THE GARLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3383, 15 January 1919, Page 53

THE GARLAND.

FOR THE QUIET HOUR. No. 281. By Duncan Wright, Dunedin. GIVE A WORD OF PRAISE. 'TWAS ONLY A WORD. 'Twa-s only a word, but; a kind on©; It came from a heart full of love, A heart that kept touch with Jesus, Whose name was recorded above; A heart full of tender compassion, That breathed in the spirit of prayer, That sought, 'mid life's busy turmoil, The burden of others to share. 'Twa© only a word, but a kind one, And it cheered a mother's heart; How she prayed for strength and guidance, That fitly she'd do hex part; How it lightened the toilsome duties That pressed with each opening day, And filled the soul with singing Along the heavenward way. 'Twas only a word, but a kind one, The prodigal heard, and wept;. Perhaps the Father in heaven Has still forgiveness kept. Yes, it opened the gates of memory, The sweet- recollections of home; It touched the chords of affection, And melted a heart of stone. Oh, ye who would seek earthly- treasures. Remember they'll fade and decay, But a kind word, ah, who can measure Its worth in the heart stowed away? When time, in its flight, shall sever The frail, slender thread of life, This gem, will shine for ever, Lake a ray of eternal light. "There are two sorts of persons in this world: those who are ready to tell us of our faults and failures, and those who are prompt to point out the ways in which we nave done well. The first sort cause us discomfort; the second give us encouragement. Both sorts of persons may do good, and may do harm. It is not well for us to feel that we are always doing just right, especially when we are not. Our friends need guidance and good sense in their comments on our course, in order to encourage where we need encouragement, and to warn and caution where warning and caution are needed." "YOU 2s T ,EYE!R CAN TELL." You never oan tell when you send a word Like an arrow shot from a bow, By an archer blind be it cruel or kind Just where it may chance to go; It may pierce the heart of your dearest friend, Tipped with its poison or balm, To a stranger's heart in life's great mart It may carry its pain or calm. You never can tell when an act you do What e'er the result may be, But with every deed you are sowing a seed Though the harvest-you may not see. Each kindly deed is an acorn dropped In God's productive soil, Though you may not know, yet the tree may grow, To shelter the brows that toil. You never can tell what a thought may do In bringing you hate or love, For thoughts are things, and their airy wings Are swift as the carrier dove. They follow the law of the universe, Each thing creates its kind; And they follow the track to bring you back, Whatever went out of your mind. Beeeher gives us a message:—"When stars, first created, start forth on their vast circuits, not knowing their way, if they were conscious and sentient, they might feel hopeless of maintaining their revolutions and orbits, and despair in the face of coming ages. But without hands or arms, the sun holds them. Without cords or bands, the solar king drives them, unharnessed, on their mighty rounds without a single mis-step, and will bring them, in the end, to their bound, without a wanderer. Now, if the sun can do this, the pun, which is but a thing itself, driven and held, shall not He Who created the heavens, and gave the sun his power, be able to hold us by the attraction of His heart, the strength of His hands, and the omnipotence of His affectionate will?" 7

IP YOU ARE WISE. Don't look for the flaws as you go through life; And even when you find them It is wise and kind to bo somewhat blind, And look for the virtue behind them. For the cloudiest night has a hint of light Somewhere in its shadows hiding; It is better by far to hunt for a star Than the spots on the sun abiding. The current of life runs ever away To the bosom of God's great ocean. Don't set your force 'gainst the river's course And think to alter its motion; Don't "waste a curse on the universe— Remember, it lived pefore you; Don't butt at the storm with your puny form, But bend and let It go o'er you.

The world will never ■adjust itself To suit your whims to the letter, Some thing© must go wrong your whole life long, And the eooner you know it the better. It is folly to fight with the Infinite, , And go under at last in the wrestle; The miser man shape* into God's plan As the water sliapee into a vessel. —BUa Wheeler Wilcox. DON'T FORGET TO GIVE A WORD OF PRAISE. (By the Rev. James Learmount.) A word of praise is like a magic wand—it enables its author, like some magician, to shake out of another person something better than that other person ever hoped, to achieve. And it would be a hard thing to convince me that anyone was ever injured by having his well-doing judiciously praised. Our good deeds and words are like plants; they reward any kindly attention bestowed upon them by growing better and better. Most of us English people are a little too reserved, a little too cautious and stinting In our praise. We are terribly afraid of spoiling people. Do you know that it is only a very exceptionally strong man who can be content and happy with only his own approval? And all modest men, do they ever so well, are strengthened by the kindly opinion of others. Praise, as George Meredith says, is "our fructifying sun." You" 1 know what that means ? To fructify under the sun's rays is to bear not only fruit, but ripe, lovely fruit. One feels how good a thing a little praise, a little hearty, wholesome encouragement can be, when we read of the face of a dying man in hospital lighting up with a smile as he looked after a tender-hearted nurse who had not only given him attention, but loving kindness at the same time. "I have never been spoiled," he said, "how good it is to be a little 'spoiled!" « "Praise," someone has said, "comes to the man who waits for it—under six feet of earth!" It ought to be an impossible saying, yet deep down in our hearts most of us admit the saying to be generally true. Does it not seem absolutely necessary that we should praise if we are to be balanced and beautiful in character ? It means giving pleasure as well as pain; encouraging more than disheartening, carrying sunshine more than shadow. In this age of pinprick methods of life, if we wish to keep from ugliness and unsightliness of life, we must praise far more than we do. Is it not better for man himself, and for those with whom he lives, that he should be appreciated more than censorious? It is so easy to censure, to see the bad, the blemishes upon all lives, that we need the praise spirit to redeem our lives from destruction.

The Bible is never afraid to praise men; it seems to love to praise men. It never stints its eulogies, nor constrains praise into narrow limits. Deserving merit always receives its meed of praise. God delights, to praise. Christ was full of the same sweet spirit. He praised Nathaniel, the man wtihout guile; He praised Mary, who "wrought a good work on Him 7 '; He praised the gift of two mites; He praised the centurion for his faith; He praised the woman for her importunity; He praised the dis.c.jples for their loyal continuance with Him through all His trails—"Ye are they which have continued wi'th Me in Mv temptations"—all instances, glimpses of £he general working of the mind and heart of Christ. And could we have been with Him long, doubtless we would have found that these were but a few numberless cases for which no place has been found. Even His appeal to the bad was an act of encouragement. In Zacchseus He found a son of Abraham, and in the woman who was a sinner, a sister. And in the end Christ will still be the same—the Great Encourager. "Well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." To work hard and receive no recognition beyond that of cash —"the cash nexus," as Carlyle savagely calls it—ls to reap a harvest of icicles, irresponsiveness, and Incapability. If nobody cares when we do our work a little better than we need to, then why do it a little better? Indeed, why not do it as badly as will enable. it just 'to pass muster ? That is the natural tendency of disheartened humanity.'

! THE TOILERS, L>EAT>. Let us raise up a monument to these Such as a monarch. for his tomb decrees; They did not perish in a patriot war With glory leading- onward like a star, Nor for some oauee, pre-eminent, alone, Die, and their fame in human hearts enthrone. No! Bui upon their bones our cities rise, That, towering, take the morning l from the skies; Untold), unknown, inuumerous brotherhood, They have cemented empires with their blood; They have gone down with roaring in their ears To dedicate with death our oui flung- piers, And where great-breasted ships now sail the sand They clove a path asunder through the land With a thousand flashing picks, while, as with fire, Their bones were racked with aches and fevers dire; They hewed the forests down and cleared the ground Where now the wheels of industry resound; Beneath the crashing tree ofttimes they fell, And knew nor funeral nor passing bell; Deep in the dim, wide-washing seas they sleep, Having sowed their bones that luxury might reap; They knew the mad machine; the Moloch mill Vociferous, lias slain, and slays them still. And where the hot blast lights the sky with flame They perish day by day, unknown to fame. Let us seek out the noblest spot on earth, And—Eiffel-like in height, of Pyramid girth— Hear up, tremendous, to salute the sun, Some witness to the perished million Who went down unto death with none io cheer', And with their lives bought all we prize as dear, This wofaidier, and this glory, *nd this «hamo

j Called "Civilisation" when tongues name the I name. I' Let us build -up a monument to these Such as a monarch for his tomb decrees. —Harry H. Kemp.

Charlie was the dull boy of his school. Even his teacher sometimes taunted him with his deficiencies. One day a gentleman who was visiting the school looked ■ over some boys who were making their ■ first attempt to write. There was a general burst of amusement at poor Charlie's effort. He coloured, but was j silent. "Never mind, my lad," said the I visitor, cheeringly, "don't be discouraged; just do your nest, and you will be a , writer some day. I recollect, when I ; first* began to write, being quite"*as awkward as you are; but I persevered ; and ! now look here." He took a pen ; and wrote his name on a piece of paper in fine, legible characters. "See what I can do now!" he added. Many years after that gentleman met Charlie* again. He had turned out one of the most celebrated men of his day: and he expressed his firm conviction that he owed his success in life ? under God's blessing, to the encouraging speech mads by the schoolvisitaivt. : A traveller among the mountains of 1 Madeira set out for a distant summit, but was soon lost in a thick mist. He would have given up in despair, but his guide ran on before, , constantly calling out, "Press on, master, press on u there's ! light beyond!" In a short time they passed the region of clouds and darkness, and stood upon the mountain top, with not a cloud to obstruct the vision. Be- , clouded, despondent pilgrim, for 1919, j "Press on; there's light beyond!" One day the Emperor of Rome, during the childhood of Galba, took him by the chin, and said, "Thou Galba, shalt one I day sit upon a throne." **, ' WHICH? Which shall it be? For Thee? Or me? Oh, who shall be the first to hear The distent voice approaching near.; The sound that bloats the happy deyj The ringing call tha/t rends away? Which shall it be? Cometh to roe That awful order: "Henceforth miss The dearness of the daily kiss. I Await the step that does not,come. Be desolate. I smite thy home." Which shall it be? Is it for thee— The summons and the setting forth? Eyes lifted to the icy North, Hands crossed, head bowed, heart frozen j numb, •i —Of protest, and of message dumb? Which shall it be? Is it for me To see the mist precede the rain In eyes that watch o'er mortal pain? To say, when sunset fires the sea: "There's dawn for him, but night for me?" Which shall it be? "Unto me? Unto thee? Which of us twain shall be the one ! To rise, to rest, to weep alone? I Which first in fate's dark school shall have The education of the grave? Which shall it be? Great God to Thee We leave—nor wrest from Thee—the choice, 1 Since Thine the call, since Thine the Voice, And Thine the old. and awful art That tears two clasping lives apart. ! Thus let it be—- ' To thee, or me. Hush! Let Him do the deed He must; Nor ask Him why, nor when, but trust. For love is old as God, and strong I think, as He; and lives as long. j —Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.