Family Treasury

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wants and sufferings of humanity. Never was there a more intense human soul, full, as all his epistles mani-❘ fest, of glowing affection, longing desires, and keenest sympathies. But having Christ himself as his all-sufficient portion, enabled him to be as a weaned child in every position and under all circumstances. In this same chapter-Phil. iv. ver. 6-he shows us how to behave and quiet our souls in submitting all our desires and wants to the will of God: "Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through❘ Christ Jesus." Ah yes, "the peace of a subject heart, of its best desires possessed," is what satisfies and quiets the soul everywhere and in all things.

So having the Lord himself for our portion is the argument used for contentment in the thirteenth chapter of Hebrews: "Let your conversation be without covetousness, and be content with such things as ye have; for he hath said, I will never leave thee nor forsake thee." And Habakkuk quiets his soul with this, in the prospect of the loss of all earthly good whatever: "Yet will I be glad in the Lord, and rejoice in the God of my salvation." David, in the Fourth Psalm, speaking of all the restless cravings and longings of the unsatisfied human heart, concentrates all his into a prayer for the light of the Lord's countenance, asserting that this gives satisfaction which the possession of no lesser good can : "Thou hast put gladness into my heart, more than in the time that their corn and wine increased."

Jeremiah, in the third chapter of Lamentations, thus behaves and quiets himself in circumstances of deepest affliction and misery. The first twenty verses are filled with bitter complainings and sad descriptions of his distresses, his soul writhing painfully under the Lord's dealings. But at the twenty-first verse there is a change. The afflicted child begins to behave and quiet himself with thoughts of his Father's goodness, mercy, and grace: "This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope. It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning great is thy faithfulness. The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him. The Lord is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him." And when his weaned soul begins thus to behave and quiet itself, he realizes, what the weaned child can scarcely fail to perceive, that he is not the only sufferer in the trials that have befallen him. The mother's heart is far more deeply wrung in withholding the accustomed food, and abstaining from her usual tender demonstrations of love, than the child's in being deprived of these. But true love enables her both to suffer and to give suffering for the good of its object. So Jeremiah goes on to say, "The Lord doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men; for though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his tender mercies ;" and

David, "I know, O Lord, that thy judgments are right, and that thou in faithfulness hast afflicted me ;" and Isaiah, "In all their afflictions he was afflicted ""Himself bare their griefs and carried their sorrows." And this thought, realized by faith, cannot fail to melt the whole soul into sweet acquiescence in, and meek submission to the will of a Father, who is always and only "good, and doeth good;" and of whom the believing soul can truly say, under all circumstances, "He hath done all things well." "In what he allows us and in what he takes from us, in his dealings with us, or in his action upon us through others, the same object is always kept in view, of teaching us our dependence upon him; and it is well with us, very well, then only well, when our will so works with his, that in all we enjoy or suffer, we strive to realize for ourselves that which he strives to teach-to see his will, and to have no will but his." But this is not a lesson to be fully learned once for all; nay rather, as was said at the beginning, is it not always weaning-time, so long as we are in this present world?

Yes! the present tense in this, as in most things connected with the life of faith, is what the believer must use Behaving and quieting myself. Because if at any time, and with regard to any special privation or trial, we come to be able to say with Paul, "I have learned;" or with David, "My soul is even as a weaned child;" or with the woman of Shunem, "It is well;" or with Job, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord;" or with our Lord himself, " Even so, Father; for so it seemeth good in thy sight;" the process has, neverthless, in some measure to be gone through again, whenever we are anew called upon to resign the possession or hope of a blessing much prized or longed for. But when the Lord's will is once clearly shown in the matter, and thou art indeed behaving and quieting thyself, in meek acceptance of and submission to that will, however counter it may run to thine, be not distressed because of the yearning regrets and longing desires that will arise after the good removed or withheld. There is nothing necessarily wrong or rebellious in these. Thy will is not annihilated because it is subject to thy Father's. Pour out thy heart freely before him. Make thy requests known unto him. For "like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him." Remember thy Lord's example in Gethsemane: "Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done;"yet he knew, even while he prayed, that the cup could not pass from him, if the work he had undertaken was to be accomplished. How plainly this shows us that there is nothing wrong or sinful in the exercise of our human wills, desiring what is in itself good and right, or shrinking from what is painful and contrary to our inclination. There is nothing rebellious in the desire or the shrinking. But to lay down our own will and choose his, not simply because we cannot help it, but because with our whole hearts we desire that he should

reign over us and choose for us-this is meekness of heart and the spirit of a weaned child. Satan would like to entangle the conscience of God's children and harass them by morbid and exaggerated views on this subject. There is nothing in all the Bible gives any countenance to the idea that perfect submission to the will of God deadens one to, or lifts one above, natural feelings. No doubt he may, and in his tender pity he often does, give such cordials to his poor tried children, such sweet tastes of his own satisfying love and goodness, as that they are lifted up for a time above the pain, or weaned from present joys, by foretastes of what is in store for them. But were this to be always, or even in great measure, the case, the rod would be no longer discipline, and the cross would be already exchanged for the crown. No; we must suffer, if we would reign with him; and, following in his footsteps, we are called upon to deny ourselves and take up our cross daily, "looking unto Jesus, who, for the joy set before him, endured the cross." Ah, yes, is not this, after all, the great secret of a weaned soul's quietness? The faith that trusts in God, and the love that delights in him as a present portion, would not be enough without the joyful hope that looks forward to the coming glory. For all that we enjoy here is but an earnest, but a taste, and we can never be fully satisfied till we are in enjoyment of the full inheritance.

In the inheritance of the saints in light, there is fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore. No privation, no loss that can be sustained here, but will then be a thousand-fold made up. "The meek shall inherit the earth, and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace." The blessed hope, the coming of the Lord Jesus, bringing full salvation to his waiting, expecting people, is what is held forth continually in the New Testament as the source of sweetest consolation under all the sorrows of this present time. Thus Paul would have us to comfort one another under the loss of friends (1 Thess. iv. 13-18); and John holds this up to those who are seeking to purify themselves even as Christ is pure. No sorrow to the Christian more bitter, no trial more painful, than the daily discoveries he makes of indwelling sin. The closer his fellowship with God, the more he walks in the light, the keener grows his sensibility to sin, the more grievous it becomes to him. O how sweet, whilst repairing again and again to him who is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness, to have the assurance that "when Christ shall appear we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is!"-that to them who are thus looking to his one sacrifice for the putting away of their sin, he shall appear the second time, without sin unto salvation! How sweet, when fainting and discouraged by repeated falls and failures, to remember that he has engaged "to sanctify us wholly," and "preserve our whole spirit, and soul, and body blameless, unto the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ;" and under the onsets of Satan, to know that at that day he shall be

trodden under our feet, with no more power for ever to harass or ensnare us! And under all the sufferings and infirmities of weak mortal flesh, when health and strength are weakened in the midst of our days, or our bones vexed with strong pain, we are still pointed for comfort to the same,-"looking for the Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change the body of our humiliation, that it may be fashioned like unto his glorious body, according to the working whereby he is able even to subdue all things unto himself."

In a word, is not separation from God, the source and centre of all blessedness, by sin-and from one another by some of the fruits and effects of sin—the cause of all our woes? For even with those who by faith are again united to the Living One, and to his members through union with him, still here there is a great measure of separation, because still there is sin and sin's effects. But all this, and all the sorrow, natural or spiritual, which it brings, will be for ever done away at "the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, and our gathering together unto him." In that day the bond of perfectness will be drawn close, uniting the whole body in a union never to be broken. The scattered, wandering, mourning flock, shall be gathered, at his coming again, into one fold under one Shepherd. Then all their yearnings after communion with one another, as well as with him, shall be fully satisfied. So Jonathan Edwards, mourning over the want of Christian fellowship, looks forward to the heavenly state "where reigns sweet, calm, and delightful love, without alloy; where there are continually the dearest expressions of this love; where there is the enjoyment of this love without ever parting; and where those persons who appear so lovely in this world will be inexpressibly more lovely and full of love to us. How sweetly will those who thus mutually love join together in singing the praises of God and the Lamb!"

Look forward, then, in this weaning time, O scattered members of the little flock, to the rivers of God's pleasure provided for his meek ones in the coming glory. Seek those things that are above. Set your affection on things above; and when Christ, who is our life, shall appear, then shall we also appear with him in glory. Reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us. For eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive, what he hath prepared for them that love him. And in the sweet foretaste of peace, which in the sorest trials surely accompanies meek submission to the will of God, realize the earnest of that abundant heritage which will for ever satisfy those who are now as weaned children, "behaving and quieting their souls."

A few days only have passed since I began to write this paper, and already the severed sheep and lambs seem to have forgotten their troubles, and are feeding quietly along the green hill-slopes. And so, children of God, there is no need to be much moved by the losses and privations of this mortal state; for, after all, the

October 1, 1970.

time, the weaning-time, is very short. The sufferings of this present time are but for a moment-for "the twinkling of an eye" (Ps. xxx. 5; P. B. v.) "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." The eternal weight of glory will soon be ours, and then all our former troubles will be forgotten, and will no more come into mind. Be quiet, therefore, sorrowing heart; patience! patience! "For yet a little while, and he that cometh shall come, and will not tarry." And when he comes, "the ransomed of the Lord

shall return and come to Zion with songs, and everlasting joy upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away." "And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, for the former things are passed away." "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."

A. B. C.

H, that was a dreary morning

When I looked out, long ago, And thought of the day before me, With its burdens of care and woe!

As yet all nature was sleeping;

Gray mist over hill and plain

But how soon must the daylight labours
And sorrows awake again!

As yet all was calm and silent

In yon low dwellings of toil

But how soon, from a hundred voices,
Must echo the old turmoil!

My eyes were tearful and aching,

On my heart a cold weight lay; "Would to God that this day were over !--That this life were passed away!"

When lo from the east horizon

A sudden, strange glory beamed,
And all the gray mists, transfigured,
With a crimson radiance gleamed;

And the rosy pinions of morning
Flew abroad through heaven above;

Over all the dark land they hovered,
Like a smile of celestial love.
'Twas a wondrous, cheering token !-
On my own dark heart it shone ;
And though as I gazed it vanished,

And the cold, common light stole on,

Yet still, in my inmost spirit,

There lingered that radiant glow, And I rose, with new hope and courage, To meet every care and woe.

I had drank from a wondrous fountain, My spirit was strong once moreFar away from earth's toil and sorrow My faith had found wings to soar. Far beyond, where Love Everlasting

Looks down on our clouds and tears, And tells us, though dark and troubled Our pathway of life appears, The end shall be home and gladness, All shadows for ever past ;With Christ I can leave the promise, I shall find it true at last!

H. L. L.

ELL, I suppose I must see about housekeeping," said a water-wagtail beside a little stream one bright spring morning, and as he said it he gave his long tail an extra flirt. I dare say wagtails are in the habit of expressing their feelings by means of their tails, and in this case it meant to say, "I'm sorry for it, but it can't be helped."

It was April still, though May was close at hand, and he thought, and thought rightly, that it was time for all prudent wagtails to be up and doing.

He had already chosen his mate; and it was so very pleasant to souse themselves together in the clear run

ning waters as they were doing now, with no work on hand, and life made up of nothing but sunshine and streams, and budding trees and plenty of insects.

The wagtail's mate was active and energetic, and quite willing to take trouble upon herself; so she kindly suggested he need not hurry. The first thing to be done was to look for a suitable spot for house-building, and she would go and do it. So away she flew, and her companion lingered still on the margin of the river, listening to the sedge warbler, who had just come back from other lands, and was so full of all he had seen, he was telling it all out in such a hurry and splutter, it was very difficult for anybody to understand him. Not that

he cared for that; he was so fond of chattering, it did not matter much to him whether anybody was within hearing or not.

Not far off there was a large and pleasant garden, just laid out with the bright and glowing colours which the gardener bad housed through the frost and snow so carefully on purpose for the coming summer. And now the summer was come; not its full glory, but just that sweetest of times when the long meadow grass is yet waving, and the birds yet singing, and the roses are still only buds. The chestnut on the lawn was covered with a thousand flowers, standing out all over it like the lamps on a Christmas-tree. The sloping lawn itself was as smooth and green as if there were no roughness on the earth anywhere, and the whole scene as soft and fair as if there were no such thing as sorrow in human hearts.

Round the house was a trellis-work, supporting roses of all sorts and colours, not in bloom yet, but with here and there a tiny streak of pink or red or pearly white just peeping through the green folded calyx leaves. Under the trellis was a border for flowers, now thickly | planted, but beneath the library window there was a vacant space, nothing but a bare piece, in strange contrast to the flush of colour elsewhere. Had the gardener forgotten it? or had he come to the end of his store? What was the reason? I will tell you, or, better still, will ask you to see for yourself. Hush! be very quiet; peep in under the rose leaves, and there, lo, and behold, is a cosy little nest, while through the clustering buds we can just see a long tail at one side, and a black velvet head and two bright piercing eyes at the other. It is our friend the wagtail. This is the spot she chose. After diving into corners and crevices, inspecting the forks of fruit-trees in the orchard and the capabili- | ties of the laurels in the shrubbery, she decided that a home among the roses was the prettiest thing, and, on the whole, the most eligible. She and her mate then set to work together to build the nest. The master of the house, seeing what was going on, gave orders that that border should be left, lest they should be disturbed; and now this bright May morning the mother bird is sitting upon her five spotted eggs in quiet contentment, in as sweet a nook as any wagtail could desire.

But, alas! how vain is happiness, whether among birds or men. The wagtail did not know that one day when she left her nest for a few minutes to get some breakfast, a cuckoo had found it out, and laid an egg there without leave or license, and then slipped off without a word of apology for what she had done. It was very unmannerly, to say the least, making free like this with a neighbour's house. Now, the cuckoo's egg is so like the wagtail's own, she never noticed any difference, till one morning there were five little gaping creatures instead of eggs under the mother's wing. Even then they were much alike, except that the mouth of one was larger and more ugly.

But this state of things did not last; in a very few

hours he of the large mouth was left alone. He had wanted the nest all to himself, so he had managed to get the others on his back and then shove them over the edge: down the poor little nestlings tumbled, and were killed by the fall. Of course the young monster ought not to have been happy after such an evil deed, but for the present things seemed to go smoothly with him; the wagtail did not appear to miss her children, but fed and tended the young cuckoo just as tenderly as if he had been her very own, and he was vastly hungry, so that it was no light work. He grew larger and fatter every day, and more hungry, too; it really was a comfort there was only one to feed. I think the wagtail must have begun to wonder at the size of her nestling; perhaps she felt proud to picture what a prominent place he would occupy in the wagtail world. When he opened his mouth to take in his food, it looked just as if he would swallow down his foster-mother and all. And he filled up the whole nest, too; something must be done to give him more room in his nursery. But bower of roses though it was, it was not safe from harm and danger. I feel almost sorry for the wicked young cuckoo, now I have to tell of his fate. A sharpeyed cat had seen the wagtail flitting in and out of the rose-bush, and determined to satisfy himself as to the

cause.

It was not very difficult to climb up the trellis-work, and peep stealthily in between the buds. The wagtail was away; and there, indeed, a bigger prize and a more tempting one than she could have hoped for did she discover. It was but a moment, and there was an end of the proud cuckoo. The wagtail came back to mourn over her empty nest and her lost darling, and I rather think she shared the same fate. Whether her mate chose another wife, and lived very happy ever after, history does not say, and as I am telling a true story, I must not put in any hopes or supposes of my own.

Well, you see it is the cuckoo's nature to leave its own children for others to take care of, and it is the young cuckoo's nature to turn its companions out, that it may reign alone. Still we do not admire these things even amongst birds, and you know quite well they would be yet uglier amongst us. Sometimes you want to be the only one who has some pleasure that is promised; you want to be singled out, and don't care for a thing when others are to share it with you; you like to be first, to be of consequence even at the expense of others. I am afraid at such times you are a little like the young cuckoo who wanted the nest all to himself. And we know that pride and selfishness are hateful to God. We know that though our own place, and our own way, and our own interests are often uppermost in our hearts, they are thoughts which have no business there, because our Lord Jesus Christ has said, "Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others." "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them."

M. K. M.