a kind of music that we can't make ourselves, and everybody prizes what he can't do himself. We do our best now. This school has given —————— dollars for benevolent objects, during the past year. Isn't such a school worth helping? We mean to do better by-and-by, when we get hold of the money-bags. Just now, you must do the giving, and, to help you, I will ask the school to sing: "GIVE, SAYS THE LITTLE STREAM."

(Fresh Laurels, p. 38.)

WHERE DOES ALL THE MONEY GO TO?

(For a boy of thirteen or fourteen.)

"Where does all the money go to? I'd like to know," says Mr. Skinflint. "Here I gave two dollars to this Sunday-School a year ago; and now they're at me for another contribution." Well, Mr. Skinflint, I'll tell you, when you tell me where all the pins go to, and what becomes of the old sermons that have been preached till they can't be preached again, without copying. I suspect they're

used up; and so much the better, say I. Somebody's got the job of making new ones and better ones. Your two dollars was gone long ago, neighbor Skinflint. It went the way of your last winter's wood-pile, or your yesterday's beef-steak. It did you good while it lasted; but it couldn't last forever, you know.. You want more wood and more beef, don't you? Well, we want more money. What you gave us went into papers, perhaps, and it may be the Catholic parents of some of our children tucked them into the fire as soon as they got home. Or, perhaps it went into the library and bought us about a book and a half, which stand there to-day, all tattered and torn, and saying, as plainly as books can speak, "This school is out of money." So, neighbor Skinflint, please realize that two dollars isn't a life-subscription to a live Sunday-School like ours.

AN APPEAL FOR SYMPATHY.

(For a young lady.)

They have requested me to ask you to give us something. Don't button your pockets or knit your brows. It isn't money that we want.

(Ah! now you look more propitious ;) it's sympathy. To be sure, we do want money, and somebody else may say something about that, by-and-by; but I say that we need your sympathy and the aid of your presence in the Sunday-School a great deal more. Here are these boys just sprouting into coat-tails, and these girls with slowly-lengthening dresses, who tell us that they can't stay in SundaySchool much longer-they're too old. What do you think about it, father and mother? Are they too old? "Not a bit of it," you say. Well, are you too old to set them a good example? Suppose you were teaching in the class beside them, or learning in the class over in the corner, would they think of dropping out of Sunday-School? Not a bit of it, say we. We warn you fairly, to-night, that Tommy and Jenny won't stay with us much longer, unless you give us your sympathy and help.

And can't you give us your sympathy in a general way? Here are lots of children who aren't your children; but they're "Somebody's children." We have a pretty hard time of it with the little "wharf-rats" and "alley birds." We need help somebody to pray with us and pray for us somebody to help us do the work that ignorant and vicious parents neg

lect. Christian friends, we call on you. Look in upon our Sunday-School once in a while, if you can do nothing more. Better still enroll yourself as teacher or scholar; take hold and work, and realize this that we'd vastly rather get hold of a man's heart, than his pocket, though the pocket would follow the heart in due time, of course.

A CALL FOR VOLUNTEERS.

(For a small but sturdy boy.)

I am the recruiting sergeant for this SundaySchool army. I want volunteers. No drafted men or substitutes taken. Our President has issued calls for: FIRST, two hundred scholars to fill up the classes. or over seventy-five. in life of no account. Chicago-fashion.

None taken under five Race, sex, or condition "Come one, come all,"

SECOND, Twenty teachers to teach the two hundred scholars. Must be Christians. Should have brains and heart. Will try applicants for a while, and see if they fill the bill.

N. B. All applicants must possess overshoes and an umbrella, so that they can get

None liable to

out on stormy Sundays.

66

Sunday sickness" need apply.
THIRD,

- Ten rich men who haven't brains enough to teach but have heart enough to give fifty dollars apiece, year after year, to our Sunday-School.

Now don't all speak at once. Those that apply first, shall have the first chance.

I AM A LITTLE GIRL, YOU SEE.

I am a little girl, you see,

I'm only three feet high,

But ma says I can speak a piece,
If I will only try.

I thought, indeed I told her so,

You'd really think it queer,

To see a little tiny child
Attempt to stand up here.

I wish, for fear that I should blush,

You'd turn your eyes away,

"Tis better not to look at me;
But just hear what I say.

I love to come to Sunday-School,
And say my lesson, too;