the Father's love everywhere. We keep our festival with singing and rejoicing, and although our feast of tabernacles is seldom kept, and no green branches are cut down and waved in triumph, as we think of ourselves as pilgrim emigrants passing through a strange land, yet we too have our national rejoicings, and each for himself has a vivid and wonderful history before him as he says in secret exultation, "The Lord is my Shepherd-I shall not want."

There is reason enough why we should keep the feast. Our fields have not been trodden down by the ruthless onslaught of invading armies. Our brothers have not gone from our homes singing maddening war-songs to inflame their hearts with hate under pretence of heroic patriotism. Our lines of railway, not cut by an enemy, or choked with thousands of dead and wounded, are left free to happy hosts of pleasure-seekers who have their seven days of rest after the labours of the ingathering. Our cathedrals are not turned into hospitals, but are sacred and silent until the harvest anthems fill their domes.

"Happy is that people that is in such a case; yea, happy is that people whose God is the Lord."

But is there no reason why there should arise misgivings in our heart even while we keep our harvest festivals? God has blessed us; but what return have we made? Do all people serve Him with one heart and mind? Is there no sin in our land despoiling the cities and towns around which lie our fruitful fields? If, indeed, the destroying angel has been bidden to pass over us, and our homes are left safe and happy, is it not the more reason why we should know ourselves as unprofitable servants, undeserving of the least of God's many mercies? And if there is any exultation in our songs, let there at least be no boasting, but only a deep consciousness that in the mercy of God alone we have any reason to rejoice.

And it would be well in our festivals, whether they are only the old-fashioned harvest-homes, or the thanksgivingservice held in the little village chapel, or the more impressive ceremonies among the great congregations of the churches in our land, to make offering unto the Lord, that others less highly favoured may have some of our joy.

The Sea.

It is quite impossible to get tired of some things. They are ever fresh and new; they present some glory unseen before, even when we gaze upon them for the thousandth time. If we have been learning lessons of them all our lives, we may yet find something that we never understood before. If they are quite old friends, tried and trusted for years, they yet possess all the vigour and fascination of eternal youth, and win us at last as at first by their wonderful beauty and variety of charms. But this is the case with God's works only. Man's noblest performances are apt to pall upon us, and having seen them a few times we do not care to behold them again. We grow weary, and still cry out for something new. It must be God's handiwork which never tires, and which the more we look at it the more we admire and love it.

Do we not feel this while watching the waves of the sea, as they either dash up among the rocks, or fall gently upon the smooth sands? We cannot grow tired of seeing them. They are pages of a grand book which we cannot learn by rote. It does not matter how many times we look at them: the stories they tell, the songs they sing, are ever interesting and delightful. We looked at them last night, but they are quite as fresh this morning, and as full of wonder as ever. The colour of the sea never fades. It is as green, as blue, as white as ever. And the changing hues are as interesting as they were when we first looked at them. Neither does the music diminish in tone. The grand chorus is as effective as ever; the voices of the waves do not wear out, nor lose their brilliancy, though they have sung to ever-varying audiences since they first sent back their responses with glad reverence to the Creator when "the gathering together of the waters called He seas: and God saw that it was good." As for the "wonders of the deep," are not the children to-day as delighted to heap up sand, and collect shells, and look for sea anemones, and watch the shoals of little shrimps springing into the air, and gather sea-weeds, as were those children who stood on these very shores in

those wonderful, misty times when they probably wore paint, instead of muslins, while their clever fathers were engaged on Salisbury Plain, and other places, heaping together the "old stones" which were predestined to be puzzles to all future generations? The waves have not altered, the shores are very much the same, the living things that inhabit the deep have gone on multiplying ever since, the great wide "waste of waters" is as unfathomable to our minds as ever. Man's works may and do change: God and His works are abiding.

May we go each summer and learn afresh the profound lessons of the sea! It is as treacherous as ever; men trust their lives to it, and are engulfed in its waters; it disregards human life, and every year is unsatisfied unless some sacrifices are offered to it. And it says to-day, as it has said for ever, "Prepare to meet thy God."

It is as health-giving as ever. Men grow strong walking on its shores, where the pure airs reach them, and the beauty delights them. And still it yields its thousands of fishes to the wants of men, and still it says, "The eyes of all wait upon Thee; Thou givest them their meat in due season."

It is as restless as ever. Still it moans and cries, still it rushes up and returns, still its mighty bosom beats and pants, and is never satisfied. It seems always hungry, always wanting something; and still it says to us, "Such is life."

Let us learn this lesson. Our life is like the sea. It cannot rest, cannot be still, but it flows toward the eternal shore, it touches with its eager lips the green meadows of the summer-land, and soon we shall be carried thither, where at last rest and satisfaction will come to us, where "there is no more sea."

The Sands by the Sea.

Is there anything in all the world that can give such rest to the work-weary as sitting idly upon the sands, and dreamily watching the waves as they fall upon the shore? We think not. It is the very place and occupation to make one forget that life is earnest and full of straining demands upon one's time and strength. There seems positively nothing to do but enjoy; and while the sun shines, and the soft breezes play, and the waters make sweet music, this should not be so very difficult. It makes, we think, a great difference to the enjoyment of a holiday as to whether or not it has been fairly earned. Those whose lives are spent in holiday-making look dull, and uninterested, and bored, even on the sands; but those who give their years to hard work, and only get a few weeks in the year for rest, can drink to the full of the pleasure of every pleasant scene that comes. And it is good to think how many there are each summer who need rest, because they are weary, not of killing time, but of downright hard toil, who will flock to the different towns and villages around our coast, and enjoy the recreation they deserve.

There is something so soothing in the sound of the waves; it is like a lullaby with which a patient mother hushes her child to sleep. It seems to say that after all there is nothing in this world which should fret us so much, and rob us of all rest. We are foolish to let the things that happen about us affect us as we do. We should take life more easily. Why not? It is only like the tide ; it ebbs and flows, ebbs and flows regularly enough. Is it not absurd to worry and lament and wear ourselves out with weeping because it happens to be the ebb, and the sands are left bare and desolate? If only we have patience and wait, the waters will come up again, and the sands will be covered, and the prospect be full of beauty. Surely then we need not frown and grow old before our time in making useless lamentation. And yet how many, as they listen to the lesson of the waves, and give themselves time to think, will be conscious that this is exactly what they are doing! It will be well if all who recognise the fact

learn a little wisdom while on the sands, and resolve that they will more quietly wait and let things take their course, or rather be content that He shall do as pleaseth Him who "holdeth the waters in the hollow of His hand."

There is something in the wide expanse of the sea that must remind us of eternity. The little strip of land upon which we stand seems to grow smaller and narrower still. After all, it is so little that it cannot be of half the consequence we make it. What matters is not the petty parts we play on the side of the boundless sea, it is what is on the other side. And so as we watch the children at their play, and listen to the waves as they come plunging in, there must be a great want felt, a great yearning in our hearts, if we cannot look to the Beyond and feel that we have some part in it. Happy are they who have heard a voice soft and gentle, and more precious than all beside, saying, "Come unto Me," and have responded, Oh, Lamb of God, I come!" Surely, if all knew the wonderful peace of communion with the Christ who walks upon the waters now, as He did of old, there would not be so many sad faces and listless feet. Oh, if they did but know Him, and could enter into His rest! One cannot but turn away from the music, and fashion, and glare, to pray that something better may be given to the hungry, weary multitudes, who "spend their money for that which is not bread," even on the sands.

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Summer Gladness for Sunday-school Teachers.

IF we saw the wondrous beauty with which God clothes the world, if we would only stand still and let the summer gladness flow into our hearts, we should nevermore call the world "a wilderness," "a solitary place," "a vale of tears." Let us leave the towns and cities for awhile, and mount the hills, or stand by the shore; let us rest in the luxurious shade of the green forest, or among the ripening