THE GARLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3611, 29 May 1923, Page 57

THE GARLAND.

FOR THE QUIET HOUR. No. 509.

By

Duncan Wright.

Dunedi»

MOTHER 1 THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. In ancient times, so runs the tale, An Angel from the heights did come. And, girt with scrubbing brush and paii, Made Eden in a humble home. And as she moved with busy tread About the dear old homely place, An aureole clung round her head And filled the house with nameless grace. In ancient times, —and yet to-day Where'er my busy housewife turns I see th© Angel on the way, Whose path with loving radiance burns; And when sh© moves within my sight Across the sun path on the stair, Or sows by gleam of candle light, I see the halo round her hair; And when at night she bends her head Above each little sleeping child To smooth the pillows of each bed, It seems as if the Virgin smiled. And in her service all day through, I think upon th© Holy Name: “Not to he ministered unto, But all to minister,” He came. OLD-FASHIONED MOTHERS. Thank God, some of us have an oldfashioned mother. Not the woman of the period, enamelled and painted, whose white, jewelled hands never felt the clasp of baby fingers; but a dear, old-fashioned, sweet-voiced mother, with eyes in whose clear depth the lovelight shines, and brown hair, just threaded with silver, lying smooth upon her faded cheek. Those dear hands, worn with toil, gently guided our tottering steps in childhood, and smoothed our pillow in sickness, ever reaching out to us in yearning tenderness. Blessed is the memory of an old-fashioned mother. It floats to us now like the beautiful perfume of some wooded blossoms. The music of other voices may be lost, but the entrancing memory of hers will echo in our souls for ever. Ollier faces may fade away and be forgotten, but hers will shine on. When in the fitful pauses of busy life our feet wander back to the old homestead, and crossing the well-worn threshold, stand once more in the room so hallowed by her presense, how the feeling of childhood*, innocence, and dependence comes over us, and we kneel down in the molten sunshine streaming through the open window—just where long years ago we knelt by our mother’s knee, lisping “Our Father.” How many times when the tempter lured us on has the memory of those sacred hours, that mother’s words, her faith and prayers, saved us from plunging into the deep abyss of sin! Years have filled great drifts between her and us, but they have not hidden from our sight the glory of her pure, unselfish love.—Anon. MOTHER HUNGER. If I could only find her, for the mother hunger's on me; I want to see and touch her, to know her close beside; I want to put my head in the hollow of her shoulder, I want to feel lior love me as she did before she died! In all th© world is nothing, love of husband or of children, In all the world is nothing that can soothe me or can stir, Like the memory of her fragile hand from which the ring was slipping— The hand that wakes my longing at the very thought of her. The window in the sunshine and the empty chair beside it, The loneliness that mocks me as I find tho sacred place— O mother, is there naught in the unerring speech ol - silence To let me know your presence, tho’ I cannot see your face'f Thank God that I have had you; that we held each other closer, As women and as sisters and as souls that claimed their own, Than any tie of blood could hind! and now my heart is bleeding, My heart is bleeding, mother, and yours is turned to stone. O, no, I’ve not forgotten the triumph and the glory— I would not bring you back again to struggle and to pain; This hour will pass; but O, just now, the mother hunger’s on me— And I would give my soul to-night to kiss your hair again! —The Soldier Bov. LED. By J. Chandler Melvin. By winding ways we do not, cannot know, God leads from day to day our restless feet; Sometimes beside th© streamlet’s quiet flow, Sometimes through pastures sweet. And yet again through tangled, thorny ways, O’er rugged paths and up the rocky steep, We wander on through weary, clouded days, Past gloomy chasms deep. Day after day, thfough sunshine and through shade, Onward we pass, nor see the way before; Trusting in Him, we move on undismayed; He leads, we ask no more. And when at last, life’s weary journey done, "We lean upon Him and the hour is laic, All trials ended at the set of sun, He’ll lead beyond tlie Gate. THE POWER. OF a MOTHER’S HYMN In 0110 of the hospitals of Edinburgh lay a wounded Scotch soldier. The surgeons had done all they could do for him. He had been told that he must die. lip had a contempt for death, and prided himself on his fearlessness in facing it. A rough and wicked life, with none hut evil associ-

ates, had blunted his sensibilities, and made profanity and scorn his second nature. To hear him speak, one would have thought he had no piously natured childhood to remember, and that he had never looked upon religion but to despise it. But it was not so. A noble and gentle-hearted man come to se® the dying soldier. He addressed him with kind inquiries, talked to him tenderly of the life beyond death, and offered spiritual counsel. But the sick man paid him no attention or respect. He bluntly told him he did not want any religious con versa tion. ‘ roil will let me pray with vou, will vox not!'’ said the man at length. ■' No; I know how to die without the heln of religion.” And he turned his face to the wall. Further conversation could do no good, and the man did not attempt it. But he was not discouraged. After a moment’s silence, he began to sing the old hymn, so familiar and so dear to every congregation in Scotland : “O, mother dear, Jerusalem, When shall I come to thee?” l,e had a pleasant voice, and the words and melody were sweet and touching as he sang them. Pretty soon the soldier turned his face again, but its hardened expression was all gone. “Who taught you that?” he asked, when the hymn was done.

“My mother.’’ “So did mine. I learned it of her when T was a child, and I used to sing it with her.” And there weie tears in the man’s eyes. Till-; SELF-SURRENDER. He might have built a palace by a word, Who sometimes had not where to lay His head; Time was, and He who nourished crowds with bread. Would not one meal Himself affoTd. Twelve legions girded with angelic sword Were at His back—the scorned and buffeted! Ho healed another's scratch, His own side bled, Side, feet, and hands with piercings gored. Oh! wonderful the wonders left undone, And scarce wonderful than those he wrought! Oh, self-restraint, passing all human thought. To have all power and be—as having none! Oh, self-denying love, which felt alone For needs of others—never for its own! —Trench

SOU EB 0 D Y' 1 S MOTH ER, “The woman was old, and ragged, and gray, And bent with the chill of tile winter day; The street was wet with a recent snow, And the woman’s steps were aged and slow ; She stood at the crossing and waited long, Unaided, uncared for, amid the throng Of human beings that passed her by, Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. Down the street, with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of school let out, Came the noisy beys, like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled high and deep; Past the woman so old and gray, Hastened the children on their way, Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels and the horses’ feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop, The brightest scholar in all the group; He stood beside her and whispered low: ‘l’ll help you across, if you wish to go.’ Her aged hand on his strong arm She placed, and so without hurt or harm, He guided her trembling feet along, Proud that his own were stout and strong. Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content; ‘She’s somebody's mother, boys, you know, For ail she’s old, and poor, and slow, And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help nry mother, you understand, If ever she’s old, and poor, and gray, When her own dear boy i 3 far away.’ And somebody’s mother bowed low her head That night in her home, and the prayer she said Was. ‘God be kind to the noble boy, Who's somebody’s pride, and hope, and joy.’ ” .c-rE POWER OF A LOVINO WORD. A hearfelt Christian word will often honour Christ more than calculated methods. A clergyman spent a whole week preparing a sermon with special reference to one of his hearers, an infidel lawyer, who, from habit and traditional respect, regularly attended church, and had for some time sat under his ministry, ounday came, and with it a cold, icqstorm; but Judge Leyman sat in his accustomed place. Not a word of the sermon escaped him. After the benediction, he -uietly walked down the aisle. On the icy steps stood an old coloured woman lame and poor. As she attempted to go down she slipped, and would have fallen, out the judge, with the dignified courtesy that always distinguished him, assisted her till she had gained the sidewalk. Turning as ho supposed to tliauk Iriin, the old

woman peered into his face with the inquiry: “Do you love Jesus?” Receiving no answer for an instant, she repeated : “Do you love Jesus?” and then hobbled away. The lawyer went home, but the words followed him. Me tried to read, but could riot escape the trembling, pleading tone. He fought the impression till evening, then sought the pastor’s study to ask guidance and help. Some weeks later, after he had found peace and united himself with the "oople of od, the minister said to him one clay : “Do you know that I expected you that stormy evening when .you first came to me to inquire concerning the way to eternal life? I had prepared mv sermon that day especially for you, and I thought it would bring you to conviction.” “That sermon?” replied the judge, “whv. I could have answered all your arguments, and it did not move me in the least. It was what the old negro woman said, ‘Do you love Jesus?’ that I could not get away from. It seemed to me as if I should hear that voice following me as long as I lived.’’ Thou art worthy, Q Lord, to receive glory and honour and power.—Rev. iv, 11. The Wonder of all Wonders. The Theme of Thames. The Mystery of Mysteries. The Glory of Glories. The Song of Songs. The (had Man, Jesus Christ, dying and the twofold purposes of liis death, that the perfect revelation of God in all His love and grace may be made known to sinners as the God of Salvation, and that we poor, lost, ruined, guilty, helpless sinners may be eternally saved, counted righteous in His sight/ and to share the eternal glorv of being with and like Christ. Exhaust you may time, strength, thought, words, but you can scarcely touch the boundary line of “Christ’s immeasurable worth.”-—W. Lamb. Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is staj'ed on Thee. —Isaiah xxvi, 3. Humility is perfect quietness of heart It is to have no trouble. It is never to be fretted, or vexed, or irritated, or sore, or ensaopointed. It is to expect nothin' l ', to wonder at nothing that is done to rne, to feel nothing done against me. It is to be at rest when nobody praises me, and when I am blamed or despised. It is to have a blessed home in the. Lord, where I can go in and shut the door, and kneel to my Father in secret, and be at peace when all around is trouble.—Andrew Murray.