shall I do? I don't know how he went-I don't knowdon't ask me-I only know he's gone. God be pitiful ! but-" she gasped-"If he'd only had a prayer-just a prayer!"

My tears fell like rain while the woman, with strong gasps, sobbed out these broken sentences. I shall never forget it—never. It comes before me, that death chamber, at all times; but especially when I am tempted to forget my duty. Pale faces are not passed by, for I whisper, "Remember poor Jack!" Oh! it has been a life-long

lesson."

I buried poor Jack, and his mother shall never want a friend while I live. God make me pitiful towards all poor widows, poor orphans, and all the dear Lord's poor. Sent by G. T. HALL,

THOUGHTS FOR LITTLE MINDS.
ON SALT.

"Ye are the salt of the earth."-Matt. v. 13.

THE fourth chapter of Matthew contains the account of Christ calling his disciples, and deputing to them their work, "fishers of men." In the fifth, he further tells them that he designs them to be "the salt of the earth," "lights of the world." Jesus generally seized on some object to illustrate his views, and to serve as a comparison. On this the first occasion of his preaching to his disciples he tells them he wishes them to be as salt. Now salt is a very useful article, an important auxiliary to the necessities of man, and a great commercial commodity. How encouraging it would be to the disciples; they might be treated with contempt, be derided, despised, yet their Master assures them they shall be a blessing. The prophets who had lived long ages before them were the salt of the land of Canaan; but these poor fishermen, tent-makers, &c., were

Juvenile Biography,

Death, cruel, death, is no. respect of persons. He with his withering breath blasts the lovely flowers and tender plants, and with his cruel hand he removes the little trees as they are about to burst forth into bloom and beauty. He bathes the tender heart of an affectionate mother in a sea of grief, and the expectations of an indulgent father he blasts with the wind of sorrow. He has entered the garden of Camp-street, Wednesbury (Darlaston circuit), and plucked one of its lovely flowers, WILLIAM FELLOWS, aged 12 years, son of Mr. and Mrs. Samuel and Esther Fellows. He entered our school very young, and his general demeanour was almost unparalleled, for he grew up as a well watered plant. He shot deep and rose high, and bid fair for a lofty cedar. But just as the tree began to bloom and develop its capabilities, the axe was laid at its root, the cruel blow struck, and all his branches and blossoms wither. But have they withered alone? No. The hopes of his loving father, and the pleasing prospects of his fond mother, all are blasted. He is lamented by a large number of friends, and was followed by them, in conjunction with a majority of scholars, to the grave, to pay their last respect. A hymn was given out at the grave by the writer, and sung with much feeling by all present. Thus having committed his body to the grave, we have certain hopes of his participating in the first resurrection.

THE FORGOTTEN PROMISE.

"No, no-don't ask me for anything, woman-I'm pestered to death! no-I tell you, no!"

These words I repeated harshly, unkindly, because the woman lingered. I can see her now-the thin cheeks, the eyes almost wild with their longing looks, the parted lips, the pallor of disease. Yes, I see her standing there by the door, in the position of one who felt she must, but dreaded to ask a favour-one foot forward-one hand extended toward the latch-the scant shawl falling closely over the clinging dress. Alas, poor soul!

She turned wearily-her eyelids fell-her lip quivered, and all over her came that hopeless, utterly disheartened manner, that wraps one like a cloud.

I turned to my desk as the door was shut to, and took up my ledger again. No use-trouble with the first column, the second, the third-over and over I went, unwearidlyI had better have been spending the time in listening to the story of the poor woman. For there she stood, almost as palpably in my spirit's vision as she had in reality, her mournful eyes reproaching me.

"You are wrong," whispered conscience.

"But my head, my heart!" I pleaded. "Sorrowful news has come to me-I have heard only tales of misery all the morning; mendicants abound-tears rain-troubles come like hail, and I am tired of giving. Here's a letter from a sick woman-wants me to take her son-she is going to die -he's everything honest and capable, &c.; don't doubt it in the least, but cannot help her in that way. I have taken the care on my mind, however-will try and get him a place-have so written. Another letter from a sailor-has fallen from the mast of one of my vessels-must look to me, &c. I have attended to his case, also to that of a clerk

badly crushed in the dock. A telegram announcing the loss of my entire cargo in the wreck of the Antelope lies on the desk. I have sickness at home-am not well myself. Ought I not to be excused for my impatience ?"

But it would not do, this striving for a quiet conscience. I had given it a blow, and it writhed and smarted. I had said, perhaps to one of God's poor, "Go uncomforted," and my soul was uneasy. In vain I attempted to continue my accounts. I saw on the page the long rows of figures truly, but ever beside them, as I counted wearily, came that pale face-that face of judgment—that witness of my unfaithfulness.

At last I turned from my office and sought the street. Unconsciously I peered up and along the crowded avenues of fashion, in search of a faded shawl, a poor old bonnet, and a thin, bent figure. I was searching for the woman, repenting, but my search was in vain. I returned to my home, and hurrying to the sick chamber, found my little one improved, the fever flush and the deadly white of disease gone, and in their stead the soft rose hue of coming health. Perhaps that poor woman bent above a sick child. What did she want? What could she need? Why did she haunt me so?

I could scarcely touch my dinner, and determined, feeling so unwell, to remain at home that afternoon and rest. So I betook me to a lounge in the parlour, as it was darker there, and lay down, vainly striving to sleep. My wife, taking advantage of the fine day, and our child's improved condition, had decided to walk out with our two daughters, Etta and Mary. Just as I had closed my eyes I heard the rustling of silks, and wife and daughter stood before me. had never taken much notice of dress, but at that moment the beauty and comfort of their attire struck me painfully. What soft harmonies of colour!-what richness of material! How rare and pure seemed the silken and the velvet folds, the costly furs, the delicate draperies! They who had never wanted for one little hour stood before me-but who

I