish voice said, "Ain't got none, massa."

"Well, there now!" said the sentinel, "if it ain't just a little darkey, and I guess I've frightened him half to death. Come here, snowball."

The child crept up, and said, tremblingly: "'Deed, massa, I ain't got nuffin ter gib yer."

"Well, who asked you to give me anything?"

"Yer don ax me fer gib yer suffin jes' now; and I ain't got nuffin 'cep' my close what I got on."

"Well, you needn't fret; I don't want 'em. Corporal of the guard! Post two."

The corporal hastened to "post two," and found the sentinel with his hand on the shoulder of a little black boy, who, between fear, fatigue, and hunger, was unable to give any account of himself. "I'll take him to Captain Leigh," the corporal said; "he's officer of the day. Maybe he'll be able to get something out of him."

The captain stood in front of his tent, looking out into the night, when the corporal and his charge approached.

"Captain," said he, "here's a boy just come into the lines."

"Very well; you can leave him here."

At the first sound of the captain's voice the boy drew nearer to him, as knowing instinctively that he had found a friend.

"You can go into that tent and sleep till morning," said the captain.

"What is your name!" was Captain Leigh's first question the next morning.

"Name Tobe."

"Is that all?"

"Dat's all, Mass Cap'n."

"How old are you?"

"Dunno, Massa Cap'n. Nobody nebber done tole me dat ar."

"Where have you come from?"

"Come fum de back o' Richmon', Mass Cap'n."

"What did you come here for?"

"All de res' ob 'em runned away; an' ole mass he wor so mad, I wor jes' feared o' my life. 'Sides, I t'ought I mought fin' my mammy ef I got 'mong der Unions."

"Where is your mother?"

"Dunno, Mass Cap'n. Ole mass done sol' her down in Georgy las' corn-shuckin', an' I ain't nebber heerd ob her sence. But I t'ought mebby she mought ha' runned 'way too, an' I'd fin' her wid der Unions."

"Well, now, what are you going to do?"

"Dunno, Mass Cap'n. I'd like ter stay 'long wid you."

"What can you do?"

"Kin wait on yer, Mass Cap'n; kin shine up boots, an'"--brightening up as his eyes, wandering round caught sight of the horses--"kin clean de hosses right smart." * * *

"If I keep you with me you must be a good boy, and do as I tell you."

"'Deed I will, Mass Cap'n. I'se do ebery work yer say, sho's yer born."

So when the troops left Harrison's Landing, Tobe went too, in charge of the captain's horse and baggage; and, when the steamer was fairly under way, he brightened into a new creature as every revolution of the wheel placed a greater distance between himself and "old massa." * * *

It proved that Tobe had told the truth about his skill in taking care of horses. Captain Leigh's horse had never looked so well as now, and the captain was delighted. Tobe turned out, moreover, to be a very good boy. But the army is not a very good place for boys. So one day Captain Leigh said:--

"Tobe, how would you like to go North?"

"Whar's it at, Mass Cap'n?"

"I mean my home at the North."

"When is yer gwine, Mass Cap'n?"

"I am not going at all now."

"Does yer mean ter sen' me away from yer, Mass Cap'n?"

Captain Leigh was touched, and answered him very gently,--

"Yes, I want to send you away from me now, because it will be better for you. But, when the war is over, I shall go home, and then you can stay with me always if you are a good boy."

"I allus does jes' de t'ings yer tell me, Mass Cap'n."

"I know you do. And, just because you do what I tell you so well I want to send you to my home, to run errands for my wife, and do what work she will give you in the house. And I have three little children--two little girls and a baby boy. I want you to go with them when they go out to play and take care of them. My home is in a very pleasant place in the country. Don't you think you would like to go there?"

"Ef yer goes too, Mass Cap'n."

"But, my boy, I can't possibly go now."