THE TOUGH LOG, AND THE WAY TO SPLIT IT.

EH dear! it's enough to take off one's

fingers' ends-such a frost," said Jane Watson, raking the embers together. "Jack, what brings you by the fire? You must up and get me some wood; there's never a stick left, and I'm going to bake a barley cake."

"The wood's about gone till father fetches a load," said Jack, who liked the chimney corner better than the yard.

'Don't tell me; there's that log in the corner. We shall have no more till that's burnt, depend on it. Be off and chop

some.

Chop that!" said Jack. "Yes, a nice job. Why it wants father to

do it; and I don't believe he'd be very handy at it. Do you know how thick it is? And hard wood too; and green besides !"

"It's no good bothering about it. If you're not quick I shall have the fire out. When once you get the wedge in it'll split easy enough," answered his mother. So Jack stretched himself and moved slowly off with a grumble, by no means relishing his job.

"He's as stupid as he can be," said Jane as she watched him from the window. "Just look, father, how he stands with his hands in his pockets, staring at the log and shivering. And now he's trying to chip off some bits of no consequence." And she went to the door and screamed out, "You'll never do any good that way. Strike in, I tell you, and get the wedge in, or I'll teach you something, you may be sure."

Then turning to his grandfather, who sat quietly reading, she added, "He's so aggravating, I can do no good with him, and don't believe I ever shall."

The old man looked up and smiled.

"Oh, it's nothing to laugh about," she said sharply. "I'm sure I do all in my power to teach him and rule him, and always have done it; but it's waste work. I may scold and scold; it's not a bit of good."

"He's a tough log," said the old man. "It's just what he is," she answered. Ah," she continued, looking again through the window, "he'll do it now; he's got the wedge in."

"Have you any eggs to spare, Mrs. Wat-, son?" said a neighbour, coming in as she spoke. "Our fowls have done laying, and they have just sent down for a few from the hall."

are more plague than profit," said Jane, counting the eggs into the basket.

66

"I should be lost without mine," said the neighbour. They don't give me any trouble but what can't be helped, poor things; and they're always wishful to do what's right, I believe."

"I wish, as you go through the yard, you'd tell Jack to bring what he's got, and be quick with it," said Jane, as the door closed after her. "I don't believe in the goodness of other people's children," she said with a sneer, and looked round at her father, who, taking off his spectacles and closing his book, said gently, "I know how they manage it, Jane."

"How?" she asked.

"They follow your directions to Jack," he answered.

the lad went out, she said, "You are right; and I hope I'll mind your words, father. I'll just hang up that wedge behind the door to mind me when I'm forgetting myself."

And oftentimes, when her own temper was tried by Jack's, she would give a look towards it, and say to herself, "The wedgeI mustn't forget the wedge."

HOW MARY LOST HER PLACE.

YOU'LL never make a servant, Mary,

and you'll never keep a place, if you don't pay attention to what you are told," said Mrs. Watson to her daughter. "If you had mixed the starch as I showed you, it wouldn't have spoilt these muslins."

the wedge in."

"What are you driving at, father?" she asked peevishly.

Why, don't you see, you are for ever scolding, and threatening, and fault-finding with your children. Whenever you are out of sorts you begin to rate at them; and when they do wrong you are angry, not for their sakes, but for your own, and they can see that."

"What's that got to do with a wedge?" she asked sullenly.

Why, children's hearts may be likened to logs, Jane; and mostly they are like Jack's, very tough; and the only way to manage them is to get into them by love; just as you said, get the wedge in; and when once in, work on it, and every stroke will tell. Make Jack feel that you want to cure him of his faults for his good; once get him to believe that, and you will see him improve, take my word for it. Scolding and teazing may make him do a little better for a little time, but will never do more. It's just like his chipping off bits with the axe. The wedge is the thing. I don't believe any heart is tough enough to hold against lovingkindness. You try Jack's."

"Be patient and loving with him! who can be patient with him when he's so obstinate?" said Jane.

"God commendeth his love towards us in that while we were sinners Christ died for us. Not because we love him, but he loves us, we are saved, Jane. He must love us-put the wedge into our hearts-before they will open to receive him, and return love to him; and as he does by us, so must we by one another."

Just at that moment Jack brought in the wood. "That's a good lad," said Jane, a little softened. "Bring in that bit of a wedge when you come with the rest of it."

After all, when her temper was not ruffled, Jane had a mother's heart. These words set Jane thinking. Turning to her father, as

She got a very good place, and one where she had every prospect of a comfortable home; but she had a fellow-servant who was like herself, too fond of her own opinion to listen to the directions given her. She was housemaid; and as she had much to learn, it might have been a happy thing for her that her mistress was able and willing to teach her, but her natural conceit and the bad example of Betsy, the cook, robbed her of the advantage.

At first, indeed, she was careful, and obeyed all the little directions given to her, so that her mistress said, "There is nothing to hinder Mary's making an excellent servant." But she soon gave way to her old habits; all the sooner, of course, from Betsy's example.

Betsy, what have you done with the egg-boiler?" said Mrs. Mason, Mary's mistress. "Why don't you keep it in its place? You boiled the eggs too hard last night at supper, and this morning they were nearly raw."

I looked at the clock," said Betsy, "and they boiled three minutes and a half."

"You think so, but it is not the fact. You forget what time you put them in by the clock; if you had the egg-boiler before you, you would see at once when the sand had run out."

Betsy looked discontented, and as soon as Mrs. Mason had left the kitchen, said, “As if half a minute could make any difference! Such a fuss; and as if I couldn't do it as well by the clock!" And although she was obliged to put the egg-boiler into its place, she always, as Mary saw, boiled the eggs by guess, seldom even looking at the clock, never using the little boiler. The consequence was, that though by accident they were sometimes right, they were three times out of five over or under done. It was the same with everything.

"Parcel of nonsense," said Betsy," as if I couldn't guess a bit of pepper. This is a bit less than I put last time; it'll be all right. What's a grain or two of pepper?"

So the pie was spoilt for want of enough seasoning. It was constantly thus: "Mind you weigh "Mind you weigh the sugar for that cake, Betsy." "Mind you you let those peas soak the proper time before you put them to the soup." "Yes, ma'am," she always answered, but never attended; and when the cake was too sweet she said, "she thought sure she had put the quantity;' and when the peas were like little stones in the soup, "she thought sure they had soaked long enough;" though she had not been told to think but to follow directions.

At last Mrs. Mason was tired out, and gave her warning, telling Mary that if she didn't take care, she would be as bad as Betsy, and would lose both her place and character.

Mary, however, took little notice of the warning, and went on in her old ways.

Some visitors came to stay with Mrs. Mason, and they slept in the best bedroom, which was well furnished, the water-bottles and glasses being old-fashioned and handsomely cut, and the ware being the best stone china. "Mary, remember not to put water into the best bedroom at night; wait till morning when the ladies ring; for the frost is so severe, the jugs and bottles will be broken," said Mrs. Mason.

"Yes, ma'am," said Mary, thinking of something else; and when night came she put the water as usual; she had never known the frost to break a jug, and didn't think it could; and she thought, "I shall be busy in the morning."

In the morning the ladies rang; she went up, and saw one standing with the handle of the jug in her hand, while on the floor lay pieces of china and ice with a pool of water. The set was quite spoiled; the bottles shared the same fate as the jugs; and Mary bitterly repented now not having done as she was told.

"I cannot afford to keep Mary," said her mistress to her mother, who was not surprised to hear it; "she spoils and breaks my things, she mixes the linen, and uses it out of its place; nothing is orderly or neat that she does; and it is all because she will not pay attention to orders. It is a great pity, for she is strong, active, good-tempered, and pleasant, and quick to learn, if she liked; but I cannot keep her."

And thus for no charge of dishonesty, insolence, nor even incapacity, but simply inattention, did Mary lose a good place; and it was the work of many years, and a great deal of trouble, to cure her of her conceit and make her a useful servant.

I

THE WILLING MIND.

WAS calling one day on a poor woman whom I had not long known, and I said to her, after we had exchanged a few words on other subjects, "You go to a place of worship, Mrs. Benson, don't you?”

"I go," she replied, with great emphasis on the last word, "when it is convenient."

She was standing at that moment before the looking-glass, tying on a very smart bonnet, and making herself ready to go out and visit a friend in the country. It certainly was not her bad clothes that kept her at home. Nor was it the distance; for her house was within two minutes' walk of the church. Nor was it he large family; for she had but two children, and they were old enough to go with her.

"It's not always convenient," she repeated, seeing that I looked rather grieved and surprised at her answer.

I made a few remarks, which did not appear to make much impression, and I said as I was leaving the house, "Well, Mrs. Benson, I hope you will come to our evening service at the school-room on Wednesdays surely you can manage that?"

"I will come," she said, carefully arranging her bows all the while, "if it is convenient." And with this reply I was forced to be content. "If it is convenient."

The words rang in my ears as I walked home, and I thought to myself, "How little we should ever do in the world if we were always to wait till it was convenient.'' It was not without some self-reproach that I repeated the words; for had I not over and over again made the very same excuse? Do we not all find that when we do not feel disposed to the performance of any particular duty, it is "inconvenient" for some reason or other that we should attend to it?

And yet I went on thinking to myselfand yet, the day must come when, whether convenient or inconvenient, we must depart out of this world, and give an account of all those things which we have left undone, as well as of all those things that we have done. And what will the excuse avail us then? "I could not worship thee, O Lord; I could not praise thee in the congregation; I could not pray to thee; I could not serve thee, because it was not convenient!”

As I was musing upon these things, I fell in with a poor old man who was toiling painfully along on crutches. He was a man whom I knew well by sight, for his place was never empty. Sunday and week-day, there he was to be seen in his accustomed seat in the aisle, with his crutches by his side.

Though he lived nearly a mile away, he was never absent. Whatever was the weather, it made no difference. Abraham Williams was always there, with his peaceful and happy countenance. Through storms of rain, and driving sleet, and snow, and wind, and bitter frost, he came. Others might keep away, but this poor suffering cripple, never.

As I passed, I stopped to speak to him, and with the recollection of the answer I had just received fresh in my thoughts, I said, "How is it, Abraham, that you always contrive to get out to public worship in all weathers, such a long distance as you have to come?"

He looked up with a pleasant smile, and said, "O ma'am, it's the willing mind."

The "willing mind "-yes, there lay the difference between those two hearts: the one was a willing, the other an unwilling worshipper and servant of the Lord.

And which, dear friends, are you? Do you enter into the courts of the Lord's house with gladness, and suffer nothing to hinder you from the "assembling of yourselves together"? Do you make the Sabbath a "delight," "not doing your own ways, nor finding your own pleasures" on that day, but keeping it in the fear as well as in the love of the Lord, and striving to gain all the good rather than all the amusement and enjoyment that you can from those holy hours of quietness and rest? Are you the lazy, indolent, slothful servant, who is for ever crying out that "there is a lion in the way" (Prov. xxii. 13), or have you that "willing mind" which is "accepted according to that a man hath, and not according to that he hath not" (2 Cor. viii. 12)?

THE SHOEMAKER.

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might."Ecc. ix. 10. "Not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord."— ROм. xii. 11.

THE shoemaker sat among wax and leather,

With the lapstone on his knee,
Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather,
Drawing his quarters and sole together:

A happy old man was he.

The happy old man was so wise and knowing,
The worth of his time he knew;

He bristled his ends and he kept them going,
And felt to each moment a stitch was owing,
Until he got round the shoe.

Of every deed that his wax was scaling,
The closing was firm and fast;
The prick of his awl never caused a feeling
Of pain to the toe; and his skill in heeling
Was perfect, and true to the last.
Whenever you gave him a boot to measure,
With gentle and skilful hand

He took its proportions with looks of pleasure,
As if you were giving the costliest treasure,
Or dubbing him lord of the land.

And many a one did he save from getting
A fever, or cold, or cough;
For many a foot did he save from wetting,
When, whether in water or snow 'twas setting,

His shoeing would keep them off.
When he had done with his making and mending,
With hope and peaceful breast,

Resigning his awl, as his thread was ending,
He passed from his bench to the grave descending,
As high as the king, to rest.