But ah! there's never a despot Who may, methinks, compare With the rose-cheeked king of

the nursery,

Our child with the golden hair. For the eldest of his subjects Becomes a child for him, Though the once bright locks be hoary,

And the eyes be growing dim.

For never another ruler
Can give such gifts as these,
Nor can any laws be better
Than our baby-king's decrees.

Great tears in the eyes of baby
Are the signals for consternation;
And a cry creates commotion
In the whole domestic nation.

And not till the tears have vanished,
And the rainbow smile appears,
Do the monarch's faithful subjects
Forget or lose their fears.

Oh wee white king and darling,
Why is thy power so vast?
Why strong as steel are thy fingers,
And the clasp of thine arms so fast?
Is it thine innocence, baby,
That seats thee upon our throne?
The throne of the fireside kingdom,
Where thou seemest to reign alone.

Or is it thy beauty, our fair one?
Thou hast eyes of tender blue,
And hair of the sunniest golden,
And a smile as sweet as true.
No-not these alone, little sovereign,
Would have made thee what thou art,
Would have given thee warm allegiance
Of even the wintry heart;

We hear a voice from the long ago,
That is echoing sweetly yet,

That makes a bridge o'er the centuries
Since Christ and the children met;

And for Thy dear sake who wast once a child-
O Lord of Eternity-

We love and we teach our baby-kings
That they may come unto Thee.

M. E. R.

RAIN FROM HEAVEN.

OME years ago a home for poor orphan children was founded in the Western States of America, and a gentleman travelled about from place to place, asking people to help to support it.

One day he found himself at a meeting in Yorkshire. The people who listened to him were mostly

poor workmen and workwomen, but his account of the orphan asylum, and of its little inmates, touched their hearts. There was a collection made afterwards. Even the smallest child seemed to have had a halfpenny given it for the collecting-box, which was passed around, and only one gave nothing, and that was a pretty girl of twelve, who had shed tears at the tale of poverty, and seemed particularly touched to hear of a little lame child who had evinced a disposition to do good to others despite her infirmity.

This girl's face had been so bright and earnest that the old clergyman had noticed it particularly, and now, as he watched her, he saw tears stealing through her fingers. Soon she arose and softly stole out of the church-for all this happened after service was over and the blessing uttered-and the clergyman scarcely expected to see the little, round, sunburnt face again.

However, that very afternoon, when he had had his tea and was walking slowly along a little green lane near the home of the friends to whom he was paying a visit, he saw a small compact figure in pink calico, crowned with a round straw hat exactly like a boy's, ducking short curtsies to him from a little distance, and he recognised the girl whom he noticed at the chapel, and nodded reassuringly to her. Seeing this she quickly advanced and stood close beside him.

"If yo' please, sir, yo' be t' gentleman as spoke t' us to-day, yander," she said softly, blushing and casting down her eyes. "And if yo' please, I'm fain t' speak t' yo'. I put naught int' box to-day, sir. It might be yo' noticed it, sir, and thought I did not care for t' poor little children; but I did, sir."

"You are only a child yourself, my dear," said the gentleman; "children are not expected to have money to give. You have the heart to give it, and this is a great thing; and when you are older you will be able to do more as you please."

"Yes, sir," replied the child; "and it's not as father would grudge me the money for the plate, but he's been mortal bad lately with a fever, and has just got about. But, sir, this is what I wanted to say to yo'. I heerd yo' tell, as you'd bid awa' a year and coom back again then and tell us what you'd seen and heard, and I wanted to ask yo' if I mightn't give what bit of money I might have-it couldn't be much to the poor

you can pray for them if you can do nothing else. I wish rich old men and women had your kindly heart, my girl."

Then the child said, softly, "Please, sir, I'd like to know when yo' come, if I chanced not to be at the chapel, and any one would bring me word. My name is Maggie Maggie Zolliver, sir.'

Then she dropped her little bobbing curtsey, and went away.

The clergyman left the place, and remained away, as he said he would, a year. When he returned he spent his first Sabbath morning in the chapel, and there, on the first bench, with a proud happy look in her eyes, sat a little girl, with a round brown face, and smooth, cropped, black hair, who clutched a folded paper tight in her hand.

For a moment the old gentleman looked at her without recognition. Then he recalled Maggie Zolliver, grown as only a girl of twelve can grow in a year. The plate was passed about, and she put a few pennies into it, but when the rest were gone she lingered, and came softly up to the reading-desk.

"Please, sir," she said, "I've stopped to gi' it to yo for fear 'twould be lost i' the plate. It's for the little poor children; and please might some of it be used for the little lame girl yo' spoke of? I feeled as if I knowed her when you told us about her knittin' the stockin' and all."

Meanwhile the clergyman had opened the paper and found within it a sovereign.

'Why, Maggie, this is a great deal for one little girl to give," said he. "How did you get it? From

some rich person, I suppose."

"No, I worked for it," replied Maggie, " and Lord sent me work. Last summer there came a dry time, and there was no water for the laundry in the town where they wash the clothes for the gentlefolk. We have a deep cistern, and the water there is cool and fresh always; besides I'd caught a deal in barrels and hogsheads, for the same thing had happened the year before, and I noticed it. And I went to the man that hires the washers and asked him if I might fetch water, and he promised me I could, and he said he'd give me a penný a pail. It was a bit of a walk, but I'm strong, and the dry time lasted a long while, and I emptied the cistern and the hogshead and kept going to and fro all day, and when the wet spell did come I had my poond earnt, and this is it, sir, if yo' please."

"I think more of it than if a rich man had given me a hundred pounds!" said the clergyman. "And I shall write down here, 'A pound from little Maggie Zolliver,' and your name will be read to the poor little children in the 'Home' in America."

But Maggie dropped her curtsey again.

"Please, sir, don't!" said she. "I didn't do it for to be telled aboot. I'd feel shamed, and then 'twas God gave me the means to earn the money, and it

seems wrong to say 'twas me gave it; and please, sir, if yo' must write a word after it, couldn't yo' just put 'Rain from Heaven,' sir? for 'tis the rain I saved earned the money, if you please."

"And that is the way it was written," said the clergyman. "Rain from Heaven.' But the angels knew all about Maggie Zolliver. They had her record written, I feel very sure."

THE GRAVE IN THE PROMISED LAND.

READ JOSHUA xxiv. 32.

OSEPH on his death-bed had taken an oath of the children of Israel that they would not leave his bones in Egypt, but carry them up into the Promised Land. Moses had done accordingly; and all through the wanderings of the Israelites in the wilderness the bones of Joseph had been carried with them. Now at length they entered into possession of the land, and the bones of Joseph found a resting-place there.

The purchase of a family burying-ground is no uncommon thing, and it often happens that the dead are brought from far to their grave. But this was a peculiar case, and that not merely on account of the great lapse of time, and the long carrying about of the remains, but also from the motives actuating those

concerned.

Generally a burying-place is bought, and the dead are conveyed from a distance, from a natural wish that those of one family should lie together, and that survivors should be able to visit the graves of those whom they have lost. But here there was a deeper motive. All concerned-Jacob, Joseph, Moses, and Joshua-all acted in faith.

This burying-ground was in the land of Canaanthe Promised Land; but Jacob bought it while yet a stranger there, believing that God would fulfil His promise, and give that land to his posterity. Joseph showed like faith. At the time of his death his people were still kindly treated in Egypt, and there seemed no likelihood that they would ever leave the home which they had found there. But Joseph died in the full belief that God would visit them, and bring them out of that land into the Promised Land, and so he made them swear to lay his bones there. Moses also acted in faith in obeying his directions: and Joshua, in carrying them out fully, when the Promised Land was entered.

All was of faith. The hopes of all were centered in the Promised Land. Through all delays and difficulties, faith in God's word was still maintained; and at length every expectation was fulfilled. The children of Israel were put into possession, and the parcel of ground, purchased hundreds of years before, received the bones of Joseph.

To rest in the Promised Land is the hope of every

Jacob buying a Burial-place.

believer. Long ago a purchase has been made, a title won, a place prepared. No gold or silver was paid, no title-deed was signed and sealed; the blood of Jesus procured this right, His merits form the title. Faith lays hold of the covenant of grace in Christ Jesus, and thus the believer becomes an heir of God, a partaker of the promised inheritance. He dwells now in a strange land, his journey is through the wilderness, enemies oppose him, and the way is long. Yet he does not, and cannot, make his rest here. The promise lives in his heart. His home is where his Saviour is. Such faith as Jacob and Joseph, Moses and Joshua, had about the land of Canaan, the believer has about the heavenly Canaan. He believes

that God for Christ's sake will give him a place there, and he will seek no other resting-place for his soul.

If Joseph, great as he was in Egypt, had been content to rest in that land, it may be that a vast pyramid might have been built over him when dead, and

been called by his name, and remained perhaps to this day. But no such honour was desired by him. His heart was in the Promised Land, his dearest wish was to lie there at last. The Christian, if he chose the world as his portion, might rise perhaps to great honour; but he has chosen a better portion. He is content to be small and of no reputation here, so he may but win a place above. He has counted all but loss for Christ.

Joseph died, but he died in faith. The Christian must die too, but he also dies in faith. He falls asleep in Jesus. God will receive his soul. His body will go to corruption in the grave; but the day will come when the body also will rise again, glorified and immortal, to be for ever with the Lord. Then the earth will give up its dead. Then from ancient and long-forgotten graves will come forth the saints which slept; then all of every age and clime who died in faith will rise in glory, and meet the Lord, and dwell together in the true Land of Promise.

of

In this case, the purchase the ground and the carrying of the bones thither were of faith. But generally faith has to do, not with the seen, but with the unseen; and the important question is, not where the body shall lie, but what is the state of the soul before God. Is there saving faith in Christ? Is there peace through His blood? And this is a point that must be settled before death; this is a question for to-day.

Natural feeling seeks that those near akin to each other should lie together after death, and affection craves to be able to visit a beloved grave; but it is a far more precious thing that those of one family should also be one in the Lord; and it is sweet to be able to think of the dead, whether they lie buried near or far away, as "not lost but gone before." Be it our chief desire, our most earnest endeavour, our continual prayer, for ourselves and for all we love, that, living or dying, we may be the Lord's; and that, wheresoever our mortal remains may rest, we may all awake with joy at the trumpet's sound!