Will you not help? Brethren in the ministry it rests with you to do it. It really does. If you could take up "Our Mag" and give it one good push it would go up to that figure at once. MY EXPERIENCE TELLS ME THAT THE "MAG" SELLS WELL WHERE THE MINISTER PUSHES IT. A minister wrote us, not long since, "I find 'our Mag' is scarcely known here. I mean to alter this soon. Send me some bills and programmes.' And he has altered it.

But we have no minister. Then render this aid yourself, and be minister to that extent. Make the "Mag" known. Become agent yourself, or see that some one is appointed to that post. Obtain new subscribers. We ought to circulate 10,000 more per annum. Let us not rest till what ought to be IS.

Will you not do it then? I don't ask this service for my sake. You know that. I ask it for the sake of the kingdom of Jesus Christ; for the sake of the various works we are doing as a federation of churches: for the sake of our evangelistic and aggressive efficiency. I want to diffuse brightness and joy throughout our churches, encourage selfsacrificing toil, cheer the weary and downcast; fortify faith, banish doubt,-in a word, to build up men in goodness and truth, and to save souls. If I did not think the "Mag" accomplished that I would not work for it another day.

These are the common objects of our organized life and activity. That the "Mag" may promote them more abundantly in 1879 than in any previous year of its history, is the prayer of

Yours in the service of the Lord Jesus,

JOHN CLIFFORD.

The late Rev. John Stevenson, M.A.,

ENTERED the rest of God, Nov., 7, 1878. His mortal remains were interred in the Nottingham Cemetery, Nov. 12. Although the snow had covered the earth with its white mantle, the attendance of friends was large. His four surviving brothers were the chief mourners present. All the Baptist ministers of the town, and representatives of the churches, as also the minister, and some of the deacons of St. Mary's Gate church, Derby, of which he was some time pastor, were there to testify their esteem and affection for him. The Rev. Harris Crassweller, B.A., his successor in the church at St. Mary's Gate, his tender and loved friend, conducted the service, and read portions from the same book the deceased had marked and read at the funeral of our late beloved brother, the Rev. T. W. Mathews, of Boston. The selection was very beautiful, and very tenderly and impressively read. The Rev. W. R. Stevenson, M.A., delivered an appropriate address, referring to our dear departed friend's many gifts and graces; speaking of his earnest, devout, loving spirit; of his power and success as a minister, especially in the earlier part of his life; of his many labours, and joyous and happy life. "He being dead yet speaketh."

G. N.

A Memorial Service will be held in St. Mary's Gate Chapel, Derby, on Sunday evening, December the 8th. A Memoir of our beloved brother will also appear in the pages of our Magazine at an early date.

Tommy's Christmas.

SUCH a queer place! It was not a house nor a school-house. It was high and dark, and like a cavern. On one side a plain wall went up into the dark somewhere overhead. On the other stood a row of great wooden pipes, with black mouths, all in a line, like the mouths of dragons, with teeth and great ears at the sides.

Close to the row of black-mouthed pipes stood Tommy, the bellows boy. It was ten o'clock in the morning, and he was dragging the wooden handle up and down as fast as his little hands could move.

Poor Tommy! It was a sorry Christmas for him. At the long rehearsal, the night before, his arms and body had ached so that when he went to bed he could hardly sleep, and to-day there is a great deal of music. He would like to stop and listen, only that little piece of white lead before him, that shows whether there is wind enough in the organ, keeps dancing up and down, and he must blow and blow, or the music will stop. Still they keep on singing about goodwill to men, and Tommy toils away at the heavy bellows.

There! The choir has stopped. Now there will be a little rest while the minister prays. The tired boy sank down upon the floor, with his head resting one of the dragon's ears upon the side of the huge organ, and fell fast asleep.

on

Suddenly there was a little knock on the wall. Tommy's head sank lower, and his poor little blistered hands fell listless on the floor.

Another and a louder knock. Tommy paid no heed, and the knocking increased. Then it was quiet for a moment, and a man's step was heard on the creaking floor! Then Tommy received a cruel blow on the head, and woke up to find the organist standing over him ready to strike again.

"Take hold of the lever and blow for your life, or I'll”. "You'll what?" said a sweet voice behind him.

Tommy looked up and saw the soprano singer beside the organist. Tommy gazed upon the grand lady in her elegant silks, and thought somehow one of the angels had stepped down from the painted windows.

"For shame!" said she, "to strike the boy. Poor little fellow, he was tired, and no wonder. Think how you have used the organ last night and to-day.” "But the voluntary. It must go on. There! The prayer is over. What shall I do? Get up, hurry! It's no time now to rest."

Tommy got up and took hold of the bellows-handle to keep from falling down. The organist slunk away, but the beautiful lady remained. Tommy looked timidly up and said,

"I was tired, ma'am, and it's Christmas day, and”–

Here he began to drag up the heavy handle, and the music broke out into a fierce roar--and then died away with a groan and a squeak—and that was all Tommy knew about it. He felt himself held in something soft and warm. He opened his eyes and the face of the beautiful lady was close to his. She was holding him in her arms. He felt the soft silk next to his face. He was so tired, and it was so nice and warm that he shut his eyes. What was it? Was he dead and gone to heaven? Was this one of the angels his mother spoke about when she went away? Perhaps it was his real mother. He opened his eyes. No. There was the organ. The great pipes were blooming beside him, and oh, how queer! The tenor man with his white gloves, was blowing the organ.

"Do you feel better, my child?" whispered the lady.

66 Yes'm."

"And were you sick ?"

66

'No'm. I was so tired. There was a 'hearsal last night, and it's Christmas, and they always have lots of music, and I fell asleep. I was very tired."

"Poor child! Don't they give you a seat?"

"No'm. I always stands, and"

"Look out," said the grand gentleman at the bellows," your part comes next."

"Yes, I see. Never mind; I will sit and sing here, They will never know the difference. Say, little boy, do you feel comfortable ?"

Tommy smiled and said, "Yes, it's very pleasant. But you will be tired""Never mind that. What is your name?"

"Tommy."

"Where does your mother live, Tommy ?"

"I haven't any real mother, you know." "Your real mother is"

close to his ear,

Here she began to sing, oh, so sweet and loud,

"And He shall reign forever and ever."

Tommy nodded his head and shut his eyes.
Then the tenor man at the bellows sang,-

"And He shall reign forever and ever."

Then they both sang, and Tommy listened still with his eyes closed. Tommy opened his eyes and smiled, and the lady smiled and sang,"And He will give rest unto your souls."

Then he heard the organ again. "Oh that was beautiful!” "Do you like it, Tommy ?" Again she took up the strain: "And He shall speak peace, peace unto your souls."

Tommy thought he was in heaven, or that earth must somehow have changed into a paradise this glorious Christmas morn.

"Come unto me, all ye that labour, and are heavy laden."

The lady was singing differently now, in a voice as low as the mellowed notes of the organ, and with exquisite tenderness.

"Bravo!" said the tenor man.

The lady smiled and said, "I am singing to Tommy now, hear, too, it is all right; but I'm only singing for Tommy."

If the people

The boy's whole face lighted with pleasure, and the tenor man laughed, and the beautiful lady smiled and sang,—

"And He shall speak peace, peace unto your soul."

and then continued in a long, glad strain that seemed full of rejoicing.

Presently she stopped, and Tommy said, "That was good!" Then he seemed to think about something, and the beautiful lady appeared to know all about it, for she asked,

"Would you like to sing, Tommy!"

"Yes'm. Only-only-I have to blow-and-no-I'd rather"

"Yes'm really and truly," said he, trying to rise.

"Be quiet, Tommy. Lie still. I cannot sing if you"

Her voice mounted up in song again, growing softer in measured cadences: "And He shall speak peace, peace unto you souls."

Peace!

Lower and more plaintive grew the notes of the organ. They died

away in silence. Then followed the benediction,—

"And now may grace, mercy and peace be with you forever."

There was a rustle-more music-the people were going out. Mercy and peace-forever," said the lady, softly. Tommy felt himself lifted and placed upon his feet. An ungloved hand was placed within his own. Down the stairs he passed. Out into the frosty Christmas air he was led, to the home of his new-found friend. And their he found both shelter and love-a foretaste of the higher and happier home on high.

Christmas and New Year's Books.

WE have received a parcel of books from that prolific store of good and serviceable literature, the SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION, exactly adapted to this season of literary gifts. Few treasures are more welcome to the young at this season than a good book; and of the many houses in London now engaged in disseminating healthy, attractive, and profitable literature, the Sunday School Union holds a foremost place. Further description and price will be found in the advertisement sheets of the Almanack and Magazine.

The ANNUAL VOLUMES deserve to be mentioned first. Kind Words, for 1878, is a volume of abundant interest. We can testify that young people will bury themselves in it, and become lost to all the world besides: and what more potent and quieting can any parent desire! Tales for boys and girls; science and song, history and biography, industry and prize competitions; these, and much beside, invite, allure, and hold even the unwilling youth. The Morning of Life, for 1878, caters for the more reflective amongst our young people, and has a larger proportion of solid fact, and instructive information, than "Kind Words." Lads and lasses who like a little brain friction will be specially pleased with it. Only those who can read nothing but a "tale" would vote it dry.-The Child's Own Magazine finds its readers in the other extreme of young life. It is the book for the "little folks," and will captivate them with its pictures and stories.-The Addresses to Parents, Teachers, Senior Scholars, and Children, are well adapted for large distribution in our Sunday schools.-Every teacher should get one of the Diaries for himself, and a packet of the Golden Texts for his scholars.

Next comes a batch of ten stories. MARY MORDANT, by Annie Gray, shows, with much tenderness and beauty, how serenely blessed a life may become by single-eyed devotion to the welfare of others; aye, blessed, notwithstanding the long visits of sorrow, or the painful presence of disappointments. The tale is one of real pathos, pictures life as it is, and describes the purpose of our Father's discipline with true wisdom.

SUNSHINE THROUGH THE CLOUDS, by Frances J. Tylcoat, describes a victory won by the loving spirit of a school girl, in the face of the opposition of her school-fellows, over the hardened nature of a drunkard's child. The daughter is softened and won for Christ, the father is reclaimed, and the home made happy. The pictorial illustrations are below the mark.

THE YOUNG REBELS, by Ascot R. Hope, is a story of the battle of Lexington, and forms an interesting introduction to the history of the War of Independence. It is given as an old man's tale, and has all the charm of hair-breadth escapes and thrilling adventure. Lads will luxuriate in its pages.

MONKSBURY COLLEGE, by Sarah Doudney, is one of the best stories we have yet received from this productive pen. It is a vivid and charming picture of school-girl life, replete with capital characters, exciting scenes, and sterling truths.

GEORGE'S TEMPTATION, by Emma Leslie, is another rendering of the familiar temptations of London life, and of the way in which they may be faced and conquered, even though there may have been a temporary defeat. Lads coming to London would find a timely warning in this book.

THE CHAINED BOOK, by the same author, recites, in a winning manner, the work done by Queen Anne Boleyn in the promotion of the work of the Reformation in this country. It is a pearl of British history, set in an attractive frame.

THE INFANT ZEPHYR: A TALE OF STROLLING LIFE, by Benjamin Clarke, is a revelation of the mysteries carried about in the "shows" that frequent our village and town fairs; disclosing, at once, the miserable ignorance of the actors in them, the risks they run, and the wretched lives they live; and showing how the gospel may reach and even redeem lives that have sunk to so low a level.

WHO SHALL WIN? By Mrs. F. Seamer. The stake is a little girl; the warriors are on one side ignorance, hardness, and an unwise mother; and on the other a loving Christ-filled woman, eager to do good to children for Christ's sake. The battle is a tough one: but Christ wins.

LITTLE BESS, by M. W. Ellis, narrates the search of a child after pure-heartedness, in a manner not altogether natural, but still with some power and effectiveness. ARCHER DUNN'S STORIES, as told by himself. Four truths embodied in four tales, by a skilled and pleasant pen. JOHN CLIFFORD.