1. The poet's words remind men that one mercy may appear in divers forms. Water is one of the chief temporal mercies which men receive. And God bestows it in various forms. It is found in the raindrop. It is traced in the snowflake. It glistens in the hailstone. It sparkles in the hoarfrost. It flashes in the dew. In some of these forms the blessing is greater than in others. Hoarfrost and hail may seem to lack blessing, but productive as they are thought to be of damage, they contain nevertheless greater mercy then men generally are prepared to admit.

Grace, like the temporal mercy of water, can vary the mode of its appearance. It can come as salvation rescuing the perishing. It can speak with the tongue of the learned counselling the perplexed. It can appear as a hand of comfort binding up the broken in heart. It can strike as an arm of might putting to flight the oppressor. It can flow as a tonic strengthening the weak. These are some of the forms this angel of mercy assumes as it comes to bless men, but who shall mention, let alone describe, all the modes of appearance which grace devises as it seeks to bestow its priceless blessings! No mercy of God has its set stereotype form, save the blessed stereotype form of adaptation to circumstances. Rain for days of drought; snow for nights of frost. Dew to be the glory of spring-time, and hoarfrost the beauty of winter.

II. The poet's words remind men that the form of mercy varies in accordance with gracious design. It happens not by chance that snow falls instead of rain. Mere caprice does not induce God to turn the raindrop into a snowflake. "He giveth snow like wool." The snowflake executes a deep design of providential mercy. Snow is Nature's great overcoat.

Truly in each mercy, and in every form of the same mercy, there lies а beneficent purpose. No blessing is the sole result of fortuitous circumstances. Mercy does not fall to our lot haphazardly, as a prize ticket out of a lottery box. Blessings are not doled out on the principle of Hobson's choice-men must take the first that comes, or have none at all. God bestows the mercy best adapted. In fact, every season and circumstance have their mercies prepared. Snow is rain fitted for the rough severities of winter. It is a shield forged to enable nature to withstand one of her roughest foes. It is the strength of nature being made equal to her day. God will never give a summer mercy to meet the need of winter. He is too wise to err thus. He is too good to be so unkind. In winter days "He giveth snow like wool.'

III. The poet's words remind men that mercy may come in a rough, uninviting manner. What is rougher than a drifting snowstorm? It is winter's reign of terror, and yet in scattering snow God's hand Weaves a mantle of mercy. The weaving may be rough work, and the snowy mantle, as it robes hill and dale, may in appearance be thought more unseemly than the covering of badger's skin which hid the ark;

but in the handywork mercy can be traced, even as, when that Hand clothes the same pastures with flocks, and covers the same valleys with corn, the rough snowstorm, even as the soft shower, makes "the little hills rejoice on every side."

Mercy often appears in a rough garb, and deals roughly. Affliction, with its aches and pains, is only another name for mercy. It is an unrecognised Joseph, dealing for awhile roughly with the brethren. As the sheep prone to stray is made to carry the burden and suffer the inconvenience of a rough triangular collar of wood, so to many saints affliction is the rough mercy of preventive measures taken by the Great Shepherd to make them cease from wandering. Says the Psalmist, "Before I was afflicted I went astray; but now do I keep thy law." Adversity, with its losses, its distresses, its hard crust, and its bitter cup, is mercy in disguise. It is the dew dropping as the hoarfrost. It is the rain falling as the snow. The manner of the mercy is rough, its handling is severe, but its purpose is beneficent. It is mercy pruning, and foregoing neither wound nor sacrifice, so that afterwards those who are exercised thereby may yield the peaceable fruits of righteousness. Spiritual trouble is often mercy coming in a storm. Says God, "For a small moment have I forsaken thee; but with great mercies will I gather thee." Surely the act of forsaking the saints was a rough mercy. It was dealing with them by the snowflake instead of the raindrop. Once a boy was so delighted with the sights of the shop-windows that his father was fearful of losing him; as they walked along the busy streets of London, he was constantly slipping away from his father's hand to look at the shops. Once, whilst he was thus engaged, the father hid himself so that he could see the boy, though the boy could not see him. The lad was soon in trouble, tears filled his eyes, shop-windows had lost their charms, he had lost his father; but when that father came out of his hiding-place, the boy clung fast to his father's hand, and did not let go his hold during the remainder of the walk. In life's walk with God He hides His face, and forsakes us to cure us of wandering away, and to induce us to cleave to Him alone. Mercy can be rough in its discipline. It allows the Philistines to pluck out Samson's eyes, and suffer him to grind in the prison-house, so that his soul may be saved as by fire. Recipients of mercy often wade floods and walk the pathway of fire ere they secure the best gifts they so earnestly covet.

IV. The poet's words remind men that mercy may exist even though its outward form changes and passes away. Nature does not always need her woollen garment of snow. A milder atmosphere chases away the frost and also dissolves the shield of snow. But the blessing of the snow does not end with its disappearance. As it melts so it sinks into the ground, to be a blessing for many days to the plants which it so grandly shielded in the hour of danger.

What a picture is this of spiritual mercy! Many a promise which shields the soul in the winter of tribulation sinks after such a season

into the soul, like snow into the ground, there to be a well-spring of blessing to the Christian graces it so well protected in the presence of threatening harm.

Such are some of the truths about mercy, illustrated by God's winter gift. Useful as that gift is, God has eclipsed it in bestowing His unspeakable gift for the dreary winter of sin. "God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life." Hast thou believed? If so, the winter is past. God has done more than give snow like wool. He has turned the gloom of winter into the brightness of summer. Gamlingay.

THE HEART OF A STRANGER.

"THERE'S some sort of a furrin body at the door wantin' ye, maʼam,” said an Irish girl to her mistress.

There had been already half a dozen "furrin" and other sort of "bodies" asking favours that day; and the little lady of the house was weary, and had lain down on a lounge in her own room with a new book in her hand.

"Tell her I am lying down, and bring up her message,' ," she said, without taking her eyes from her book.

The girl returned, saying, "It's work she's wantin', like all the rest uv 'em, ma'am; but I can't repate half the gibberish she tould me to."

"Tell her I have no work, and know of none elsewhere," was the

answer.

The door closed heavily under the hand of the heartless girl; and the lady felt that she had done wrong, and almost heard the words, "For ye yourself know the heart of a stranger." And the days came back to her with strange power, when she, a young and beautiful orphan, had crossed the sea from abroad to gain her bread by her accomplishments; and she remembered how, after

only one year of toil and loneliness, when a kind word was as a jewel to her, she became mistress of this beautiful home, and the mother of the lonely little ones who had been her pupils before. She wished she had seen this "furrin sort of a body" and listened to her story, if nothing more, and cheered "the heart of a stranger."

As the poor applicant descended the steps, after receiving the cool message, made cooler by the servant's heartless tone, she looked up the streets and then down, as if not knowing which way to go; and then moved off in an aimless sort of way, and was soon lost to sight.

She went up one street and down another, occasionally ringing at a bell, only to be told that the lady was out, or that she could not be seen. She was a stranger in the city, and soon got confused in her wanderings; but she knew the street and number of her temporary home. She was weary at last with her ringing and inquiring, and asked a boy the way to Hstreet. He directed her, and she turned her face thither, when she was seized with a sudden impulse to ring one more bell.

Ascending the long flight of

ment of weary or thoughtless servants to decide whom they should see, and whom they should not!

over the sea to my child, but I have no wings, so I must sit still. My heart near breaks. All days I think and all nights I dream of only Selma, Selma. My heart be a great load, and my tears a fountain like King David, and I know not how I will live cut in two from you, my child beloved!

When Selma had been a week in this house she was found to be a necessity there. No one could sew and darn like her; no one could so gently and tenderly wash and dress the poor little invalid boy of the house; no one could charm away a headache or sing a baby to sleep as she could. Another helper had not been dreamt of in the house; but once Selma was there, life took on new charms for the whole family. Home grew brighter for the father, because he saw more of his wife; she was relieved of much care, and had time to read and make herself interesting; and the children were entertained, and instructed, and loved, by the girl who loved them days. Its sun never set, and all so faithfully. time I am happy for my child."

When she had been two months in the house her friend Ludwig appeared one day with a letter from her mother in Sweden.

And after laughing and crying over it, and kissing it tenderly many times, Selma gave this English version of it to her mistress:

"When you go away from me, child beloved, my heart was dark like night-time. You on the great sea, and many days the sky black, and wind loud; and me lone and with pain. Neighbours come and talk kind, but I went only to God then. When you got to land I say in my heart, my child no home. no money, maybe Ludwig dead, and she be with bad stranger, Many day, many week, I cry and pray, and then come letter-you safe with Ludwig, but hard times and no work, I want wings to fly

"One day I sit, knit, knit, knit, for my bread, and sudden fell on my soul a great peace from God about you. I hear no voice. I sees no light; but only God's peace! Then I know it is well with you; that you have friends and work, and his smile on you shine. All care go to the winds, and I have now wings for fly up to God's home, and thank Him, for He has hide my Selma, beloved, under His wing. That the blessed day of all

Here Selma paused, and, looking at her mistress, said: "Perhaps that day I come two times to your door, and God say to you, 'Take her in."

"No matter whether it was that very day or not, Selma. He sent you here, and I thank Him for it. That was my work to comfort the heart of a stranger, and yours to relieve me of a load of care and of work which I could only lay off on common hands. Be hopeful and faithful, and before long we will bring the dear mother over the sea: and she can trust and pray, and knit, knit, knit, here as well as there."

Let us be careful how we send the stranger, or any applicant for honest work, from our door. We may thus thrust away both the work and the blessing which God designs for us.