THE GARLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3440, 17 February 1920, Page 61

THE GARLAND.

By Duncan Weight, Dunedin.

FOE THE QUIET HOUR, No. 338.

WHO AM I? I am the fountain, of all business; I .am the fount of all prosperity. I am the jmrent, most times, of genius; I am the salt that gives life its savour; I have<ilaid the foundation, of every fortune in America, from Rockefeller down; I must be loved before I can bestow my greatest blessings, and achieve my greatest ends. Loved, I make life sweet, and purposeful, and fruitful; I can do more to advance a youth than his parents, be' they ever so rich, Fools hate me, wise men love me; 1 am represented in every loaf of bread that comes from the oven, in every train that crosses the continent, in every ship that steams over the ocean, in every newspaper that comes from the press; I am the mother of democracy; All progress springs from me; The man who is bad friendk with me can never get very far —and stay there; the man who is good friends with mo can go—who can tell ho.v far? WHO am I? WHAT am I? I AM WORK —B. C. Forbes in New Youth, American. Prayer should be the key of the day, and the lock of the night. Bishop Berkeley. To persevere in one's duty, and be silent, is the best answer to calumny.— Barron. If God made the world you need not fear that He can't take care of so small a ■ part of it as yourself. Rev. Edward Taylor. Whosoever does anything to depreciate Christianity is guilty of high treason against the civilisation of mankind.— Macaulav.

God compels us to learn many bitter lessons, that by knowing and suffering we may also know the eternal consolation. , —Burleigh.

A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong, which ; s but saying, in other words, that he ; s wiser to-day than he was yesterday.— Pope. God hath made many sharp-cutting instruments and rough files for the polishing of His jewels ; and those He specially loves, and intends to make the most resplendent, He hath oftepest His tools upon.—Leigh ton. I have a pledge from Christ —have His note of hand—which is my saipport, my refuge and haven ; and though the world should rage, to this security I cling, "Lo, I am with-you alway, even unto the end of the world." If Christ be with me, what shall I fear? If He is mine, all the powers of earth to me are nothing more than a spider's There is no life which in the past has testified to the power and beauty of the Gospel but what lives to-day and shall continue in our future, unfolding life. There has never been a shrinking from duty or sluggishness but has left its impress upon us; and on the other hand, no gift, no act of self-denial, which does not still work in us as a beneficial power. —R. S. Storrs. v "BEAUTIFUL SNOW." THE POEM AND THE WRITER. One dark Saturday morning in the dead of winter there died at the Commercial Hospital, Cincinnati, a young woman over whose head only two-and-twenty summers had passed. She had once been possessed" of an enviable share of beauty; had been, as she herself said, "flattered and sought for the charms of her face" ; but, alas I upon her fair brow had long been written that terrible word—fallen! Once the pride of respectable parentage, her first wrong step was the small beginning of the "same old story over again," which has been the only life-history of thousands. Highly educated and accomplished in manners, she might have shone in the best of society. But the evil hour that proved her ruin wa3 but the door from childhood; and having spent a young life in shame, the poor friendless one died the melancholy death of a broken-hearted outcast. Among her personal effects was found in manuscript, the "Beautiful Snow," which was immediately carried to Enos B. Reed, a gentleman of culture and literary tastes, who was at that time editor of the "National Union." Irt ? the columns of that paper, on the morning following the girl's death, the poem appeared in print for the first time. When the paper containing the poem came out on Sunday morning, the body of the victim had not yet received burial. The attention of Thomas Buchanan Reed, one of the first American poets, was soon directed to the newly published lines, and he was so taken with their stirring pathos that he immediately followed the corpse to its final resting place. Such are the plain facts concerning her whose "Beautiful Snow" will long be regarded as one. of the brightest gems in American literature. Oh I the snow, the beautif al snow, Filling the sky and earth below, Over the housetops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet} Dancing-, flirting-, skimming along. Beautiful snow! it can do no wrong; Plying to kiss a fair lady's cheek, Clinging to lips in frolicsome freak; Beautiful enow from heaven above, Pure as an angel, gentle as love! Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow, How the flakea gather ancl laugh as they go, "Whirling about in. maddening fun; Chasing, laughing, hurrying by. It lights on the face, and it sparkles the eye; And the doge, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals as they eddy around! | The town is alive end 1 its heart in a glows To welcome the coming of beautiful enow. How wild the crowd goes swaying along, Bailing each other with humour and Bongj How the gay Bleighs like meteors flash by,

Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye; Ringing, swinging, dashing they go Over the crust of the beautiful snow; Snow so pure when it falls from the eky, To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet, , Till it blends with the filth in the horriblo street. Once I was pure as the snow, but I fell, Fell like the snowflakes from heaven to hell, Fell to bo trampled as filth on the street, Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat; Pleading, cursing, dreading to die, Selling my soul to whoever would buy; Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, Hating the living and fearing the dead. 'Merciful God! have I fallen so low? And yet I was once like the beautiful enow. Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, AVith an eye like a crystal, a heart like its glow; Once I was loved for my innocent grace— Flattered and sought for the charms of my face! Fathers, mothers, sistera, all — God and myself I have lest by my fall. The veriest wretch that goes shivering-by Will make a- wide sweep lest I wander too nigh; For all that is on or above me I know, There is nothing so pure as the beautiful enow. How strange it should be that this beautiful enow Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go! How strange it should be when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain, Fainting, freezing, dying alone, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan, To be heard in the streets of the crazy town, Gone mad in the joy of the snow' coming v down, To be and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow.

Helpless and foul as the trampled snow, Sinner, despair not! Christ stoopeth low To rescue the soul that is lost in sin, And raise it to life and enjoyment again. •Groaning, bleeding, dying for thee, The Crucified! hung on the cursed tree! His .accents of mercy fell soft on thine ear, "Is there mercy for me? Will he heed my weak prayer?" O God, in the stream that for sinners did flow, Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. DUTY. "She hath done what she could." It was Mary, the sister of Lazarus, who poured the oil on Jesus' head. But it was Judas who protested. He was to be pitied; he had a demon to direct him. Many of us have little imps. But Judas was a monarchical soul, governed by one devil. I don't throw stones at him from the pulpit. For I see in Judas the possibilities of my own soul. It must have been mortifying to the refined Mary to hear this gross protest. What could she do? Not many ways were open to her. She couldn't follow the Lord as the disciples did, for she was a woman. She did not have the chance to watch with him or even to die with Him. But she did what she could; she performed one loving deed. The secret of content lies in the iact of doing what we are fitted to do. Discontent comes from doing what we can't do, and in bungling at what God Almighty never meant for us to do. Such women as Mary are rare. The things we can do we don't care to do. John Bunyan, who wrote, the best prose in the English language, wasted most of his life writing the poorest poetry in the world. There are fewer sadder sights than to see men doing uncongenial work, and there is no necessity for it. Every one can do something well. Let us imitate Mary, who did not as Martha did, nor as the disciples Avished her to but what she oould. People like her are like the shadow of a rock in a desert. Contact with them is like a benediction. This isn't a bad world. It is full of opportunity to people who are not grossly selfish. Mary shows us how to go through the world contentedly, not grumbling at our condition or longing for things we have not, which can only bring misery and madness. Doing what you can means doing in your office, in your work shop, in your home, as father, mother, making the world better, making Christ nearer and dearer, and commending Him to men by your example.—(J. R. Paxton, D.D.) DO IT NOW! If you've flowers to scatter round those you love, Don't wait till they've gone to their home above; If you've words of praise that would bless and! cheer, Don't murmur therm, weeping, above a bier. For falling tears o'er a flower-covered mound Will never be felt down under the ground; And the words of love that we speak at last Oan carry no comfort when life is past. The path we tread lies through bramble and brake, Where tears often fall and hearts often ache; We long for the clasp of a kindly hand Or love of a friend who can understand. Most.precious to us in the hour of need Is a word of cheer or e, kindly deed 1 ; Rose, lily, violet, or goldenrod, Welsh-all not need when we are with God. SPEAK A KIND WORD. Quoting from "The Christian Age," we note the following; A lady once told us of a pleasant incident that transpired in her presence in the sanctum of Professor Moses Stuart, then at the head of the theological school of Andover, Massachusetts. A poor divinity student, who had preached a discourse on the morning of that day in the chapel connected with the institution, had come into the professor's apartment for the purpose of bidding him good-bye, and also to thank him for the privilege which had been granted him of preaching at least one sermon at the close of his academic term.

"I tried," he said, as ly held the old man's hand, "to make my subject plain.'* "My dear sir," returned the professor, warmly, "I could not have understood my> self better than I understood you." And he went on very carefully, yeo pleasantly and warmly, to praise what lie found good In the young man's discourso. Tears of joy were in the youth's eyes

as he returned thanks, and shortly after-, wards took his leave. When he had gone the aged professor turned to- his lady visitor, -who had been present and heard the youth's address in the pulpit. ''Lioubtless," he said, with a smile, "3 T ou were surprised to hear me praise the youth's efforts." The lady replied that 'to her the young man's effort had been a complete mystery", and she had not found anything good iri. it. "Xot in his good-will and pure purpose, madam?" "Excuse me, I did not think of that." But I did. The youth has discovered that preaching is not his special forte: and he is to return to his father and enter into business, for which his unsullied honour entirely fits him. "And now, seeing him about to leava me, how could I refuse Mm that littler gleam of kindness which I know I gavgi him, it did not oost me any falsehood / ' it cost me no effort." "I simply praised him for the good het intended—the good that was in his hearts And I am very sure it made him happier,' * The lady bowed her head, and acknowy j ledged that the aged man was right an<| she had gained a lesson that might ol profit to her in the time to come. TRIFLES. What will it matter in a little while, That for a day We met and gave a word, a touch, a smil€| Upon the way? i What will it matter whether hearts wer4 brave, And lives were true; I That you gave me the sympathy I crav<j a As I gave you? These trifles! Can it be they make ox JXaajt Human life? Are souls as lightly swayed as rushes ar«j By love or strife? Yea, yea! a look the fainting heart may break, Or make it whole; And just one word, if said for love's sweef sake, May save a soul. —By May Smith* •'