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should know where he was, and he knew little of them. He had in some way heard that his mother was dead, and he feared that his own misconduct had broken her heart.

10. Thank God that in His mercy this bitterness was spared from his cup. His mother still lived, still loved him as of old. He would write to her—

would tell her all, all his sins, his sorrows - would ask her forgiveness, her blessing. He kissed his mother's letter, read it again, and then lifted up his heart to God, the first time for long years.

11. He sought the soldier to whom had fallen his mother's socks, offering his own and money for them. "Then it was your mother that knit them, was it?" questioned the rough soldier when he heard the strong desire of "Boy George" to obtain them. Well, you shall have them; give me your duds, and take them."

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12. How precious those socks seemed to him! Every stitch wrought by his mother's kind hand; and with every stitch a sigh heaved, or a prayer breathed. He seemed to hear the sighs and prayers; he held the socks in his hand, and dropped tear after tear upon them, until his heart was moved, so softened that he fell upon his knees, as he had not done since he was a child, and prayed, “ God forgive

me!"

13. It was broad daylight, and no work to be done in the house, when Widow Randall dropped her knitting-work just as she was binding off the heel, never taking care to fasten her needles, and letting her ball roll on the floor. One of her neighbors had brought her a letter which he said “had come from the war," and he "mistrusted that it might be from John, or might tell something about him." No wonder, then, that the mother dropped her needles quickly and forgot her ball. News from John! John alive!

14. She read: "Dear Mother-How shall I write you? I am alive, but I shall never see you again, never hear you speak my forgiveness. I am mortally wounded, and have not long to live. The socks with your note in them came just before the battle. They broke me all up, and sent me to my knees before God. Bless you, mother, that you never forgot me, never forgot to pray for me; and it is your prayers that have led me to pray at last. How I have mourned for you, mother! I heard you were dead, and feared it was my unkindness that caused your death. May God and you both forgive your repentant and dying son."

15. The full fountain so long sealed is at last opened. The eyes that have not wept for many a year weep now. Joy, grief, which is uppermost?

Which is strongest? Widow Randall knows that she is childless, but she knows that her son died repentant and prayerful. She knows, too, that her labor has not been in vain; not in vain the bread cast on the wide waters; not in vain her hope, and patience, and prayer.

MRS. P. H. PHELPS.

XXVI. TWO ANGELS

I. Two angels came and spoke to me.
The face of one was full of beauty;

The other wore a sadder look;

And these their names were: Joy and Duty.

2. I said to Joy, "I'll follow thee

3.

4.

Wherever thou shalt go to lead me;

I'll serve thee with a willing hand

Wherever thou may'st chance to need me.”.

But Joy said, "No, it may not be,
Because we twain are sister graces,
And Duty is the elder one;

We never dare to change our places.

"But follow on where Duty calls,

And I will evermore attend thee;

And while thou servest at her will
My presence I will surely lend thee."

Selected.

XXVII. THE WOUNDED BIRD

I. I was once camping out with some boys in Napa Valley, which stretches from the northern extremity of San Pablo Bay about fifty miles up among the grassy and wooded peaks of the Coast Range, and is one of the loveliest of all the valleys in the "Golden State."

2. It has a delightful climate, never being very warm, having no snow and very little frost. People who reside in San Francisco, instead of going to the seaside or to the springs when they need rest and recreation, often choose this charming spot. They spend days, and even weeks, in tramping and shooting in the valley and among the hills, cooking their food by a camp fire, and sleeping in a tent at night, or in the open air, under the clearest and balmiest sky you ever saw.

3. As I said, I was once camping in this valley with some boys. Early one morning we went out to get for our breakfast one of the hares which are so plentiful. We had gone a little way, and were just passing out of a fine shady grove into the open field, when we saw a California woodpecker on a bush fence before us, acting very strangely.

4. Its pretty snow-white and jet-black feathers were all rough and drooping; its bill was turned

downward, and hid in the feathers of its breast; the little red crest, above the red and white cap on its head, stuck straight out and pointed directly toward us. The bird made a curious kind of noise, different from its usual cry, and on the whole behaved so strangely that we all stopped to look at it.

5. It did not fly away; it did not seem frightened at our guns, but got off the fence and came directly toward us, and at last hopped upon the boot of one of the boys, and then tried to climb up to his hand by clinging to his clothing with its claws.

6. The boy reached down and took up the bird. It did not flutter, nor struggle, nor try to get away, but lay quiet in his hand. I soon saw that it was wounded in the crop, and, in dressing the wound, the under part of its bill had become entangled among the matted feathers in such a way that the poor bird could neither get it out nor shut its mouth.

7. I quickly relieved it, and then it flew up into the trees over our heads, singing with all its might in its wild, rattling way, as if it were gratefully saying, "I thank you! I thank !"

you

8. How strange that the little woodpecker should know exactly where to go to find relief in its trouble! How much stranger still that it should be brave enough to apply for help to boys with guns, who perhaps might destroy it!

- J. D. STRONG.

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