There is a verse in the hundred and fourth Psalm which tells how God "touched the hills, and they smoke." There are many burning and smoking mountains in different parts of the world, besides those which have risen from the depths of the sea; some of them have destroyed whole cities by hot streams of lava or showers of ashes; there are some whose high peaks are covered with snow, and yet from those snowy heights the fire sometimes breaks forth; and there are others which are called extinct volcanoes, because the fire no longer breaks forth from them as it once did; but Mount Tarawera has taught us not to be too sure that a volcano which has been quiet for more than a hundred years is really extinct.

Hot springs, earthquakes, burning mountains, all tell the same tale: somewhere beneath the earth's surface there is a quantity of heated material, and these "convulsions of nature" which are so terrible in their effects come from the efforts made by it to escape from its prison. A friend who had been in a South American city during an earthquake told me of the terror-stricken feeling which he experienced when he ran out of the house in alarm, only to see buildings reeling and falling, and to feel the solid earth itself rocking beneath his feet, while from beneath came a rumbling noise, and a sound as of the clanking of chains. This trembling and rocking of the earth has led savage nations to speak of some monster underground turning his huge body. Shocks of earthquakes are occasionally felt in England, and in the north-west of Ireland sheets of lava show that volcanoes were once nearer home than we think. The Giants' Causeway, in the north of Ireland, and Fingal's Cave, in the Island of Staffa, off the north-west coast of Scotland, have been made by this lava having cooled and split up into beautifully formed columns, which look like stone pillars.

"BEAUTIFUL THINGS.

"What millions of beautiful things there must be In this mighty world!—who could reckon them all! The tossing, the foaming, the wide flowing sea, And thousands of rivers that into it fall.

"Oh, there are the mountains, half covered with snow, With tall and dark trees, like a girdle of green, And waters that wind in the valleys below, Or roar in the caverns too deep to be seen.

"Vast caves in the earth, full of wonderful things, The bones of strange animals, jewels and spars; Or far up in Iceland, the hot boiling springs, Like fountains of feathers or showers of stars!

"Here spread the sweet meadows, with thousands of flowers; Far away are old woods, that for ages remain; Wild elephants sleep in the shade of their bowers, Or troops of young antelopes traverse the plain.

"Oh yes, they are glorious, all to behold, And pleasant to read of, and curious to know; And something of God in His wisdom we're told Whatever we look at—wherever we go!"

ANNE TAYLOR.



THE THIRD DAY.

THE GREEN EARTH.

"The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof."—PSALM xxiv. 1.

"Thou visitest the earth, and waterest it:... Thou preparest them corn, when Thou hast so provided for it."—PSALM lxv. 9.

"Every tree is known by his own fruit."—LUKE vi. 44.

I want you to read carefully verses 11, 12, 13, and then 29 and 30, of our chapter in Genesis; for in them God has told us of His work upon the THIRD DAY of Creation, when at His word the earth—no longer waste and bare, as when it came up from beneath the waters—was clothed in garments of beauty; "dressed in living green," as the hymn says.

I remember that when we began our morning lesson about the THIRD DAY, we noticed that God caused the earth, which had no life in itself, to bring forth that which was alive; for every green thing which grows upon the surface of the earth, no matter how tiny it may be, is quite different from those rocks which form its crust, about which we have been learning. Rocks and stones are without life, but every blade of grass which you tread under your feet, every blossom which scents the breeze, is alive.

We had a good deal of talk about this, for life is a very wonderful thing; one of those "secret things" which belong to God, and which no one has ever been able to understand. But though we cannot know what this wonderful secret is, we can understand how great a difference there is between living things and those which have never had any life in them. If you were to take a pebble and hide it in the earth, you might water it every day, and the sun might shine upon it, while you waited and waited till you were quite old; but no change would come to the pebble, If you dug for it you would find it a pebble still.

But with a plant, how different! See how those weeds in your garden grow. You may cut them down, or bury them underground—do anything indeed except pull them up by the roots—and still they will force their way through the soil which you pressed down so tightly over them; their leaves will push themselves up into the light and air, and their roots will strike deep into the earth, for every bit of them is alive; as the "Song of the Crocus" says—

"My leaves shall run up, and my root shall run down, While the bud in my bosom is swelling."

Long ago, when I was a child, I saw a field covered with beautiful white things, smooth and rounded like the top of an egg, which seemed to rise here and there from the grass. They grew out of the ground, but yet they did not look like any flowers I had ever seen. I was told that the pretty white things were mushrooms, and that I might gather as many as I could in my pinafore, and take them home for breakfast.

You may fancy how delightful it was to search about in the dewy grass, every minute finding a mushroom finer and whiter than the rest; but what puzzled me was the wonder of it—how had they all come there?

They had grown up in the night, I was told, while I had been asleep in my bed; and I knew it must be so, for I had been in that field only the evening before, and had seen nothing there but the sheep, eating the grass and daisies.

The thought of these beautiful white things growing up so quietly in the night-time, when no one could see them, was very wonderful to me, and I only wished that I might stay up all the next night in that field, and see them come, and find out how they grew: I was sure I could keep awake all night!

But since then I have learnt that there are many, many things about which we grown people, as well as you children, may ask questions, and say, "How do they come?" and there is no answer ready for us except that old wise answer—God has made them to be.

I daresay you may have a little garden of your own. Did you ever, in spring-time, make a hole in the soft brown earth, and drop into it a little black round seed? Perhaps last March you put in a good many sweet peas, and then covered each one up in its earthy bed, and left them. People told you not to forget to take care of your garden, and so you often watered the place where the seeds lay hidden, and at last you saw something very tiny, but fresh and green and full of life, where only the dark brown earth had been the day before. You clapped your hands for pleasure, and ran to tell everybody: "My sweet peas are coming up!" You see you can tell when the seeds are growing, but you cannot tell how they grow; you can water the ground where they are lying hidden from your sight, but when you have done all you know how to do, you must still leave them to God's care; for He alone can make those little dark balls spring up and grow, and blossom in sweetness and beauty.

What wonderful thing it was that went on underground so quietly, while you were asleep or at play, neither you nor I can tell; and this dead-like seed coming to life and springing up into beauty is only one of the many things which go on in this world all around us, seen and known only by God, who says of the seed of His word, sown by His servants—not in the ground, but in the hearts of people—that it is He who "giveth the increase."

We speak of vegetable life as well as of animal life, for I am sure you have not forgotten that plants breathe through their leaves—they drink in water by their roots, and some plants even show that they are sensitive to touch by shrinking if anything comes in contact with them; but how a daisy, with its hardy little stem and its fresh green leaves and "crimson-tipped" flower, comes to grow out of the earth, we do not know at all.

The beautiful leaves, fringed with downy hairs, are the lungs of the plants; and just as the blood runs through the veins at the back of your hand, the sap: which is the life-blood of the plant, runs through some fine veins which you see at the back of the leaf. If this sap were to cease flowing up the stem, the leaves and flowers would soon droop and die.



Look at the sheep, cropping the grass so busily that they hardly lift their heads from the ground. Every time they breathe, they give out air which feeds all the green things around them; and as the green things breathe this air, by the very act they purify it, and give it back to the sheep, fit for them to inhale again.

We see that when God made the world, everything was prepared beforehand. He did not cause the earth to bring forth living things, until all that was needful to keep them alive was ready. Before the beasts of the field were made, the grass, which was to be their food, covered the earth like a soft carpet, and their table was furnished. This is a lesson which we have already learnt, when speaking of "The Ocean of Air"—but it is one of which we cannot be too often reminded.

And now I want to point out to you that in the eleventh verse we read of three kinds of living things which God caused the earth to bring forth. Let us look at them: (1) "grass"; (2) "the herb yielding seed"; (3) "the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed was in itself."

Long ago, when I first noticed these three distinct kinds, I could not understand why there was a difference made between "grass" and "the herb yielding seed"; for the grass in our fields in autumn is, as little May said, "all full of pips." This was her way of describing those beautiful seeds which hang so gracefully that we sometimes gather the long stalks and dry them for their beauty, that we may have a winter nosegay when there are no flowers to be found. I had forgotten my puzzle about this when, not long ago, I met with a very interesting book which explained that the grass which is spoken of in Genesis as the first thing which the earth brought forth, was not the grass of our fields. If you look in the margin of your Bible, you will see that it is there called "tender grass." You might perhaps think there is not much difference; but words, which are the names of things, are very strong for good or evil. And especially in reading the Bible, it is important to get the very best English word that can be found for the Hebrew words which we could not understand. The verse has been more exactly turned from Hebrew into English in this way: "And God said. Let the earth sprout forth with tender grass."

This word "tender grass" is not the same as that which is used in a Psalm which the children were just then learning, where we read that God "causeth the grass to grow for the cattle." It means rather "the plant that shoots" out of the ground, and would apply to any green thing just sprouting. It is thought that in the word are included all those plants such as mosses and mushrooms, whose flowers are invisible, and which multiply not by producing seed, but by budding, or by means of little living particles, looking like brown dust, which botanists call "spores."

These flowerless plants are of much simpler structure than those which have root, stem, leaf and flower, and produce plants of their own kind by means of their seeds. If you look at the back of a common fern, you will see brown specks, not bigger than silkworms' eggs, beautifully arranged upon it. Each of these is a collection of little cases containing spores, which by-and-by will split open, allowing the spores to fall into the ground.

"Then the spores are the same as seeds, after all"—you say. No; if they were seeds, each would at once grow into a fern. This is what happens, as far as I can explain it to you: from the spore springs a tiny leaf, which roots itself, and it is from this green leaf that the young fern actually grows, until it, as it were, begins life on its own account. The leaf dies down, and the first frond of the new fern peeps above ground, closely coiled up, as you have often seen, if you have been through the woods in spring-time. The earliest forms of vegetable life, then, brought forth by the earth at the word of God were the plants which have no seeds: botanists have divided such plants into groups—the seaweeds and lichens, the mosses, and the ferns.

Of the seaweeds, the lowest of all groups of plants, we were speaking some time ago. The lichens, though such lowly plants, are very interesting, for I have read that every form of lichen is composed of two distinct plants—a seaweed and a fungus—so closely interwoven that you cannot tell where the one ends and the other begins. The lichens range in colour from white to yellow, red, green, brown—and some are as black as that rare black pansy of which I told you. Each kind has its own peculiar way of growing, and these hardy little plants can live where no other plant can—on the hard black lava, on naked rocks, and even upon the highest snow-mountain.

Next time you pass an old gateway or ruined wall, and notice stains of yellow and brown and grey upon it, remember that there the lichens grow; tiny plants indeed, whose beauties are revealed only by the microscope, but each one of them made by God, and given the means of living by Him, just as much as those giants of the forest of which travellers tell us such wonderful tales. You may sometimes find a rock, or the trunk of a tree, encrusted with dry lichen, and it is interesting to know that these plants when they decay form the first mould for mosses and ferns, plants which botanists think of as higher in the scale of vegetable life than the lowly lichens themselves are.

The great family of mosses is found not only near home, but even far away amid the icefields and the snow, where the reindeer searches with its horns for the white moss which is its food, and where Sir John Franklin and his devoted men gathered the black Tripe de Roche upon which they tried to live during those dark months when their ship lay fast wedged between

"... those icebergs vast, With heads all crowned with snow, Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep, Two hundred fathoms low."

But prettier than these Arctic mosses are those nearer home. Talking about them makes me think of a place where I wish you and I could go together some beautiful afternoon in winter. It is a lovely little pine-wood near Bournemouth, to which some boys, with whose friends I was staying during the Christmas holidays, wished to take me to see their favourite walk.



Once when we were starting for our run, on a bright frosty morning, and I was rather hoping I should be taken to the sea, I heard them say to each other, "The Pincushion Wood; that's it; do let us go there." I wondered what kind of place this could be but when we had scrambled through some heather and come to this pine-wood, I saw at once why they had given it its name. Overhead, with their needles against the blue sky, were the pines in their dark solemn green, but under our feet the ground was bright with moss which grew, not on stones or trunks of trees, but all by itself in round balls, soft and firm and cushiony. You may be sure I was delighted with the green pincushions: we gathered a quantity of them, and I took one home with me, but though I watered it carefully, it soon lost its beauty.

These moss-balls lay at the roots of the pines, and we could pick up as many as we pleased; but generally even the most delicate mosses grasp the soil, and clasp their soft tendrils round the stones so firmly that you need a knife or a sharp stone to make them loose their hold. One of the uses of moss is to protect the rocks from the frost, and from the heavy rains which wash them away by degrees. The roots of trees, too, are cherished and warmed by the closely clinging mosses; and by holding the moisture from dew and rain, they form where they grow a little bed of soft mould, and so prepare the way for plants of larger growth.

Do you know the Trumpet-moss, with its red cups each holding its own little dewdrop? Perhaps not, for it is a rare treasure, and needs to be sought for in its own haunts; but there are many green mosses which are very beautiful, and so common that we see them upon every garden wall. There is the Hair-moss, the seeds of which are eaten by the birds, while its delicate tendrils serve as soft lining for their nests: it grows plentifully beside our streams; but far away in Lapland, during the short summer when the flowers all at once burst into bloom, it may be seen in full beauty. The Laps cut this moss in layers and dry it in the sun, to form a soft rug for them to sleep under during their cold nights. Then there is the velvety moss which, like the many-coloured lichen, loves to creep over old buildings, and make the ruined and desolate places bright with a beauty not their own.

Speaking of mosses reminds me of a story which is told us by a doctor named Mungo Park, who was nearly lost in an African desert about a hundred years ago. Day after day he had toiled on, under the burning sun, until he was almost in despair; for he had been robbed and deserted, and felt as if there was nothing left for him but to lie down and die in the wilderness, or become a prey to the savage animals which ranged over the country; and the remembrance of those at home in Scotland who would never know what had become of him, made him sick at heart. As these sad thoughts filled the traveller's mind and took away all his courage, his tired eye lighted upon a tiny tuft of moss, showing green and fair even in the parched soil of the desert. It was the Lesser Fork-moss which grows in our shady woods, and beside our ponds and ditches. We should perhaps hardly notice it unless we were shown its beauty by a microscope, for it is one of the smallest and humblest of things that grow; but as he looked at it, tears of joy came to his eyes. Silently springing up in that thirsty land, the tiny moss spoke to the lonely exile of the care of God for the very smallest of His creatures, whether the restless brown bird of which the Lord Jesus spoke when He bade His disciples not to fear, saying, "Ye are of more value than many sparrows," or the creeping moss which spreads from stone to stone.

In a moment all was changed for the weary traveller. He felt that he was not alone in that great solitude, for God who had cared for that tuft of moss, and kept it green and fresh by means of some hidden spring, surely cared for him, His own child, and would show him the right way out of that desolate place. Thus the burden and the heat were forgotten in happy thoughts of the faithfulness of God; and he went on his way with new courage, and soon found the path which he had lost; but he never forgot the message which the little moss had brought him. Though the whole plant was not larger than the tip of his finger, he managed to keep it safely through all his journeys by land and sea, and had the pleasure of seeing it flourish under our cold skies just as well as it had done beneath the burning sun of Africa. If you are fond of poetry, you may like to read some lines written by the poet McCheyne about this incident.

"Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand Our traveller sat him down; his hand Covered his burning head; Above, beneath, behind, around, No resting for the eye he found— All nature seemed as dead.

"One tiny tuft of moss alone, Mantling with freshest green a stone, Fixed his delighted gaze; Through bursting tears of joy he smiled, And while he raised the tendril wild, His lips o'erflowed with praise.

"'Oh, shall not He who keeps thee green Here in the waste, unknown, unseen, Thy fellow-exile save? He who commands the dew to feed Thy gentle flower, can surely lead Me from a scorching grave.'"

The poem has many more verses, but I think these the prettiest. Moss has been spoken of by a poet as the "nest of time"; it has also been called "nature's livery," because the earth is clothed with it; and I have read that Mungo Park's little teacher may be found upon many a wall near London, and also clinging to those great stones which were once part of the walls of far away Jerusalem. It is nice to think that the little green plants, which we have such reason to love—because they are brightest and best in the winter-time, when all our

"Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay."

have faded—grow all the world over; even down in the mines of Sweden the shining Feather-moss is said to light up the darkness with a tiny glimmer of its own.

When we were speaking of the fossil animals which are found hidden deep in the "crust" of the earth, you may remember that I told you that upon the hard grey-coloured clay which forms the roof of coal-mines beautifully traced patterns of ferns are sometimes found. I have heard that half the plants the remains of which are found buried in the coal-measures are ferns, but ferns which are now known to us as but three feet in height, appear in those early times of our earth's history to have been grand trees with trunks three feet through, and fronds of great length.

If you want to see tree-ferns growing wild now, you must go to New Zealand or Australia, or to the south of India: but you may perhaps some day have an opportunity of looking at pictures of some of the giant mare's-tails, and other plants with beautifully sculptured stems, of which traces have been found in our own English coal-fields; meantime, look at the vivid word-picture which Dr. Buckland has given of what he saw in a Bohemian mine. He says: "The most elaborate imitation of living foliage upon the painted ceilings of Italian palaces bears no comparison with the beauteous proportions of extinct vegetable forms with which the galleries of these instructive coal-mines are overhung.... The effect is heightened by the contrast of the coal-black colour of these vegetables with the light groundwork of the rock to which they are attached"—for you must not forget that it is upon the roof of the mine that the impressions of the plants which have been turned into coal are found, not upon the coal itself, though even there they may be discovered by a microscope.

And now leaving the mosses and lichens, ferns and mushrooms, we will turn to the "herb yielding seed," and speak of the great family of grasses; and to begin with I will quote for you two verses which were brought to me by the children when I had asked for texts about grass.

This is one: "If God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?"

And the other is: "The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away: but the word of the Lord endureth for ever."

When we were speaking about the former of these verses, I told them that by "the grass of the field" we must understand not only grass, but the wild flowers which grow upon the green slopes of Palestine in the spring-time, when God

"Lets His own love-whispers creep Over hills and craggies steep."

They bloom but for a short time—from February to April; for in May a burning wind from the desert sweeps over the flowery meadows, and in one short day the grass has withered and its flower has faded. All "the grace of the fashion of it perishes," and there is no more beauty in the fields till the return of spring makes them bloom again.

In a country where wood is as scarce as it is in the Holy Land grass and flowers are all cut down together, and burnt to heat the ovens in which bread is baked. The flowers of the field may live but a day, and then wither on their stalks under the hot breath of the desert-blast; or they may be cut down and "cast into the oven." But the Lord spoke of them that He might teach His disciples that they must not be anxious about how they were to live in this world, because God their Father who "so clothed the grass," cared for them much more than for the birds, and all the helpless living things which are never forgotten by Him.

The flowers have no care. Those crimson lilies, which shine like stars among the grass in Palestine in the spring-time, do nothing to make their own rich dress. But God has thought it worth while to clothe them, as well as the daisies of our English meadows, in grace and beauty; and fair and sweet as they are, not for themselves, but as the overflowings of God's brimming cup of love, From His own word we learn to "consider the lilies how they grow," and receive through them the same lesson which the Fork-moss taught the lost traveller.

"For who but He that arched the skies, And pours the day-spring's living flood, Wondrous alike in all He tries, Could rear the daisy's purple bud?

"Mould its green cup, its wiry stem, Its fringed border nicely spin, And cut the gold-embossed gem, That, set in silver, gleams within?

"Then fling it, unrestrained and free, O'er hill and dale and desert sod, That man where'er he walks may see, In every step, the stamp of God."

The verse which speaks of the "withering" of the grass, becomes even more striking if we remember that grass in Eastern lands often grows so tall as to reach to the saddle, as a horseman rides through it. But this tall grass withers away as soon as it is smitten by the burning heat of the sun. The apostle Peter speaks of all the glory of man as like grass which has withered; and then, in contrast with what so quickly perishes, he reminds of what can never grow old or pass away—"the word of the Lord," which "endureth for ever."

While we were speaking of the verse in Genesis which tells us that "every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth" was to be food for man, I asked the question: "What are the grain-bearing plants?"

Every voice at once replied, "Corn"; and certainly corn is one of the most beautiful, and the plant which has in a special manner given "bread to the eater." "But," I continued, "are there not other grasses whose seeds supply food for us?"

The children thought awhile, and then said, "Barley," "rye," "oats"; and presently, thinking of other countries besides England and Scotland, someone ventured, "rice"; and Chris, remembering the tall Indian corn which grows so abundantly in America, suggested "maize."

So we went on to notice (Genesis 1. 29, 30) that corn and grain of various kinds are the food specially prepared by God for man. There was the "green herb" for the animals and birds and creeping things; and for us, the "herb yielding seed." How beautiful it is to see that at the very outset food was provided for man, even before God had made him; and that all through the long years which have passed from that time till now, it has never been wanting. It is true there have been terrible famine years, when the wheat-harvest has perished, or when the rice-crop, upon which the lives of thousands of people in India and China depend, has failed from want of water; and the hand of God in judgment may at times be seen in these years of drought; but through His goodness in giving "rain from heaven, and fruitful seasons," the earth still brings forth food, and will do so, for God's own word assures us that "while the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest ... shall not cease." It is cheering to think of this when we pass through a corn-field, and admire the red poppies shining here and there among the wheat, and the full ears of corn waving in the sunshine, until the field looks like a sea of gold.

Interesting too it is to see, as Ernest and his friend did the other day, all that must be done ere those waving ears of corn become a loaf such as you see on the table every morning: for in this country we do not feed on "parched corn," as it is described in that lovely story of Ruth the Moabite woman, from whose line descended our Lord Jesus Christ, "Son of David, Son of Abraham."

As they were walking along the road, the boy noticed a large piece of bread which someone had thrown away.

"How wrong to throw away such a nice piece as that!" he remarked to a friend at his side.

"Indeed it was," she replied. "Whoever threw it away never thought how much it cost to make that piece of bread." And she began to tell how the hard ground must be broken by the plough, and smoothed by the harrow, to make it ready for the seed; then, after the seed has been sown and covered up, water, air, and sunlight are all needful, that the roots may sink down deep into the earth, and the green stalks shoot up into the light; so that where there was once only the bare brown field may be seen "first the blade, then the ear, after that the full corn in the ear"—the harvest-field in all its glory. As the "Sower's Song" says:

"Fall gently and still, good corn; Lie warm in thy earthly bed, And stand so yellow some morn, For man and beast must be fed."

Then come the reaping and the threshing, and the winnowing and crushing of the grain, and the making of the flour into bread, and its baking. All this must be done before our tables can be furnished with "our daily bread."



For the birds, which "neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse nor barn," God makes the grass to grow of itself; but all those seed-bearing plants, which He has given to man, must now be cultivated. Rice needs a great deal of water that it may grow; and corn, if no care is given to its cultivation, soon becomes but a poor and useless sort of grass. It must be sown fresh every year in ground which has been made ready for it. Did you ever pluck one of the golden ears from a field of corn, and sit down and count how many grains there were upon one slender stalk? And then did you think that every little grain in that ear was itself a seed which, just as the egg contains the bird that is one day to fly and sing, wraps up within itself a young wheat-stalk with all the golden ears which may wave and rustle when next year's harvest time has come? No longer then the one lonely seed dropped by the hand of the sower into the good soil prepared for it, but many, many grains instead. So true is it that

"A grain of corn an infant's hand May plant upon an inch of land, Whence twenty stalks may spring and yield, Enough to stock a little field.

"The harvest of that field may then Be multiplied to ten times ten, Which, sown thrice more, would furnish bread Wherewith an army might be fed."

And such life is there in seed, that even grains of corn which had been hidden away for thousands of years—wrapped up in an Egyptian tomb within a mummy like those you saw at the Museum the other day—when sown still brought forth fruit; not in Egypt where they first grew, but in England. But those grains which had slept the sleep of ages would never have thus wakened into life and fruitfulness unless they had been sown in the earth; for before we can see the "full corn in the ear," the one grain from which so many were to come, must "fall into the ground and die": in darkness and silence and death the plant is born, and begins to show signs of life. Did you ever think of this?

The Lord Jesus once spoke of it to two of His disciples, Andrew and Philip. I do not know whether they understood then that He was speaking of Himself when He said the words, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit." "Much fruit"—even that great multitude redeemed by His blood, who shall be with Him and praise Him for ever, as they remember how He died that they might live.

I hope that you belong to the happy company who shall sing that new song in heaven. If you have known and believed the love of God in giving His own beloved Son to die instead of you, and the love of Christ in coming into the world and laying down His life for you, you can say of the Lord Jesus the very words which the great apostle Paul said, when he spoke of Him as "the Son of God, who loved me, and gave Himself for me."

How much there is for us to learn, and how much to admire, in the wonderful works of God! Far, far more than we have been speaking of to-day in the lichens, covering the bare rocks with "cloth of gold," and in the leafy mosses which the birds weave into soft lining for their nests; the palms, pines, reeds, and grasses, and the beautiful waving corn, which is God's special gift to man. But we must now turn to the third division of plants, which is described as "the fruit tree yielding fruit after its kind, whose seed is in itself."

There is a pretty poem which Sharley learnt the other day, beginning—

"I praised the earth, in beauty seen, With garlands gay of various green."

When she had repeated it to me, I asked, "What are the 'gay garlands,' Sharley—flowers?"

But no, they could not be, because the flowers are not "green"; so Sharley answered that she thought they must be beautiful trees with which the earth is covered; for their brightly coloured leaves, especially in autumn, are as gay as wreaths of flowers, with their many shades of red and brown, as well as "various green."

The more we notice the trees and flowers, the more we wonder at their loveliness; for God has "made everything beautiful in his time," whether the rich trees of autumn or the tender green of the spring-time, when all the earth seems young again.

Beautiful indeed this earth must have been; still so fair, even in its ruins; when it came fresh from the hand of God, prepared by Him to be the dwelling place of His creatures; but who can tell how fair it will be when every trace of sin and its sad work shall be gone for ever, and the Lord Jesus, the Prince of Peace, shall reign over it?

And although it is all done so quietly and secretly, and seems so natural to us that we hardly give it a thought, even still more wonderful than their beauty is the way in which these trees, yielding fruit after their kind, "whose seed is in itself," go on constantly, not only living, but producing other living plants, which increase and multiply, each in its turn again producing more and more "after its kind."

Perhaps you save up your pennies, as I did long ago, until you have enough to buy a packet of flowerseeds. As you unfold the packet, and see the pictures of the flowers that are to be, on the little papers inside—the scarlet poppy, the yellow marigold, the blue lupin, and the many-coloured sweet peas—you almost feel as if you already saw these bright flowers blooming in your garden. But open the little parcels one after the other, and what do you find? Nothing bright or sweet or beautiful; only little brown seeds, tiny as grains of March dust, or so light and feathery that your breath would blow them away.

Do you then throw them into the fire, and say they are no good? Not so. You take the greatest care of these little grains. You prepare the earth, and make a soft bed for them, then cover them up, carefully marking the spot with the name of the flower whose seed you have sown there. You water that bare place, and wait to see green leaves push themselves up through the dark soil; for well you know that within each tiny brown seed the flower that is to be, lies hidden.

To see your seed grow, and your plant live and bloom, does not surprise you at all. But how astonished you would be if, in the spot where you had sown white candytuft, you were to find yellow tulips!

Such a thing can never be; for the mother-plant from which the seed came must always produce plants of its own kind. You never saw a bean grow into a cherry-tree, or a pink change into a rose, did you? God gives the seed a body "as it hath pleased Him, and to every seed its own body."

It is true that what are called "varieties" can be produced among cultivated plants, as among birds and animals, by change of food and climate, and by care and training. The same plant will soon look very different if taken from a dry, sunny spot, and placed in a damp, shady corner. I have heard that if plants are moved from their home on the seashore, and placed in a dry, hot place, their thick, fleshy leaves will in time quite change their character, becoming thin and hairy. In the same way a tree, if given room, will spread its branches wide, but will shoot upwards if hemmed in on all sides. It is important, however, to remember that man has never been able by his skill to produce a new kind of either plant or animal. But we were speaking of your seeds, so tiny, yet so unlike each other. These differences become much more apparent if the seeds are looked at through a microscope, and the varieties in their way of growing are endless.

You know where to look for the tiny seeds of the apple-tree; but may not have noticed, that while they lie safely hidden inside the fruit, the strawberry's yellow seeds are outside. Then some seeds, such as peas and laburnums, grow in pods. Some, like the hips and haws, we must look for between the stalk and the flower, or in the place where the flower has been. You may have seen a hawthorn-tree in the spring all white with its scented blossoms. If you pass by the same place months later, when spring and summer are past, what a change! Where the sweet flowers had been, the red berries, which the birds like so well, hang in clusters. This is what has happened: the wind has blown away the soft blossoms; then the parts beneath them which held the seeds grew larger and turned into berries; the sun shone upon them and dyed them their brilliant red; and now they are quite ripe, and ready for the birds' winter supply; or perhaps one here and there may bury itself in the ground, and become a young hawthorn.

The power of life in the seed is a very wonderful thing. I have read of a grave far away in Hanover upon which a very massive stone was laid, and upon the stone were engraved the words, "This grave shall never be opened." We know that the time will come when the seal of every tomb will be broken, but even now it may be seen that those proud words were written in vain. A seed which had fallen into the grave has grown into a tree, which has actually raised and pushed aside the heavy stone to make room for itself and force its way into the light and air.

I wonder if you ever thought of the fruits which you so much enjoy, as seeds? Such they really are. Almonds and grapes and oranges, yes, and the blackberries of the hedges, are either the seeds of plants or what are called their seed-vessels, because they hold the seed. But fruits like apples and pears have a double use; they were made not only to serve as seed-holders, but God has given them to us for food. And those horse-chestnuts you are so fond of gathering—next time you pick one up just stop and think that in the round smooth nut, which you can hide in your closed hand, lies the baby plant which may one day become a spreading tree like those you have seen in the park. Can you believe that such a mighty tree, with its branches and leaves and blossoms, is folded up in one small horse-chestnut, such as that with which you were playing the other day, whirling it round your head at the end of a string? The life of a plant, could it be told, would be indeed a tale of wonder; and I should like to try to tell you a little more about it, as well as something about how flowers are made; but as we have had so long a chapter, we must end with another story, the true story of what a flower, growing alone in a yard, just springing up in its green sweetness between the flagstones, taught a poor man who was as lonely as itself, and also very unhappy.

He was a Frenchman, and had been in prison a long time, because the Emperor Napoleon considered him his enemy. One day while he was walking in the prison-yard, pacing backwards and forwards, up and down the narrow space which was allowed him, he noticed something green at his feet, and stooping down to see what it could be, found that a busy little plant was bravely pushing its way up between the crevices of the paving stones, to reach such light and air as could be found in a prison-yard. "How could it have come here?" the prisoner thought. A seed must have been dropped by some passing bird, and "the scent of water" from some hidden spring must have caused it to bud and to send down the slender fibres of its roots, with their little sponges, to suck up all the moisture, so that the plant should grow, and shoot up those fresh green leaves which had attracted his attention.

If the poor prisoner had been happy and busy, he perhaps would have thought no more of the little plant; but he was very sad and lonely, and he could not be busy as he had no books to read, and all the occupations which he most cared for had been taken from him. So this living thing was to him like a country in which he was constantly discovering some new wonder and beauty. He loved to watch the lonely plant, which was, to his fancy, a prisoner like himself; and when at last the buds unfolded, and the flowers—such sweet flowers with such gay colours—bloomed, he was filled with delight; he guarded his treasure with the most anxious care, for if a hasty foot had trodden it down, he would have lost a friend which had cheered for him many a sad hour.

But I have not yet told you what this prison-flower taught the lonely prisoner. As day by day he watched the growth of that humble little plant, God spoke to him. He had spent his life without thinking much about God, and when he had thought about Him, he had been like that poor proud man of whom God's word says that he is a "fool," although men may think him very clever.

He had many times said in his heart, "There is no God;" and he used to try to believe that there was no one greater or wiser than a man like himself, and that all that he saw in the world—the mountains, and sea, and all the wonderful works of God—came of themselves; or, as he said, "by chance." He had even written these words upon the wall of his cell, "All things come by chance."

But it was not by chance that he was allowed to see something of the work of God in one little flower. As day by day he watched the leaves grow, the buds unfold, and then the blossoms open in all their fragrance, he knew that God alone could work the miracle of life and growth which was going on before his eyes. His proud, scornful heart was bowed in the presence of a power at which he could but wonder, for it was past all his understanding, and he humbly owned that God had taught him by his pet plant lessons which the wisest men in the world could not have taught.

It was by means of the flower, too, that at last the prison doors were opened, and a message came to tell him that Napoleon had given him leave to go home.

It would take too long to tell this part of the story, but you will not be surprised to hear that, like the African traveller, he could not bear to part with his cherished flower. He carefully dug it out from between the stones, carried it home with him, and never forgot the simple but great lesson which he had learned while in prison.

We have been able to say very little about the "green earth," and the wonders of the work of God on the THIRD DAY of Creation, but perhaps you will understand something of what a student of nature meant when he wrote, "The earth may be looked at as a vast seed-plot of life, seen from the point of view of the Great Sower."

I think you will like these verses which were repeated to me by an old friend who remembered having learnt them from his mother's lips, long ago. They seem just fit to close our chapter about the earth in its verdure and beauty.

"All the world's a garden, God hath made it fair; Living trees and flowers He hath planted there. Rain and sunshine giving, All His goodness prove; There is nothing living But has felt His love.

"Every home's a garden, Clustering side by side, Each to others yielding, Flow'rets should abide. Word or thought of anger Ne'er should enter there; Buds of loving kindness Opening everywhere.

"Every school's a garden, Hedged and fenced around; Nothing vile or useless Should within, be found. Teachers are the gardeners, Sowing precious seed, Training up the tender plants, Plucking every weed.

"Every heart's a garden; It should bring forth fruit; But foul weeds and briars In its soil have root. Envy, wrath, and hatred, Malice, strife, and pride, Lies and disobedience, And many more beside.

"Cast them out, I pray, Lord, And supply in place Gentleness and goodness, Lovely plants and grace; Patience and longsuffering, Faith and hope and love— These will bear transplanting To the world above."



THE FOURTH DAY.

SUN, MOON, AND STARS.

"When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained: what is man, that Thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that Thou visitest him?"—PSALM viii. 3, 4.

"The day is Thine, the night also is Thine: Thou hast prepared the light and the sun.... Thou hast made summer and winter."—PSALM lxxiv. 16, 17.

"Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun."—ECCLESIASTES xi. 7.

"One star differeth from another star in glory."—1 CORIN. xv. 41.

When we had got as far in our reading of the first chapter of Genesis as the fourteenth verse, we noticed that it is very like the third; for both verses begin with those wonderful words which none but God could say—"Let there be."

But there is a great difference between the "light" of the third verse and the "lights" of verses fourteen and sixteen. The sun is called "the greater light," and the moon, which is so very much smaller, "the lesser light"; but in the language in which this part of the Bible was first written, these two lamps which give us light are called by a name which means, not the light itself, but that which holds it; not, as we might say, the candle which gives light as it burns but the candlestick in which it is set.

Let us read again carefully what God has told us about His work on the FOURTH DAY, and I think we shall see, as we noticed in the chapter on "Light," that we are not told that it was upon that Day that the sun and moon were created.

"And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years. And let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven, to give light upon the earth: and it was so. And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: He made the stars also."

You remember that in the whole of this chapter which speaks of God's work in creation, the word "created" is used only on three occasions, though in the verse which tells of the creation of man, it is three times repeated (verse 27). And now I want you to turn to the hundred and fourth Psalm, and notice the verses which speak of the Days of Creation: you will see that light is spoken of in the second verse, and in the nineteenth we read—

"He appointed the moon for seasons: the sun knoweth his going down."

Those who know the Hebrew language tell us that the word "appointed" in this verse is the very same as that which has been translated "made" in the sixteenth verse of the first chapter of Genesis—so that we may read, "God appointed two great lights," just as in the eighth Psalm we read, "The moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained."

We have seen that God could give light without the sun or moon;—an old writer quaintly says that before the sun was made "the whole heaven was our sun"—but He was pleased upon this Day of His creation to command the light, which He had called out of the darkness, to gather round the sun, so that he might, as the great light-bearer in all his splendour "rule the day"; and to cause light from that glorious sun to fall upon the moon, so that she, with her silvery shining, might "rule the night"—both sun and moon thus giving "light upon the earth."

May is fond of repeating a verse, which I daresay you know, about a little girl who, when it was too dark for her to see any more, folded up her work and put away her playthings with a "good-night, good-night" to them; for the time for working and playing had come to an end. "But," the verse goes on—

"She did not say to the sun 'good-night,' Though she saw him set like a ball of light; For she knew he had God's time to keep All over the world, while others sleep."

Yes; this wonderful "ball of light"—so bright that the brightest light we know of looks dull when held up before its dazzling face—is ever, night and day, sending out rays of light and heat, like streams from an overflowing fountain, always making daylight somewhere. When you lie down in your bed, and settle yourself to sleep sound till morning, your little cousins in Australia and New Zealand are just beginning to sit up in theirs, and to rub their eyes, and think it will soon be breakfast time; and in the evening, when their day is done, yours will be just beginning again.

If there were any part of the world upon which the sun never shone, how cold and dark and desolate that forsaken spot would be! If no waves of heat warmed the earth, not a seed could spring up; no plant could live, no tree bear fruit, no flower lift up its head to the kindly light and show its fair colours; for do you not remember we learnt that the colours of flowers all come from the sunlight? Without the sun, the green earth would be changed into a frozen desert, with nothing living or moving upon it.

In old times the clever Greeks, who knew nothing of the God who made this wonderful star—for the sun is really a star, and the thousands of stars which we see on clear nights are suns, some larger and some smaller than our sun—worshipped it as the god Helios; and the Grecian philosopher who first ventured to say it was not so was tried for his life at Athens for his impiety; yet even he saw nothing in this wonderful light-bearer but a red-hot stone, half as big as his own country. If you have learnt better, if you know that "to us there is but one God, the Father, of whom are all things, and we in Him; and one Lord Jesus Christ, by whom are all things, and we by Him," you can think how good that gracious God has been in not leaving the world in the dark and cold, but giving this great light to shine upon us, and to cheer us by his warmth. For though the sun is so very far away, "there is nothing hid from the heat thereof"; every little leaf, every tiny creature that creeps upon the ground, lives and grows in the life-giving rays of the sun, and would perish without them. Have you ever stopped to think of what is more wonderful than this?

God, who made the sun, is Love, as the text you know so well, tells us; and His love is like His sun, always shining down upon you. All the love and kindness which you have known from the day when you came into the world, a little helpless creature, with "no language but a cry"; all this love which surrounds you and has made your life so happy and bright, comes from Him; for "love is of God," and "God is love."

But it is only when God turns our hearts to Himself, so that we can say that we have "known and believed" His love to us, that we can really thank Him for it. When one, who knew what it was to have had his own dark heart lighted up by this great love, was thinking of these things, he wrote some words which I am going to write down for you, for they deserve to be remembered.

"The creation of the sun," he says, "was a very glorious work; when God first rolled him flaming along the sky, he shed golden blessing on every shore. The change in spring is very wonderful; when God makes the faded grass revive, the dead trees put out green leaves, and the flowers appear on the earth. But far more glorious and wonderful is the conversion (that is, the turning to God) of the soul. It is the creation of a sun that is to shine for eternity; it is the spring of the soul that shall know no winter, the planting of a tree that shall bloom with eternal beauty in the paradise of God." McCheyne wrote like this because he knew that

"When this passing world is done, When has sunk yon glaring sun,"

the spirit, that part of man which can never come to an end of its life, will still be living somewhere; and that those only who have been turned to God, and are His children by faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, will live with Him all through that great for ever which will go on when sun and moon and all that we can see may have passed away.

And now, before I try to tell you a very little about the sun, I should like to know whether you have ever learnt any astronomy. My children thought it a hard name, but its meaning is beautiful, for it is only the Greek way of saying, "the law of the stars." Astronomy is the science which teaches us about the heavenly bodies, as the sun, moon, and stars are sometimes called; and all that we can learn about them is very wonderful and interesting, so that the more we know, the more we want to know. But the pleasantest way for you to learn would be if someone would talk to you a little, especially about the stars, and take you out of doors on clear nights, and show you some of those which are best known, so that in time you would learn to look for them yourself; that would be a delightful way of beginning to learn.

I remember that I had a great wish to know about the different constellations, or groups of stars; I wanted to know where to find Orion, with his seven brilliant stars, and those other seven stars which form the group called Charles's Wain; from an idea that they are so placed as to give a rough sketch of a waggon and three horses; and the wonderful cluster of the Pleiades—for I had heard of all these constellations; but I did not like the trouble of learning about them in difficult books. One day I met a gentleman who was very fond of sailing about in his yacht, and I thought he would teach me all about the stars, for I had heard that sailors knew them well. But, to my disappointment, I found that my new friend, though he was very kind to me, was not able to answer my questions; he said he did not know much about the stars, and that it was in the old times, before ships were steered by the compass, that sailors learned so much from watching them; though the moon considered in reference to the fixed stars is of very great importance as enabling them to ascertain their position.

Though it is a long time ago, I can remember how surprised I was when I first understood that the sun was a star, and that there are other stars very much like him, but most of them so very far from us that it is not possible to measure their distance. We do know how far our sun—the Star of Day, as he is sometimes called—is from us. Perhaps it may help you a little if I tell you that the astronomers say that if the sun was as far away from us as the nearest of these stars, he would appear but a point of light; but I think you will best understand how great the distance is if I tell you that a train, rushing along at full speed, as you see the express go by, and never resting, day or night, would take two hundred and ten years to reach him.

We cannot be surprised that very little is known certainly about a star so very far off, and yet nearer to us than any of the little points of light which you see so thickly sown over the sky; but we know that he is a great globe, like our earth, only twelve hundred thousand times as large—as much larger, I told the children when we were having our lesson in astronomy, as May's curly head was larger than the little blue bead which I put upon it.

But this great globe is unlike the earth in one respect; for while it is in itself quite dark, the sun which is used in the Bible as an emblem of God Himself shines by his own glorious light, and though he is believed to be made of the same materials as our earth, it is likely that they are in a state of very great heat.

Astronomers, who look at the sun through their wonderful telescopes, and so get much nearer to him than we can, tell us that we never see the sun himself; but that what we look at is the bright garment of light which is wrapped around him. They tell us also about great holes which sometimes appear in this bright covering; and they believe that they have actually seen, through these holes, the dark globe which is the real sun. These holes are called spots upon the sun, and very dark they look upon his bright face. The astronomers have long tried to find out what makes the sun-spots, and some of them now think that they are caused by furious winds which make great rents in this bright garment; for they tell us that there are sun-storms far more terrible than any storm that ever raged on sea or land.

It was while patiently watching the movement of these dark spots, through the little telescope which he had made and set up in Rome, that Galileo, nearly three hundred years ago, discovered that the sun moves round upon itself once during twenty-eight days, just as the earth turns round on herself once in twenty-four hours. But he lived in a time when it was believed that our earth was the centre of the universe, and that to say that it was only one of many planets moving round the sun was to deny the word of God; so to save his life, he pretended to give up what he knew to be true, and promised that he would never teach it again.

You remember that our earth has an atmosphere, a globe of air which wraps it round. We are told that the sun, too, has an atmosphere—a colour-globe, as it is called, because it is believed to be not air, but fiery gas. Then, outside this colour-globe, is something very lovely; that corona, or crown, of silvery light, which can be seen only during an eclipse of the sun. But what is an eclipse?

When the moon, which has no light of her own, passes directly between the earth and the sun, so as to hide his face from us, we say there is a solar eclipse, or obscuring of the sun's light. When the earth comes directly between the moon and the sun, instead of the sun's light falling upon the moon, she is eclipsed by the dark shadow of the earth passing over her face. I think you may have watched an eclipse of the moon: a solar eclipse is a much rarer sight, and there is something awful about it: as the darkness deepens, the stars begin to shine out, and it seems so much like night that the cocks and hens have been known to go to roost at midday. It is then, when the bright, dazzling face of the sun is hidden, that his lovely crown is seen, as a ring of soft light appearing all round the dark face of the moon.

Now let us think of some of the things that this wonderful Star of Day does for us. In the first place, he is the great source of light and heat, as he shines, not for us alone, but upon all the other planets—those which are so near to him as to get more heat than we could bear, and those which are so far away that it seems to us as if they must be very cold indeed.

But, if we leave these distant worlds and think of our own, how wonderful it is to know that, as we learnt when speaking of Light itself, not from the sun alone, but from every star, waves of light and heat, like tiny messengers from them to us, are always speeding on their noiseless way. They travel to us through space, or rather through something finer than air or water, which fills all the room between us and them—for no place in the universe is really empty.

You may be surprised to hear that these messengers come from the stars by day as well as by night; but remember that they are always shining in their places in the sky. We cannot see the starlight waves while the sun's great light is shining upon us; but you know how beautifully they shine on clear nights, when there is neither sunlight nor moonlight to quench their soft beams.

But after all, the stars are so far away that we must think specially of our own star, the sun, as the source of light and heat; he also makes for us all form and colour, and gives us the pictures drawn by his light which we call photographs, and which make us know something of people we have never seen, and places which we may never visit.

You remember that sunlight also helps the plants to sift the air, so that they take from it the part that suits them, and leave behind the part that suits us—that precious oxygen which is so necessary for all animal life.

Then we must not forget the work done by the heat-waves. These are called "dark," because they cannot be seen. They not only strike upon the land, waking up the hidden seed, and warming it into life, but they are the great water-carriers. When we were talking about the clouds we learnt that from every wet place, as well as from the seas, lakes, and rivers, water is constantly being drawn up, so that we can see it again in the fleecy clouds which float across the sky, and again when it comes down in the showers which water the earth—the tiny heat-waves are the messengers which perform this work of evaporation.

When we were speaking about the world of water, we learnt that the moon is the chief cause of the tides, by whose constant ebb and flow the ocean and rivers are purified; in like manner the sun, by causing the winds to blow, keeps the air fresh and pure; but this is a subject rather beyond us. We can, however, remember that one more thing which the sun does for us is to tell us the time. God gave him "to rule the day ... and to divide the light from the darkness," and he marks how long our day is to be, "keeping time," as May's verse says, all the world over—for he is the great clock which tells the hours and the days—a clock which never needs to be wound up, and which we can trust, for it never goes wrong. And he is a constant silent witness to us of the power and the goodness of God, as "day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language; their voice is not heard"—but "the heavens declare the glory of God ... in them hath He set a tabernacle for the sun." If, as we look at our watches, we are certain that men must have made them, how sure is it that God made this great time-keeper, light-giver, and life-sustainer—this mighty magnet that guides and controls the world of which it is the glorious centre!

The sun "divides the light from the darkness" by being seen by us or hidden from our sight. If you watch, after the sun has risen in the morning—and you can watch him in the winter, when you are often up before he is—you will see that he seems to climb the sky, always mounting higher and higher, until he is shining right above your head. Then, as the day goes on, and it gets towards afternoon, he seems to go down, down, until he sinks into the far away place where the earth and sky seem to meet, and we see him no more. It is while he is hidden from sight in the far west, behind that line which we call the horizon, that night wraps us in its deep shade; for the sun, the day-star is, gone.

I wonder whether you have ever thought of this darkness, which would be so dreadful did it last long, as one of the blessings which God has given us. The night is the time of sleep and rest for animals and plants, as well as for weary men and women, and children who can get tired even with their play. God watches over you while you sleep—"the darkness and the light are both alike" to Him—and you get up in the morning fresh, and ready for a new day.

It is while we are in this world, which is a place of toil, and labour, and sorrow, that we need the rest and quiet which the still, dark night brings; but God has said that there is a rest for His people, His Sabbath, which can never be broken; and when He speaks, in the last book of the Bible, of the bright, golden city, He says, "there shall be no night there."

Not long ago a. boy was dying. He had been ill a long time, and all through the hot summer nights he could not sleep, for his weary cough kept him waking. Frank had not much to cheer him, for his house was in a noisy street, where the carts were constantly rattling to and fro; and very little fresh cool air found its way to the room at the top storey, where he lay on his bed, often suffering and always very tired.

Once, when someone brought him some flowers, he was so delighted that he buried his poor pale face in them, and seemed as if he would drink in their sweetness.

"Oh, I do love roses!" he said; and the flowers came as God's own gift to him, in that poor place where nothing green was growing. But better than the flowers was the message which came with them.

The lady who sent them from her garden was sure that Frank knew the Lord Jesus Christ as his own Saviour, and that he was on his way to be with Him, and so she sent him those precious words which He spoke to His disciples at Jerusalem, but which belong also to every one who is a child of God through faith in Him—"The Father Himself loveth you"—this was the message which was sent with the flowers; a beautiful message, was it not?

But I wanted to tell you about the last day of Frank's life in that poor room in the noisy street. He was very weak and tired, and could not bear to talk much; but his father sat by his bed, and read to him the last chapter of Revelation. When he came to the words, "And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light," he stopped and said as well as he could, for his heart was sore at the thought of the parting which was drawing so near, "Frank, my boy, this is your last night; you are going where there is no night." It was even so. Before morning came, Frank's redeemed spirit had gone to be "present with the Lord."

Do you know a hymn beginning

"Oh, they've reached the sunny shore, Over there!"?

One of the verses comes to my mind when I think of those last words which Frank's father read to him. The hymn speaks of the "street of shining gold over there," and then goes on—

"Oh, they need no lamp at night, Over there! For their Saviour is their light, And the day is always bright, Over there!"

There will be no need of the sun to measure the time when that eternal day has come; but now you know that his presence or absence makes our days longer or shorter. In summer, when he is sometimes above the horizon for sixteen hours, what beautiful long, light days we have! But in winter, when he rises late and sets early, our days are sometimes not more than half the length of the longest summer day.

I remember we had rather a long talk upon a difficult subject, after we had considered how the sun measures the length of our days. We were speaking of the verse which tells us that God said, "Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days and years."

I am afraid I did not make this clear to the children, for it is difficult to understand how the sun makes one season different from another; but I will just tell you a little about it, and you may learn more by-and-by.

You know that there are four seasons: the Spring, when the grass begins to shoot forth its fresh blades, and the trees unfold their buds; the Summer, when the roses bloom and the fruits ripen; the Autumn, when the corn and fruits are gathered in; and the Winter, when the earth rests, often closely wrapped in a soft mantle of snow.

All these changes pass before our eyes. But if we wish to understand how it is that the sun is the cause of one season being so different from another, we must remember that as the earth takes its yearly journey round the sun it changes its place, getting nearer to him or farther away from him. In our summer-time the part of the earth where we live is turned more towards the sun, and so gets more of the light and heat which have their home there, than at any other time. Our winter days are so short, because at that time we are turned from the sun more than at any other. And in the spring and autumn we are not so much turned away from him as we are in winter, nor so directly in front of him as we are in summer.

You must remember also what you learnt about the motion of the earth, and how things are not what they seem. You know that the earth turns round once a day, though it seems as if it stood still, and the sky, with its sun and moon and stars, turned round.

When you watch the rising sun, remember that, though it seems actually to climb the sky, and to mount higher and higher as the day goes on; and then, when it is setting, to go slowly down, down, behind the far away hills or the shining waves—it is all seeming. Just as, when you are going along in a fast train, the fields and trees and sheep all seem to be in motion, flying past you; yet you know that you are moving as the train moves, and flying past them; so it is not the sun moving across the sky which makes day and night, but these changes are caused by the movement of our earth, as she spins round upon herself like a great top.

You remember that Galileo was accused of denying the truth of the word of God, because the Bible speaks in many places of the sun "arising" and "going down." His accusers forgot that God does not teach us astronomy, but speaks in His word of things as they appear to our eyes.

We have seen that our earth, with her faithful companion the moon, is not only the traveller round the sun; he is the great centre, and around him all the moving-stars, or planets, travel in their varied paths. But the moon has a little journey of her own to take besides this long one, for she travels round the earth, and takes nearly thirty days on her way.

You know that the moon is always changing; you can never see it for two or three nights quite the same, but it seems each night a little smaller or a little larger than when you last saw it. When you looked out of the windows the other night, just before you went to bed, it was a very young moon indeed that you saw—not more than two days old, as we say in reckoning the moon's age. How small and thin it was—just like a curving rim of pale light upon the dark sky; but as you watch this crescent—or growing—moon, you will see it constantly getting larger and brighter, until from being half-moon it has become full-moon, for it faces the sun, and is bright all over that part which is turned towards you. When we speak of the "face of the moon," we mean that side which is always turned towards us. But why does "the gentle moon" always turn the same face to us? Astronomers tell us that it is because she also turns slowly round on her own axis while she is travelling round the earth. How this is, I don't think I can explain to you: but it is true that we can see only one side of the moon, that side which catches the sunlight, and that hardly anything is known about the other side.

Next time the beautiful moonlight nights come, remember, as you watch all these changes, that this "waxing" and "waning" of the moon comes to pass, not because she really changes her shape, but because, as she goes round the earth, we see sometimes more, sometimes less of the bright part which is lit up by the sun. The moon is dark in herself, like our earth; not like the sun, and those stars which shine by their own glorious light; if she had light of her own, it would be full moon every night; but all that soft brightness which makes everything look so beautiful in the quiet moonlight, really comes from the sun. When the sun has gone down, as it were, into the sea, or has disappeared behind some distant mountain, how do you know that there is any sun? Look at the moon "walking in brightness," and remember that it is only as the light of the absent sun falls upon her and is reflected from her face (just as Chrissie said he had often seen the light of the setting sun thrown back from the windows) that she can shine at all.



Little children love the moon. I have seen a baby who could hardly speak, clasp her tiny hands and call out, "Have it! have it!" as she saw it glow like a lamp behind the trees; and we do not lose this love as we grow older.

When we remember that the sun is four hundred times farther away from us than the moon, it makes our earth's silent companion seem very near by comparison; but still you will not think the journey to the moon a short one, when I tell you that if you could travel through the fields of air, rushing along in a fast train, never stopping day or night, it would be eight months before you got to your journey's end. And when you did get there you would have arrived at a more desolate country than you ever dreamed of—a place much like what we might imagine our earth would have become if there were no water, no air (for if there is air, it is so thin that no creature like any we know could breathe it), no greenness or beauty, though there might be scenery grand in its awfulness.

Have you ever looked through a telescope at the moon? I have. Last summer I was staying at a seaside town, and one evening I noticed a crowd gathered on the sands. As I came nearer, I found that a man was showing the moon and planets through his telescope to any who wished to see what they could see. He was selling peeps through the telescope, which was a pretty good-sized one, at a penny a peep. Now, though I had read a great deal about the moon, and had seen in books photographs of what are called lunar landscapes, I had never once had a chance of looking at her face through anything but a bit of smoked glass, at the time of an eclipse.

So I paid my penny, and when my turn came I stood upon the stool and had my peep. I can only tell you that the moon did not look nearly so beautiful to me through the showman's little telescope as she did when my peep was over, and I saw her once more sailing through the deep blue of the sky, the queen of night indeed.

I had read that astronomers had found that the nearer their great telescopes brought them to the moon, the more like a barren rock she became, and when I had this nearer view of her than ever before, she looked to me just as she had been described, like "a burnt-out cinder."

You know the shadowy figure which you can see, sometimes more distinctly than at others, on the face of the moon (when I was a child I was told that it was "the man in the moon"!), this appearance is caused by deep valleys, or by the shadows of terrible mountain peaks, which were once volcanoes, throwing out smoke and lava. While I was looking through his telescope, the showman pointed out to me two of the highest of these peaks, and told me their names, that is the names which the astronomers had given them; for these rocky heights have been marked upon maps of the moon, just as the Welsh mountains are marked upon the map of England and Wales. Upon these maps we can find Mount Tycho, Mount Gassendi, Mount Copernicus—all of them extinct volcanoes—and the name of Apennines has been given to a vast mountain-chain; and the heights of all these mountain peaks have been ascertained by measuring the shadows cast by them. There are oceans and seas also marked upon these moon-maps, but they were named at a time when it was not yet known that they were great plains; for, as I told you, no trace of water, cloud, or even mist has been discovered there.

Are you sorry to hear that the moon which looks so lovely to our sight, is found by those who can get a nearer view to be such a weird and desolate place that it seemed as if only death reigned there? I know I was, when first I read about it, and saw a picture of the moon, and wondered at its bare mountain peaks, with their rugged craters and dreadful precipices, and its "Ocean of Storms" and "Lake of Death," as two of the sea-like plains have been called. I wondered how it could have become, as it were, like a dead earth; but this is one of the things which God has not told us about. What He has told us is that He made this "lesser light to rule the night," and as she moves over the sky in her calm silent beauty, she speaks to us of His goodness in giving not only the sun to rule by day, but the moon and stars to rule by night, those wonderful stars whose silent voice is ever making known His power, and telling of His glory; as the poet Addison has beautifully said—

"For ever singing as they shine, The hand that made us is Divine!"

This is a long chapter, but we have been speaking of a vast subject, and before I close it, I want to refer to two wonderful things about the stars, to which God draws our attention in His word. He tells us that "one star differeth from another star in glory," and astronomers have discovered that there was a deeper truth than they at first imagined underlying these words.

But what I specially want to speak of for a moment is the number of these heavenly bodies, and their distance from us.

In the hundred and thirty-seventh Psalm, two verses are placed close together, the one speaking of the power and greatness of God, the other of His tenderness and compassion towards His creatures.

"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."

"He telleth the number of the stars; He calleth them all by names."

And in the Book of Job we read—

"Is not God in the height of heaven? And behold the height of the stars, how high they are!"

There are wonderful things to learn about the colour of the stars, some yellow like our own sun, others of a dazzling whiteness, and others giving out beautiful rainbow-coloured light. But these wonders you must study by-and-by; just now we will speak first of their amazing number, as they appear to our eyes when by the help of the telescope we peer deeper and deeper into the blue depths of the sky. When alluding to the stars in a general way we include the seven planets—one of them our own earth—which move round our sun, and are as it were so near home that five of them may be seen without the telescope—though not more than three are visible at the same time—and also those myriads of "fixed stars," all of which are suns, many of them much larger than our own glorious sun, and removed from our ken by distances which our minds refuse to grasp.

I have been told that the number of stars which can be seen with the naked eye is five thousand, but that only half that number are visible at the same time.

If you ask me how many can be seen with the help of the telescope, I cannot tell you, because more powerful glasses are constantly being made, only to discover worlds beyond worlds, ever new and more distant, strewn in space like golden dust, while stars hitherto invisible through the most powerful telescope can now be made to leave the impress of their rays upon the photographic plate—so that a great astronomer of our time can show us pictures of "invisible stars."

God who made them, God who has appointed to each its own path through the heavens, and also guides and controls each world and system of worlds in its course, so that in all His universe there is no jar, no clash, no being before or after time—He alone can tell their number.

And when we consider their height, their amazing distance from us and from, each other, the wonder only grows.

If we think of the worlds hung in space like our own, our nearest neighbour among them, the "red planet Mars," is thirty-five millions of miles away, while the grand planet Saturn—the "ringed world"—though lighted up by our sun, is so distant, so "high," that the ever-hasting traveller whom we imagined some time ago rushing through space at the speed of an express train, would take two thousand years on his endless journey. Yet Saturn's rays actually come to our eyes from this vast infinity of distance—while the light of the nearest star—and you know we say "quick as light"—takes more than four years to reach us.

These things, so far beyond our scanty thoughts to conceive, are indeed too great for us, but how simply the Bible speaks of them—

"By the word of the LORD were the heavens made; and all the host of them by the breath of His mouth."

"By His spirit HE hath garnished the heavens."

"It is HE that buildeth His storeys in the heavens."

In the next chapter you will read a true story which I told my scholars as a reward for their attention while we had been speaking on a very difficult subject. I hope you will be as much interested in John Britt as they were.

Here are some beautiful verses, speaking of the way in which "the heavens declare the glory of God," and my story shows how they may "utter forth a glorious voice" to ears closed to every earthly sound.

"The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, The spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great original proclaim. Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, Doth his Creator's power display. And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty Hand.

"Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the list'ning earth, Repeats the story of her birth: While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.

"What though, in solemn silence all Move round this dark terrestrial ball; What though no real voice nor sound Amidst their radient orbs be found; In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice; For ever singing as they shine— The hand that made us is Divine."

ADDISON



STORY OF A DEAF BOY WHO HEARD THE SUN PROCLAIM THE GLORY OF GOD.

This story is about an Irish boy who was deaf and dumb. Do you know what that means? Thank God, you who cannot know. I have been in a school where every scholar was deaf and dumb. These children had been patiently taught the finger language, and they had also learnt to express themselves by the quicker language of signs, so that they could understand a great deal, and could do many clever things; but it made me very sad to see so many of them at once, for I knew that this world was to them a silent world. They could see people speak and smile, but never hear one sound; they might watch the fingers of anyone who was playing the piano move quickly over the keys, but not one note of music could reach them. Think how sad it must be never to have heard your mother's voice, never to be able to speak to those you love except by signs, which can tell so little of what you want to say, even if they are understood. Ah, you cannot tell how sad it is! Ernest and Sharley and May were with me when we went to the school; and when some of the elder boys acted little plays, just as you might act "dumb charades," to amuse the visitors, they were delighted with their cleverness, and laughed heartily; and I daresay the boys were pleased to see them laugh, though they could not hear them. These boys spoke very quickly on their fingers, and wrote beautifully on the black board, in answer to questions which they were asked. I do not remember what these questions and answers were; but I know we all thought some of the questions too difficult, and wondered at the good and thoughtful answers which were given. They reminded me of the reply to a difficult question I once saw a deaf and dumb boy write.

The teacher of his school asked the visitors who had come to see it, to put any questions they liked to the boys. Some questions in history and geography and arithmetic were asked and answered; and then a lady said, "Ask them to tell what is the amount of the Christian's riches."

There was a pause; but presently a boy of fourteen stepped forward, took the chalk, and wrote this text as the answer: "Having nothing, and yet possessing all things." I think he must have known what it is to be "rich unto God."

It is sad to think that when the ear, that "gateway of knowledge," is shut, a poor child may, for want of teaching, and often for want of love and sympathy, grow up almost like an animal; his friends thinking him stupid, because he cannot ask questions or tell anything that is in his mind, until at last he really becomes stupid, and his mind grows dull from want of use.

I am glad to tell you that a way has lately been found, by which children who have never heard a sound may be taught, not only to understand the speech of others, but to speak themselves. It is true that their talk sounds strange and unnatural, and is not easy to understand, but where this method is known it makes a wonderful difference in the lives of the poor children who have been so cut off from intercourse with others. By carefully watching the lips of their teachers, those who learn this "lip-reading" can tell what is said, and I have seen them write it down, just as you would write a dictation lesson; and quite as correct, though they only see the words, and you hear them. But before they have learned to understand in this way, and still more before they have learned to speak, great patience is needed, both in teachers and children. I have heard that in the schools where lip-reading is taught, the children are forbidden to make signs to each other or talk on their fingers, and so some of them learn this much better plan wonderfully quickly.

Sometimes children become deaf after a fever, sometimes from a fall or a heavy blow, or from a fright; some are born so. I do not know how it happened in the case of this boy whose story I want to tell you, because the lady who has written an account of him never knew him till he was eleven years old; but I think he must either have been born deaf, or have lost his hearing when he was a baby, for he had never spoken a word, and up to the time when his story begins he had never been taught anything. His name was John Britt, but everybody called him Jack; not that it mattered to him what, he was called, for he had never heard his own name, nor the shouts of the boys with whom he played, nor the crowing of the cocks, as they flapped their wings in his mother's yard; all the world was dumb and silent to poor Jack.

When he first came to the house of the lady who was to be such a kind friend to him, Jack looked a very stupid boy. I am sure he was shy too, for he had never before been in any house but the poor little cottage where he was born, or the cottages of the neighbour folk; and when this lady from England tried to make him understand that she wanted to be friends with him, he kept looking round at all the fine things in her drawing-room. Some people would have thought him a very rude boy, but she only watched him with pitying eyes, and longed to teach him about God. But how could she begin to teach him, since he could not hear a word she said?

This was what May was most anxious to know; and I could not tell her how the very beginning was made, nor how Jack liked his first lesson. It must have been a very difficult task, but you know what you have often heard, "Where there's a will there's a way." Jack's lady greatly longed to do something for the poor boy; she was deaf herself, and was obliged to use an ear trumpet, by which the voices of those who spoke to her were brought nearer to her ear, and perhaps this made her pity one who had never heard at all, more than she might otherwise have done. But God had given her a feeling of love and tenderness towards him, and a great longing and earnest purpose to help him, and He showed her the way to put His truth within the reach of this poor boy, whose life had been almost as lonely as if he had been, shut up in prison, and gave her faith and patience, and courage to undertake what seemed a hopeless task. One of the things she did was to get a box of letters, and she held Jack's hand while he copied them on a slate—I think this must have been his first real lesson—and when he had copied the letters a great many times, without any idea of what he was doing, but just to please his kind friend, she took the three letters D-O-G and put them together. Her pet dog was lying in his basket by the fire, and she pointed to him, and then pointed to the letters, and after she had done this over and over again many times, she saw that the boy was beginning to understand that the letters, in some strange way, must have something to do with the dog. When this step was gained, she threw the D, O, and G back into the box, and Jack had to pick the three letters out, one by one, and put them together again. Then, when this word was quite learnt, she taught him the names of other things which he knew—all in three letters—and last of all showed him how to make the letters on his fingers, teaching him what is called the deaf and dumb alphabet.

All this seemed a pleasant game to poor Jack, and he little thought that he was being taught to read, and to speak on his fingers while he was playing at it. As time went on, the boy became very quick at this game; he knew how to write a great many words, and to spell them in the finger alphabet, and the more he learnt the more he wanted to know. He now began to bring all sorts of things to his teacher, spelling "W-h-a-t, what," on his fingers again and again, until she had taught him their names. She saw that his mind, which had been almost asleep, was fast waking up, and she prayed God to show her how to teach this child not only words and names, but that "fear of the Lord" which "is the beginning of knowledge."

Jack's lady well knew that though he was so clever and quick at learning, he knew nothing about the God who had made him for Himself, nor about the Lord Jesus Christ who had paid such a price—His own precious blood—to redeem poor Jack, and buy him back for God. She never forgot while teaching him, that he had within him a priceless treasure of which he knew nothing—that immortal spirit which must go on living always, somewhere—and so, more and more earnestly her cry went up to God: "Teach me how to teach this boy about Thee!"

At last the opportunity come. One day Jack pointed upwards at the sun, and showed by signs that he wished to know who had made that great light in the sky—had his lady made it?

She shook her head, as he next made signs for the names of two or three people, asking whether the sun had been made by them; and then she pointed to heaven and spelled G-O-D. She told him three things about God: He was great, He was kind, He was always looking at Jack.

Soon after this the boy came again with his eager "What? what?"—and explained that he could not find out how the sun was made, because it was so bright that he could not keep looking at it; but he said he knew all about the moon. It was rolled up into a ball and then sent across the sky, just as he would roll a marble along the floor. And the stars—he knew all about them too; someone had cut them out with a pair of scissors, and stuck them into the sky.

I need not tell you that the children, who had just been learning that the stars are suns, were much amused at this notion of Jack's.

And now this poor boy began to search for God. He came to his lady and told her that she was "bad Ma'am," and had told what was not true; for he said he had been everywhere to look for God, he had even got up in the night to try to find Him; but nowhere, in the streets or in the fields, had he seen anyone tall enough to reach the sky, so that he could put up his hand and stick the bright stars there. And so he repeated many times, "God, no; God, no," until she could not bear to hear him; for she knew that Satan was trying to take away from him the thought of God, and make this poor boy like the fool of whom the fourteenth Psalm speaks, who "said in his heart, No God." Jack's lady was silent, for she knew not what to say; but again she prayed to God to teach her how to teach him; and then she did what the boy thought a very strange thing, and I am sure you will think it so too.

A pair of bellows was hanging beside the fire; she took them and began to blow the hot coals into a ruddy flame. Then suddenly she turned to Jack and blew puff, puff, at his hand. He did not like the cold air, and shrank back. When she blew again, saying, "What? what?" just as he had done, he got angry and said she was bad, and it made him cold. She still pretended to be very much surprised that he should feel anything uncomfortable, and looked all over the bellows as if in search of something; then she blew again, and explained that she could not see anything, repeating just as he had done, "Wind, no: wind, no."

With joy and wonder she saw that her lesson had been understood. Putting two fingers side by side—the only way which he could think of to express likeness—Jack repeated over and over, "God like wind; God like wind."

After this he often spoke of God; once when he had been trying to look at the sun, he shut his dazzled eyes and spelt on his fingers, "God like sun." The lightning was to him "God's eye"; the rainbow, "God's smile"; and of living creatures he would say, patting them kindly, "God made, God made."

About this time, while Jack's lady was still praying for him, and asking God to show her how to teach him the sweet story of the love of the Lord Jesus Christ his Saviour, a fever came to the place, and the boy saw the strange and sad sight of many funerals passing along the road, as one and another of those whom he had known when they were strong and well, fell sick and died. One day he spoke about them, asking by signs whether they would ever open their eyes again. Without answering his eager question, the lady took a piece of paper and began to draw, and Jack stood by looking at her. It was a strange picture, and she went on explaining it as she drew. First Jack saw a crowd of people—men and women, boys and girls—and his teacher told him to look at them well, for he, Jack, was in that crowd—everybody was there. Then she drew a great pit, and out of it came flames; and she told him that all in that crowd were "bad, bad," and that God was very angry with these bad people, and said they must all go into that dreadful pit.

Poor Jack looked in her face with a frightened stare; he knew that he was in that crowd, that he was one of those bad people. "Must I go there?" his anxious look seemed to ask. Still she did not speak, but went on drawing, and as she drew one man, standing alone, she told Jack that He was the Son of God, come down from heaven—come to die instead of that crowd of bad people, so that they might be saved from that dreadful pit. Then it was her turn to look anxiously into the boy's face. Had her poor Jack understood the picture?