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[Illustration: HOP-PICKING. (_See page 274._)]
THE
LITTLE GLEANER.
A
Monthly Magazine for the Young.
VOL. X., NEW SERIES.
1888.
LONDON:
HOULSTON AND SONS, 7, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E.C.;
AND E. WILMSHURST, BOOKSELLER, BLACKHEATH, S.E.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY W. H. AND L. COLLINGRIDGE,
148 AND 149, ALDERSGATE STREET, E.C.
[Illustration: _Engraved by S. W. Partridge & Co._
"WELL, THEN, COME TO THE CANAL." (_See page 4._)]
THE EDITOR'S NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS TO HIS YOUNG FRIENDS.
Dear young friends,--We wish you each and all a very Happy New Year,
and, above all things else, that it may prove to many of you a year of
grace--that is, we pray that the rich saving grace of God may be put in
the hearts of many of our readers who hitherto have not called upon Him
for mercy.
How many who began the year 1887 in health are now laid in the grave!
Some, no doubt, who read this address will be thinking of others who
read last year's, and who were interested in THE LITTLE GLEANER,
watching for its appearance month by month, but who now have passed
away, and will no more read it, nor walk and talk with them again.
The other month, a wrapper in which a GLEANER had been enclosed by some
friend to a person in Ireland was sent to us bearing this solemn mark,
"_Dead_." This told us that the person to whom the GLEANER had been sent
had become the prey of death, and would never read another.
Oh, how solemn that word looked and sounded to us--"_dead_!" and the
thought rushed into our mind, "How did he die? Where is he? If he died
in Christ, it is well with him, for all who thus die are eternally at
rest, free from sin, care, pain, and sorrow. Yea, they are 'for ever
with the Lord.'"
Dear reader, how is it with you? You are spared, while some have been
called from time into eternity. We hope you feel this to be a mercy, and
we now ask, Have you ever been led to the throne of grace, concerned
about sin and salvation? Has the cry ever gone from your heart to the
Lord, "God be merciful to me a sinner"? If not, oh, that, as this year
begins to pass away, the Spirit may cause your heart to feel the guilt
of your sin, and lead you, a poor, burdened, contrite one, to the feet
of Him who died on the cross, and whose blood cleanses those who are
thus brought unto Him from all sin. Then you shall prove that He is
"mighty to save"--yea, "able to save all those to the uttermost that
come unto God by Him."
We believe that many who will read these words have proved the ability
of Christ Jesus to save, and that others are seeking Him, and longing to
know that their sins are forgiven. We rejoice over them, and pray that
many more may be brought to walk the same way, for it is the way from
sin, death, and hell, and the way to Christ, peace, and heaven. All who
walk therein belong to the flock of the Good Shepherd; and we can say to
each one who has thus fled to Him for refuge, "He careth for you." His
love is stronger than death, and knows no change, for He is "the same
yesterday, and to-day, and for ever."
Dear young friends, there is a reality in the religion of Jesus, and we
pray that, in this truth-despising day, you may feel the power of grace,
and, by the work of the Spirit in your hearts, be so grounded in the
truth that you may turn with contempt from all those who, while they
profess to preach, have not the knowledge of God and His truth in them;
and, although they are anxious to discredit the Word of God, and set
aside the atonement of Christ, yet they do not know what to substitute
for them. All who follow such leaders are certainly being led on "the
down grade," and even the leaders themselves confess that they do not
know where they shall be landed. Some have already been landed in
Socinianism, and others in infidelity. Therefore, we say to all our
readers, Abide by and hold fast the Word of God, Cleave to those who
preach the pure and simple truths of the Gospel of Christ, as recorded
in the Scriptures, and may the Lord bless you with faith to receive
them in your heart. Then you shall "know the truth, and the truth shall
make you free."
Dear young friends, we seek your good, therefore we thus write, hoping
that our word of warning may not be in vain, but that some may be put on
their guard against preachers and teachers who have nothing but the
shifting sands of science for a foundation, which must all be swept
away, and those who build thereon must perish in the ruin.
Oh, may we be found on the Rock, Christ, living and dying, and be
enabled to declare before all these deceivers, "I know whom I have
believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have
committed unto Him against that day."
Children, do not forget the Bible. Obey, honour, and love your parents.
Avoid bad company, bad and foolish books, and evil habits. These things
will bring shame and misery to those who follow them, therefore shun
them all.
We still ask your help in spreading the GLEANER and the SOWER. May the
Lord make them useful, and bless you with His covenant blessing, is the
desire of
THE EDITOR.
A TOUCHING INCIDENT.
A very touching incident occurred lately at Governeur Hospital, New York
City.
Little Annie Ashpurvis was sent by her parents to the cellar for some
firewood. The child, who was but six years old, took a lighted lamp in
her hand, and while descending the stairs, her foot slipped, and she
fell, breaking the lamp, the flames of the burning fluid soon enveloping
her entire body. As soon as the surgeon was called, the little sufferer
was driven in an ambulance to the hospital. The child was put on a sofa
cot, and the surgeon did all he could to alleviate her suffering, but it
was impossible to save her life. Under the influence of a narcotic, she
soon fell asleep. Thus she lay slowly breathing for some hours. Her face
was so swollen that she could not open her eyes. About half-past two in
the morning she showed signs of returning consciousness. The watchful
nurse asked her if she would take a drink. She distinctly answered,
"Yes." In a moment the house surgeon was beside her cot. He felt the
pulse, but shook his head, and turned to go away. As he did so, the
little creature moved her body. She turned half around. The dim light of
the candle shone on the blackened face. The swollen lips pursed out, and
in a clear, sweet voice, the dying child began to sing, "Nearer, my God,
to Thee." The doctor and the nurse stood transfixed. The other patients
in the silent, darkened ward leaned on their elbows and drank in the
sweet melody. The first verse completed, she gradually sank back on her
pillow. Her strength began to fail, and with it her voice, and only the
humming, like distant music, of the air of the hymn could be heard. How
sweet, yet weird, that humming sounded! The candle lent its meagre
light, and the big clock in the corner told out its seconds, as the
sweet little soul passed out to its Maker. The humming ceased. All was
over. The doctor turned away with his handkerchief raised to his eyes.
The nurse gazed into the flame of the candle, and heaved a sigh. She
seemed to read the little one's death there.
When the remains were buried, the coffin was strewn with flowers,
offerings of her little schoolmates, with whom the dead child had been a
great favourite.--
_Evangelist_.
SELF-DENIAL.--There never did, and never will, exist anything permanent,
and noble, and excellent in a character which was a stranger to the
exercise of resolute self-denial.
"ONLY ONCE."
"Stop a minute, James. We're making up a skating party to go down the
river to-night. We shall build a fire on the island, and have a grand
time. Come, go with us."
"No, George, I can't. Father says I must skate on the canal. It isn't so
wide, nor quite so good skating, I know, but it's safe."
"Nonsense! The ice is at least two inches thick anywhere, even in the
thinnest places."
"No matter. I can't skate on the river."
"Well, then, come to the canal. You can skate out to the fork, where it
joins the river, and see us all. Will you do that?"
"Yes."
"All right. Be there at seven."
James was ready with his skates at the time appointed, and about to
leave the house.
"Where now, James?" asked his father.
"I'm going to skate awhile on the canal, father."
"Well, it's a bright evening, but don't stay late, and don't go on the
river."
Just then James's little sister, Marion, who was ready to go to bed,
shouted after him, "Stop, James! Give me a kiss," and holding up her
rosebud mouth, in a plump face, from which the laughing eyes were
shining, she received his good-night kiss, and he went out. As he passed
the window, he saw, through the half-drawn curtains, little Marion by
her mother, with the Bible. The father had laid his Book down, and they
sat reverently listening while his petition went up to heaven. It was a
beautiful picture. Poor Jamie! With what different feelings would he
have looked upon it, had he then known what was to happen within the
next two hours!
He crossed the field before the house, and was soon on the canal, and
gliding swiftly towards the river, from which the sound of merry voices
already reached his ear; and as he wheeled splendidly, just at the
entrance of the canal, the boys saw him, and came bearing down upon him
like a fleet of swift ships before the wind.
"Hurrah, James!" cried a dozen of them, as they joined company on the
canal.
There they amused themselves awhile, racing, skating backward, and
cutting all sorts of fanciful figures upon the ice, until George gave
the word, "Now for the island!" and with loud shouts they shot out
together upon the river, all but James.
"I must leave you now," he said.
"Oh, James, don't!" cried several at once.
"Now, see here, James," said George; "what's the use of being so set? Go
down with us this time."
"Father said, 'Don't go on the river.'"
"Well, as to that, you've been on the river two or three times. Look at
your marks."
James now saw that, in the excitement of their sport, he had repeatedly
rushed out of the canal quite across the channel of the river. He wanted
to go with the boys. He didn't really think there was much danger, and
the discovery that he had already unwittingly broken his father's
command, did not help him in his hour of weakness and temptation. The
boys all clamoured for him to join them. James slowly glided out of the
canal, stood still a moment, and the tempter prevailed.
"Well, I'll go down this once--mind you, only once," and he darted like
an arrow to the front, for he was the best skater in the company, and
soon was far in advance of the rest.
Alas! none of the boys knew of the murderous "breathing-hole" which had
opened that day in the ice in the channel, and now lay right in James's
path, waiting to receive him; and the first notice they had of its
existence was a despairing cry of terror from him as he plunged in.
All was confusion among the boys; but George, more self-possessed than
the others, hurried to the shore, and, shouting cheerily, "Hold on,
Jamie! I'll help you out," broke off the limb of a tree, as large and
long as he could handle, brought it on, and tried, by carefully creeping
towards James, to put it within his reach. But the current was strong;
the water was bitterly cold; and James, who had been urging his friend
to make haste, now began to lose his strength and become benumbed, and
before the limb came within his grasp, he said, faintly, "Oh, George, I
can't hold on any longer! Ask father--to forgive----" and went down with
the tide.
An hour later, the men at the mill below, who had broken the ice above
the barred outlet of the dam, and were watching and waiting in
expectation of their mournful work, lifted James's body out of the
water, and tenderly carried it to his home.
Boys, I have seldom told you a more sad story. Oh, that I could now
impress upon your young hearts the lesson of obedience to parents so
deeply that it shall never be forgotten! If you are ever tempted to
disregard a kind father's commands, or his advice, even though it be
"only once," may you have strength to resist the temptation. Remember
Jamie. It is true that disobedience to parents is not always--nor indeed
often--followed so speedily by such sad consequences, but we know that
the smile of God for this life will rest upon those children who obey
their parents.
"Honour thy father and mother" is the first commandment with promise.
LINES ON THE NEW YEAR.
In some simple words of rhyme
Read, and mark the flight of time;
Seasons come and disappear,
As we pass from year to year.
All things ever on the move,
Whether them we hate or love;
'Tis a changing scene below--
This we own, for this we know.
Blest are they--and only they--
Who are in the "narrow way";
Seeking Jesus' blessed face;
Longing much to know His grace.
Mourning over inward sin;
Panting only Him to win
Who for sin and sinners died,
When on Calvary crucified.
Do I, who these lines now read,
Of redemption feel my need?
Do I really long to know
That His blood for me did flow?
Do my heart and mouth confess
I am all unrighteousness?
Do I pray indeed to see
Christ my Righteousness to be?
Do I feel I cannot die
Till He does His blood apply?
And my doubting soul assure
I shall to the end endure?
If 'tis so, I know full well
I shall surely with Him dwell,
And shall, in His house on high,
Shout His praise beyond the sky.
A. HAMMOND.
SUPPOSING all the great points of atheism were formed into a kind of
creed, I would fain ask whether it would not require an infinitely
greater measure of faith than any set of articles which they so
violently oppose?--_Addison._
THE CHARCOAL BURNER'S STAR.
In one of the Protestant cantons of Switzerland dwelt a lady of fortune,
in a handsome mansion, surrounded with extensive grounds. These were
laid out with the greatest taste, so as to command at every convenient
point a favourable view of the romantic and interesting country that
rose on all sides round the lovely and fertile plain in which it was
situated.
Madame de Blenal was a widow who had, at an early age, married a
gentleman of property in the canton who, like herself, was a humble
follower and sincere lover of the Redeemer, but who, after a year or two
of as perfect happiness as this world can be expected to afford, died in
faith, looking forward with assured hope to the promises made by the
Lord Jesus to all who truly believe in Him.
With a heart prepared by faith to submit to the decrees of Providence,
whether for this world's good or ill, Madame de Blenal, though she
deeply felt the blow which her Heavenly Father had inflicted upon her,
soothed her grief with the reflection that her husband was now at peace,
and removed from the troubles which beset every sojourner in this mortal
world. Too fondly attached to his memory ever to enter a second time
into married life, she applied herself entirely to the cultivation of a
treasure he had left behind, in the person of a little boy named Alfred,
whom she endeavoured prayerfully to bring up "in the nurture and
admonition of the Lord." Neither did she neglect to enrich his mind with
such knowledge as might enable him to manage the earthly inheritance
which was hereafter to belong to him, if it pleased God that he should
live to arrive at the age of manhood.
At the time of which we are writing, Madame de Blenal had just resigned
to him the management of the property which he inherited from his
father, reserving to herself only the portion which she had brought with
her when she married. Still, as, in his own opinion as well as hers, he
was yet too young to think of taking a wife, Madame de Blenal remained
the mistress of his household, while he applied himself to studying the
nature of the duties that had devolved upon him, and to endeavouring to
acquire personal experience in the management of his estate, as well as
to improve the characters and condition of his tenants and labourers.
It happened one day, towards the end of summer, that a party who were
friends of her son's, together with some older ones of her own, had been
dining at her house, and the whole party had retired after dinner, to
take their coffee in an open part of the grounds which commanded the
best view both of the plain and of the mountains beyond it. The former
was already involved in the shades of evening, which, gradually
ascending the latter, soon reached the glaciers in the distance, and
converted the roseate tint with which the last beams of the departing
sun had invested them into that cold, lurid hue that heralds in the
approaching night. The stars now began to appear, one by one, in the
clear blue sky, and led the thoughts of many, if not all, of the party
from Nature up to Nature's God. Some of the younger ones, however, began
to amuse themselves by counting them, as they came into view; and one or
two, rather vain of their knowledge of astronomy, informed the others of
their names. Suddenly Alfred exclaimed--
"I can see one which is not to be found in the lists furnished by any
astronomer, and yet it is by far the most brilliant."
His friends thought that he was jesting, but yet attempted to discover
it in the sky.
"You are all looking too high," he said, laughing, and pointed to a
distant mountain, where the fire of a charcoal burner had just made its
appearance.
The party gazed attentively for some time, when one of the ladies said,
with a sigh--
"Poor man! How much he is to be pitied, sitting all alone up there!"
"Perhaps, madame, he is not so solitary as you imagine. The mountaineers
of these parts seldom leave their village homes for the summer season
without taking a Bible with them, so that I trust it may be said of this
one, even if his solitude is not sometimes broken by a passing visit
from a goatherd, that he is never quite alone, for God is always near
them that fear Him."
"That is a blessed thing indeed," said the lady; "but is he not in
danger from the wolves?"
"No, madame. First of all, the wolves are not so numerous about here as
many persons think; and, even where they are more abundant, there are
few, at this season, so pressed by hunger as to have the courage to
attack a man; and besides, the fire itself would keep them at a
distance. They have an instinctive dread of it."
"So far so good, Mr. Alfred. Still, if I were in the place of this man,
I should not be quite at ease. I should every moment be expecting the
approach of robbers."
"Robbers, madame, are very considerate people. They do not like to lose
either their time or their labour. Now, what could they find worth
stealing from this poor charcoal burner?"
"What? Why, his money, to be sure!"
"His money? If he happens to have any. He does not carry it with him
into the forest, where he has no use for it, but leaves it at home with
his wife."
"A very good husband! But his watch?"
"An article quite useless to him. He marks the time by the sun and
stars; or, if the weather is cloudy, most of the mountain chalets are
furnished with a small wooden clock, which holds out no great temptation
to men whose thoughts are fixed upon the well-stored purses of
travellers."
"You have an answer for everything, Mr. Alfred. Do you know the man?"
"I cannot say that I do, madame. We have few, if any, charcoal burners
in our domain. That mountain is at some distance, and he belongs most
probably to another village. But I have had occasion to observe the
habits of these mountaineers, and have acquired a tolerable knowledge of
them generally."
"And what can he possibly be doing at this hour, in that wild place?"
"Precisely what we are doing ourselves--he is watching his fire."
After many other conjectures had been hazarded as to the way in which
the charcoal burner was passing his time, Madame de Blenal said--
"A truce with these idle fancies. Our pastors in this canton are not
idle, and our peasantry are generally well instructed in their Christian
duties, so I trust that he is better employed than any of you suppose.
Perhaps, at this moment, he is sitting with the Bible on his knee,
reading of the mercies of Jesus, meditating upon them as he watches his
fire, and lifting up his heart in prayer to Him who alone is able to
inspire it with holy thoughts and divine affections."
"However," said the lady who had first begun the conversation, "I should
really like to know what he is about. I wish some one could tell us who
has actually seen him."
"I can easily satisfy your curiosity, madame," said young Alfred. "I
have nothing to do but to mount my horse and gallop to the foot of the
mountain. It will not be more than an hour's ride. I will then engage a
guide to take me to the charcoal burner's hut, and, without losing a
moment, I will find out what he was doing at nightfall."
"Are you not afraid of your son's undertaking such an enterprise at this
late hour?" asked a young lady of Madame de Blenal.
Madame de Blenal smiled, and replied, "No, mademoiselle. My son is well
acquainted with the road. We are not infested with robbers in this
canton, and, as the object of his pursuit is perfectly innocent, I can
confide him to the protection of Him on whom I know his own trust is
constantly fixed. Go, then, Alfred, but exercise your usual prudence,
and do not heedlessly expose yourself to danger."
An old lady who had not yet spoken, but who knew how to "speak a word in
season," then remarked, "Place, each of you, a small sum of money in
Alfred's hands. If he finds the charcoal burner worthily employed, let
him bestow it upon him. If otherwise, as some of you have supposed may
be the case, let him bring it back, and restore to each one what he has
contributed."
Every one readily agreed to the proposal. Each drew out his purse, and
Alfred received a very respectable sum. He was leaving the party, when
some one asked how soon they might expect him back?
"By midnight," he replied.
"And where shall we meet?"
"Here," said Madame de Blenal. "We will return into the house when
Alfred is gone, for the air is getting cold, and it will not be prudent
to sit here any longer."
Alfred then set out; and as soon as the sound of his horse's hoofs was
heard, the young men pulled out their watches, that the precise length
of his absence might be ascertained when he returned.
We will now leave Madame de Blenal to order supper for her party, and
the remainder to amuse themselves with conversation, music, and such
resources as her house afforded, while we accompany Alfred on his
nocturnal excursion.
The moon had just begun to rise in full splendour above the mountains as
he started, and to spread her silver light over the plain. This,
together with the increasing freshness of the air, infused spirits into
the rider as well as his horse. Notwithstanding, however, the knowledge
which both of them possessed of the road they had to traverse, they
scarcely reached the foot of the mountain within the time upon which
Alfred had calculated. Here were situated two or three picturesque
cottages, inhabited by guides, one of whom was known to Alfred by name.
Him therefore he sought out, and engaged to conduct him to the object of
his journey. The man was rather surprised at a summons so late in the
evening, and asked the traveller whether he had not better wait at his
cottage till daybreak.
"No," replied Alfred; "I only wish to go as far as the charcoal burner's
hut, whose fire can be seen for some miles off, and I must return to
where I came from before midnight."
"Ah! my friend Gervais. I know him well, sir. But it is a good way up
the mountain, and if you have far to ride back, you will hardly keep to
the time you have mentioned."
"Never mind," said the young man; "I must go on now. Where can I put my
horse?"
"Here in this shed, sir. There is a bit of hay and some beans, with
which he can amuse himself while we are gone."
The path was not steep, for it was cut in a zig-zag form, sometimes
leading over pastures, and sometimes through woods so thick that the
moonlight could not penetrate them; but the guide was provided with a
torch of pine, to prevent the danger of a false step. For the first part
of the journey they travelled on in silence, the guide amusing himself
with forming conjectures as to the object of Alfred's visit to the
charcoal burner after night had set in. "Can it be," he said to himself,
"a relation from the Indies, or from Algeria? I never heard that
Gervais had any relations in those parts. Or a creditor? No, that cannot
be, for my honest friend, I am sure, does not owe any one a single
penny. Or has he gained a prize in the lottery? He would consider it a
sin to risk the smallest fraction upon such a hazard. Ah! perhaps some
one has left him a legacy. So much the better, if it is so. I shall be
well paid for the trouble I have had. He is too good a fellow not to
reward me to the utmost of his power."
Thus it was that the guide employed himself in vain conjectures. When
the uncertain light by which they travelled, whether of the moon or of
the torch, fell sufficiently clear upon Alfred's features, he examined
them attentively, as if he could have read his secret in them. His
curiosity made him not less impatient to reach the charcoal furnace than
the young man himself. At length, by a sudden turn of the path, it
appeared at once before them. The wood, heaped in the form of a cone,
and covered with a thick coating of earth, was burning slowly, openings
being made at different heights on the mound, to give a passage to the
flames, and to afford a proper proportion of atmospheric air, to keep
them alive.
Alfred, though born in the neighbourhood, had never before visited a
charcoal furnace; but, new as the sight was to him, he did not pause
long to observe it. His attention was arrested by the hut which stood
near, built something in the form of a tent, and composed of planks
leaning on both sides against a cross-beam, which rested on two others
placed one at each end of the building. This kind of hut is common to
most of the charcoal burners of these mountains, where they make their
dwelling during the whole of the summer months, having no other bed than
dried leaves--no other apparent occupation than cutting and piling up
the wood, and watching their fires. One moment only Alfred stopped to
gaze upon this humble dwelling, compared with which the chalets of the
cowherds were almost splendid mansions; the next instant, his attention
was arrested by something far more interesting. A chorus of youthful
voices burst upon his ears, accompanied by one deep, clear bass, which
was powerful enough to support and regulate the trebles. They were
singing the following hymn, to a beautiful Swiss air, well known to
Alfred as one used in the churches of that Protestant canton--
"Look to Jesus, weary wanderer,
Sinful, wretched as thou art;
He is precious; thou shalt know it;
Only trust His loving heart.
"Trust it wholly; it was broken
That thine own might be at peace;
Every sin its streams atone for;
He can bid all anguish cease.
"Now He reigns above the heavens,
And shall reign for evermore;
But His mighty arm is guarding
Those for whom He died before.
"He shall come again in glory;
All creation shall bow down;
Those who seek not His salvation
Must endure His awful frown.
"Wait upon Him, then, His people;
Let Him be your constant strength;
Lean upon Him daily, hourly;
Ye shall reign with Him at length.
"May the Spirit of adoption,
Which our Heavenly Father gives,
Help us all and each to please Him
More each moment of our lives."
(_To be continued_.)
ENVY shoots at others and wounds itself.
WE should often have reason to be ashamed of our most brilliant actions,
if the world could see the motives from which they spring.
SCRIPTURE ENIGMA.
A PARABLE FROM A FARMER'S SON TO ALL GLEANERS.
I was born in a house where there were many fields attached--in fact, it
was called a farm-house, so, from a boy, I well knew what a "gleaner"
meant. I have seen all sizes in a field, picking up corn. But gleaning
is not so general as it used to be. One reason is, many farmers are too
covetous to leave much in their fields for gleaners. Another is, many
persons are too proud to be gleaners. But still there are many who are
entitled to the character of "gleaner."
Now, gleaners, let us come a little closer. First, there must be the
person known as the farmer; secondly, there must be the fields. These
fields must be sown with corn. It must ripen, be cut and carried. Then
is the time for the gleaner to take his or her part. The gleaners must
have a will, and patience to wait. They need eyes, hands, and feet.
At the time the farmer's son is writing this, gleaning is over. It is
winter. But he can tell gleaners of a farm containing sixty-six fields,
some much larger than others, but all the fields grow the best corn that
can be found at any market in the world. There is not one whole grass
field found on the farm. There are a number of young and old people live
near this farm, but they do not want to be gleaners. They look over the
gates sometimes, but, having eyes so much like the mole, they either do
not take that to be corn which is really so, or else they pursue other
things they feel are so much better than gleaning in any of these
fields; and not being very poor, but having enough gold to buy a few
oxen, they tell some of the farmer's workmen they prefer _buying_ or
_taking_ to gleaning, so they wish them "good morning"; but they are
very polite to the men they join in conversation with. Then there are
other people near these fields who say they hate the great farmer. In
fact, they are so evil-disposed that they talk freely of hating the
fields and the corn too; and there is not one workman on the estate they
will give a good word to. This the farmer's son can vouch for truth; and
he has a good many brothers belonging to his family, who could be called
as witnesses if there was any need.
But we must not overlook others who live near the farm. Most of them
dwell in a very low-built house; there is no upstairs. They live on the
ground floor, and not far from the spot where they dwell, some of the
labourers on the farm live, and they join in conversation occasionally.
But these poor people who dwell in the low-built cottages are shy, and
think they take a liberty even in saying a few words to these labourers;
and as for talking freely to the great farmer, they dare not. If he
passes, they only bow before him and look on the ground. You would
almost wonder how they are kept alive. They are nearly always hungry,
but, now and then, they get just enough to keep them alive.
When the "season" comes round, those that observe may soon find these
are the old-fashioned gleaners. They possess willing legs, eyes, and
hands. They use their legs by starting from their poor home; and, after
walking some distance, the road brings them to this farm of sixty-six
fields. These fields are all numbered. Some look at one field, and some
at another, but the hedges are all good. No one can get through them,
and a high gate is at each entrance. One of the gleaners looked with a
very wishful eye over the gate of the eighth field, and she desired to
be among the gleaners, but there was a notice that "trespassers will be
prosecuted." How earnestly the gleaner uses his eyes, and looks through
the bars of the gate; but there are no ears of corn to be seen at
present by him, so he cannot use his hands, though they are both ready
to pick up; and the thought comes, "No doubt there will soon be plenty
of corn seen, and, if I might, would I not pick up? I feel I would glean
beside any gleaner. If he could pick faster than I, he would have to be
very nimble. I do not know that the great landowner and farmer would
allow me to go into his field. But, though my hands now hang down, and I
cannot use them, I will go home and wait, and come again. If I cannot
get admission to one field, I may to another. I should be happy if I
could glean in the smallest field on the farm. Perhaps, when I come
again, that notice-board may be taken down. If so, I think I shall
venture into No. 8 or 17; but should I not have nerve enough, I shall
humbly ask one of the labourers, and if he says he does not know, I
will, if an opportunity occurs, bow myself to the earth and ask the
great owner. I have been told by some that he often appears as if he
could not condescend to speak to those that live in such a low house,
yet, if you press your suit, he will speak in the kindest manner, and
ask what you really want."
The farmer's son noticed, as this gleaner returned to his humble home,
one of the labourers greeted him with a "Good evening," and asked him
why he looked so sad? He replied, "I have been a long journey to glean
on the farm owned by your master, and I looked at the eighth field, but
could not see that there were any ears of corn for me to pick up; and
besides, I noticed a board, that 'trespassers will be prosecuted,' and
thoughts would keep coming in my mind as I returned, that possibly I
should never be admitted into any of the fields as a gleaner." The
labourer said, "You must not faint, but, as soon as the sun rises in the
morning, try and find the forty-second field, and most probably you will
find the gate open. If, as you enter, the first part of the field looks
bare, walk to almost the middle, and I think you will find some
gleanings to pick up." He returned thanks, bowed, and they parted.
The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, he arose and did as he was
bid. After reaching the field, he found the part where the ears of corn
lay, and he picked up as many as he needed. On his return, he met
several other gleaners who were seeking a field to glean in. He bade
them go to the same one where he had picked up an armful, and there they
would find the result of perseverance.
The parable is closed for this time. Will any reader, under twelve years
of age, expound it? Who are the farmer and the son? Who are the
labourers and gleaners? What are the sixty-six fields? And what are the
names of those specially referred to? Search from Genesis to Revelation.
Your true friend,
THE FARMER'S SON
(_Over fifteen years old_).
[A volume, "The Loss of All Things for Christ," will be given for the
best answer. The writer must be under twelve.]
BIBLE SUBJECTS FOR EACH SUNDAY IN JANUARY.
Jan. 1. Commit to memory 1 Chrn. v. 10.
Jan. 8. Commit to memory Psa. cxi. 10.
Jan. 15. Commit to memory Prov. viii. 10.
Jan. 22. Commit to memory Prov. viii. 32.
Jan. 29. Commit to memory John iv. 10.
WHAT the world calls virtue is a name and a dream without Christ. The
foundation of all human excellence must be laid deep in the blood of the
Redeemer's cross and in the power of His resurrection.--_Robertson._
AN OLD QUILT AND ITS STORY.
Among all the beautiful needlework exhibited in the "Woman's Industry
Department" of the recent Edinburgh Exhibition, many must have observed
a bed-quilt worked in a quaint conventional pattern, on a white linen
ground, which bore a label to the effect that it was "designed and
commenced by a Countess of Aberdeen towards the middle of the last
century, and recently completed by a crofter woman in Aberdeenshire."
Could the quilt tell its own tale, its history, no doubt, would be most
pathetic and interesting; but we will try, with the knowledge we have,
to lightly sketch that history.
The Countess who commenced it was Anne, daughter of Alexander, second
Duke of Gordon. The third wife of William, Earl of Aberdeen, she was
still a young woman when, by his death in 1745, she was left a widow.
Quitting Haddo, the home of her married life, she went with her young
family to reside in the fine old historic castle of Fyvie, a few miles
distant, which, with her dower, had been bought by the Earl as her
jointure house. The Countess seems to have been gifted with artistic
tastes, as she left in Haddo many evidences of her skill and
industry--several sets of beautifully-worked curtains, with
long-forgotten curious stitches, producing varied and admirable effects.
But the bright, pretty industry of the Countess was checked. Sickness,
to be followed by death, entered her home.
We may fancy that by her husband's sick-bed the first beginning of this
quilt was made--how, in the intervals of watching the invalid, a few
sprays and scrolls were delicately traced. But the summons had gone
forth, and, as death approached, the work, which had been in part the
occupation of happier days, and a resource in affliction, was thrown
aside.
When the widowed Countess had settled in a new home, and again faced the
ordinary duties of life, we need not wonder that she thought no more of
the discarded work left at Haddo House, but set herself to design afresh
and embroider the curtains which have ever since (until recently)
adorned a bed-room in Fyvie Castle.
Into these no doubt was woven many a thought for the Jacobite cause, and
many an anxiety for dear ones, as her own family, the ducal house of
Gordon, had been keen supporters of the Stuarts, and it is said that the
Countess came out on the road-side, near Fyvie Castle, with her
children, to see the Duke of Cumberland's troops pass on their way to
Culloden to put down the Scotch rebellion, and boldly avowed to him her
sympathy with his foe.
But what of the work the Countess left at Haddo House? As to it, our
history is silent for more than a hundred years. It has lain folded by
the fingers of the busy worker that have long been still. Sorrow and joy
have come by turns to the house--birth and death. Children have
prattled, and statesmen have discussed the affairs of nations. Those who
have made history have come and gone; philanthropy and romance have
alike been woven into the family story; but the piece of discarded
broderie has been unheeded.
At length the present Countess of Aberdeen, whose name will ever be
associated with earnest desire and effort for the good of others, and
whose taste and love of the beautiful led to her interest in such work,
unfolding the long-forgotten quilt, conceived the idea of having it
completed, if possible. To whom, however, could the beautiful work be
entrusted to be finished, by deft fingers and graceful appreciation?
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF A CROFTER'S COTTAGE.]
We now turn to another scene. About five-and-twenty years ago, on the
top of a bare hill in Fyvie, Aberdeenshire, stood a cottage, tenanted
by a crofter named Sandieson, with his wife and family. Though at a
comparatively high elevation, the land around was all cultivated, but,
arid and stony as the soil was, it seemed as if cultivation were one
long struggle against Nature, rather than aided by it. Life was hard;
still, contentment sweetened the peasant's lot, and they got on pretty
well till sickness during three successive winters told hardly on his
means. Father, mother, and children all worked; still the wolf was at
the door. Bed clothing was scant, and money to buy still scantier. A
mother's love and care quickened thought.
The woman, as she tells her story, bethought herself what she could do
for bedding for a covering against cold. Scraps she had, bits of old
clothes and stockings, and tacked them together, fold upon fold, to
attain a certain thickness; then, buying a pennyworth of log-wood, and
with it dyeing what had once been a tartan shawl, but which had long
lost all its colour, she spread it over her scraps for a cover. But,
alas! the holes were but too apparent.
Necessity again quickened invention. She selected some of the better
pieces of the old garments, cut them into the shape of leaves and birds,
and laid them on the holes, adding one or two more for uniformity, and
then, with a darning needle and "fingering" wool, she veined the leaves
and made effective marking on the birds.
Such was her first attempt at fancy work. An admiring neighbour asked
her to do a similar quilt for her, offering some scraps of new material.
Another commission followed, this time with the offer of green wool for
leaves. But one cold, hard green did not please the worker, now growing
daily more experienced and critical, so a visit was made to the little
country town a few miles distant, in search of greater variety in greens
and browns, the appreciation of Nature's varied tints becoming daily
stronger and clearer.
About this time, a lady to whom the woman had taken some work, on sight
gave her a quantity of old floss silks. The possession of these was a
new power to her, and from that time she rapidly acquired a skill in
shading leaves and flowers with a beauty which it is impossible to
describe.
A farmer from a little distance, having heard of her work, went to see
her. After looking at what, to him, seemed so marvellous, he turned to
her, and said, "Well, well, it's wonderful! But you will have to do no
more rough work to keep your hands fit for this; and how will that do
with the croft?"
"Indeed, sir," was her reply, "it would never do. But I assure you this
is not my only work, for I have just finished building a hundred and
thirty-four yards of a stone dyke with my own hands. My husband had work
elsewhere, which he could not afford to miss. The cattle were straying
where they should not, so I have just built it myself, the children
helping me by handing up the smaller stones."
After gaining some experience, Mrs. Sandieson gave up the earlier style
of work with which she had begun, and devoted herself almost entirely to
embroidery in silks. She has trained a daughter, who lives with her, to
work as well as herself, and no description can do justice to the beauty
of their finer work. Their designs are, with very few exceptions, their
own, and many of their pieces are singularly beautiful. They have even
copied the plate representing a peacock on a branch of a tree, from
Gould's "Asiatic Birds," and no one but those who have seen it, could
believe in the wondrous working of the bird, and in the feathers of the
neck, with the faint change of tint where it catches the light as the
bird turns its head. It is marvellous!
But copying flowers from nature is what they chiefly do, and their
careful observation and fidelity in representation are very
characteristic in their work. Trails of thunbergia, scarlet tropaeolum,
apple blossom, cherry, and bramble; willow, with its catkins, a little
titmouse on the branch; snowberry, with a robin perched on it; the red
and white lapageria, eucalyptus, pepper tree, and others are some of
their subjects. And this is what the crofter's wife, who commenced with
the old dyed shawl for a foundation, has, totally unaided, taught
herself and her daughter to accomplish; and this is the crofter's wife
who, one hundred and forty years afterwards, was employed by Lady
Aberdeen to finish the quilt which the Countess of 1745 had commenced.
Is there not a little pathos in the history of a piece of work begun and
completed in such different circumstances?
The work of these peasant-artists, mother and daughter, is now very well
known among ladies in Aberdeenshire, and has lately been brought under
the notice of Her Majesty, who condescended to purchase largely of it;
but the writer believes the quilt shown by Lady Aberdeen, in Edinburgh,
to be the only specimen that has been exhibited publicly.--_Ladies'
Treasury._
WONDERFUL GRACE.
John Dickson, a farmer in the parish of Ratho, near Edinburgh, was long
a stranger to the riches of divine grace. He paid no regard to the
sacred ordinances, or, if ever on the Lord's Day he entered the house of
God, it was more for a desire of ridiculing than profiting by what he
heard. The Word preached did not profit him, not being mixed with faith.
In this dreadful situation was he when his wife died, after bringing
into the world an infant daughter. The good providence of that gracious
God who calleth the weak things of this world to confound the strong had
ordained that the nurse of this child should be a woman of exemplary
faith, who walked in the Spirit, being sanctified by the Holy Ghost. The
carnal mind of the father still continued at enmity with God; but he
was, ere long, to be brought to a full conviction of his own
unworthiness, and a delightful experience of the riches of redeeming
love.
The child, being now about twenty months old, and beginning to prattle a
few words, was one day sent for by her father, who was sitting after
dinner with some of his profane acquaintances. To his great astonishment
the child repeated, two or three times, in its infant tones, "Oh, the
grace of God!" These words made a deep impression upon the father. He
began to reflect upon his sins, and the power of that grace which
cleanseth from sin, so long the subject of his impious ridicule. The
Holy Ghost had opened his heart, and now brought him, like a sheep that
had been astray, into the fold of divine love. Since that time he has
walked as becometh one called in the Lord, bringing forth fruit meet for
repentance. The words which, through the grace of God, became the happy
instrument of his conversion were the customary ejaculation of the godly
nurse, and had thus been learned by the infant. So truly was the
Scripture verified that "out of the mouths of babes and sucklings the
Lord hath ordained praise."
R.
ENDEAVOR to be always patient of the faults and imperfections of
others, for thou hast many faults and imperfections of thy own that
require a reciprocation of forbearance. If thou art not able to make
thyself that which thou wishest to be, how canst thou expect to mould
another in conformity to thy will?--_Thomas a Kempis._
MY STAGE-COACH COMPANION.
It was on a dull, chilly morning, I remember, that I left my country
home by the coach which was to convey me to London. I was then about
twenty years of age. I had never before been very far, or very long
absent from my father's house; and my young mind was filled with
thoughts of the pleasures in store for me in a long visit I was about to
pay to my London relations.
Among the enjoyments I most reckoned on, apart from the society of my
aunt and cousins, were those of the theatre, balls, and evening parties.
Very different engagements these, from the domestic duties and rural
recreations to which I had been accustomed in a retired country
residence.
Thoughts like these had softened the pain of separation from my kind and
indulgent parents; but there were tears in my eyes on bidding them
farewell, and I was glad to let fall my veil, to hide them from the only
passenger in the coach.
This passenger was a gentleman of middle age, well wrapped up in a
greatcoat of rather formal cut, and with a clerical-looking hat on his
head. He had a pleasant, though a rather serious expression of
countenance, as he lifted his eyes from the book he was reading. It was
not long before he shut up the book, and made some remarks about the
weather and the scenery. A short silence followed, which was broken by
my fellow-traveller saying that he had just been passing a few weeks in
a watering-place which I knew to be a fashionable one.
"I have never been there," I said. "I suppose it is a very gay place,
sir?"
"It is a fine town, and the country around it is very beautiful," said
the gentleman.
This was not the answer I expected, and I varied my question by
referring to the visitors and places of amusement, particularly
mentioning the theatre and the public assemblies.
The stranger smiled pleasantly, and said, "I saw only the outside of the
theatre; but during my stay there I was present at several public
assemblies."
"How very enchanting they must be!" I remarked, with youthful ardour.
"I am not sure that 'enchanting' is quite the right word," he said,
looking thoughtful; "but they were very delightful, certainly."
"They were crowded, I suppose, sir?"
"Yes, generally," he said, and added that, at the last of these public
assemblies, there were present more than a thousand people.
This seemed to me to be a great number, and to need a large assembly
room to hold them. I made some remark which led him to say that no doubt
there were many varieties of character present, and of different degrees
in life. "But," he added, "I have reason to know that many honourable
personages were to be met with there, and even the King Himself was
there."
"The King, sir? I did not know that the King ever visited ----"; and I
began to feel incredulous. I was not so ignorant as not to know that
King George the Fourth, in whose reign we were then living, had for some
time almost secluded himself from his subjects, and resided generally at
Windsor.
"I see," continued the stranger, speaking more earnestly and seriously
than before, "that you do not quite understand me; and I apprehend that
we have each been using the same words to express a different set of
ideas on which our minds have been fixed."
"I do not understand you, sir," I said, rather coldly.