He could be seen by the fire in the room, but the thick black smoke kept him from seeing the people below. But he heard their voices, and he cried, "Oh, save me!"

"Here I am, my son," said the father; and he held out his arms for Charley to jump into them. "Here I am, don't fear. Drop down, and I will be sure to catch you."

Charles crept out of the window, but hung fast by it. He knew it was very high from the ground, and he was afraid to let go.

"Drop down, my dear boy!" cried the father.

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Oh, I can't see you, my dear, dear father!"

"But I am here. You can trust me; I will save you."

"I am afraid, father, I shall fall.”

"Let go, and don't fear," cried the people; "your father will be sure to catch you."

And now Charles felt the flames. He was certain that if he hung there he should be burned. He knew that his father was strong, that he loved him, and that he was waiting to save him. Then he drew in his breath, let go his hold, and in a moment he was in his father's arms. Charles was saved from the fire; and there was great joy among all the people who saw the sight.

As you read this true story, do you not see how great was the danger of little Charles? There was only one way for him to be saved from the fire. He could not see his father, but he heard his voice. He knew that his father loved him, and wished to save him. Then he felt quite sure that his father would save him. So he fell into his arms, and was saved.

Do you not know that every one is in danger of being lost for ever? It is the loss of both soul and body. And why? Sin has brought us into danger. How glad we should be that there is a way made known to us in the Bible by which we can be saved! Jesus saw our sad state, and He "came into the world to seek and to save that which was lost." And to save us He died on the cross. But now He is in heaven. Though we cannot see Him, He sees us. And in His Holy Word He says that He is able and willing to save all who go to Him by faith. It is as if His arms were wide open, as the arms of the father were when Charles fell into them. He tells us to come to Him, and be happy. He waits to save us. He speaks to you

HE HAS A HOLE UNDER HIS NOSE AND HIS MONEY RUNS INTO IT.*

HIS is the man who is always dry, because he takes so much heavy wet. He is a loose fellow who is fond of getting tight. He is no sooner up than his nose is in the cup, and his money begins to run down the hole which is just under his nose. He is not a blacksmith, but he has a spark in- his throat, and all the publican's barrels can't put it out. If a pot of beer is a yard of land, he must have swallowed more acres than a ploughman could get over for many a day, and still he goes on swallowing until he takes to wallowing. All goes down Gutter Lane. Like the snipe, he lives by suction. If you ask him how he is, he says he would be quite right if he could moisten his mouth. His purse is a bottle, his bank is the publican's till, and his casket is a cask: pewter is his precious metal, and his pearl (purl) is a mixture of gin and beer. The dew of his youth comes from Ben Nevis, and the comfort of his soul is cordial gin. He is a walking barrel, a living drain-pipe, a moving swill-tub. They say "loth to drink and loth to leave off," but he never needs persuading to begin, and as to ending-that is out of the question while he can borrow two-pence. This is the gentleman who sings

He that buys land buys many stones,
He that buys meat buys many bones,
He that buys eggs buys many shells,
He that buys good ale buys nothing else.

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He will never be hanged for leaving his drink behind him. He drinks in season and out of season: in summer because he is hot, and in winter because he is cold. A drop of beer never comes too soon, and he would get up in the middle of the night for more, only he goes to bed too tipsy. He has heard that if you get wet-footed a glass of whisky in your boots will keep you from catching cold, and he argues that the best way to get one glass of the spirit into each boot is to put two doses where it will run into your legs. He is never long without an excuse for another pot.

Some drink when friends step in,
And some when they step out;
Some drink because they're thin,

And some because they're stout.

Some drink because 'tis wet,
And some because 'tis dry;

Some drink another glass,
To wet the other eye.

1

་་

Water is this gentleman's abhorrence, whether used inside or out, but most of all he dreads it taken inwardly, except with spirits, and then the less the better. He says that the pump would kill him, but

• From John Ploughman's Pictures. By Rev. C. H. Spurgeon.

he never gives it a chance. He laps his liquor, and licks his chaps, but he will never die through the badness of the water from the well. It is a pity that he does not run the risk. Drinking cold water neither makes a man sick, nor in debt, nor his wife a widow; but this mighty fine ale of his will do all this for him, make him worse than a beast while he lives, and wash him away to his grave before his time. The old Scotchman said, "Death and drink-draining are near neighbours," and he spoke the truth. They say that drunkenness makes some men fools, some beasts, and some devils, but according to my mind it makes all men fools, whatever else it does. Yet when a man is as drunk as a rat he sets up to be a judge, and mocks at sober people. Certain neighbours of mine laugh at me for being a teetotaller, and I might well laugh at them for being drunk, only I feel more inclined to cry that they should be such fools. Oh that we could get them sober, and then perhaps we might make men of them. You cannot do much with

these fellows, unless you can enlist them in the Coldstream Guards.

He that any good would win

At his mouth must first begin.

As long as drink drowns conscience and reason, you might as well talk to the hogs. The rascals will promise fair and take the pledge, and then take their coats to pledge to get more beer. We smile at a tipsy man, for he is a ridiculous creature, but when we see how he is ruined

body and soul it is no

joking matter. How

solemn is the truth that "No drunkard shall inherit eternal life!"

There's nothing too bad for a man to say or do when he is half-seas over. It is a pity that any decent body should go near such a common sewer. If he does not fall into the worst of crimes it certainly is not his fault, for he has made himself ready for anything the devil likes to put into his mind. He does least hurt when he begins to be top-heavy and to reel about then he becomes a blind man with good eyes in his head, and a cripple with legs on. He sees two moons, and two doors to the public-house, and tries to find his way through both the doors at once. Over he goes, and there he must lie unless somebody will wheel him home in a barrow or carry him to the police-station.

Solomon says the glutton and the drunkard shall come to poverty, and that the drinker does in no time. He gets more and more down at the heel, and as his

nose gets redder and his body is more swollen he gets to be more of a shack and more of a shark. His trade is gone, and his credit has run out, but he still manages to get his beer. He treats an old friend to a pot, and then finds that he has left his purse at home, and of course the old friend must pay the shot. He borrows till no one will lend him a groat, unless it is to get off lending a shilling. Shame has long since left him, though all who know him are ashamed of him. His talk runs like the tap, and is full of stale dregs; he is very kind over his beer, and swears he loves you, and would like to drink your health, and love you again. Poor sot, much good will his blessing do to any one who gets it; his poor wife and family have had too much of it already, and quake at the very sound of his voice.

Now, if we try to do anything to shut up a boozinghouse, or shorten the hours for guzzling, we are called all sorts of bad names, and the wind-up of it all is— "What! Rob a poor man of his beer?"

The

What! rob a poor man of his beer,
And give him good victuals instead!
Your heart's very hard, sir, I fear,

Or at least you are soft in the head.
What! rob a poor man of his mug,

And give him a house of his own, With kitchen and parlour so snug! 'Tis enough to draw tears from a stone. What! rob a poor man of his glass,

And teach him to read and to write! What! save him from being an ass! 'Tis nothing but malice and spite. What! rob a poor man of his ale, And prevent him from beating his wife, From being locked up in a jail,

With penal employment for life! What rob a poor man of his beer, And keep him from starving his child! It makes one feel awfully queer, And I'll thank you to draw it more mild.

TOUCHED AT LAST.

N a large house in a fashionable London square there was one winter's evening a gay party. There were some foreign nobles present, and the entertainment had been given in their honour by Mr. Linton, a young man who was surrounded by all that wealth could purchase, and whose life seemed to be one of sunshine. He had a sweet-looking wife, and he knew that away in the nursery were his two little sons, of whom he was justly proud. And yet with all this Mr. Linton was anything but happy. There was the greatest cause of unhappiness that there can be in any human life to be found in his. He was living far from God, and far away had he wandered from the safe path his childhood's feet had trodden. That path, which had been indeed one of peace. His father's love and influence had left him early, and Henry Linton, as an orphan, had made his way in the world alone. He was persevering and clever, and soon worked his way up. Up, that is

to say, in a worldly sense; for it was down, inasmuch as he was fast forgetting the God of his childhood.

His wife knew this, and tried over and over again, in every way to win him back. Gentle and loving as he was to her in general, on this point he would become stern and unyielding. He would not listen to any attempt on her part, and she was almost in despair.

Besides this, poor Nellie Linton had the grief of knowing that her husband had lost heavily in many speculations, and that he was now deeply in debt. Here again her influence could not touch him. Не was too tightly chained by the deceitfulness of the world, too engrossed in its pleasures, not to risk all to have what he called enjoyment.

In the middle of that brilliant party an old gentleman was announced, and Henry recognised in him at once his father's dearest friend, whom he had not met for years. The old man, in his clerical dress, and with his grave face and white hair, seemed out of harmony with the fashionable throng. But Henry was un

feignedly glad to see him, and they stood talking near the entrance to the conservatory for some time. At last Mr. Harvey spoke, even there, of Christ and His unfailing love; trying to learn if Henry was loyal to his childhood's faith. Suddenly every smile left Henry's face, and with bent head and stern expression he said he would not talk on the subject.

"Henry, when your father died, and you stood by his bedside with me, did you not hope to see him again?"

"To be sure I did," said Henry; "and do," he added, as he remembered the scene in that room, and the golden sunset rays falling on his father's white face. He knew what the beaming look on that face had meant that he too should follow after God all the days of his life; and most vividly did it all come back to him.

"If you have not sought your Saviour as he had, and found in Him forgiveness, you cannot hope to meet," said Mr. Harvey.

Henry Linton was silent, and Mr. Harvey continued: "Henry, do you remember your father's last words?" He had nearly forgotten them; but Mr.. Harvey had not, and reminded him of them. They were an earnest prayer to God that Henry might live for Him.

Just then Mrs. Linton came up, and no more was said.

Mr. Harvey left for the country the next day, but his words, the echo of the dead father's words, had touched Henry Linton as nothing had yet done. They sent him to the foot of the cross to seek pardon and peace.

Great was the joy of his wife at the answer to her persevering prayers.

And Henry did not stop here. There was much to be done as a servant of Christ that he had left undone before. He saw what debt and extravagance were leading him to, and he bravely reduced his expenditure, gave up his London house, and accepted a small appointment in the country, for nearly all his income had gone in paying his debts.

Henry Linton was far happier than he had ever been-at peace with God, and living for Him.

Years after the words were said, after the voice that had breathed them was silent for ever, they had borne fruit. They had been the means by which Henry Linton's heart, fast hardening to worldly influences, had been touched at last.

THE COLPORTEUR'S SONG.

L. E. D.

N through woodlands dark and dreary Though my lonely course I take, Climbing now the mountains-weary, Threading now the dangerous brake, Sweetening solitude with prayer, Cheerily my books I bear.

Oft I taste divinest pleasure

By the wayside as I read;
Opening here and there my treasure,
I upon its honey feed.
Every sentence there enrolled
Thrills like music-shines like gold.

Oh, how sweet to dwellings lonely
Leaves of heavenly truth to bear!
Dropping print where printing only
Comes to bring salvation there,
Kindling in each house a flame
With my Saviour's glowing name.
Baxter's heavenly Rest possessing,

What a glow is spread around!
Vacant shelves receive the blessing,

Lonely hearts a friend have found. He who brings the welcome guestHe who takes him-both how blest! Bunyan, oh, thy precious dreaming,

How it charms the listening ear! Young and old, with faces beaming, Group the Pilgrim's tale to hear; Learning from the lessons given. All the wondrous way to heaven. Thus with hymns and heavenly musing Daily I my course pursue, All my single talent using,

Loving well the work I do: Trusting in my Saviour's care, Cheerily my books I bear.

CARE FOR THE CHILDREN.

WAS once told by a school-teacher of a very pleasing change which took place in her school, in the conduct of her scholars towards two poor little creatures whom it was almost impossible not to pity. The children who came from a distance would bring their dinners, and, at recess, sit down in the schoolroom, or under the trees, to cat. These poor little things often had no dinner, and

would stand wistfully by the side of the others. The latter would say, "Go away! your father's a drunkard." But they were taught otherwise at the "Cold Water Army" gatherings; and then it was gratifying to see how delicate they were in their attentions to the little unfortunates. They would steal up to the place where the two little ones were sitting; one would put down a piece of pie, another an apple, and then run away; and occasionally the contributions were so liberal that the poor things had more provisions before them at one time, than they would see at home in a month.

I have often been touched by the sorrows of the drunkard's child. Pitiful little things they are some