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And akin to pain the rapture that filled the mother's

breast,

As the voice she knew rang sweeter, and for her above the rest;

Twas the voice of her beloved, and she knew no sorrow

now

Weighed on his tender little heart or dimmed his shining brow.

And evermore she walked content along life's thorny

road,

With heart upraised in thankfulness to where her child

abode;

And evermore on Christmas, when she heard the joybells ring,

"All hail!" she cried, "our blessed Lord, the children's Friend and King."

MRS. E. V. WILSON.

THE OLD WOMAN'S RAILWAY SIGNAL.

THE most effective working force in the world in which we live is the law of kindness. From time immemorial, music has wonderfully affected all beings, reasoning or unreasoning, that have ears to hear. The prettiest idea and simile of ancient literature relates to Orpheus playing his lyre to animals listening in intoxicated silence to its strains. Well, music is the kindness of good-will to men and beasts; and both listen to it with their hearts, instead of their ears; and the hearts of both are affected by it in the same way, if not to the same degree.

Some time ago we read of an incident that will serve as a good illustration of this beautiful law. It was substantially to this effect: A poor, coarse-featured old woman lived on the line of the Baltimore and Ohio Railway where it passed through a wild, unpeopled district in Western Virginia. She was a widow, with only one

daughter living with her in a log hut near a deep, precipitous gorge crossed by the railway bridge. Here she contrived to support herself by raising and selling poultry and eggs, adding berries in their season and other little articles for the market. She had to make a long, weary walk of many miles to a town where she could sell her basket of produce. The railway passed by her house to this town; but the ride would cost too much of the profit of her small sales, so she trudged on generally to the market on foot. The conductor came finally to notice her traveling by the side of the line, or on the footpath between the rails, and being a goodnatured, benevolent man he would often give her a ride to and fro without charge. The engineer and brakeman also were good to the old woman, and felt that they were not wronging the interest of the railway company by giving her these free rides.

And soon an accident occurred that proved they were quite right. In the wild month of March the rain descended and the mountains sent down their rolling, roaring torrents of melted snow and ice into this gorge, near the old woman's house. The flood arose with the darkness of the night until she heard the crash of the railway bridge as it was swept from its abutments, and dashed its broken timbers against the craggy sides of the precipice on either side. It was nearly midnight. The rain fell in a flood, and the darkness was deep and howling. In another half hour the train would be due. There was no telegraph on the line, and stations were separated by great distances. What could she do to warn the train against the awful destruction it was approaching? She had hardly a tallow candle in her house, and no light she could make of tallow or oil, if she had it, would live a moment in that tempest of wind and rain. Not a moment was to be lost, and her thought was equal to the moment. She cut the cords of her only bedstead and shouldered the dry posts, head-pieces and side-pieces. Her daughter followed her with their two wooden chairs. Up the steep embankment they climbed and piled all of their household furniture upon the line, a few rods beyond the black, awful gap, gurgling

with the roaring flood. The distant rumbling of the train came upon them just as they had fired the welldried combustibles. The pile blazed up into the night, throwing its red, swaling, booming light a long way up the line. In fifteen minutes it would begin to wane, and she could not revive it with green, wet wood. The thunder of the train grew louder. It was within five miles of the fire. Would they see it in time? They might not put on the brakes soon enough. Awful thought! She tore her red woolen gown from her in a moment, and, tying it to the end of a stick, ran up the line, waving it in both hands, while her daughter swung around her head a blazing chair-post. The lives of a hundred unconscious passengers hung on the issue of the next minute. The ground trembled at the old woman's feet. The great red eye of the engine showed itself coming round a curve. Like a huge, sharp-sighted lion coming suddenly upon a fire, it sent forth a thrilling roar that echoed through all the wild heights and ravines around. The train was at full speed, but the brakemen wrestled at their leverage with all the strength of desperation. The wheels ground along on the heated rails slower and slower, until the engine stopped at the roaring fire. It still blazed enough to show them the beetling edge of the black abyss into which the train and all its passengers would have plunged into a death and destruction too horrible to think of had it not been for the old woman's signal.

Kindness is the music of good-will to men; and on this harp the smallest fingers in the world may play heaven's sweetest tunes on earth.

ELIHU BURRITT.

COUNT ZINZENDORF.

[This incident occurred in 1742.]

To fair Wyoming's charming vale,
Where peace and plenty dwelt,
Though Indian raids had told a tale
Of bloody vengeance felt;

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One day in Summer clear and warm

There came from Saxony

Count Zinzendorf, who braved the storm

And dangers of the sea,

That he to Christian faith might teach
These forest-sons to turn,
The higher, holier light to reach,
The fires of Truth to burn.

Upon the river's bank, enriched
By verdure deep and fair,
A little tent he rudely pitched
Within the forest there.

The gazing band of Shawanees
Watched with an evil eye;
A dread suspicion woke in these
That danger brooded nigh.

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For why should "white man cross the
Brave death and danger too,

That he the Indian's soul might save,
And preach conversion true?

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Ah, no! some other motive sent
This white man to our shore;

And we will have his scalp; his tent
With blood shall trickle o'er."

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Thus planned this band of murderous men,
And in the cool of night

They silently marched onward, when
They saw a sudden light.

Count Zinzendorf sat writing there,
Nor from his papers turned;
To warm him from the cool night air
A low fire faintly burned.

A curtain hung on pins was all
That guarded him from sight,
And soft the bloody red men crawl,
And peer in through the night.

When lo! unguarded, still, apart,
As in his tent he lies,

A sight that thrilled the Indians' heart
Now meets their wicked eyes.

Upon a bunch of weeds, his bed,
He rested, watched without
By cruel assassins stern and dread,
With many a lurking doubt.

And as they raised their hands in ire,
To deal the fatal blow,

A rattlesnake, roused by the fire,
Crawled o'er his feet below.

The red men saw the reptile's form
Pass o'er his limbs, with dread,

And watched with awe as safe from harm
It left him on his bed.

"Surely," thought they in silence all,
"Great Manitou has kept

The white man from the serpent's gall."
Then slowly back they crept.

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