eminent authorities have even asserted, that, in their opinion, it is no longer extant. There is, however, a diminutive piece in the U. S. mint, which is said, by Col. Snowdon, to have been found near the site of the temple at Jerusalem, and which appears to be a genuine, ancient mite. It is smaller than a silver three-cent piece, is composed of a mixture of tin and copper, and bears no distinguishing mark but the Greek letter Lambda, the initial of the word Lepton.

The passages of Scripture, which relate to the widow's contribution of two mites, have been greatly misused by those, who attempt to use them as a cloak for their own covetousness. It should be remembered, that it is only from widows-and poor widows-that God will accept mites; from others, He requires talents. Nevertheless, among those, whose crowns are brightest in the celestial world, there are none more glorious than the poor, whose gifts were enriched by saving faith, and who, though able to give but little, cast in all that they had.

NO HARM IN A GLASS OF WINE.

BY THIRZA.

"There is no harm in a glass of wine," said a friend, one day. "Drink; it will strengthen you.'

On my way home, with her words sounding in my ears, I thought of a story of a glass of wine, that a friend had told me long ago. She was traveling on a steamer, with some relatives, and as the weather was very warm, one of them proposed a cooling drink. "What shall we have, Bertha?" he asked of her. She said she had been accustomed to the use of wine at home, and without fear of evil consequences, replied, "Iced champagne would be pleasant."

Three years from that time, that young man was a confirmed drunkard; a grief and a trouble to all his family. One day, deeply distressed about him, this lady tried kindly to remonstrate with him; urging him to give up his intemperate habits. "Bertha," said he, "the champagne I ordered, at your suggestion, was the first glass of wine I ever drank.”

Bitterly did my friend repent of her thoughtlessness, but no repentant efforts could bring back the one, whom she had been the means of leading into temptation; and too late to save him at least, she resolved never to take wine again, unless it was ordered by her physician.

Do you think this was an extreme case, and that you and I need not be so rigid; that there are none whom we could harm in this way? God does give us luscious, beautiful grapes, that refresh and strengthen us; but I question whether He ever intended us to press and ferment their juices, until they became a power for evil all through the world; a power that bound men and women as with fetters of iron, and led them helpless slaves straight to misery, poverty, disgrace and death.

No one can deny that Intemperance is coming in upon the land like a mighty flood; and that many of our noblest and most generous natures are constantly being borne upon its dangerous and rapid current, and are powerless to "stem the flood."

We acknowledge this, "in the abstract," as our Scotch friends say; but how is it with us, how does it, how ought it, to affect us? If there is one among us who can say, "I have no friend or relative who has been led astray by wine," that man ought to consider himself supremely blest.

Any one visiting among the poor, is able to trace seven-eighths of their poverty and suffering to intemperance; seven-eighths of our prisoners became such from the results of strong drink; the poor man's earnings spent for liquor, his wife and family in want and misery at home, sometimes, too, in fear and danger of their lives, is an every-day tale.

Since these things are so, what is our duty, yours and mine, my friend, in regard to Temperance? Shall we sip our wine serenely, and say, "Let those, who have not moral courage enough to resist temptation, sign temperance pledges; we need no such safe-guard; there is no fear of our disgracing ourselves, or our families, by drinking more than we ought."

Years ago, we heard a young man, the pride and delight of a large circle of friends, reply on this wise, to a friend, who feared that he was acquiring a taste for wine. "Do you think that I could ever stoop so low, could ever so disgrace you all?" Ten years later, he was on the verge of death, from intemperance; was saved from it as by fire, saved only by witnessing the grief and agony he brought upon those who loved him best. "I will take the pledge, if it kills me," said he, in reply to the entreaties of a friend. He did take the pledge, and, humanly speaking, it has "saved him, (to use his own words) from ruin, and worse than ruin."

Since total abstinence is for many the only safe-guard, since wine is a sore temptation to them, are we not, as Christians, responsible for our example?

St. Paul's advice to Timothy, purely medical, beyond a doubt, and suited to his peculiar necessities, has been the glory of moderate drinkers for years. They quote it triumphantly; they are the

victors, we the vanquished. If the prescription had been a more nauseous one, we should hear less about it.

But let us see what are St. Paul's teachings on Temperance. Plainly, and clearly, so that he who runs may read, and mistake not; he says: "It is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth, or is made weak." "And through thy knowledge shall the weak brother perish, for whom Christ died?"

"When ye sin against the brethren, and wound their weak conscience, ye sin against Christ."

"Wherefore, if meat make my brother to offend, I will eat no meat while the world standeth."

Meat offered to idols, is no temptation to our brethren in these days; but strong drink poured in exhaustless libations upon the altar of self-indulgence, is a stumbling block in many a brother's way. If Christian people would only strive to be consistent! St. Paul would have deprived himself of meat, a necessity of existence, for a weaker brother's sake; whilst we, professing to strive to carry out his teachings, are unwilling to deprive ourselves of what is only a luxury, often a real injury to us.

If Christian people wish to accomplish anything, in the great warfare which must be waged constantly, against the hosts of evil in the world, they must be consistent; if they wish their weaker brethren to give up habits, that are leading them astray, they can teach them a thousand times better by example than by precept.

It seems to be fashionable in the world, and sometimes even in the Church, to look down from heights of condescending pity upon all temperance reforms. There are Christians, who pride themselves upon being allowed so many of the indulgences of the world, that they often frown on those, who feel that there must be, somewhere, a marked dividing line. Neutrality, however, is often dangerous, and sometimes criminal,

"Right is right, since God is God,

And right the day must win,
To doubt, would be disloyalty,
To falter, would be sin."

If our Pastors and Sunday-school Teachers would preach and teach temperance, total abstinence, to their children, how would the millenian dawn be hastened. A world freed from all the evils that intemperance brings with it, would be "like a little heaven below."

Dear reader, it would perhaps cost you not the least effort to say: "God helping me, for the sake of my weaker brethren, I will touch wine no more." For their sake, for the sake of their sor

rowing, suffering wives and children, I implore you to take this stand, and give the whole weight of your example and influence against the use, sale and manufacture of intoxicating drinks.

If, as professing Christians, we persist in practices that bring sorrow and ruin to our weaker brethren, are we not responsible for our influence, and will not our brother's blood be eventually required at our hands?

A WESTERN DROVER'S STORY.

My name is Anthony Hunt. I am a drover, and I live miles and miles away upon the Western prairie. There wasn't a home within sight when we moved there, my wife and I, and now we haven't many neighbors, though those we have are good ones.

One day, about ten years ago, I went away from home to sell some fifty head of cattle-fine creatures as ever I saw. I was to buy some groceries and some dry goods before I came back, and above all, a doll for our youngest, Dolly; she had never had a shop doll of her own, only the rag babies her mother had made her. Dolly could talk of nothing else, and went down to the very gate to call after me to "buy a big one." Nobody but a parent can understand how my mind was on that toy, and how, when the cattle were sold, the first thing I hurried off to buy was Dolly's doll. I found a large one, with eyes that would open and shut when you pulled a wire, and had it wrapped up in a paper and tucked it up under my arm, while I had the parcels of calico and delaine and tea and sugar put up. It might have been more prudent to stay until morning, but I felt anxious to get back, and eager to hear Dolly's prattle about her doll.

I mounted on a steady-going old horse of mine, and pretty well loaded. Night set in before I was a mile from town, and settled down dark as pitch, while I was in the middle of the wildest bit of road I know of. I could have felt my way though, I remembered it so well, and it was almost that when the storm that had been brewing, broke, and pelted the rain in torrents, five miles, or may be six, from home too.

I rode on as fast as I could, but all of a sudden I heard a little cry like a child's voice! I stopped short and listened. I heard it again. I called and it answered me. I couldn't see a thing! All was dark as pitch. I got down and felt about the grass-called again, and again it was answered. Then I began to wonder. I'm

not timid, but I was known to be a drover, and to have money It might be a trap to catch me unawares and rob and

about me. murder me.

I am not superstitious-not very-but how could a real child be out on the prairie in such a night, at such an hour? It might be more than human.

The bit of a coward that hides itself in most men showed itself to me then, and I was half inclined to run away; but once more I heard that cry, and said I, "If any man's child is hereabouts, Anthony Hunt is not the man to let it die."

I searched again. At last I bethought me of a hollow under the hill, and groped that way. Sure enough I found a little dripping thing that moaned and sobbed as I took it in my arms. I called my horse and the beast came to me, and I mounted, and tucked the little soaked thing under my coat as well as I could, promising to take it home to mammy. It seemed tired to death, and pretty soon cried itself to sleep against my bosom.

It had slept there over an hour, when I saw my own windows. There were lights in them, and I supposed my wife had lit them for my sake, but when I got into the door yard, I saw something was the matter, and stood still with dead fear of heart five minutes before I could lift the latch. At last I did it, and saw the room full of neighbors, and my wife amidst them weeping. When she saw me, she hid her face.

"Oh, don't tell him," she said, "it will kill him."

"What is it, neighbors ?" I cried.

And one said, "Nothing now, I hope-what's that in your

arms ?"

"A poor lost child," said I, "I found it on the road. Take it, will you, I've turned faint," and I lifted the sleeping thing and saw the face of my own child, my little Dolly.

It was my darling, and no other, that I had picked up upon the drenched road.

My little child had wandered out to meet "daddy" and doll, while her mother was at work, and whom they were lamenting as one dead. I thanked heaven on my knees before them all. It is not much of a story, neighbors, but I think of it often in the nights, and wonder how I could bear to live now, if I had not stopped when I heard the cry for help upon the road, the little baby cry, hardly louder than a squirrel's chirp.

That's Dolly yonder, with her mother, in the meadow, a girl worth saving-I think, (but then, I'm her father and partial may be)--the prettiest and sweetest thing this side of the Mississippi.The Sword and Trowel.