the green hills towering into the clouds, the shining river winding through pleasant meadows, tall and graceful trees in their gorgeousness of autumnal attire, a thousand beauties of green and gold and russet. This morning we look out-upon a wall of fog. Grey, wet, cold, and utterly devoid of beauty is the only thing which we can see, this heavy impenetrable curtain which is hung over everything. We cannot like it, we can but shiver at the sight of it, and patiently wait until the sun comes out in its glorious strength and smiles it all away, giving us once again our pleasant picture of blue skies, and green fields, and shining river. And we find that nothing is changed; everything is as it was; the glory was only hidden, it has not departed. How often our lives are among the fogs. How often we awaken suddenly to find a dense cloud over everything, not a beam of the sun of joy to be seen, not a single pleasant flower, scarcely a little bit of green; the fog is everywhere, even heaven itself seems blotted out, and there is nothing but a grim, cold mass of sorrow for heart and eye. Still it is only the fog. Our Father has not blotted out our beautiful pictures. He has but hidden them foran hour or two. In a little time the Sun of Righteousness will arise, and all the fog will disperse. A foggy morning will often cause disappointment in this way. Our very dearest friend may actually be on the other side of the street, and we cannot see him. So near, and yet so far away. We would go miles out of our way if it were necessary for the sight of the face that is only a few yards distant. He is close by, but the fog hides him. Is it not often so with that Friend who loveth at all times? How we search for Him in the darkness, calling on Him as one that is afar off, sighing for Him as one that is altogether absent. And yet He is so close that He can touch us with His hand, so present that not a sound, not even a sigh, escapes Him. We would actually see Him, look into His face, realise how close He is to us, if it were not for the fog of unbelief which hides Him. Oh! tender Friend, so strong and true, He does not really leave us. Would He but clear away the fog, and let us see Him, how glad we should be! But ought we not to rejoice because He is so near, though we cannot absolutely gaze at Him? What magnificent days sometimes follow foggy mornings! No mists, no clouds, no cold, no dampness, but bright blue skies, and warmth, and beauty, and glad song. So it is with this cloudy morning, which we call life. A little patience, a little putting up with discomfort and darkness, and THEN the eternal shining, the unclouded brightness of a midsummer's day, with no night to follow, Then we shall see, then we shall rejoice and understand. But till then, what can we do but trust, even amid the fogs? Over Dead Leaves. IT is not cheerful walking over dead leaves, as any one may prove for himself who will spend a day in the fields or woods at the present time. The country is always beautiful, and it is so now while the skies are still blue and the sunlight falls upon the landscape, and there are yet a few birds left to sit upon the bare hedges and chirp as musically as they may. But we cannot walk over the dead leaves which lie by thousands upon the meadow-paths without feeling that "The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year." They are even sadder than the days of winter, because when they are here we know that brighter ones will follow. And how different are they from the merry spring days and from those of the glad wealthy summer time! Then the trees are putting forth their tender green leaves whose beauty thrills us with the old love and a new pleasure; then myriads of leaves spread protectingly over our heads, shielding us from the blaze of the sun, and only allowing him to drop his brightness here and there at our feet; then we listen to the loving whispers among the branches with a passion of responsive gladness, and sing our thanks to God to their harmonious accompaniment; but now the wind sighs among the bare branches, we walk over dead leaves, treading them deeper into the earth with every footstep. Still the autumn is so beautiful in itself that its sadness must chiefly come from its associations. We should not so much mind the fading away of the flowers if that did not so forcibly and persistently remind us of another and far sadder autumn. We could not bear to watch the showers of dead leaves if every one of them did not present to us the surface on which is written "We all do fade as a leaf.” The short grass would be rather a pleasant sight than otherwise, but that it holds up to our view the solemn words, "As for man his days are as grass; as a flower of the field so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more for ever." But the saddest part of the autumn is, after all, not that which reminds us of our own mortality. Those who are believers in Jesus cannot feel very mournfully about anything which reminds them that they are nearing the time when "this mortal shall put on immortality." "He that believeth on the Son of God hath everlasting life," and autumn, with all its fadings, can have nothing to do with that. November is sombre, because it reminds us of other dead leaves than those which fall from the trees. When it is autumn with us we look back and remember how different it used to be with us. What hopes we had when our year of life was young. We felt and looked like manyleafed June rather than barren November. But where are they now? What can have become of our wealth of onlooking? our glowing expectations? We must look for them now upon the wet ground, where they are halfburied from our sight. Well, even that need not make us melancholy. Supposing we have spent or lost the few treasures that were given or lent to us, we are on our way to claim "an inheritance, incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away." It does not matter much what becomes of our few trinkets while the family jewels are waiting for us; and we must needs think very little of the faded leaves we wreathed into a coronet when the crown of life is ready for our heads. So let us go over our dead leaves with firm and cheerful marching-steps. As they remind us of our losses we can merrily sing, “As for you, ye thought evil against me, but God meant it unto good." And so let us pass on to that wonderful land where there shall be no winter and no fading-time. Perhaps that which saddens us the most of all is the fact that we become so lonely as the years pass on. We had our friends before, we remember how with them we did not even mind walking over dead leaves; they had such cheery voices, and no bitter winds could make the summer of love die out of their eyes. But they are gone. Well, we surely are not so unloving and selfish as to wish them to be down here treading upon dead leaves when they are living in the perpetual gladness of heaven, and "stand before the throne of God, and do serve Him day and night in His temple." There is another kind of decay even more sorrowful than this. It is the fading away of the spiritual life. Little it matters, though the winter be all around us, if we can keep summer in our hearts. But when it is winter there when nothing but mist and fog and deadness characterise what by courtesy is called our Christianitywhat shall we do then? It is a fearful thing when the only life that could last for ever seems to be dying, when the cold is creeping into our very souls. But even in this sad case, the saddest of all, we are not left without hope. We may return unto Him who is our Life. He has not given us up, for all our fading. He is inviting us back to the safe, warm shelter that we have left. He can give us immortality still. He does not tire of us, though we have so ill requited all His care and tending. Oh, clinging to that hope, let us return to our God, who will abundantly pardon! "O soul, O soul, rejoice! Thou art God's child, indeed, for all thy sinning- The First Snow. THE first fall of snow is probably watched with very different feelings by one half the world from those which, on the same occasion, are felt by the other half. Seen from the well-curtained windows of a warm and comfortable room, the snow is a beautiful sight, suggestive of many thoughts by no means unpleasing. The mind has leisure for reflection, which is shadowed by no shrinking remembrance of a duty calling for more active acquaintance with the snow, not only as it comes down, in silent, soft flakes, but as it lies and melts, being trodden under foot of man in the slushy streets. The first snow is a pleasant thing to those who can spend the day in perusal of a favourite book by the fireside, or in accomplishing some delicate intricacies in wool-work. Occasional glances at the white shower, relieved by longer ones at the glowing coals between bright bars, are almost certain to introduce images of purity and beauty into the wandering, indolent thoughts, which are made all the better by them. "In flakes of a feathery white 'Tis falling so gently and slow; More brightly I'd shine than the snow." The first snow, too, will remind all who have leisure to think at all of those beautiful, pathetic lines, wrung from a heart that was breaking : "Oh, the snow, the beautiful snow, Filling the sky and earth below, Over the heads of the people you meet. |