And when we have found the person,
We hope, by working the two,
To lift our debt, and build a new church,
Then we shall know what to do;
For they will be worn and weary,
And we'll advertise: "Wanted,
A minister and his wife!"
Maist Onie Day.
TIMOTHY SWANAGED 73.
Te ken, dear bairn, that we maun part,
When death, cauld death, shall bid us start,
But when he 'll send his dreadfu' cart
We canna say,
Sa we 'll be ready for his dart
Maist onie Day.
We'll keep a' right and gude wi' in,
Our work will then be free fra' sin;
Upright we'll step thro' thick and thin,
Straight on our way;
Deal just wi' a' the prize we 'll win
Maist onie Day.
Ye ken there's ane wha 's just and wise,
Ha' said that all his bairns should rise
An' soar aboon the lofty skies,
And there shall stay;
Being well prepared, we 'll gain the prize,
Maist onie Day.
When he who made a' things just right
Shall ca' us hence to realms of light,
Be it morn, or noon, or e'en or night,
We will obey,
We'll be prepared to tak' our flight
Maist onie Day.
Our lamps we 'll fill brimfu' o' oil
That's gude an' pure-that will na spoil,
We'll keep them burnin' a' the while
To light our way,
Our work bein' done we 'll quit the soil
Maist onie Day.
I hold the teacher's position second to none.
teacher of a band of children combines the office of the preacher and the parent, and has more to do in shaping the mind and the morals of the community than preacher and parent united. The teacher who spends six hours a day with my child, spends three times as many hours as I do, and twenty fold more time than my pastor does. I have no words to express my sense of the importance of your office.
Still less have I words to express my sense of the importance of having that office filled by men and women of the purest motives, the noblest enthusiasm, the finest culture, the broadest charities, and the most devoted Christian purpose. Why, sir, a teacher should be the strongest and most angelic man that breathes. No man living is intrusted with such precious material. No man living can do so much to set human life to a noble tune. No man living needs higher qualifications for his work. Are you "fitted for teaching"? I do not ask you this question to discourage you, but to stimulate you to an effort at preparation which shall continue as long as you continue to teach.
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen wanders up and down the street
The snow is on her yellow hair, the frost is at her feet.
The rows of long, dark houses without look cold and damp,
By the struggling of the moonbeam, by the flicker of the lamp.
The clouds ride fast as horses, the wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen, and no one looketh forth.
Within those dark, damp houses are merry faces bright,
And happy hearts are watching out the old year's latest night.
With the little box of matches she could not sell all day,
And the thin, thin tattered mantle the wind blows every way,
She clingeth to the railing, she shivers in the gloom, -
There are parents sitting snugly by firelight in the room;
And children with grave faces are whispering one another
Of presents for the new year, for father or for mother.
But no one talks to Gretchen, and no one hears her speak.
No breath of little whispers comes warmly to her cheek.
No little arms are round her: ah me! that there should be,
With so much happiness on earth, so much of misery!
Sure they of many blessings should scatter blessings round,
As laden boughs in autumn fling their ripe fruits to the ground.
And the best love man can offer to the God of love, be sure,
Is kindness to his little ones, and bounty to his poor.
Little Gretchen, little Gretchen goes coldly on her way;
There's no one looked out on her, there's no one bids her stay.
Her home is cold and desolate; no smile, no food, no fire,
But children clamorous for bread, and an impatient sire.
So she sits down in an angle where two great houses meet,
And she curled up beneath her, for warmth, her little feet;
And she looketh on the cold wall, and on the colder sky,
And wonders if the little stars are bright fires up on high.
She hears a clock strike slowly, up in a far church tower,
With such a sad and solemn tone, telling the midnight hour.
And she remembered her of tales her mother used to tell,
And of the cradle-songs she sang, when summer's twilight fell;
Of good men and of angels, and of the Holy Child,
Who was cradled in a manger, when winter was most wild;
Who was poor, and cold, and hungry, and desolate and lone;
And she thought the song had told he was ever with his own;
And all the poor and hungry and forsaken ones are his, -
"How good of Him to look on me in such a place as this?"
Colder it grows and colder, but she does not feel it now,
For the pressure at her heart, and the weight upon her brow;
But she struck one little match on the wall so cold and bare,
That she might look around her, and see if He were there
The single match has kindled, and by the light it threw
It seemed to little Gretchen the wall was rent in two;
And she could see folks seated at a table richly spread,
With heaps of goodly viands, red wine and pleasant bread.
She could smell the fragrant savor, she could hear what they did
Then all was darkness once again, the match had burned away.
She struck another hastily, and now she seemed to see
Within the same warm chamber a glorious Christmas tree.
The branches were all laden with things that children prize,
Bright gifts for boy and maiden she saw them with her eyes.
And she almost seemed to touch
them, and to join the welcome
When darkness fell around her, for the little match was out.
Another, yet another, she has tried
Till all her little store she took, and struck with all her might:
And the whole miserable place was lighted with the glare,
And she dreamed there stood a little child before her in the air.
There were blood-drops on his forehead, a spear-wound in his side,
And cruel nail-prints in his feet, and in his hands spread wide;
And he looked upon her gently, and she felt that he had known
Pain, hunger, cold, and sorrow - ay, equal to her own.
And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree,
Then up to the cold sky, and said, "Will Gretchen come with me?"
The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim,
And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's hymn:
And she folded both her thin white hands, and turned from that
And from the golden gifts, and said, "With thee, with thee, O Lord?" The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies
On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies.
In her scant and tattered garment, with her back against the wall,
She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call.
They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, "It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead."
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