corn; and surely in such places only one thought will fill our hearts, "Thy beauty has made me glad." Is it not a good sight to see the many thousands of Sunday-school children who are enjoying their annual treat at the present time? How they revel in the sights and sounds of the glorious summer! A group of trees throwing their cooling shadows on the velvet sward is quite a palace of delights to them. "The cowslip on the river's brim" is more than a yellow cowslip to those whose eyes are seldom gladdened by sight of growing flowers; and the luxuriousness that the country presents fills them with thoughts of awe as well as gladness. Ah, it is very good to take the children and young people away from the town to where they can for themselves examine the wonderful works of God, and learn the lessons which He teaches by them. When we reflect how little of this summer gladness comes to the children, we shall surely do what we may to prepare the way for them to enjoy it, at least once or twice during the season. But by this means, as well as every other, let us pray that they may be led to the feet of the Saviour. Is there no danger of our forgetting the most important in the less ? We cannot do much for them here. We gladly do what we can, but we cannot make their homes large and healthy; we cannot give them ease instead of labour, joy instead of sorrow, lightheartedness instead of care, intelligence instead of darkness and ignorance. We can after all only do a little, though we spend our days and nights in the endeavour. But if we can lead them to the Saviour, if by any means we can win their hearts to Him, and bring them to feel how mighty is His love, how deep His tenderness, how strong His power, then indeed we have done that which is better than all beside. If through our teaching they become Christian men and Christian women, little indeed it matters what else they are; their lives shall be bright, and noble, and beautiful to the very end; there shall be summer gladness in them even when the flowers have all faded, and the leaves dropped off the trees. But what shall we say if we are idle, and give them no earnest words, or loving counsels, do not pray for them or beseech them to come to Jesus? Then we shall assuredly hear the sad wail fall upon our ears, startling us into selfreproach and filling us with regret-" The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved." Oh, let us work while it is day, let us be really in earnest, until they consecrate this glorious season by bringing all their budding flowers to Him, by laying upon His altar their young and loving hearts. God grant to all Sunday-school teachers a taste of this great summer gladness. The Lingering Summer. A PLEASANT thing for us all is a summer that seems as loth to leave us as we are to let it go. It is delightful for those who are still keeping holiday by lake and mountain, and are glad to have the wonderful picture of lifting mists and glowing sun-rises a little longer. It is good for the toilers of our land, to whom summer is a beloved friend, and winter, with its stint and hardness, something like a dreaded foe. And it is even better still for those whose lives are fading away as summer roses, who are only kept here by the genial sunshine and soft airs, and who must pass away when the chilling winds and wet days bring the melancholy season of the year. Indeed, it must be felt that the lingering summer is a good and helpful thing. Has the country been more beautiful all the year round than it is then? How blue are the skies, how green the meadow-lands! and what wonderful autumn glory is upon the forests! We cannot tire of the soft and varied tints, or the deep, rich colouring of every landscape. The trees are always beautiful, whether brown and bare, or clothed with the vivid greenness of spring, or fantastically covered by the feathery snow, but they are most beautiful with the October brown and gold upon them. And there are still some wild flowers growing at their feet, there are sweet-scented violets upon the sunny bank, a few primroses smile up into the face of this second summer with a welcome no less tender than was accorded to the first, and, as for the daisies and buttercups, they are as cheerful and self-asserting as ever, while plentiful fruit of black and scarlet berries hang upon the hedges. It is true that the close of the summer is more silent and subdued than the beginning. There is no sweet though turbulent music made by the songs of emulating birds; there are only a few left to finish the concert of melody. And there is a general air of quiet, which seems almost like resignation, which is but anticipatory of the dark days which are to come. And after all, the end of the summer is a time of great peace and rest. The work is done, the toil over, and the harvest is gathered in. The hands may be folded for a little time, and the tired eyes may rest themselves by looking upon the beauties that lie outside of the working fields. The lengthened summer, with its calmness and repose, is so like the evening of a good and gentle life. Less silent than when in the morning of youth songs of exultation rung out from the merry lips, there is still a little music while the weaker voice tells of "goodness and mercy." There is no longer the brightness and dazzling glory of the advent of summer; but there is instead the ripe rich fruitfulness which is better to see than garlands of blossom. They were the promises, this is the fulfilment; they were hopes, this is fruition. And though the days grow short, and the shadows long, there is unclouded beauty upon the peaceful forms which have weathered the storms and borne the burden and heat of the day, and are now ready to be folded in sweet and restful sleep. Happy indeed are those whose autumn is only the lingering summer. There are some lives in which the October is only full of angry winds and pelting showers, and dull grey skies! Should not they who have said, "My summer is over, I have but the bleak and fading autumn now," but to whom the sunshine and clear skies are sent instead, be thankful for the mercy thus shown to them? We must not forget the surprises with which our Father delights His children. Is He better to us than our fears? Let us at least appre ciate His goodness. “Oh give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, for His mercy endureth for ever.” There is something very enchanting in unexpected happiness. Joy cannot be otherwise than joyous, and it is a great thing to have it when we have been looking forward to it, and dreaming of it, and counting the hours until it come. But it is better still when we are surprised by the visit of the sunbeam-giving guest; when we have dared neither to hope nor dream of its coming, but giving ourselves up in resignation to the inevitable, have sung our "Too late" with as few tears as possible. Then what a gladness there is in the flashing of light upon unexpected places, in the shining out of a love which we never hoped to see, in the sweet strains of the joy-music which we thought was for ever silenced! Somebody has said that there is no happiness like a late-in-life happiness. And, indeed, it is true that none is so precious to the heart, perhaps, because the heart that has waited long is the best prepared to receive it. We get mistaken sometimes, wise as we are! Now and then things are worse than we expected. We looked for gladness, and have sadness instead; we expected light, and find only darkness. But generally it is the reverse of this. Our Father is better to us than our fears, the world is fairer than we knew, there are pleasures for us that we had not dared even to hope for. And when the summer stays, when the sun shines, when the warm breeze creeps in at our windows, and the moths and butterflies still sport in the air while all the world seems filled with joy and gratitude, we ought to regret that we have hoped so little at our Father's hands! Perhaps we are growing old. How sad it is to lose our youth! Never again shall we have the joy that made it so fair to us. We were loved then, but now the friends of our youth are dead, and the strength and buoyancy we knew then have departed from us. And the sadness creeps over us. We let our eyes grow dim with weeping over the past, we waste our little remaining strength in repining and fears. But how often does God send a second summer even to those who only expected winter. New friends come, once again the sweet sound of a voice intoned with tenderness comes into our hearts, bright eyes look into ours, strong hands, whose touch is kindly, take our own. What then? It is only a second summer come unexpectedly; our Father is better than we looked for-He will not let us grow too early sad. go We down into a dark valley where there are shadows that frighten us. Here, at least, we expect only gloom, and cold, and death. But how often God sends His light at eventide! Some find that the end of the day is the brightest, the warmth of the last summer hours the most delightful. So may it be with us, and the second summer, which comes when all earthly things begin to fade, be but the introduction to a brighter, fairer summer which we shall spend on the "evergreen shore." A Second Summer. BEAUTIFUL Summer-time! still does it linger, Autumn has come, but the summer is staying As a friend who has blessed us is loth to depart, We look out with glad eyes where the sunbeams are playing, And pleasure and happiness steal to the heart. The days glide away, but they cannot bereave us To winter, and darkness, and pleasureless hours. Not yet are we hearing the mourning and sighing With sun on the meadows and song in the breeze? |