CHAPTER VIII.

THE GIRLS’ SCHOOL.

So began my school-life. There is not time to tell you all about it now. There were about seventy of us there, from five to seventeen years old. Some of them had been slave girls, and could tell a story to match mine. Twice a day we gathered for meals, and we learnt to clean out our rooms, mend and wash our clothes, and make our own shoes, so as to be useful when we returned home. Then there was study and drill, and all of it was so interesting—not a bit like the dry way they teach in Chinese schools. Yet, best of all, were the Sunday services in the chapel and the class-meeting and Bible-study in the week. My feet were gradually loosened, and as they grew again I learned to skip and run with the other girls; and when I went home it was wonderful the impression made on the people in our out-of-the-way village.

Several years have gone by since I went to school and entered upon that new life. Now I am learning to teach others; for teachers are badly needed in our schools and women teachers are difficult to get. To-day I have been thinking over my life. Like a dreadful dream there rises before me the picture of Yin-dee, the neglected little slave of a cruel woman. I see myself hobbling over the ground picking cotton, or in the evil home making tea for opium-smokers and gamblers. I almost expect to hear the harsh tones of my mother-in-law calling me to do some menial duty.

Then I remember the famine and its horrors. I can scarcely believe that it is all a thing of the past, and I have become Ping-an, the child of rest and peace. And what has done it all? Just this—the love of Jesus. It was Jesus who sent the missionary with the message of love and pardon, and it is Jesus who now fills my heart with joy. Yet I cannot forget that there are many—oh, so many!—of my sisters in China in the same sad plight as I was. I wonder how long it will be before the message will come to them? How long before they will enter the land of rest and peace?

In the city of Pekin there hangs a great bell, and there is a legend connected with it on which I love to ponder. Twice had the labor of years been lost at the time of casting. The third time, just as the molten metal was to be poured into the mould, the lovely daughter of the maker, knowing that by no other means could a perfect bell be cast, flung herself into the cauldron and gave her life to save her father from disappointment and shame.

China now is waiting to be moulded. Old things are passing. It is a new China we are beholding. Many ways have been tried for her regeneration. The cold morality of Confucius is powerless. Buddhist monks and Taoist priests have come in vain. Only by the cleansing Gospel of Christ can China be purified and made a vessel meet for the Master’s use. Ages ago this girl sacrificed herself that the bell might be perfect. What we women and girls of China need is that more missionary teachers should come to us, bringing the love of the Lord on their lips and in their lives—then will China be saved and won for Christ. It is worth it a thousand times. Will some of you come? Will more of you give? Will all of you pray? There is something each can do, if you will only try. Out of death springs life, and out of your sacrifice for Christ shall spring a new China, free from the sins which have bound her in the past.

David Livingstone

BY A FELLOW-TOWNSMAN.

At Blantyre, Scotland, on the 19th March, 1813, a child was born to Neil and Agnes Livingstone. We never know when is happening an epoch-making event. Every new soul ushered into the world is a shut casket of possibilities. The boy born in the humble home consisting of a “but and a ben,” was destined to become one of the greatest missionaries; and the most conspicuous and intrepid explorer the world has ever seen; to achieve for himself a deathless fame, a name of imperishable memory, and to leave to mankind a heritage of truth and influence. His cradle was in the peasant’s cottage, but his grave is in Westminster Abbey. I have many times visited the house where he was born, and the mill where he worked, and oftentimes I have read the inscription that is over his grave. I esteem it a great privilege to have lived for years near the birthplace of the great and good David Livingstone. His home was one of those which are the glory of Scotland, the abode of the godly and intelligent working class. His mother was a sweet, gentle woman, and his father was a good man.

When ten years of age he went to work. His working hours were from six a.m. to eight p.m. His first week’s wages, sixty cents, he gave with pride to his mother. He saved a few pence and purchased a “Rudiments of Latin,” over which he pored when the day’s work was done. His thirst for knowledge was intense. At the age of sixteen he had read many of the classical authors and knew Horace and Virgil well.

[Illustration: DAVID LIVINGSTONE (1813-1873)

The Great Missionary Explorer.

Went to Africa 1840. Died in Africa 1873.

How David Livingstone gave.—

“I will place no value upon anything I have or may possess except in relation to the Kingdom of Christ.”]

It was about his twentieth year that the great spiritual change took place, which was to determine Livingstone’s future life. At that time he definitely received Christ as his personal Saviour, and there can be no doubt that his heart was thoroughly penetrated by the new life that then flowed into it. Religion became the everyday business of his life and his daily prayer was that he might resemble Christ, a petition fulfilled in no ordinary degree. A desire was born within him to preach Christ in China, and that he might be fitted for that work he entered as a medical student in the University of Glasgow, and in due time was graduated in medicine. He received not a cent of aid from anyone. What a struggle he had! What economy he had to practice! Frequently his meal consisted entirely of oatmeal porridge.

He was accepted by the London Missionary Society and sent out in 1840—not to China—but to Africa. To God and to Africa he gave his manhood’s prime. No grander work was ever done than that accomplished by David Livingstone. In him life’s fire glowed. With magnanimous and self-sacrificing devotion, with undaunted courage, in the midst of manifold sufferings, through days of hunger and weariness, and nights of dreadful loneliness, he worked for Africa’s salvation. He loved the natives, and they loved the man who was ever kind and good. He worked amongst them with a vision ever before him of the men and women, whom they, by God’s grace, might become, and that vision shaped and controlled and sustained him in all his efforts. With the vision of the latter day before him he addressed himself nobly and well to the work of the present. God alone knows what Africa owes to Livingstone.

This full and overflowing life closed to earth’s activities in May, 1873. His spirit marches on. Such men never die. His spirit has entered into the great stream of the ever-swelling life of mankind, and continues, and will continue, to act there with its whole force for evermore. He lives in minds made better by his noble example. He lives in the Livingstonia Mission, that great beacon light; he lives in great numbers of the regenerated natives of Africa; he lives in all who are constrained to work for Christ in that dark land.

I pray our Epworth Leaguers to read the story of his life, that they may know what one consecrated man did in a lifetime, that they may have a revelation of the possibilities in man, that they may be inspired to emulate him in his noble simplicity, high resolve, invincible courage, exalted self-sacrifice; that they may be possessed with the overmastering purpose which guided and drove him on. Read his life and be inspired with the thought that life is a high and noble calling. Reading of his toils and struggles and victories, pray God for grace to “follow in his train.” His motto was: “Fear God, and work hard.” Make it your motto. The greatest of all tragedies is to live and die without a thing done by the sweat of the soul.

—_Loch Ranza_.

Christmas in Our Boys’ School, Junghsien, West China

BY EDWARD WILSON WALLACE, B.A., B.D.

If you were a Chinese, and every day ate two meals of rice and some vegetables, with meat only twice a month, if as often; if you worked from daylight to dark seven days in the week, and had no summer vacation or Christmas holidays; if you had no books to read except possibly (if you were lucky) one or two greasy and tattered volumes of ancient philosophy, not one word of which you understood; in other words, if you were an average Chinese boy or girl, don’t you think that you would look forward even more eagerly than you did this year to Christmas? I think you would. At any rate the boys and girls connected with the church in Junghsien were expecting a great treat, and we were planning to give them all that they expected, and more.

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a terrible thing happened that put an end to all these hopes and plans. Can you guess what it was? It was not a fire, or an earthquake, or a riot on the mission. But one morning there came word that the Emperor of China and his step-mother had suddenly died, and that everyone must go into mourning. And that was the end of the two Christmas concerts, the Christmas tree, and the feast. For the rules for mourning for a dead Emperor in China are quite strict. No one could marry for a month—that rule did not affect us, for the only wedding arranged for by anyone connected with the church, that of Mr. McAmmond’s teacher, took place a few days before. No one was to be allowed to have his head shaved for a hundred days. Every Chinese boy and man allows just enough hair to grow on the top of his head to form his “pig-tail”; all the rest of his head is shaved clean. But imagine what a messy effect it is to have the head covered with a couple of months’ growth around the long cue, as there is now. It is the Chinese way of going into black; for, of course, every man’s hair is as black as pitch. Another rule was that no one could wear satin clothes for a hundred days, and the little red knobs on the top of the caps had to be changed to blue, which is the second degree mourning color in China, white being the first. So far the rules did not interfere with our Christmas entertainment. But now we come to the fatal order, “There must be no music and no celebrations for a month.” Alas! for our Chinese boys and girls. Christmas fell within the month.

It is true that we might have got around the trouble by claiming that ours was a foreign church, and so did not fall within the common rules. This, I believe, was done in other places. But our church here is a large one, and we are constantly trying to make the members understand that it is a Chinese church, not a foreign one, and we decided that this was a splendid opportunity to impress on the people the fact that when a man joins the Christian Church he does not in any way become less of a Chinese, and that our Church believes in honoring the rulers of the country. As soon as it was finally decided that we should follow the regulations the members agreed that we had done the correct thing.

In one way it was rather fortunate for the boys in the school that we had no entertainment to prepare for. Just at Christmas last year came the examinations, and some of the boys were working very hard to prepare for the entrance examination. So it gave them a better chance to study. And during Christmas week they had four examinations.

We did not intend, however, that Christmas should pass without something to make the boys remember the day and what it means. If they could not have a Christmas tree, I determined to give them the next best thing—in fact, when I was a boy a year or two ago, I thought it was away ahead of a mere tree—that is hanging up the stockings. The boys had never even heard of such a custom, so it was great fun for them. One morning in school, after prayers, I solemnly asked the boarders, “How many of you have two pairs of socks?” There was blank amazement. Why did I wish to know that? I only smiled, as I began with the boy in the front, little “Georgie Bond.” “Have you two pairs of socks?” “Yes, but the extra pair have holes.” Then to the next boy, “Have you a second pair?” “I have three pair, but they all have holes, some of them as big as this,” and he made a circle with his thumb and finger. “Have them mended,” I replied, and passed on down the line. I found that all the nine boys had extra pairs and all of them, as is the case with the stockings of every decent fellow I ever knew, had holes. I maintain that in China, as at home, it is a sign that a boy is a real boy when he wears holes in his stockings. So I advised them to have one pair mended and washed before Christmas Eve, and bring it to me. And then—well, we should see what we should see.

[Illustration: The boys of the Junghsien School who had a good time at Christmas.]

Great was the excitement among the boys, and not a sock was missing when the great night arrived. I did not let the boys hang up their own socks, but packed them all off to the school study-room upstairs, while one of the teachers and I pinned the socks up in a row in the class-room under the blackboard. You know we have no fires in the schools here, and so there are no chimneys. All the same Santa Claus found a way, for next morning—but wait a bit.

When I got down to the school on Christmas morning at half-past seven I found the boys already at breakfast. They were casting anxious eyes in the direction of the room with the closed door, and like other boys I have known they did not take long to eat their Christmas-morning breakfast. When they were all ready they filed into the room. I am not going to tell you how those stockings were filled. You may decide for yourselves how, and by whom it was done. I don’t think the boys stopped to think anything about “how.” They were too much interested in the sight of twelve white Chinese socks in a row, all bulging out in a knobby fashion, with things sticking out of them, and a flat, red parcel behind every sock. On the blackboard was written in Chinese, “Jesus’ Holy Birthday.” After they had looked for a minute I suggested that they take down their socks and see what was in them. Then for the first time in their lives they had the joy of exploring the mysteries of a Christmas stocking. Their presents were not very much, you would say, perhaps. Each boy found a story-book and a photograph of the school, and then down in the sock were nuts and candies, and right in the toe an orange. The two teachers each got a New Testament with the Chinese and English on the same page.

They did not say much, and I wondered if they were disappointed, until one of the teachers, Mr. Jang, came up to me with tears in his eyes, saying, “You say we must not thank you, so I think we ought to thank God. Can’t we do it just now?” It touched me deeply. “Yes,” I said, and we all went up to the study-room and, standing there about the long table, one after another of the boys made a short, simple prayer of thanks to God, not only for the gifts of the morning, but especially for the greatest Gift of all, Jesus Christ.

At nine o’clock we had our regular morning prayers, and then I gave to the day-boys their presents, a New Testament and a bag of nuts and candy to each one. We had a nice little service in the church for all the church people, but our real Christmas service was held the next Sunday. On that day we had a special musical service, led by the boys, who had been practising for months under Mr. and Mrs. McAmmond. It would have done you good to hear them open the service with “Come, Thou Almighty King,” with Georgie Bond singing one verse as a solo. The anthem was “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” and our Chinese angels sang splendidly.

On Christmas morning the church members gave away free rice to five hundred poor people. So that altogether the boys, even if their Christmas was quieter than usual, have had something to remind them of the joy of this beautiful season.

God Wants Them All

God wants the boys—the merry, merry boys, The noisy boys, the funny boys, The thoughtless boys; God wants the boys with all their joys, That He as gold may make them pure, And teach them trials to endure. His heroes brave He’ll have them be, Fighting for truth And purity. God wants the boys.

God wants the girls, the happy-hearted girls, The loving girls, the best of girls, The worst of girls; God wants to make the girls His pearls, And so reflect His holy face, And bring to mind His wondrous grace, That beautiful The world may be, And filled with love And purity. God wants the girls.

Li Liang Chen

_Student, Soldier, Trader, Evangelist._

REV. J. L. STEWART, B.A., B.D.

It was on the street of the Temple of the Four Sages, in the capital city, Chengtu, Szechuan. There, to-day, its low, grey gable abutting the entrance gates, stands also the Worship Hall to the Western God, who is surely becoming Father of the East and of all. Within the temple, only the smoke of a few incense sticks mingled with the tobacco and opium fumes curled upward through cobwebs and tiles to the heavens. In the Worship Hall, three score and more of China’s youth, black-haired, bright-eyed, brilliant-minded hopes of her future greatness, were gathered. But half the hall was theirs. Up the centre ran a wooden wall past which presumably not even a wandering glance might go. That part beyond was sacred to the women and school girls. As not even these latter were present to embarrass the situation, native eloquence found full fling.

It was the weekly meeting of the Epworth League of the College boys. Moreover, it was missionary night, and members were all attention. The leader was in fine form. With flushed cheek and fervid voice he called his hearers to see visions.

“Jesus came to found a kingdom among men. All within the four seas are brethren. The kingdom must then include all under heaven. Jesus founded it first among His fellows, the Jews. These carried the message to Greeks and Romans. These bore it to barbarians in Europe and Britain. These have wafted it round the world, and to our land of the Middle Kingdom. And we? We must bear the glad tidings on to Thibet, to the tribesmen and to the aborigines....”

Just then there was a commotion in the rear of the church. Someone was trying to make himself heard. At this persistent interruption all turned. A ripple of indignation quickly changed to interest as they saw the new speaker, a big, broad-faced, burly fellow, whose countenance beamed forth a happy combination of courage and child-like simplicity.

“Your younger brother begs his elders’ pardon,” he ventured, “but here in the seat just in front of mine are two of these strangers from the tribes country. Why wait indefinitely some future date? They may leave before our leader is through. Why not begin here and now?”

A voice of assent and approval ran around the room. For ten minutes the speaker, bending forward, chatted pleasantly with the wanderers from the great ranges to the west, well diggers, it seemed, seeking work on the plain, welcomed them to the meeting and told them simply and sympathetically of the Saviour of all and His message of love to men. Then the meeting went on as before.

A simple enough little incident, surely, but it is an index to the speaker, sincere, sympathetic, fearless, practical. It was Li Liang Chen, that is, Li of Perfect Virtue, as his parents had named him in hope. To attain the Chinese goal of greatness by becoming an official was likewise a longing, and to that end he was sent early to school. There, year by year, through youth and young manhood, he had repeated his history, rhymed his poetry, patiently traced the puzzling characters and later written countless stereotyped essays under a still famous teacher of the district. More than once he had gone up with the picked men of his county to try for the coveted degree, that opening door to official life. Alas! how few could hope for success; oft-times scarce two in a hundred. His heart was, moreover, ever too great for his head, so those with more self-abstraction or secret alliances with the examiners, won the day.

In military matters, literary attainments played a lesser part, the physical was the all-important, so thither his ambitions turned. Here, though some surpassed him in lifting the two and three hundred weight stone, success came surprisingly. He soon bent a strong bow and sent his arrow clean and quivering to the heart of the target. In feats with fists his stature, strength and courage placed him among the envied few, while in swinging great swords he was scarce surpassed.

China, however, cares not for war. In the long life of no other nation has history written so large, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” Her list of honor runs, scholar, farmer, mechanic, merchant. The scholar sways by thought, so is first. The farmer and mechanic each produces, so come next. The merchant does neither, but distributes, so is fourth. The soldier is not even mentioned, for he exists but to destroy. Such being the sentiment, in times of peace but few are maintained or indeed needed to follow the profession of arms among these most easily ruled of the millions of earth. Li, like the many of his fellows, must have other means of support.

His father was a merchant in the market village of the Chao family, near Jenshow. By dint of industry and economy, he had also added a small farm to his possession. Li was placed in the shop. Affability won friends, time and tact got him trade, while his fearlessness gradually carried him far afield. Back from the borders of the aborigines he brought white wax and ponies; from the province of Uin Lan he led pack mules laden with tea. In Kweichow, south and east, he sought silks and horses. From the far-flung tribes to north and west he bought musk and medicines, and from the Thibetans wools and hides. Soon agencies were established, compass-like, all about his centre, and Li, the trader, was known to big firms in scores of cities, towns, and in the great capital.

But travels had touched more than trade. In larger centres he had seen the much-talked-of foreigner, with his ever-present hospitals, schools, and churches, and had heard him discussed from province to province in countless inns and teashops. Once, only once, he had paused one day in his busy life to listen to a street preacher. He carried away little of what was said. How could such things concern him and his sole search for goods and gold? Thus ten years fled by. He lost much, but made more, and at length decided to settle in his native village, among his own, the better to be a filial son to his now aging father.

About that time mission problems assumed a new phase. After the dramatic events culminating in the Boxer cataclysm in 1900, the missionary found himself received in a new light. Previously permitted, as a matter of indifference, or in many places despised, insulted, persecuted, he now found himself pushed into unsought prominence. Foreign troops had defeated the forces of the Son of Heaven. Foreign officials had but to say the word, and China bowed to obey. Were not the missionaries friends of these consuls, indeed might they not themselves be officials or paid to act as such? In fact, one nation, France, openly allowed their “fathers” official status. The bishop ranked with a viceroy, the humblest priest with the local magistrate.

The fruit of it all came fast. People flocked to the churches, not to be bettered by Christian teaching, but to gain power with which to threaten and coerce their enemies. This, it is not unfair to say, was particularly true among Roman Catholic native priests and their converts, where the worst characters of the community carried the day with high hand. It was at least true of the Jenshow district, where, abetted by the church, “converts” coerced, blackmailed, robbed, assaulted their helpless neighbors. Should reprisals arise they were at once labelled “persecutions,” appeal was made to the priests, then to the bishop, and thus to the chief officials of the province, or locally to the magistrates. The honest, hard-working citizen’s lot seemed hopeless and helpless.

Then the knowledge slowly gained ground that there were two parties among these foreigners. Protestants, it was said, had equal power, but did not countenance such coercion. Why not invite these into the county, and join their organization? The plan was plausible and prevailed. Representative men went to the capital to invite the Protestant missionaries. After a time they came, received everywhere with honor and acclaim. Villages, a score and more, organized and sent representatives to support the movement. A central organization sprang up and a big building was secured.

Among the many villages that thus sent representatives was that of the Chao family. Who should be sent but Li, the scholar, soldier, merchant, man of affairs. He went to Jenshow, listened, gave hearty support, bought books said to be necessary and went his way. He was more interested now, however, and read his books carefully. Though his motives could scarce be called Christian, he was being led and to lead in a way that he knew not.

Some months later, a convention for leaders was summoned in the provincial capital. Li was ready and receptive. He returned to his native village, moved as not before to pilot his people. Many became converts, not of convenience, but of conviction, among these his former teacher and his own family and friends.

Another year, and again a conference of those most worthy was called. Li came gladly. This time his home-going meant the giving over of business interests to others while he went forth in his own village, county town, and all the surrounding district, this time persuading men to make the greatest of all investments, those eternal investments in the Kingdom of God. Henceforth for him he felt his life’s chief business lay in the extension of the reign of righteousness, peace and joy throughout his native land.

Two years have passed since then, but he is still as of old—fervent, fearless, faithful. A year’s study at college in Chengtu has given him greater grip and wider vision. To-day he is again out in the work he loves, the scholar seeing even more clearly the signs of his times, the soldier going courageously forward in the great commission, the trader offering in all market-places treasure that death cannot corrupt, the evangelist heralding the glad tidings of great joy to a great people.

Of such stuff are China’s first apostles in the far west. Of such appeal is the message of the Son of Man to draw alien races unto Himself. To this end let us have firmer faith in all.

Bo and Nare, or Found Out

“Rub-a-dub-dub! rub-a-dub-dub!”

Little Bo heard the music, and ran after it. He had been fishing in a pool with a bent pin for a hook. “It is lots more fun to run after the band than to fish with a pin and not catch anything,” thought Bo. So he gave the line to his little sister Nare. Nare wanted to fish before, but Bo had said, “Girls don’t know anything ’bout fishing.”

Bo lived in a far country where even fathers don’t love little girls. Bo did not share his playthings with his sister, as you have done. He made her wait on him. He didn’t know any better. That was the way Bo’s father treated his mother. Bo was not white, as are the boys and girls who read this. He was brown as a berry. So was his little sister Nare. So were all the people Bo and Nare knew, except two ladies. These white missionary ladies were Bo’s teachers. They told him about Jesus. But Bo’s father taught him to worship idols. Bo sometimes wondered which was the true God. But at this particular minute he only thought about the music, and ran after it. He saw a great crowd and a priest in the midst beating a drum. He heard the priest cry in a loud voice, “Let every one keep silence.” Then the priest looked fiercely at the small boys. Bo began to tremble, and wish he were back fishing. “On this day week,” again shouted the priest, “at noon a god will arise from the ground in the field near our temple.” A second time the drum sounded, and the priest moved on to convey the news to other villages.

Everybody began to talk excitedly. “A god rise from the ground!” said they; “can it be possible?”

Bo was delighted. “Now I’ll find out,” thought he, “if men make our gods out of wood and stone, as the missionaries say. I’ll go and see for myself.”

That week seemed the longest Bo had ever spent. But the great day came at length, and Bo was very happy. Nare was not. Nare wanted to go too. She begged Bo to take her, but Bo answered, “You are only a girl; it doesn’t make any difference what you think. By-and-bye I’ll be a man; so I ought to know what is right.” Bo thought it manly to speak so rudely. Why, even mothers are treated very badly by boys in countries where Jesus’ teachings are not known.

So Bo started off alone. He found the largest crowd he had ever seen in the great field near the temple. In the centre was a vacant space, where only priests stood. Bo made straight for that spot. But a priest took him roughly by the shoulder, and said, “The new god will kill any one who comes inside this circle.” Bo ran back and hid behind a tall man, who didn’t look afraid.

It was a silent crowd. Most of the people seemed awe-struck. Every one was eagerly looking toward the vacant space where the god would rise. At noon more priests in long white robes came out of the temple. They began to mutter and wave their hands. The tall man next to Bo said, “Something black is coming out of the ground!” Bo stood on tip-toe and strained his eyes to see.

The something grew larger and larger. Every eye was fixed upon the spot. Could it be the top of a head? Yes, for the brow, eyes, nose, and mouth slowly appeared. All this time the priests never once went near. The big black idol seemed to rise of itself. The crowd, almost wild with excitement, cried out, “A miracle! a miracle!”

Bo thought the priests looked much pleased when the people shouted, “’Tis a miracle!” Soon the priests went into the temple. They didn’t think any one would dare go inside the circle.

Now it happened that the tall man who stood next to Bo no longer believed that idols were gods. “The priests are trying to cheat us,” thought he. “A rival temple is the favorite, where most money is given. The priests of this temple are poor. They have made up this miracle in order to draw more offerings here.” So this wise man said to a friend near, “Let us make this god grow faster.” The other agreed. They went boldly forward and took hold of the idol.

Bo heard people say, “They will surely fall down dead.”

But no; the god came up quickly—head, hands, body—all complete. Still the two brave men stood unharmed and actually laughing. They cried out, “The priests have fooled us; come and see for yourselves!”

Then, pell-mell, pushing and tumbling over each other, all rushed to the spot. What do you think they saw? A great pit full of soaked peas. The priests knew that peas grow larger when left in water; so they filled the pit with peas, poured on water, placed the idol on top, and covered it lightly with soil. By-and-bye, when the peas had begun to swell, the idol was pushed through the ground.

The people were very angry. They nearly killed the priests, whom they found feasting in the temple.

After one long look backward, Bo trudged home in disgust. He could never again believe in their priests. That evening Bo told Nare his decision: “We’ll not be afraid of make-believe gods any more. We must pray to the great Father who lives up in the sky.”—_Selected._

Results of a One-Cent Investment in One of Our Country Sunday Schools

At a Sunday School missionary meeting, the Superintendent received a number of letters from the scholars, giving an account of how they had traded with a cent which had been given them a year ago. It is needless to say that this was by no means the least attractive part of the programme. The following are some of the letters as received, in which we have made no corrections:—

“I bought a cent’s worth of radish seed and sowed them in a plot of ground which my Mother gave me. I tended to them with care and sold them at 5 cts. a dozen. I sold 12 dozen and made 60 cts.”

“Two years ago I took a cent to see how much I could make for missions. One year ago I took another cent. I spent them both and gained nothing with them. You can’t speculate much with a cent. A lady wanted me to do some work for her and said she would pay me, so I got $1.15 for last year, but didn’t get it in time for the meeting, and this year I have added 35 cts. more. Total amount, $1.50.”

“Bot lead pencils at wholesale and sold them out retail, with the proceeds bot some sugar and made taffy and sold it for missionaries, making in all, 58 cts.”

“I have twenty-five cents to give you for the missionaries. I sold some cucumbers to a lady for five cents, and the rest Ma gave me for doing errands.”

“I earned this money buying and selling rhubarb, 20 cts.”

“I bought one egg, raised a Pullet and sold one dozen for 20 cts., one dozen eggs for 15 cents, then sold the hen for 20 cts. Total amount made, 55 cts.”

“I ernt this fifteen cents by buying and selling eggs.”

“I bought a patch of potatoes for one cent and tended to them and sold them for 10 cts., making a profit of 9 cts.”

“I have just 51 cts. I went errands and washed dishes and did other little things for it.”

“I bought beans and planted them and sold them for 3 cts.”

“I bought with my cent some radish seed, and Mr. Wilson gave me a plot to sow it in. I watered and weeded them and sold them at 5 cts. a bunch, and made $1.”

“I blacked the boots for a month and earned 15 cts. I will try to do better next time.”

“My cent I invested in potatoes. I planted and tended them and arranged with a gentleman to take the potatoes at 40 cts. per bag. I am glad to hand in my $1 as the result.”

“I am a very little boy, but I ain’t too small to work. Last year you did not give me a copper to work with, but I thought I would try and do something for poor little boys and girls away off in heathen lands, so last summer I picked dandelions, tied them in bunches, and sold them around the town, total amount, 5 cts.”

“Total proceeds, $12.12.”

“I first bought a can with my cent, and picked berries and sold them. Received twenty cents.”

“I bought a row of carrots of my Father for a cent, and had five pails, and sold them at 10c. per pail, which is fifty cents.”

“I bought a cents worth of knitting cotton and knit a pair of garters and sold them for Ten cents. (10c.)”

“We Bought 2 cents worth of Eggs and Sett them, got 2 chickens, and sold them for 20 cents.”

“Bought one ct’s worth of Bootblacking, blackned boots for five cts. bought five ct’s worth, blackned boots for five cts. a week, got one dollar.”—_Missionary Outlook._

The Schoolmaster’s Lesson

The schoolmaster, with the savings of two laborious years, had treated himself to a fine large microscope. This instrument, in its mahogany case, occupied a place of honor on a side table. It was a world of wonder, a more than Aladdin’s lamp to the children, who looked with joy to the occasions when the schoolmaster revealed to their wondering gaze its enchantments. Whenever the schoolmaster took a little key from his vest pocket and approached the sacred altar, where reposed the marvel, the children stowed their books under the blue desks, and fairly held their breath with expectation. Any one of them might have the honor of being summoned as officiating acolyte of the occasion.

On this afternoon the schoolmaster had a bowl of water and some small green weeds from the nearest pond. He put some of the green plant in a large, clear glass. As it floated, the children coming near to look, one by one saw that the plant seemed supplied with minute green sacs filled with air.

“Now, take your seats,” said the master. “This is called a bladder-plant, from these wee, green bladders, whereby it floats. Listen, and Nathan will tell you what he sees. Nathan, come forward.”

Nathan came gladly.

“Now, tell us what you see in the water, Nathan.”

“I see little live things; some have little shells on them like mussels, only they look about as big as tiny pin-heads. Some have little whirling wheels on their heads. A good many are like very, very wee caterpillars.”

“Those last are the water-bears,” said the schoolmaster. “Now look at the bladder-plant.”

“The bladders,” said Nathan, “are little bags. Their mouths are open. They are set round with hairs. Some of the bags look full of something, and dark. Some of them seem to have some live thing kicking in them. Some are empty, and as you look in at the door it is like a little clear green room. Oh! I see a water-bear swimming up to one! He looks in. He seems to think it is pretty. I guess he wants to know where there is something kicking. He looks in there. Now he goes to an empty one. Now he swims by. No, he changes his mind. He thinks he will go in. He pokes in his head. The little hairs at the door bend inward: they let him go in easy. He is in! Oh! now he is trying to come out!”

Great excitement in the listening school—eyes wide open, heads bent forward.

“Can he get out?” cried someone.

“No! no! he can’t,” exclaimed Nathan, all eager. “The hairs bend in, and let him in, but he cannot get by them to go out! They won’t bend out. Oh, he can’t get out.”

The schoolmaster now took one of the dark, full sacs, cut it open with a very fine, sharp instrument, and put it under the glass.

“Now what, Nathan?”

“Oh, that bag is full of dead things, of what you might call the bones of these bits of creatures, the shells off one of those tiny things like mussels. They are things that have gone in and have got all melted up.”

“Here is another,” said the schoolmaster, putting a lighter green sac in place, also cut open. “What now?”

“That is the very sac the water-bear looked into to see something kicking. The kicking thing was another water-bear. Now it is dead. The one that went in just now is kicking, too.”

The schoolmaster took that sac also, opened it, and released the struggling water-bear.

“What now, Nathan?”

“He is out, but he doesn’t feel good. He doesn’t swim round as he did before he went in. I think he is going to die, schoolmaster. Oh, here is another bear just going into a sac. Let him out quick, won’t you?”

The schoolmaster opened the sac and the freed little animal swam off.

“He got out, right off, and nothing but him,” said Nathan. “Schoolmaster, isn’t it queer that when they look in and see the dead ones, and the bones and skins, or see other ones caught and kicking, and can’t get out, that they don’t learn better than to go in themselves? I should think they’d have sense to keep out!”

“People do not have sense to keep out when the circumstances are just about the same. Now, all of you children, listen. You know that Nathan has told you of these little, gay palace-rooms, where the doors open in and not out, and the things which swim by seem curious to know what is inside. Some of these gay places hold struggling captives; others are full of the relics of the dead. Now, that is a little parable to you. Let the little green sacs stand for places where strong drink is sold. Those who enter such places form the drinking habit, and then they cannot get free from it. Persons, yet free, look into these dens for drinking. They see in them people all ragged, dirty, poor, unhappy, bloated, crazy, sick, wrecked and ruined victims of the habit. They see yet others who mourn that they are enslaved, who have a sense of shame and danger, and struggle to get rid of the appetite that makes prisoners of them, and will destroy them. In this little plant, when the little animals get into the sacs, the plant melts up their bodies and seems to suck up their juice and feed on it until nothing is left but the fine bony parts. So the unhappy person who goes into a grog shop finds that the dealer feeds on him until his health and happiness, and money and respectability are all gone, and perhaps nothing is left of him but the poor body that is ready for the Potter’s field. Is it not strange that when we see how many persons are utterly ruined by drink, any will venture into places where drink is sold, and will even begin to taste the fatal liquor? Whenever you see a place for selling whiskey, I want you to think of the little water-bears and other water creatures which enter the snares of the bladder-plant.”—_Selected._

Liu Tsi Chuin

_Rioter and Evangelist._

REV. J. L. STEWART, M.A., B.D.

“Ninety-five” is a date of dates among the pioneer workers in West China. All winter rumors of the doings of foreigners had been floating about the city of Chengtu, old stories of suspicion and superstition scarce heard to-day: “Foreigners ate children.” “Doctors pulverized eyes for medicines, hence their wonderful cures.” “Bodies were buried beneath the church floors.” “Foreigners having, many of them, blue eyes, could see into soil and discover hidden treasure as the dark-eyed people of China might see stones on the bottom of streams.” “Foreigners were there to seek treasure or territory.” Even high officials, ’tis said, fed the flame with the hope that it would soon become so hot the “foreign devils” would flee.

There were, however, few open acts of hostility during these days. Then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, it came. It was the fifth of the fifth month feast. According to time-honored custom, the crowds assembled on the great east parade ground, scarce a stone’s throw from the Mission compound, for the throwing of plums. Vendors, their big baskets well filled with the fruit still green, had booths, or pushed through the people everywhere. Everyone bought, sowed his plums broadcast in the air, then scrambled with the rest, for, aside from the sport, the plums so obtained were said to ward off sickness, demons, disaster, and brought good luck for the year to come. As the day grew, masses of roughs and toughs, many from the yamen, some say, mingled with the thoughtless, and jammed and jostled together till the air was filled with the hum and hue of voices, and hearts and heads were half-hysterical for mischief and riot.

Already as evening came, the crowd had overflowed past the gateway of the mission premises.

“Here’s where the foreign devils live,” said one.

“Let’s hurl a stone at the gate,” said another.

“Who dares?”

Soon one stone by stealth, then a volley, rattled against the big black doors. The gateman’s rebuke only made the ringleaders more bold. They fell back when the foreigner appeared; but were at his heels, a howling mob, when the gates again closed behind him. The rabble rushed to the point, restraint was thrown to the winds. A riot was on in earnest.

Into the blackness of the night, two men, strangers, homeless in a strange, inhospitable land, fled with their heroic wives and hushed little ones. Then and for hours afterwards, as hiding from street to street they sought their way to our W.M.S. home, they heard afar the frenzied shouting, and saw the flames pierce high into the darkness as church, and hospital, and homes, and goods, and gifts, and many a treasured heirloom from half round the world became fuel for the fires. Next day saw the mob’s return to its work of destruction till every building of every mission in the city, Protestant and Catholic alike, was in ruins, and the foreigners, irrespective of sex or creed, huddled together in a few low outer rooms of one of the official yamens.

Such was Liu Tsi Chuin’s first introduction to the foreigner, for he was in the thick of the fray on the first night, and followed on next day as one by one the missionary families fled, and the buildings were looted and burned. It was a full decade before he came in touch with them again and then—how changed the circumstances!

Liu Tsi Chuin was of good family. His name, Tsi Chuin, “Be princely,” would give a hint, at least, of his parents’ goodness of heart. His father was the trusted treasurer of a district magistrate not far from Chengtu. Alas, when Liu was but a child of three the father died. Shortly after, his little sister also died, and Liu and the little widowed mother were left alone. His father, however, had been a man of thrift, so that even after the exorbitant funeral ceremonies were over, enough was left to buy a neat little home on the Great Well Corner in the provincial capital, and even some over to be invested for interest. Little Liu was sent to school. He had friends of his father in official circles. That would mean influence in the days to come, and that position, promotion, power, so hope was high in the little household.

At the age of thirteen a change came in Liu’s life. A relative, of whom there are ever plenty in Chinese families, had persuaded the little widow that mints of money might be made by embarking in business. After much persuasion, she yielded. Was not the interest small? And would not her boy need more as he grew older? And was she not ambitious for him? The sums loaned were called in, and the little home mortgaged.

Soon a great double shop displayed a new and euphonious name. Big lanterns swung below the eaves. Long boards with letters of gold told of the virtues of the place, while within hams swung from the ceilings, various confections covered the counters and long strings of tobacco lined the shop front close by the street. For five years business went on briskly. By degrees, however, other relatives and friends attached themselves till “the money failed to fill the mouths,” and, in brief, business failed and had to be abandoned. Another venture was made in the then flourishing opium trade, but their capital was limited and larger firms outsold them.

Liu was now a youth of twenty. With the little capital left he tried running a sox shop. Alas, in his last venture he had lost more than money. He had lost manhood as well. His countrymen have a proverb, “You can’t work in a dye shop and keep your clothes unstained.” Liu had himself fallen a victim to the opium he sold to others.

[Illustration: The evangelist and his family.]

The record of his ruin is the old story of China’s sorrow after that. Sucking his pipe, sleeping, sliding about stealthily from spot to spot, seeking relief from the fiend which haunted him by day and by night, he had little time for business, his thoughts were busy with baubles, trade fell off, goods disappeared, his last cash left him, and despair and destruction followed fast. It was during those days that he found himself one of the throng of thoughtless and rowdies, assembled for plum throwing. The sacking of the missions was but a new excitement with a possible gain to all, and what could it matter anyhow to frighten away a few foreigners whom nobody wanted? But that story we have told.

Liu had married meantime. A little daughter had come to his home. Then later his wife died. He left the city and sought employment with his father’s former official friend. The latter gave him a small position as messenger. But official life is precarious. His benefactor lost his position, and Liu was once more down and out. He wandered back to the capital and to his child.

* * * * *

No one visits Chengtu who does not find his way some time or many times, if he has the opportunity, to the Great East Street at night. By day it is filled with busy buyers at the great silk, tea and porcelain shops, but by night it is more animated still. When the great shops close their shutters at sundown, the curbstones are immediately pre-empted by swarms of junk dealers, curio sellers, vendors of fans, needles, chopsticks, pictures, rare old bronzes, ink slabs and vases. Here, too, are diviners, fortune-tellers and fakirs. It is the bazaar of the capital, once seen not to be forgotten, with its twinkling candles stretching far away, its lines of squatting vendors, its hum of busy voices, its clattering, chattering, crowding thousands who throng the thoroughfare. There with his little store of stuff about him, Liu might be found each night. The day he spent picking up a few curios from house to house, when not too busy with his pipe.

One day he rambled again along the street where in former days he, with the rabble, had wrought such ruin to the cause of missions. The church, a new and larger one since those days, stood open. Numbers of people were crowding in, so he, with an uncle and two friends, sons of his former official patron, joined the stream. They listened half curiously, half carelessly, to the prayers and singing, all so strange to them. Something in the sermon, however, brought Liu to attention. The speaker said that this God of love could so fill and thrill a man with His Spirit that even the passion for opium could no longer hold him. Could it be possible?

Liu was no willing victim to the habit. He had tried all kinds of pills and strange concoctions guaranteed to cure, or recommended by friends. He had fought by his own will power till that became so weak he scarce struggled longer. But here was a new thought from the truth-telling foreigner, and a new hope. Perhaps this foreign God could help. So at invitation he, with his companions, waited for the after meeting, where all are welcomed who have questions or seek further light.

He became even more interested and came again and again, bringing his friends with him. Then the ancestral tablet fell down in the official home one night. The two sons took it as a sign that their ancestors were angry with their worship of the foreign God, so they came no more. A month later a storm burst over the city. The thunder, a somewhat rare thing on the Chengtu plain, so frightened the uncle that he, too, never returned to the church.

But Liu was not to be balked in his search. He met others among the members who had been helped by the foreign pastors and doctors, and he was determined to be free. The rest of the story is readily told. It is the story of an ever-increasing number of New China’s sons. Foreign medicine, earnest counsel from his pastor, daily reading of the Word which is Spirit and which is Life, prayer and service and the inflooding of the Spirit of God brought a new power and peace to a life which for long had struggled and suffered, and been all but slain through sin.

With health and hope and freedom came also a great longing that others might know the glad Gospel message. He took to selling books up and down the very streets where men knew him best. As he went he told his story in shops, at corners and in the homes of friends. Seeing his sincerity and ability, our mission soon sent him farther afield, till he traversed much of the northern district. Then he served for a time faithfully and effectively in Kiating and Chin Ien. He has now been a year at college as a probationer. His little daughter is a promising pupil in our girls’ school. He himself married recently a beautiful young woman, rescued and reared by our Chengtu orphanage, and they to-day are together laboring earnestly for the coming of His Kingdom. Thus Liu Tsi Chuin is realizing in a way his father never dreamed the hope of the “Princely man,” for the greater Father had need of him.

Where Do You Live?

I knew a man, and his name was Horner, Who used to live on Grumble Corner— Grumble Corner, in Crosspatch Town; And he never was seen without a frown; He grumbled at this, he grumbled at that; He growled at the dog, he growled at the cat; He grumbled at morning, he grumbled at night, And to grumble and growl were his chief delight.

He grumbled so much at his wife that she Began to grumble as well as he; And all the children, wherever they went, Reflected their parents’ discontent. If the sky was dark and betokened rain, Then Mr. Horner was sure to complain; And, if there was never a cloud about, He’d grumble because of a threatened drought.

His meals were never to suit his taste; He grumbled at having to eat in haste; The bread was poor, or the meat was tough, Or else he hadn’t had half enough. No matter how hard his wife might try To please her husband, with scornful eye He’d look around, and then, with a scowl At something or other, begin to growl.

One day, as I loitered along the street, My old acquaintance I chanced to meet, Whose face was without the look of care And the ugly frown that it used to wear. “I may be mistaken, perhaps,” I said, As, after saluting, I turned my head; “But it is, and it isn’t, the Mr. Horner, Who lived for so long on Grumble Corner.”

I met him next day, and I met him again, In melting weather and pouring rain, When stocks were up, and when stocks were down; But a smile somehow had replaced the frown. It puzzled me much; and so one day I seized his hand in a friendly way, And said: “Mr. Horner, I’d like to know What can have happened to change you so!”

He laughed a laugh that was good to hear, For it told of a conscience calm and clear, And he said, with none of the old-time drawl, “Why, I’ve changed my residence, that is all!” “Changed your residence?” “Yes,” said Horner, “It wasn’t healthy on Grumble Corner, And so I moved—’twas a change complete— And you’ll find me now on Thanksgiving Street!”

Now, every day, as I move along The streets so filled with the busy throng, I watch each face, and can always tell Where men and women and children dwell; And many a discontented mourner Is spending his days on Grumble Corner, Sour and sad, whom I long to entreat To take a house on Thanksgiving Street.

—_Josephine Pollard._

A Bible for a Pistol

A True Story

“See, mother, see what I have brought you!” exclaimed a young Brazilian, holding up to view a well-bound, gilt-edged book. “Antonio Marques told me that the priest ordered him to burn it, but he did not like to destroy so good a book, and was afraid to displease the priest by keeping it, so I offered to trade my old double-barreled pistol for it. I thought you might like to have the book, for they say it is all about religion, and you are so religious. It might be of some use when you go to repeat your prayers for people who are dying.”

The mother took the book from her son’s hands, and slowly reading the title, “A Santa Biblia,” said: “Ah! this is good; this is the ‘Rule of Life,’ I am glad to have it.” Then beginning at the first of Genesis, she glanced over several chapters until she reached the tenth. “Yes, you are right, my son; here is just the kind of prayer I want. Here is a long list of names, and as they are all in the Bible, they must all be of saints, and some of them will surely help the poor creatures.”

The youth frequently found his mother with the book before her when he came in from his work, and had he taken the trouble to look over her shoulder he would have found her always reading the tenth chapter of Genesis.

The woman, who had the fame of knowing by heart a great many prayers, was often sent for to go even long distances to repeat them for the hope and comfort of the dying; and she was faithfully trying to master the long names, so as to say them off glibly to serve as a prayer.

One day, as they sat taking their noon-day coffee, a messenger came from a neighboring plantation, begging her to go at once to see a young girl who was very ill. With book in hand, she set out, and arriving at the house a sad, though to her not unusual, sight met her eyes. A girl of about fifteen lay upon the bed, her beautiful black eyes looking strangely bright in contrast with the pale features. The parents and sisters, instead of caring for her, were wringing their hands and wildly crying out, “She is dying! She is dying!” The sick girl feebly stretched out a wasted hand, gasping: “They say that I am dying; teach me quickly how to die; tell me, what must I do?” The old woman gently took her hand and in a soothing voice said: “Don’t be nervous, dear; if you will repeat after me the Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, the prayer to St. Joseph and the rest, and then a new prayer that I have learned from this good book, you need not be afraid.”

A sight never to be forgotten by one who knows that there is but the one “name under heaven, given among men whereby we must be saved,” was this death-bed scene. The old woman, in clear tones, rapidly repeated among other things, “Shem, Ham, Japheth, Gomer, Magog, Madai, Javan,” and so on through the long list. The dying girl vainly tried to follow her as her voice grew fainter and fainter, for she was, with all her failing strength, clinging to this false hope as she passed out into eternity.

Some years later, the young man who had gotten the Bible in such a curious way, married and left the old house to live at the wife’s homestead. One evening, as the old father sat in his usual place reading, the husband said: “Anninha, what is that book your father is always reading?”

“That,” she replied, “is the Bible. He often tells me about what he reads, and it is very interesting. I wish I could read it for myself; but it is a French book, and I can read only Portuguese.”

“If it is called the ‘Holy Bible,’” said he, “then my mother has it in Portuguese, for I gave it to her long ago. I never read it myself, but she used to learn things out of it for prayers. They never sounded very interesting to me.”

“Could you get it for me, Jose?” she asked.

“Yes; I will go over and ask mother for it to-morrow,” promised he.

When the wife got the Bible, she carried it to her father, who was much pleased to find this favorite book in his native tongue, and, opening it at the New Testament, he began to read aloud. The young couple listened and soon grew so interested that they begged him to go on, till they kept him reading late into the night. Deeply touched by the “old, old story of Jesus and His love,” they began to read for themselves. Soon they learned that pardon and peace had already been purchased for them, and that what God required of them was not penances and a bondage to fear through life, and masses and the agonies of purgatory after death, but child-like faith and loving obedience—that godliness which gives promise of the life that now is, and that which is to come.

The son’s first wish was to have his mother learn the good news, so he carried back the Bible, saying: “Why, mother, you never got the best out of this book! You only looked for something to die by, and it is full of good words to live by as well. Let me read you some.”

“No, my son,” responded she, “I got what I wanted out of the book, and that is enough for me. I do not care to look for more.”

“But, mother,” pleaded he, “you would be so much happier if you knew the true way to live and to die.”

“Hush, Jose,” said the mother, indignantly. “Do you dare to hint that I, who have taught so many how to die, do not know how myself? Let me alone, and do not trouble me any more about the book.”

The man went back to his wife troubled and disappointed. The more they studied the book, however, the better they understood that it was God’s Spirit who had opened their eyes, and to Him they must look to perform the same miracle upon their mother, that blind one leading the blind, and for this they are still daily watching and praying.—_Selected._

The Giving Alphabet

All things come of thee, and of thine own have we given thee.—1 Chron. xxix. 14.

Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of Hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.—Mal. iii. 10.

Charge them that are rich in this world ... that they do good, that they be rich in good works, ready to distribute, willing to communicate.—1 Tim. vi. 17, 18.

Do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith.—Gal. vi. 10.

Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give, not grudgingly or of necessity.—2 Cor. ix. 7.

Freely ye have received, freely give.—Matt. x. 8.

God loveth a cheerful giver.—2 Cor. ix. 7.

Honor the Lord with thy substance and with the first fruits of all thine increase.—Prov. iii. 12.

If there be first a willing mind, it is accepted according to that a man hath, and not according to that he hath not.—2 Cor. viii. 12.

Jesus said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.—Acts xx. 35.

Knowing that whatsoever good thing any man doeth, the same shall he receive of the Lord, whether he be bond or free.—Eph. vi. 8.

Lay not up for yourselves treasure upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasure in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.—Matt. vi. 19, 20.

My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth.—1 John iii. 18.

Now concerning the collection for the saints ... upon the first day of the week let every one of you lay by him in store as God hath prospered him.—1 Cor. xvi. 1, 2.

Of all that thou shalt give me I will surely give the tenth unto thee.—Gen. xxviii. 22.

Provide yourselves bags which wax not old, a treasure in the heavens which faileth not, where no thief approacheth, neither moth corrupteth.—Luke xii. 33.

Quench not the Spirit.—1 Thess. v. 19.

Render unto God the things that are God’s.—Matt. xxii. 21.

See that ye abound in this grace also.—2 Cor. viii. 7.

The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of Hosts.—Hag. ii. 8.

Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.—Luke xii. 48.

Vow and pay unto the Lord your God.—Ps. lxxvi. 11.

Whoso hath this world’s goods, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?—1 John iii. 17.

’Xcept your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the Scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.—Matt. v. 20.

Ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might be rich.—2 Cor. viii. 9.

Zealous of good works.—Titus ii. 15.