Children's Page.

"I WILL BE A SAILOR."

THERE

HERE is a pleasant village on the coast of Cumberland. It is hidden from the sea by a cliff that rises just over it; but in a ten minutes' run you may be down upon the shore, with a fine broad sea spread out before you. There are not so many vessels to be seen passing as in other places; but packet-boats, with their long train of dingy steam and smoke, and little fishing-smacks, there are in plenty; and now and then there are ships, with their outspread sails in the distance shining in the sun. The beach is pebbly; but there are also broad sands, which stretch out far away when the tide runs out, and there are shells, and pretty weeds, and curious things lying on them, washed up by the waves, and left there.

There was an old man living in this village many years ago-a kind old man. He was very fond of books, and had once been a schoolmaster in a large cathedral town. His name was Porter. He took charge of his nephew Willie, whose father, commonly called Captain Porter, had died, and left his house and property to him till his little boy came of age, on condition that he would bring him up carefully, and place him well out in life.

Captain Porter's house had something belonging to the sea in every corner, inside and outside. He had built it himself when his bad health obliged him to retire from the service,

among the rocks and caves, or watch the seagulls as they settled like snow-flakes on the blue sea. Dr. Porter was very kind to him, and took pains to teach him to read and write, which he was very backward in; but whenever he talked about being a sailor, and loving the sea, he would say, "Nonsense, child! what would such a poor thing as you do at sea ?"

Poor Willie hated books, and used to steal away to the beach by himself, and cry, and declare to himself that "he would be a sailor and a captain like his father."

One day an old sailor, who had served under Captain Porter, took the village in his way from Whitehaven to London. His name was

all its terrors, and asked him how he should like it.

"Not at all," said Willie, frightened; "but I never saw a storm like that."

"May-be not," said Brooks; "but I can promise you the sight if you come to sea.' "But father never told me of storms," said Willie.

"He forgot 'em, when his sea life was over," answered Brooks.

Then he told him of the hardships of a sailor boy; how he was often made to work beyond his strength, and sometimes forced into situations of danger; so that Willie began to look very grave. "It's all very well," said the

and his delight was to show that he had been a sailor. A stuffed shark took up a good deal of room in the kitchen, and a complete model of a man-of-war did the same in the parlour. Sea curiosities and sailors' instruments hung on the walls and dangled from the ceilings. "Doctor Porter," as the people called the Captain's successor, because of his learning, used to say he wondered his brother had not built a ship at once, and lived on deck in the summer, and in the cabin in winter.

Willie was a sickly child. His mother had died when he was born, and bad nursing had injured him. He was about seven when his father died; and he cried himself to sleep many a night after his uncle came, thinking of the times when his father would tell him of the delights and wonders of the ocean, and grieving that he should never again wander with him

Brooks. He knew his old master was dead, but he wanted to see the child he had left, and the place where he had lived.

Willie clung to him with delight, but he was afraid of saying much to him before his uncle. So the night before he knew he was going away, he stole down out of his room into the kitchen, where Brooks was smoking, and told him all his mind, and begged him to take him away with him to some ship, for he would go to sea.

Brooks looked at his white face and small figure, and asked him what he thought a sailor's life was made of.

Willie hardly knew; but it was plain that he fancied it to be a life of perfect happiness.

Brooks, who had seen how really kind his uncle was to him, and how unfit he was for a sea life, began first to describe a storm in

honest sailor, "for them who are hardy and able; but you see, my lad, there's no knowing a thing till you've tried it. You're in a safe harbour now, and I'd advise you to stick to it. The sea is pleasant enough to look at when you're safe ashore; but it's only them that have been on it know what it is."

Willie still looked doubtful.

"Why, now," said Brooks, "if you were on board ship, and had come to me against orders (for I reckon the Doctor don't know you're here), some men would have given you the rope's end till you'd have sung out nicely."

At that moment a rustling noise made Willie turn round, and there he saw his uncle, who had missed him from his room, and had been looking for him. The old Doctor half smiled as Willie slunk behind Brooks's chair, and said, "Uncle, I won't ask to be a sailor again. I never thought about the storms, and

the hardships, and running up the mast."

"No, no," said his uncle. "You thought you should sail about like a sea-gull, and have your own way; but your friend Brooks has taught you better, and now I hope you'll be satisfied with the life you're fit for, and take to your book. Let lads that are strong, and not afraid of a storm, turn sailors, if duty calls them; but remember, my boy, that there are roughs in all lives, and it's a good thing for such young folks as have old ones to advise them, and help them to choose that which is best. It is God who fits us for our place and our work; and young people should never choose for themselves, without regard to his will."

Willie lived to see the wisdom of this; and though he always loved the sea, he confessed that his uncle had done well and kindly in not suffering him to be a sailor.

NONE CAST OUT.

IT is one of the commonest things in the world for a man to be "cast out."

There is a beggar. He went to the door of that mansion, starving. He had had many a refusal elsewhere; but he made sure that there, at least, his wants would be supplied. He is moving away with feelings of mingled grief and anger, for he has

been refused.

There is a suitor for some great boon from those in power. He has often been encouraged by vain hopes; but now hope is dead; he has received a final reply, which has crushed it for ever.

There is a criminal. He cannot go to the footstool of his sovereign and plead his own cause, for he is in prison, under sentence of death; but friends have taken it up, urging every reason they can for his forgiveness, leaving not a stone unturned to get their end; still their prayer is refused, and he

dies.

But there is One who never casts out the soul that goes to him. It is the Saviour's own blessed promise, “Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out."

You need the salvation which Jesus gives. You are guilty. God has taken account of all your sins, and you are exposed, because of them, to his everlasting curse. You are sinful, and therefore unfit for the pure joys of heaven. There is in your heart a craving for happiness which the whole world would not satisfy. Your one great want Your one great want is salvation; and Jesus, and no one else, can give it you. If you would have salvation, then you must go to Jesus. Do you ask how you must go to him? We will tell

you.

You must repent of all your sins. You must be deeply sorry for them-sorry, not just because they expose you to everlasting woe, but because of their own great evil, because they have been committed against a God of boundless love, and against a Saviour who died that you might live. Your sorrow must be such a sorrow as will lead you to hate your sins and to resolve by God's help to forsake them for ever. God calls for such repentance by the word of his prophet Isaiah: "Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts." It is such repentance which the Lord Jesus requires when he says, "Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish."

And you must believe in Jesus. "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved." Believe that he died to save you, and that because of his great sacrifice your sins can all be forgiven; believe that through his death you can receive the gift of the Holy Spirit, by whom alone your heart can be changed; and so believing, rest on him all your hopes of everlasting life. Trust him, as if you were afflicted by some grievous disease, you would commit your body into the hands of some skilful physician respecting whom you were persuaded that he could heal you. Trust him, as you would intrust your cause into the hands of an able advocate, respecting whose ability to conduct it successfully you had no doubt. "He that believeth on him is not condemned." Thus believing in Jesus, and thus repentant, you will not perish; for you have his own precious promise, that "Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out."

Though you have been ever so

great a sinner, he will not cast you out. He did not cast out the

woman that was a sinner," who washed his feet with her tears and anointed them with the hairs of her head; nor his murderers, when, pricked to the heart under Peter's sermon, they cried out, "Men and brethren, what shall we do?" nor Saul of Tarsus, the persecutor; nor will he leave you to perish if you go to him.

Though you have despised his mercy for very many years, he will not cast you out. He will pardon even the heinous guilt of neglecting so great a salvation. His loving voice still calls you, and his arms are open to receive you still.

STEL

BUSY STEPHEN.

TEPHEN MORRIS was by far the most active man in the

village. He was stout and strong, and could do any amount of work without being tired. Indeed, he liked nothing so well as bustling about from morning till night. He went by the name of "Busy Stephen," and no one deserved the title better.

But it happened one day, while Stephen was gathering apples, that his foot slipped, and he fell from the top of a long ladder. The neighbours ran to help him into his cottage, and the doctor was soon on the spot. Alas! in those few moments what a sad calamity had befallen Busy Stephen! He had received an injury that would make him a cripple for life.

Everybody in the village was sorry for Stephen. They thought it would be the hardest work he had ever had, to lie still day after day, and do nothing. And

certainly it was the heaviest trial that could have overtaken him. But the neighbours made a great mistake. They knew They knew very little of Stephen's state of mind. For many years religion had been with him the one thing needful; and while active in his calling, he had been "fervent in spirit, serving the Lord." Now it was to be seen what his religion could do for him. Two months after the accident, one of Stephen's relatives came to see him. He found him stretched upon his bed of suffering, his Bible by his side, and his little hymnbook open before him. before him. Though Though he had lain there so long, he uttered not a word of complaint, nor showed any sign of impatience. It is true his face, once ruddy with health, was pale and wasted, and the active limbs were powerless. But still he was cheer

is your religion? Does it help you to bear your troubles with patience? Are you resigned to Are you resigned to the will of your heavenly Father, and cheerful and contented with the lot he has assigned you? Or are you peevish and complaining, as if you had no secret source of comfort, no better portion to console you for the wants and crosses you meet with here?

If so, try to imitate the example of poor Stephen. You can only do so by living near to God, and in daily communion with him. Oh, "rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him" (Ps. xxxvii. 7). Then will your light so shine before men, that they will see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.

"MY FATHER SAYS SO." NO

His visitor expressed surprise at finding him so quiet and resigned.

"It must be very tedious to lie here day after day," said he, "and with so little chance of getting to work again. I wonder you bear it as well as you do."

"I could not bear it if it were not for my religion," replied Stephen, "but of what use would my religion be to me if it could not sustain me under my affliction? Thank God, it does sustain me, and it enables me to say, 'It is the Lord, let him do as seemeth

him good."

Christian reader, you may never have so great an affliction to endure as that which befell poor Stephen. But in the lesser trials and vexations of life, of what use

sun as it set behind the hills. "How fast it moves," cried one, "it has gone from one side of the sky to the other since it rose this morning."

"You are quite wrong there," replied the other, "the sun never moves at all. My father says so.”

"But it was on that side of the sky this morning, and it is this tonight," persisted his companion; so it must have moved."

"Oh, no! it only seems to move. It has been standing still all day. I can't understand how it is, but it must be true," added the boy with emphasis; "my father says so."

it hard to believe that by simply coming to Jesus Christ, and trusting yourself to his keeping, your guilt should be removed, and your soul rescued from eternal death. You have wished, perhaps, to do something first to become more fit for his love. But we read in the word of God that Jesus Christ is "the way, the truth, and the life;" and we can only obtain salvation by casting ourselves, just as we are, upon his mercy. Let us not stay away fancying we can do better than God has told us. Let us come at once to Jesus. He has said, "Look unto me, and be ye saved." "It must be true; my Father says so."

Sometimes the ways of Providence are dark and mysterious. Our plans are broken up, our friends are taken from us, sickness and sorrow come, and we ask, Why such trials should befall us? We

cannot see the meaning of the affliction, or how it is that all these things can work together for our good. "It must be true; my Father says so."

We stand by the death-bed of a Christian friend; and we behold the frail body laid in its narrow tomb. We think it a great mystery how it can ever rise a glorious body, "without spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing." We have no idea how such a change can be. Our finite reason cannot grasp it, and unbelief is apt to cavil. But nothing is too hard for God. "It must be true; my Father says so.'

Christian, let this be your watchword. In all your trials and sorrows-for these must befall you

THE VILLAGE SHOP-KEEPER.

THE COTTAGE AT THE FIRS.

CHAPTER IV.-SATURDAY NIGHT IN NEWTON.

MATURDAY night, as it generally is in

villages inhabited by labouring men and their families, was a busy and rather a noisy night in Newton. There was no regular fair or market in the place, as it lay out of the line of the turnpike-road; but when there happened to be a fair, or a "mop" at any neighbouring town, it was generally the case that after it was over, some of the vagrant stage-players, conjurors, or keepers of raree-shows, would come over to see what they could pick up at Newton; and you may be sure that when they did come, it would be on a Saturday evening. When this was the case, as it was too often in the summer, and the place was in an uproar with the bawling of cheap-jacks, the braying of battered tin trumpets, and the thumping of the big drum, John Godwin always kept his children at home, and whatever marketing had to be done he would do himself, not choosing to let his family mingle with the hubbub. But independently of anything of this sort, Saturday night was always busy and noisy enough. As the end of a week of hard labour, it was looked forward to by the labourers with a natural feeling of pleasure, though this feeling arose from very different causes. With some the pleasure they anticipated was tho comfort of rest and repose in the society of their wives and children, and the privilege of worshipping with them on Sunday in the house of God; but with others all their pleasures were connected with self-indulgence and the gratification of their appetites.

Of course the two public-houses in Newton were fuller on the Saturday night than on any other night; and it was not a pleasant thing to walk past either of them after dark, when the drinkers within had grown riotous and were roaring out half a dozen different songs together. It was worth while to notice the conduct of some of the labourers' wives just about

pay-time. Some of them looked merry and cheerful as larks, had made themselves as neat as a new pin, and having finished all the household work of the week, had cleaned up their cottages and got everything in Sunday order long before Saturday's sun had set. With others it was quite different. They hardly had the means of making themselves neat, and they had lost heart so much that they did not care about making the best of what they had. You would see these poor women, about the time the wages were paid, leaving their cottages, and perhaps dragging a child or two along with them, and making haste to the public-house, where they would stand sometimes for hours, to catch their husbands before they went in, in order to get as much of the wages out of their hands as they could before it was wasted in drink. A sad sight that is!

If you had looked in at Godwin's cottage about that time, you would have seen it in capital trim, a bright little fire burning in the grate, the kettle singing on the hob, and father's cup and saucer on the table waiting for him to sit down to tea. John comes as punctual as the clock, and when he has had his tea, he and Mary, or he and Nancy if his wife is busy, take the market-basket and set off to buy the necessary provisions for the following week: flour for their bread, which Mary makes herself, a pound or two of butchers' meat for Sunday's dinner, tea, sugar, and whatever happens to be wanted. John has paid his club-money on his way home, and if he had anything to spare he has made a small deposit in the savings' bank as well; so that he knows what he has to spend, and knows, too, how to make the most of it. There is no market in Newton, as there is in large towns, where housekeepers can go and choose at a hundred stalls or more, and suit their fancy just as they like. Instead of an open market, there is only the general shop kept by Mrs. Mold; and if she has not got the thing you want, it is likely you may have to do without it. But Mrs. Mold knows the wants of her customers pretty well, and, to say the truth, she has got everything they are likely to ask for, and a good many things which you and I might imagine would never be called for. She has butchers' meat and dried fish, groceries of all kinds, fagots and fire-wood, bales of calico and bright printed dresses, flitches of bacon, fruit and vegetables, and fustian jackets, smock-frocks, and hats and caps, and no end of earthen pots and pans and crockery-ware, to say nothing of knives and forks, and spoons, and flat-irons, and frying-pans, and all manner of domestic hardware. So, you see, the general shop does not make a bad market for a poor man, or a poor man's wife, who is pretty sure to find what she wants there. A stranger might think that Mrs. Mold is a rather hard woman; she speaks so short and quick, and has such a decisive way with her. The truth is, that having been five-and-twenty years in business, she has lost a great deal of money by giving credit, and has been driven to adopt the rule of no trust out of self-defence. To be sure she breaks her rule sometimes, in favour of the widow, or of a poor man disabled from work; but, as she says, if she loses by that, "it is a different thing to being cheated by dishonest persons who could pay if they would." While strict with the careless and improvident, Mrs.

Mold is kind and generous towards those who use her well. She is, further, a wise and willing adviser to any who are in difficulties, and is often known to do a kindly turn and make no words about it. If she gets her living by selling to the villagers, she sometimes sells for them. If they have eggs, or fruit, or vegetables to dispose of, she will aid in turning them into money. If a neighbour kills his pig, she will often get rid among her better class of customers of as much of it as he does not want himself, and what is often of more use to him, she will advise him when to kill, so as to be sure of a market for the fresh pork.

Godwin is a sort of crony with the general shop-keeper, who always receives him with a smiling face, and supplies his wants without loss of time; interlarding her services with a little kindly gossip, and not forgetting now and then to add to the marketings a small packet of "sweeties" for little Bessy. She generally asks after his garden, the produce of which, in the shape of early potatoes, cucumbers, marrowfat peas, and now and then a basket of fine plums, she has been used to get rid of for him; and it is to her good word that John is indebted for the young espaliers which he received from the Squire's head gardener, and which promise to cut a figure some future day in his own ground.

In John Godwin's home there is very little difference between Saturday night and any other night in the week. It does happen sometimes that the family supper is a little later and the table a little better supplied, especially if the boys have been out blackberrying, and succeeded in coaxing mother to make a pudding out of their spoils. But there is no hurrying and driving, because the week's washing for Mary's lady customers was all finished ready to send home on the Friday night; and there is no waiting up for anybody, for the father of the family is not absent at the public-house, wasting his substance and ruining his health, but at home by his own fireside, reading some interesting book aloud, or plotting some fresh scheme of domestic industry with the good wife of fifteen years, while she knits away at a stout pair of winter hose.

It has happened a good many times of late that Mary Godwin, who does not sleep so soundly as her husband, has been awoke after midnight on the Saturday, by the noise made by their neighbour Jem Crocker while banging at the door to be let in. On these occasions she has heard much that she was sorry to hear. She knows, for she cannot help knowing, that Crocker has taken to drinking, and is going on from bad to worse; and she feels that his wife is acting in a way which, so far from weaning him from his error, is more likely to strengthen him in evil habits. Of course she has told Godwin, and John has had more than one serious talk with Crocker upon the subject, and has warned him earnestly to resist the temptation which will else be his ruin. Crocker received the first rebuke with good temper, and promised that it should not be thrown away; but the second time he flew into a passion, and latterly he has avoided Godwin, plainly regarding his interference as an offence.