one. Would that mother have frowned upon the little child who laid down his sunny head upon her bosom because it could only lisp out "So tired?" No, no. The more helpless and weary, the closer round him you would clasp your loving arms; you would ask for no words, no effort, the confident up-look of his trustful eyes would be enough. Deal thus with God. He who gave you the busy life, knows all about your weariness and want of time. Only be very careful that no sin, no evil thing, hinder you from coming in full confidence to your Father's side, and from lifting up your eyes to His face, when "too tired" to do aught else. Let nothing interrupt your communion.

And when a long day of heavy sorrow has made you "too tired" to do anything but wearily sink your head upon the Father's bosom, and there weep out all your grief and seek for rest, remember for your solace that He will look down on His tired child with deep, deep love; that He will clasp you round with His everlasting arms, and lay you, thus sweetly enfolded, to rest.

1 In Celtic folklore the streamlet is represented as singing as it flows onward, "The sea, the sea for me."

Beside its waters waved the fern,

And hung the hazel tree.

Still sung the stream the one same song,

"I run to reach the sea."

Adown the glen amid the pines,
Past field and fell and road,
And cottages upon its banks,
The widening streamlet flowed.
It bickered past the village street,
It glided by the lea,

And still the burden of its song,
"I run to reach the sea."

The miller came and built his weir,
'Twas right across its track,
And high and strong the dyke arose
To hold its waters back.

It filled the dam, it trickled o'er,
To sing exultingly

The same old song it sung of yore,
"I run to reach the sea.

"And none can stay my onward course,
Your dams and dykes are vain,
Nor aught bring silence to my song,
Ho! I am for the main.

"Farewell, ye hills lost in the blue,
Farewell, green land, to thee,
Farewell, old banks where I have flowed,
For I am for the sea.

"And every rill that joins my course
Now sings along with me,
Farewell, O land, a long farewell,

Our home is with the sea."

And now the river bar is past,

The waters flowing free

Have reached with joy their home at last, For they are with the sea.

So thus, methinks, a Christian's life

From first to last should be; His song in every varied scene, O Christ, I come to Thee.

Fair as thou art, O beauteous world,

I cannot stay with thee;

My home is yonder, and my hope

Is Christ, O Christ for me.

Farewell! my life must onward flow
Where ocean billows roll,

The ocean of His boundless love,
Who hath redeemed my soul.

Beneath the darkened skies of time
I may not, dare not stay.
I go to seek a fairer clime,
Which yet is far away.

And all the day till eventide

This, this my song shall be,

O Christ, my joy, my hope, my pride,
Christ, Christ alone for me.

R. R. THOM.

44

Herein is My Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit."

B

UT much care, much pruning, much training, much purging, the vine needs in order that it may bring forth much fruit. The shoots, which look

to us so promising, the gardener often cuts off. With constant care he watches for the insects which infest the vine, and would so soon injure its growth, and sometimes it needs what seems to us harsh treatment. Walking in the garden the other day, and passing by the hothouse, I was surprised to see the vines rudely pulled out at the windows and lying exposed, and, as they appeared, neglected on the bare earth. The day was bitterly cold, frost and snow were on the ground. Inside the greenhouse it was so warm and genial, just what one would have imagined to be the very place to encourage the growth of the vine, and cause it to bring forth much fruit. And so I called the gardener, and asked him what could be the meaning of such strange treatment. Then he told me, that if the vines remained inside, in the warmth and heat all the winter, the wood became soft and soon would shoot out abundant leaves, but no fruit; that the cold hardened the wood, and made the