The tempted, trying from the lure
Of sin to turn away,

And lead their feet to better paths,
Who long have gone astray.

Such is the work which Christ expects
From all who bear His name.
The callous heart that will not help,
The very birds will shame.

Fly on, brave ocean birds, and bear
Your message o'er the main ;
Your tale of help tell far and wide,
It will not be in vain.

Bearing each other's Burdens.

HEN George Moore, the well-known philanthropist, was a young man in a wholesale house in London, he was the means of securing a situation for his

younger brother William in a West-end house. William's duty was to carry out and deliver the parcels of goods that had been bought by customers during the day. He was delicate, and found the work very fatiguing. He was ignorant of the streets, and found it difficult. George, whose hours were shorter, at once went to his help. As soon as his own work was over, he put on an old coat and went from the City to the West End to deliver his brother's parcels. Many a winter's night did he walk through wind and rain with heavy parcels on his shoulders, to deliver them to the customers, thus literally bearing his brother's burdens. What George Moore did literally we may all do really and spiritually. By sympathy and practical help, by counsel and example, we who are strong may remove and lighten the load and bear the infirmities of the weak, and so fulfil the law of Christ.

R. ERSKINE of Linlathen was distinguished by his large capacity for sympathy, which gave him great power as a consoler. His single look, we are told, in one instance exercised quite a singular influence. The story was told him of one living at the time in the same hotel with him in Switzerland, upon whom had been flung such a burden of sorrow as inflicted intense mental agony. Just as Mr. Erskine had taken in the whole tale of grief, the sufferer entered the room. They did not know each other, were not introduced, but such was the effect of the look of sympathy that Mr. Erskine bent upon him that the sufferer threw himself into his arms and laid his head upon his shoulder weeping.

A capacity for sympathy like this is not given to every one, but all of us can weep with those who weep, and so, by the cultivation and exercise of sympathy, increase our power to console those who are in trouble. By a right use of the trials that befal ourselves, by seeking to have the mind of Christ, and by due consideration of the character, circumstances, and sorrows of others, we may become skilful comforters.

No Labour in bain in the Lord.

REMEMBER," writes Dr. Marsh, "a good minister, who said, when leaving a country parish for a charge in London, 'I do not know that I have

been a blessing to one soul in this place.' But not long after this he received a letter signed by a hundred and twenty persons, thanking him for the good they had derived from his ministry." A faithful and prayerful discharge of religious, moral, and social duties and services can never be in vain in the Lord. All these persons did not profess to have been converted by means of the ministry referred to, but to have got good from it, probably in various

ways and degrees. It should ever be remembered that the purpose of the Christian ministry is twofold, converting and edifying. To one man is given more of the one gift, to another of the other. Both are necessary. Both should be valued in their respective places and for their respective purposes.

A Story of the Old Hundredth.

AR in a northern glen, a child

They sung of home and fatherland,
In plaintive Doric lays,

And of the deeds by heroes done
Who lived in ancient days;

Of gatherings of the highland clans,
With claymore armed and shield,
And many a struggle, wild and fierce,
Upon the battlefield.

And ever at the twilight hour,
When day drew to a close,
The sacred strains of holy psalms
Upon the air arose.

Their even-song to Him who gives

To His beloved sleep,

That through the watches of the night
Their spirits He would keep.

Thus day by day, until at last
The hour of parting fell:

To distant lands her boy went forth
The mother loved so well.

Then many a year went by while she
Within her cottage mourned:
Her lad that went to foreign lands
Had never more returned.

A pirate crew had sunk his ship
Upon the Moorish sea,

And he was sold an exiled slave,
To toil in Barbary.

Yet still although a captive held
Upon a foreign shore,

He sung the songs of fatherland,
His songs in days of yore.

And ever at the eve there rose,
Amidst the clustering palms,
Upon the wings of holy song,
The words of holy psalms,

That told of God his portion sure

In want and misery,

Who as the streams in Southern lands, Doth turn captivity.