We are dependent upon what God is doing for us even while we sleep; and were he to become wearied out with our ingrati. tude and neglect of him, and abandon even this small portion of his work in the fields of grain now waving in Europe and America, for a single day, -the destruction of our hopes would be instantaneous,-universal panic would ensue,-existing stores of food would be hoarded, and in a month the tidings would come in upon us from every quarter, that men were dying by millions, of hunger and despair. It is strange, that men can know these things without seeing God's hand, and considering their dependence upon him. It seems clear that he has made us thus directly dependent upon him for that which is of most immediate and indispensable necessity, in order that we might see his hand, - feel our dependence and be grateful. He might have made a very different arrangement. He has in some things acted on a different plan. He laid up for us at the creation, stores of coal and iron, and water, to supply us through all time. But the supply of food he has kept in his own possession — giving it out to us as we need it, just as a wise father gives his young child a daily supply from his own hand, instead of making for him a provision for an independent maintenance, so that he may always see the proofs, and feel the influence, of parental love. The manner in which we are thus dependent on the constant interposition of Providence to supply our imperious wants, might be illustrated in many other ways; and even in those cases, where God's power is not needed constantly to produce what we want, it is needed for some other purpose equally indispensable. Take water, for example; nearly all that now exists, has existed probably from the creation; but the power of God must be continually exerted to preserve it in a condition suited to our use. The earth and the air form one great alembic, in which God is constantly distilling it for us anew, in order to preserve its purity, and to fit it for our use; and by his admirable arrangement of hills and valleys, he brings it in fountains and streams to our very door. The whole world too is supplied. Not a spot neglected. St. Helena, a little mound of rock and earth, stands twelve hundred miles from any land, and yet the almost boundles ocean of saltness and bitterness, which for six thousand years has been bathing its deep foundations, and dashing against its sides, has not been able to reach and to spoil its fresh cool springs of water, and to every volcanic island in the Pacific, with lava and fire within, and sea washed coral without, God has sent his rills and his fountains to quench the thirst of every wild savage, and every beast and bird. The care which God has thus taken to supply the wants of the human family, and to make such arrangements as to lead them to see that it must be by his special interposition that their wants are thus supplied, would be enough, we should suppose, to lead the hearts of men to him. One would suppose they must see the hand of a Deity around them, and bow to the power whose beneficent agency is so constantly employed for their good. LINES WRITTEN AT SEA.- SUNDAY. Upon this vast and trackless sea, What shall all human aid avail ! I cast myself, O God, on thee, Thine arm of power will never fail. For thou alone securely keep'st The raging winds at thy command; Here, on a boundless world of seas, The sport of every playful breeze That musters from the winged host. Here, where no cheerful spot of bloom Here, 'twixt the rolling world and heaven, O thou, to whom my parents gave The first young breath my spirit drew, Upon this wide, dark, desert wave, The holy hours of this thy day, Across this wild and troublous deep. And still through all the paths of life, Thine arm, in danger's hour to save,— Dear home, and dearer friends, farewell! He who hath guarded all our ways, Shall guide our different courses right, And bring us to one resting place, One haven of eternal light! W. C. CHILDREN MUST BE LED TO GOD, NOT DRIVEN. FOR PARENTS. A mother, sitting at her work in her parlor, overheard her child, whom an older sister was dressing in an adjoining bedroom, say repeatedly, as if in answer to his sister, "No, I don't want to say my prayers; I don't want to say my prayers." "How many church members, in good standing," thought the mother to herself, "often say the same thing in heart, though they conceal even from themselves, the feeling." "Mother," said the child, appearing in a minute or two, at the parlor door; the tone and look implied that it was only his morning salutation. "Good morning, my child." "I am going out to get my breakfast." "Stop a minute ;" I want you to come here, and see me first." The mother laid down her work in the next chair, as the boy ran towards her. She took him up. He kneeled in her VOL. I. 43 lap, and laid his face down upon her shoulder, his cheek against her ear. The mother rocked her chair slowly backwards and forwards. "Are you pretty well, this morning?" said she in a kind, gentle tone. "Yes, mother; I am very well." "I am glad you are well. I am very well too; and when I waked up this morning, and found that I was well, I thanked God for taking care of me." "Did you?" said the boy, in low tone, half a whisper. He paused after it- conscience was at work. "Did you ever feel of my pulse?" asked his mother, after a minute of silence, at the same time taking the boy down, and setting him in her lap, and placing his fingers on her wrist. "No, but I have felt mine." "Well, don't you feel mine now?-how it goes, beating." "Y-e-s!" said the child. "If it should stop beating I should die." "Should you?" "Yes, and I can't keep it beating." "Who can?" "God." A silent pause. "You have a pulse too, which beats in your bosom here, and in your arms, and all over you, and I cannot keep it beating, nor can you. Nobody can but God. If he should not take care of you, who could?" "I don't know," said the child with a look of anxiety;and another pause ensued. "So when I waked up this morning, I thought I would ask God to take care of me. I hope he will take care of me, and all of us." "Did you ask him to take care of me?" "No." "Why not?" "Because I thought you would ask him yourself, God likes to have us all ask for ourselves." A long pause ensued. The deeply thoughtful and almost anxious expression of countenance, showed that the heart was reached. "Don't you think you had better ask him for yourself?" "Yes," said the boy readily. "He kneeled again in his mother's lap, and uttered in his own simple and broken language, a prayer for the protection and blessing of Heaven. Suppose another case. Another mother overhearing the same words, calls her child into the room. The boy comes. "Did not I hear you say you did not want to say your prayers?" The boy is silent. "Yes he did," says his sister behind him. "Well, that is very naughty. You ought always to say your prayers. Go right back now, and say them like a good boy, and never let me hear of your refusing again." The boy goes back, pouting, and utters the words of prayer, while his heart is full of mortified pride, vexation and ill will. MY SISTER. THE FIRESIDE. One morning in my early life, I remember to have been playing with a younger sister, not then three years old. It was one of those bright mornings in spring, that bring joy and life to the heart, and diffuse gladness and animation through all the tribes of living creatures. Our feelings were in perfect harmony with the universal gladness of nature. Even now I seem to hear the merry laugh of my little sister, as she followed me through the winding alleys of the garden, her cheek suffused with the glow of health and animation, and her waving hair floating in the wind. She was an only sister, the sole companion of all my childish sports. We were constantly together; and my young heart went out to hers, with all the affection, all the fondness, of |