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the incidents; the real secret of a nation's greatness is a sanctified motherhood. The AngloSaxon people will continue to march to the mastery of the world and be the teachers of truth, the arbiters of right and the proclaimers of peace, as long as they shall hold woman in loftiest regard and preserve the purity of the home.

Napoleon recognized the fostering influence of the home when he said: “What France wants is good mothers, and you may be sure then that France will have good sons. God has put into the hands of parents, at their own firesides, a power greater than that which Presidents or Kings and Queens wield and which issue either in the weal or woe of their children.

Our women sigh for fame. They would be poets to write songs to thrill a nation, but is the writing of any poem in musical lines as noble a work as the training of the powers of the soul immortal into harmony with God. Yet there are women,- how shall I say it sorrowfuly enough, - the number is increasingly large, - who regard the duties of motherhood as too obscure and com

monplace tasks for their hands, and soul-mothering is often left to a mere hireling. If you could be made to understand your own personal responsibility for the training of the child, for the development of its life and for its destiny, you would see that in all God's world there is no work so noble and so worthy of your best powers, and you would commit to no other hands the sacred trust given to you.

We are drifting away from the home. Our nation wants virtuous citizens and honest rulers. They must come in the future, as they came in the past, from homes where good mothers keep watch. If you mothers could lift up the veil and catch a glimpse of the momentous future and realize that in the secrecy of your homes you are determining, through your children, what that future shall be, your soul would be fired with a patriotism which would lead you to make your child an offering on the altar of God. To mothers God has committed the destiny of the world, and when we reflect that in this land alone there are something like six millions of mothers, with millions of infants to be moulded by a mother's plastic hand and quenchless love,- the prayer rises spontaneously from our hearts that God would bless the mothers of our land. In our homes lie the great element of power and hope for our country. The springs of our Republic's prosperity lie in well trained families. It has grown into a proverb that the home has ever been the nursery of great men and mothers their instructors.

Whatever else you slight, let it never be your home-making. If you do nothing else in this world, at least build well within your own doors. Home is the chief place of your duty, and no public objects of any kind must be allowed to interfere with it. Your business is not to attend to outside charities until you have made your own home all that your wisest thought and best skill can make it. Where are you going, Mamma?” asked a child of ten of her mother, whom she had seen but a few minutes each day for a week. To see some poor little orphan, my child. I am on the committee and it is my week. Now run

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away, dearie, to your nurse." “Well, I wish I was an orphan," answered the child,“ then sometimes maybe you would stay at home with me." It will never do to serve God with time taken from family duty.

The last and most beautiful song that Mozart sang was his Requiem. After giving it its last

. touch he fell into a gentle slumber. When the light footstep of his daughter Emilie awoke him, he said, “Come hither, my Emilie,- my task is done — the requiem — my requiem is finished.”

Say not so, dear father," said Emilie, “you must be well again. You look better, even now your cheek has a glow upon it. Let me bring you something refreshing.” “Do not deceive your

"

“ self, my love," said the dying father, wasted form can never be restored by human aid. You spoke of refreshments, my Emilie — take these, my last notes — sit down to my piano here — sing them with the hymn of your sainted moth

let me once more hear those tones which have so long been my solace and delight.” With

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a voice enriched with tenderest emotion, Emilie

sang:

Spirit! thy labor is o'er!

Thy term of probation is run,
Thy steps are now bound for the untrodden shore

And the race of immortals begun.

Spirit! look not on the strife,

Or the pleasures of life with regret, -
Pause not on the threshold of limitless life

To mourn for the thing that is set.

Spirit! no fetters can bind,

No wicked have power to molest;
There the weary like the wretched shall find

A haven, a mansion of rest.

Spirit! how bright is the road

For which thou art now on the wing,
Thy home it will be, with thy Saviour and God,

Their loud hallelujah to sing.

Turning from the instrument, she looked in silence for the approving smile of her father. It was the still, passionless smile which the rapt and joyous spirit left with the seal of death upon those features. He had gone on the wings of his own requiem. There is no requiem so sweet for the

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