you wisely abstain from "casting pearls before swine, or giving that which is holy unto dogs." Prayer is the sign of moral fitness, an indication of awakened consciousness,-a proof that the heart, like a ploughed field, is duly prepared for precious seed, and ready to give back a manifold increase; but, to scatter blessings on one too callous either to crave or appreciate them, is like sowing on the pavement, or dropping gold into a dead man's palm. And what is true of Divine knowledge applies with equal weight to God's goodness. His love is unbounded. You cannot scale its heights, nor fathom its depths, nor measure its length and breadth. No wordy eloquence, no passionate appeals, are required to stir its eternal fountains and draw forth its healing streams. It is a breast of unutterable tenderness and an arm of unfailing succour. But, because "God is love," it is lame logic to conclude that He must lavish its treasures equally on those who solicit and on those who spurn them. You refuse money to a spendthrift son, not because you love him less, but because you will not abet him in his wild and ruinous excesses. Heaven's kindness is not an amiable weakness, blind, impulsive. Its gifts are distributed with unerring discrimination; and such gifts were no kindness to a man whose impiety would turn them into maledictions, pervert them to his own hurt, and so fatten him for speedier slaughter. In short, prayer takes what love offers, and what, without prayer, can never be personally appropriated; and, while God's wisdom and goodness are both limitless, the Divine rule of giving ever remains the same: Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you." Prayer, finally, is assumed to be useless, because of the withholding of God's answer. It can hardly be denied that there is much praying which ends in nothing; which is apparently void and futile, in so far as the attainment of its avowed object is concerned. It falls still-born from the lips, and is buried in the dust of abortive and forgotten things. Instances of this are too amply furnished in the experience even of devout persons, whose supplications sometimes seem a mere talking into vacancy. No answering voice reaches them from the eternal silences; no Hand is stretched forth from the brazen firmament, bringing them the desired boon; life and its surroundings go on in the old maimed sad way, as if mercy-seat and Divine almoner were an illusion and a mockery. What is the use of presenting requests which pass thus unheeded? Why persist in asking for that which never comes? Would it not be better to have done with this bootless leaning on invisible supports, and to bear in dumb stoicism the ills which cannot be escaped? Now, to argue after this fashion, is to jump at totally false conclusions. Are we so absolutely faultless on our side, that the only bar to the blessing must needs be traced to Almighty indifference? In our ignorance, do we never covet what, if vouchsafed, would prove an injury rather than a benefit? Shall the beggar, or the benefactor, determine what it is best to impartand how and when? While we are yet waiting for it, may not the answer already be given in another shape, not in the removal of the "thorn in the flesh," but in the ministry of "sufficient grace"? Like the man in the fable, is there not an indolent proneness to beseech God to do, precisely what He expects us to do, and what He has given us the power of doing ourselves? Have we any warrant for supposing that the Searcher of hearts will honour petitions which are mumbled as from a talking machine, without an element of earnestness, sincerity, penitence, or faith, in them? Too frequently, are we not as children who shoot arrows at random and lose them, instead of taking deliberate aim and watching longingly till they have hit the mark? Does delay necessarily mean denial; or does it not rather mean that, though the blessing tarry, it shall not fail when the fitting time for its bestowal has arrived? In whose name make we our approaches unto God? in the name of our own self-righteousness; or in the name of the appointed Mediator, through whom alone the guilty can find acceptance? Alas! there are causes enough to account for unanswered prayer, without impugning its efficacy when rightly offered; and, as the angler does not fling away his rod because no fish is caught at once, but quietly sets his bait afresh, and patiently bides his time, so the man, whose cries to Heaven have brought him as yet no syllable of comfort, should not relinquish his suit in despondency or disgust, but should free it from human blemishes, put into it more fervour and trustfulness, and await with confidence an ultimate response which shall exceed even his brightest hopes. Instead, therefore, of pleading untenable objections, let the worth of prayer be tried and tested by individual experience. Kneel often at the gate of the temple called Beautiful, where God dispenses His bounties, and sends no seeking soul empty away. Whatever is sunny in life, prayer will glorify; whatever is mournful, it will gladden,—for it "availeth much." Pardon, holiness, peace, immortality,-all the precious fruits of Christ's redemption, it will make your own. And, like the staff wherewith Moses smote the flinty rock, it will open springs in the desert, whose living waters shall refresh and cheer you until earth's struggles are over, and you enter into REST. teasing; and really, Bessie, it is too foolish for a little girl as old as you are, to be so afraid of nothing at all." "Oh dear!" cried Bessie, almost in tears, "if you could only be a little girl again for about five minutes, mamma, and have a big, horrid boy spring out at you," "I think if I were that little girl," interrupted her mother, "I should walk straight along, and try not to mind him. Caspar isn't a bad boy at all, only mischievous, like many other boys. He doesn't wish to make you really unhappy, dear, I am sure: and if any one told him that it was unkind, I think he would stop." 'No; he is very cruel," said Bessie, decidedly. "His eyes are so big and black, and he snaps them hard at me, and-and-sometimes I almost hate him." The last words were said in a very low tone, for Bessie knew they were naughty. Her mother answered gravely, "I am sorry to hear you speak so. It is a dreadful thing to hate anybody. Perhaps you won't dislike Caspar so much when I tell you something about him." Bessie hung her head and was silent, and her mother continued, 66 'Caspar's mother died when he was quite a little child, and I don't think he can remember her at all. She was a good woman, and would have taught Caspar to be gentle and kind. His father is hardly ever at home, you know, and so he sees very little of him; and I am afraid that Mrs. Brown, who keeps house for them, does not take the care of them she might, and is anything but kind to them. Since he was quite little, he has run wild about the streets, with hardly any one to teach him any good. Strong boys do not know how easily little girls are frightened, or how very much they suffer from fear. If they did, I am sure most of them would stop teasing, for it really is very cruel sport." Yes, that would be grateful; I can understand that," said Bessie, "but not how it can make me like them any better." "Well, dear, the best way to understand it is to do it, and then see what happens afterward. Will you try, darling?" "I don't think I shall have a chance," said Bessie, doubtfully. "I don't like to go very near him." 66 There, we got by his house some time ago," said her mother, "and didn't even have a sight of him. How foolish it would have been to go round by the other street! We should not have gained anything by being cowards." The next morning, Bessie had nearly reached school in safety, when she heard from the other side of the hedge an unearthly screech, which nearly made her hair stand on end. Though she really could not help starting a little, she remembered her mother's good advice, and only walked a little faster toward the school-house. Caspar could not come near to trouble her in school time, for the two children were in different classes; and, besides, the teacher was too good and strict to let the scholars play teasing tricks upon each other. When play-time came, the little boys and girls took down their luncheon-baskets before going out to play; but Caspar wandered about the room with his hands in his pockets, whistling. "Eat your lunch quick, Caspar," said another boy, 66 or we shan't have time for that game of ball." "I shan't keep you waiting long," replied Caspar. I haven't a scrap of lunch to-day; so I'm ready whenever you are." 66 "Why, what did you do with it?" Oh," said Caspar, carelessly, "Mrs. Brown got angry with my dog this morning, and said he stole some meat off the table; so I couldn't have any lunch. I didn't see why, exactly, but it's no matter; I shall only have a better appetite for dinner, I suppose." Just as he said this, he caught sight of Bessie, who was leaning over her desk, holding out to him a sandwich in one hand and a pear in the other. As he looked toward her, the timid little girl grew frightened at her own boldness, and drew back quickly. Caspar did not understand her motion, and thought she meant to tease him by holding something out and then taking it back. So, running up to her desk, he roguishly snatched away the pear, and ran around the room, at last coming back and holding it just out of her reach, pretending to take bites out of it, and saying, "Don't you wish you could get it?" "I meant it for you in the first place, and the sandwich too," said Bessie, quite offended; "but I did think you'd take 'em politely, and not snatch like a-a-annamul." Caspar dropped the fruit as if it had been hot. "I don't want your poor little pear," said he, looking thoroughly ashamed. "I'm sorry, but I thought you were only trying to bother a fellow." "Oh, but you must take it," Bessie said, eagerly. "I have had all I want, really and truly." Caspar looked for a moment with longing eyes on the sandwich, which seemed very much nicer than the stale scraps with which Mrs. Brown usually favoured him. Then he shook his head, and turned to go away; but Bessie was too quick for him. She suddenly raised the sandwich to his lips, and he had to put up one hand to keep it from falling. Then she put the pear into his other hand, and ran away as fast as she could, rather frightened at what she had done, to tell the truth, but rather glad too. Part of the way to and from school lay through a field, and through this field ran a brook. This brook was just too wide to step or jump over, but a plank was laid across it, which the children used as a bridge. On this particular afternoon, Bessie was a little behind the rest of the children, and when she came to the edge of the brook, all the others had crossed over. But, just as she was going to follow them, a naughty, rude boy, on the other side, pulled away the plank, and left her with no way of getting across. Fortunately, at this very minute, Caspar happened to turn round, saw poor Bessie's plight, and came running toward her. It did not take long to put back the little bridge, though he got pretty well splashed in doing so; and then he helped Bessie across as carefully as if they had always been the best of friends. All the other children had gone, so they walked along together, neither speaking for a minute or two; but at last Caspar said, "You were good to give me your lunch to-day, Bessie. What made you do it? I know I'm rather ugly to you sometimes, What did make you, any way ?" Bessie was rather confused at this question, and twisted and untwisted the handle of her bag, before she could say: "I thought, maybe-my mother said you see,' and then she got very red in the face; for she was too kind-hearted to tell him about her talk with her mother, and did not know what else to answer. But Caspar spoke instead, "Well; I know why, if you don't. It's because you're a jolly, goodnatured little thing; and I think you'd keep house for us a lot better than Ma'am Brown,-give me plenty of cakes, and all that sort of thing. Well; I won't howl at you over the fence any more. I suppose you don't like it much, do you?" "Oh, thank you," said Bessie, gratefully; "and if you'd please not PICKINGS FROM MY PORTFOLIO. I LOVE to think that what seems to be the mystery of the silence of death which envelopes so many that we loved on earth, is not really a mystery. Our friends are separated from us because they are lifted higher than our faculties can go. Our child dies. It is the last we can see of him here. He is lifted so far above us that we cannot follow him. He was our child; he was cradled in our arms; he clambered upon our knees. But instantly, in the twinkling of an eye, God took him, and lifted him up into His own sphere. And we see him not. But it is because we are not yet developed enough. We cannot see things spiritual with carnal eyes. But they who have walked with us here, who have gone beyond us, and whom we cannot see, are still ours. They are more ours than they ever were before. We cannot commune with them as we once could, because they are infinitely lifted above those con ditions in which we are able to commune. We remain here, and are subject to the laws of this realm. They have gone where they speak a higher language and live in a higher sphere. But this silence is not the silence of vacuity, and this mystery is not the mystery of darkness and death. Theirs is the glory; ours is the waiting for it. Theirs is the realization; ours is the hoping for it. Theirs is the perfection; ours is the immaturity striving to be ripe. And when the day comes that we shall disappear from these earthly scenes, we shall be joined to them again: not as we were-for we shall not then be as we were-but as they are with God. We shall be like them and Him.-H. W. Beecher. SOME good Christians have a great deal of trouble in this world. The reason of it is that God is preparing them for very great happiness in heaven. Last summer, when in the |