THE GARLAND

Otago Witness, Issue 3487, 11 January 1921, Page 52

THE GARLAND

FOR THE QUIET HOUR. No. 385. By Duncan Wriout, Dunedin. Sneering marks the egotist, the fool or the knave ; or all three. They who think they cannot wander will the soonest lose their way. The loss of taste for what is right is the loss of all right taste. Conscience is that one talent which the sinner buries in the ground. Patience does not mean inaction, and not talking does not mean thinking. Merely to share another’s heavy burden is noble; to do it cheerfully is sublime. Read of the sufferings of the o-reat, and you will discover the springs of their greatness. Perhaps some of our most costly moments are spent mourning over those sins God has forgiven. The hottest water will extinguish fire—so the affected heat of a cold character will drown friendship. If we would keep Sunday, in imitation of God’s rest, we must keep the six days in imitation of God’s work. Distinguish between indolence and calmness ; indolence is apathy, calmness is the backbone of activity. The person who writes as he speaks, speaks as he writes, and looks both as he speaks and writes is honest. Even a little mind becomes great if its outlook is great, and a little heart expands when the duty of love and toleration is made fundamental. Mankind may have a thousand tongues, but it has only one heart, and that heart understands one language the whole world over—the language of Divine Love.—London Christian. OUT OF TOUCH. Only a smile! yea, only a smile That a woman, o’erburdened with grief, Expected from you; 'twould have given her relief. For her heart ached sore the while; But weary and cheerless she went away Because, as it happened that very day, You were out of touch with your Lord. Only a word; yes, only a word That the Spirit’s small voice whispered speak; But the worker passed onward, unblessed and weak, Whom you were meant to have stirred To courage, devotion and love anew— Because when the message came to you, You were out of touch with your Lord. Only a note; yes, only a note To a friend in a distant land; The Spirit said write, but then you had planned Soane different work, and you thought It mattered! little. You did not know ’Twould have saved a soul from sin and woe: You were out of touch with your Lord. Only a song! yes, only a song That the Spirit said, ' Sing to-night, Thy voice is thy Master’s by purchased right;” But you thought, “’Mid this motley throng I care not to sing of the city of gold;” And the heart that you might have reached grew cold; Y r ou were out of touch with your Lord. Only a day! yes, only a day, But oh! can you guess, my friend, Where the influence reaches, and where it will end, Of the hours you have frittered away ? The Master’s command is "Abide in Me,” And fruitless and vain will your service be, If out of touch with your Lord. —Anon. It has been pointed out with much force that an evangelistic appeal has much less chance of success when a people is in ignorance of Divine Truth as revealed in Holly Scripture. In the great “missions” of the past, from Mr Moody’s time downward, the audiences, especially of young people, had some considerable knowledge of the Bible, and this gave the appeal a proper atmosphere. Men and women knew the truth; what they needed was to de cide to receive it and live by it. To-day things are different. There is an appalling ignorance of the Bible everywhere, and the average man or woman has no idea of the Divine way of salvation. To speak of the Gospel to them is to speak of a foreign language. This fact, patent enough, alas, is often forgotten. The pressing need of the time is a revival of the teaching of Bible truth concerning the Redeemer and Redemption. It is the only way to awaken men to the sense of need, as it is the only way to fortify souls against the insidious heresies which threaten us to-day. If, instead of selecting catchpenny topics, ministers would devote themselves to the strenuous work of making the Bible “live,” there would be the atmosphere created for a real revival on a great scale. There would then be no occasion to decry “missions.” THE SILVER LINING. “The inner side of every cloud Is bright and shining, I therefore turn my clouds about, And always wear them inside out To show the lining ” sings Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler. Clouds there must be for all human kind, but the side we will turn to the world is for our own choosing. Many a life is blessing and brightness to other lives just because it does know clouds, and through heavenly wisdom and unselfish love has learned how to wear them. MAKE YOUR OWN WEATHER AT HOME. When people get talking together, In parlour, or market or train, There’s always a growl at the weather, The tog, or the wind, or the rain. It's always too cold or too baking, It’s always too damp or too dry, How long shall we suffer that buffer and duffer, The crotchety clerk of the sky ? Oh, make your own weather at home! Don’t frown at the deep or the dome,

But, whatever may hap. have the sunshine on tap, And make your own weather at home. When the sky overturn'd like a cup is. And drains are a river in spate; When it s pouring its i ussies and puppies At rather a ruinous rate—Just turn up your sensible collar. And nod to your neighbour and say: “Tile ducks are enchanted that mud has been granted And won’t there be rainbows to-day!” It s the heart where the summer is moulded, And woven the magical blue, And always a glory is folded That waits out a welcome from you. The world is the world that you make it— A dungeon, a desert, a bow’r, And sunshine is falling and cuckoos are calling, If only the heart is in flower. Oh, make your own weather at home! Don’t frown at the deep or the dome, Let whatever may hap have the sunshine on tap, And make your own we a! her at home. —F. Langbridge in "The Sunday at Home.” “RANKLED UP.” “Excellent sermon this morning,” said Deacon Goodwill to his neighbour, as they lingered in the vesibule to shake hands. “Well, pretty good, pretty good. Ain t quite up to old Parson Sloeum. He used to give it to ’em straight. He. preached against wickedness in the land.” “To be sure, but this man preaches right to us, personally.” “That’s just what I don’t like. I go to church to hear other folks pitched into. I don’t want to be rankled up myself.” Just then the minister passed along, and with a dubious shake of the head the discontented hearer cut short his remarks. ON THE REPORT OF A BEAUTIFUL SERMON. And did he preach the cross? And count all else but dross ? And did he see his power as naught?— His will with deadly danger fraught?— His wisdom as but loss ? Spake he as one defiled, — , By sin and hell beguiled, But now by Jesus’ blood set free? Spake he in sweet simplicity, As but a little child? Was there the thought of God, — All-holy, though ull-gocd? To Whom the wicked draw not nigh, Before Whom guilty souls must die? Preached he the atoning blood? Was there the love of Him Who came man to redeem? That love that glows an incense-coal Within the consecrated soul, — A very Jesus gleam! Was there that hush of Heaven? The bliss of souls forgiven? That consciousness that God was there.— That glorious gladness witnessed where The Holy Ghost is given? Oh, did he speak as one Commissioned from the throne ? Where seraphs veil their reverent face. And yet where reigneth boundless grace, Through God’s beloved Son! —W. It. Newell, in Missionary Witness. Here in my workshop where I toil Till head -and hands are well nigh spent. Out on the road where the dust and soil Fall thick on garments worn and rent, Or in the kitchen where I hake The bread the little children eat, He comes, His hand of strength I take, * And every lonely task grows sweet. LIFE’S COMMON THINGS. The things of every day are all so sweet, The morning meadows wet with dlew; The dance of daises in the noon, the Of far-off hills where twilight shadows lie, The night with all its tender mystery of sound And silence, and God’s starry sky! O! life —the whole life—is far too fleet, The things of every day are all so sweet. The common things of life are all so dear, The waking in the warm half-gloom To find again the old familiar room. The scents and sights and sounds that never t i re. The homely work, the plans, the lilt of baby’s laugh, The crackle of the open fire; The waiting, then the footsteps coming near. The opening door, the handclasp and the kiss, Is Heaven not, after all, the now and here? The common things of life are all so dear. —Anonymous.