ently the edge of the cloud touched the sun, and a twilight gloom fell on the earth. The very moment the sun disappeared the birds rose up and began singing their long resounding notes, though it was loudly thundering at the time, while vivid flashes of lightning lit the black cloud overhead. He watched their flight and listened to their notes, till suddenly as they made a wide sweep upwards they disappeared in the cloud, and their voices seemed to come from an immense distance. The cloud continued emitting sharp flashes of lightning, but the birds never reappeared, and after six or seven minutes once more their notes sounded loud and clear above the muttering thunder. They had passed through the cloud into the clear atmosphere above it, and the naturalist expresses his surprise at their fearlessness. But really did not these sweet singers, passing through the thunder-cloud and singing above it, show us the true policy for dark days? We must not attempt to evade our troubles, not to resist them, not to fly before them, but simply to transcend them. Soaring into the clear atmosphere above, the thunder will not terrify nor the lightning smite. We become oblivious of a score of things which irritate and wound others to madness. Just as those wise, brave birds mounted beyond the tempest into the blue heavens and golden sunshine, so the devout soul in faith and prayer, in hallowed thought and feeling, wings its way into the calm azure of the heaven of heavens until the storms are overpast and gone. Even whilst yet in the flesh we are with the angels, and with glorified spirits who dwell in the stillness where beyond these voices there is peace. In those serene heights Christ dwells, and ever exhorts His people, Lift up your eyes to the heavens where I sit; in faith and love and hope claim your place by My side; and your heart shall be untroubled, neither shall it be afraid. How happy are the little flock, Who, safe beneath their guardian Rock, In all commotions rest! When war's and tumult's waves run high, They lodge in Jesu's breast. It has been said that no class reveals so tranquil a temper as astronomers do. Close observers declare that of all men they are most equal and serene. It is easy to imagine that this should be so. Habitually dwelling in the heavens, thinking God's thoughts in the mighty constellations, familiar with infinity and eternity, no wonder that a majestic quietness distinguishes them from other men. To us who awake out of nothingness the morning newspaper may be replete with agitating items, but its most stirring and dramatic paragraphs will hardly flurry the midnight watcher awed by the vastness of the heavens and the mystery of the stars. How much more will the saint "made higher than the heavens" be oblivious of earthly annoyances and catastrophes, and live in tumultuous scenes with a placid temper! Walk out of the great chapters of revelation into daily life, and you will be astonished at the strength and peace which garrison your soul. XXVII DEFERRED BLESSING And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten, the cankerworm, and the caterpillar, and the palmerworm, my great army which I sent among you.—JOEL ii. 25. T is not necessary to regard the text as express I ing a miraculous intervention of God in the order of nature, for that order already permits and provides for the restoration of withheld blessings. Specially severe or unseasonable weather in one season, destroying wild life on an unusual scale in animal or plant, will very probably secure compensation in the succeeding season; the repression of birds, beasts, reptiles, or fishes is followed by what naturalists have called a "bumper season." The failure of fruit in one autumn leaves a handsome balance to the good in unexhausted energies of plant or tree. A peasant having nothing else to complain about, complained of the abundant harvest because "it took such a power out of the earth"; he might have consoled himself by the fact that a deficient harvest leaves such a power in the earth-a power that in another season will not fail to realize itself. If lean years follow fat years, fat years follow lean ones. In mysterious ways unused forces are treasured, and years are restored that the caterpillar wasted. Bemoaning unprofitable years of worldliness and sin, we may find consolation in the text. Let us not be afraid to say this. It is ever right and best that we love and serve God in the morning of life, but such an admission does not exclude the truth that the grace of God secures to penitent men forfeited blessing. It is not altogether true that the past is irrevocable; there is truth in the solemn admonition, but, as so often in peremptory axioms, not the whole truth. "Where sin abounded, grace did abound more exceedingly." Retarded gifts may break forth ultimately with unusual energy and effectiveness, as late-flowering plants sometimes bear uncommonly splendid blossoms. We all know how the sense of unprofitable years has spurred adult converts to an all-conquering intensity and enthusiasm in the time that remains; and we have often seen how the extraordinary grace of God granted to a late repentance has infused into the transformed character surpassing strength and beauty. The curious fact has recently been noticed in the south of France that the lilac-trees whose leaves have all dropped from green-fly or other pests bloom earlier and better than any others. There seems to be some link between the destruction of the leaves and the unexpected crop of flowers. No horticulturist would therefore voluntarily infect his orchards with blight, nor will he shut his eyes to the strange benign processes by which evil is limited and compensated. Human life does not permit presumption, but we may never forget that the mystery of love is profounder even than the mystery of iniquity, and that the virtue of grace triumphs over the worst ravages of sin. St. Paul's early years were devoured by the caterpillar, yet, through the mercy at which the apostle never ceased to wonder, the stripped branches became purple with blossom and golden with fruit beyond all the trees of the garden. The penitent is in danger of being paralyzed by the clamour of the sins of past years, and of losing all heart and hope when he broods over what he has rejected, wasted, and perverted; still, he may take courage at the thought of the mercy wider than the sea, of the power that can cause stems and boughs blasted by the palmer-worm to blossom as the rose. The mysterious action of divine providence may restore what has been wasted by the specially bitter and barren seasons of life. We must not despair when frost turns the green leaf black, nor when the locust devours it. Many get a bad start in life. Owing to various causes the morning sunshine is darkened, and the season that ought to be only gay is embittered and blighted by poverty, unkindness, sickness, and injustice. The lives of many little children are terrible. Miss Martineau complained that her life had "no spring." Sad loss, indeed! No snowdrop or violet; no primrose, cowslip, or daffodil; the tender leaf frost-bitten; the singing birds dead in the snow. But God can more than restore a lost spring in a sweet summer, a gracious autumn, a kindly winter. The dutiful child emerges out of premature trial only strengthened by it, and specially qualified because of the dark background to enjoy the bright things which God hath prepared for them who love Him. One of the pictures in the north gallery at Kew represents the |