The Little Gleaner Part 51

One day, turning over the leaves of a hymn-book, I came to the one on the safety of believers, which I read. The first verse is--

"There is a safe and secret place, Beneath the wings divine, Reserved for all the heirs of grace; Oh, be that refuge mine!"

She said, "I do like that hymn so much, auntie. I have had such sweet times in my little room. Often when you have sent me up to study for my cla.s.s, I have had such sweet enjoyment that I could not study."

On awaking one night, she said, "Oh, auntie, I have had some beautiful words come with such power, and I keep saying them--'Thou art Mine, as the apple of Mine eye.'" I said, "You could not have a more precious portion. That will do to go to sleep on, won't it?" She said, "Oh, yes!"

and soon fell into a peaceful slumber.

One night she said, "Auntie, do you ever feel your prayers to be very formal, as if it was merely a habit, and no heart in it?" I said, "Yes, dear; too often." She said, "Do you?" "Oh, yes," I said; "I wish I did not."

One morning, going into her room, she said to me, "I have had a nice time. The sun shone brightly in at the window, and those words came, 'So shall the Sun of Righteousness arise with healing in His wings.'"

One day she said, "I used to cry so when I was at Gravesend. Do you know what for?" I said, "No; why did you?" She said, "Because I was coming here. I did dislike coming so, and for a long time after I was here I would go and pray, as I thought, very earnestly that mother would send a letter to fetch me away; but that letter never came. No, it never came; and what a mercy it did not! G.o.d knew what was best for me. How we can look back and say, 'All was for the best.'"

We felt that we should like her to know the state of health she was in, but felt quite unfit to tell her. During a visit, a friend asked her if she wished to get better? On referring to me, after they were gone, she said, "Is it wrong, auntie? Don't you think it is natural for me to wish so, who am young?" I said, "Yes, dear, quite natural." She said, "But I know the Lord will do what He thinks best."

Previous to her nineteenth birthday (September 27th) she had a return of the bleeding, which again confined her to her bed for a time. We all felt her end might be very near, and would perhaps come suddenly by the rupture of another blood-vessel; therefore we were very anxious she should know what a precarious state she was in. It was, therefore, quite a relief when she said one day, "Auntie, I did not think at one time I should be alive now. I did not think I should live to see my birthday."

I said, "I am very glad to hear you say this. I quite thought you were under the impression you would get better. What were your feelings when you thought this?" "Oh," she said, "I felt I could leave it all in the Lord's hands. He would do what was best." There was a sweet resignation to His will at this time; but, after a little while, her bodily strength increasing, she was gradually buoyed up with a hope that she might get better. Knowing from the faithfulness of our doctor that her case was hopeless, we could not partic.i.p.ate in that hope. She was most honest in her principles, and could not bear to deceive any one.

One day, as we were sitting alone, she said, "Oh, auntie, you never thought I could deceive you or uncle, did you? But I did." I said, "I am glad you have spoken of this, dear, although I think in your case it was different from many" (knowing that what she alluded to was a private matter). "At any rate, you have our pardon." She said, "What stings of conscience I have had through it! It has quite taken away any feeling of pleasure I may have had; and yet my will was so strong to have my own way, I could not give it up.[10] I have not deceived you in anything else, auntie. You believe me, don't you?" I said, "Indeed I do."

[10] We hope all our young readers will mark this honest confession, which was produced by the fear of G.o.d, and ever remember that deception is mean and sinful.--ED.

A very dear friend calling to see her one afternoon, who had not seen her since she was called by divine grace, said in the course of conversation, "Well, my dear, there are times and seasons, I have no doubt, when you can say you would not have it otherwise, but that it was good for you to be afflicted?" She turned very red, paused, then said with her usual candour, "I cannot say that, Miss G----." After her departure, she said, "Auntie, I wish to be submissive to the will of the Lord, but I felt I could not say that I have ever had a time when I would not have it otherwise."

A friend calling one evening, spoke in a very solemn manner of those who had a false enjoyment, and put some close questions to her. She said little, but after he was gone seemed much put out, and said, "I know I cannot talk like those he visits. I expect he thinks there is nothing in me. What do you say, auntie?" I said, "He was certainly very searching, my dear, but I don't think you understood him. He is so afraid of any one resting on a wrong foundation, and knowing what a very delicate state of health you were in, he was anxious to know if you were resting on Christ, and Christ alone, for salvation." "Well," she said, "I felt dumb. I expect he thinks very badly of me."

Her strength seemed to go daily. As Christmas drew near, she said, "Auntie, let everything go on the same as it has done other years. Make no difference for me. Invite your friends for the day as usual." But we felt it a very solemn time, and hard work to put on the appearance of cheerfulness, feeling sure, ere another Christmas came, her place would be vacant, and she in eternity.

Her dear little cousin was a great sufferer at times all through her illness, and it became apparent that she, too, was fast hastening home.

I said to Carrie one day, "I used to feel, dear, that I should have you to leave to see after our dear Flo, if we were taken, but it seems the Lord's will to take you, and I sometimes think she won't be long." She answered, "No, I don't think she will; but she will be safe whenever she goes."

We could have but few quiet times together after this, through the serious illness and death of her dear cousin, but she was wonderfully buoyed up at this time with the a.s.surance that nothing was too hard for the Lord, and apparently rested upon it, for when I was alluding to her sad state of health, she said, "I know I am beyond the power of earthly physicians to cure, auntie; but, you know, nothing is too hard for the Lord."

After the death of her cousin, she was most anxious to have her mourning made, which we felt sorry for, as it seemed such a clinging to life; but we found it was only a natural desire to show her love for her dear little cousin. At any rate, the wish gradually left her, and all things of an earthly nature lost their charm.

One day she said, "I have no wish to join in anything now. I don't feel to want to go and witness anything. That is a blessing the Lord only can give, isn't it?" I said, "Yes," knowing what great delight she used to take in many things, and how active she had been, especially in anything connected with the chapel or Sabbath School.

After this darkness set in. The Word of G.o.d was as a sealed Book, and she had no spiritual enjoyment, which she much deplored; also, the visits of our dear Pastor and her uncle failed to give any comfort.

One day, after a doze in the easy chair, she said, "Was it not strange?

It seemed as if, when I was sleeping, a little boy came to me, and said, 'The Lord hath not forgotten thee, so live in peace.' It did seem so strange to see the little boy come up and say this. What do you think of it?" I said, "I cannot tell."

She grew rapidly worse, and our dear nurse thought it advisable to ask the doctor to call, as he had not been for a few days. He came, and said she might be gone in twenty-four hours, or might linger a few days, but the beginning of the end had taken place. Our dear Pastor went and spoke a few words to her ere he left, and said, "Ah! dear, it is well with you," and other words of comfort. But after he was gone she was much cast down, and said, "Oh, why did he say that? I don't feel it will be well." Then, after a little while, she said, "Do you think I am much worse?" "Yes, dear," I replied. "Do you think I shall die?" I said, "I fear you will." Then she said, "Oh, auntie, what trouble I am in! I fear I have deceived you and myself, and that I shall go to h.e.l.l." I replied, "But, my dear, you have had some sweet promises applied with power, haven't you?" "Oh, I've thought so, but if I have been deceiving myself?" I said, "You have had a desire after these things, have you not?" "Oh, yes!" she replied. "Then," I said, "I feel a.s.sured, my dear, you would not have had a real desire if you were a deceiver." She said, "Auntie, what shall I do? I feel I can't die like this; but I can't do anything, can I?" Wringing her hands in agony of mind, she cried, "Do, please, Lord, come! Do come! Oh, dear Lord Jesus, do please come!" She continued in much distress, until I felt quite unequal to talk to her, and said, "My dear, shall I send for some one?" She replied, "Oh, no, auntie; don't send for any one. The Lord must do it all" (laying great stress on the _all_); "but do pray for me, that He will appear." Her distress of mind was very great. No words or texts of Scripture named gave her any comfort. I left the room for a short time, leaving her in the care of our dear nurse (of whom she was very fond), and on my return, found she had had a nice sleep. Going up to her, she said, "How can I thank you enough?" I said, "Don't say a word about that, dear. My earnest desire is, that you may get a word from the Lord." Her countenance looked so placid, and she said, "I have, auntie." I said, "Is Jesus precious to you as your Saviour? Can you trust Him?" She replied, "Yes. These words came--'Fear not; I will be with you,' and I think He will. Yes, His promises stand good. 'He'll never, no, never, no, never forsake.'" She then dozed again. I saw her lips moving, and caught the words, "With Christ in the vessel I smile at the storm,"

having evidently been repeating that beautiful hymn of Newton's, "Begone unbelief, my Saviour is near."

After this she had a little time of peace. The next morning, on being asked if the Lord had again given her comfort, "Yes," she said; "He has promised that, when through fiery trials He'll cause me to go, He will be with me."

Darkness again took possession of her mind, and she was often saying, "Oh, to be a castaway!" She said she would like her uncle to come, which he did. On his approaching the bed, she said, "Oh, uncle, what will become of me if I am a deceiver? I shall be lost!" He took her hand, and said, "Jesus came to save the lost, so you see, dear, you are one. 'The whole need not a physician, but those who are sick.'" After a few words, he engaged in prayer. She then dozed, and was never again so hara.s.sed by the enemy of souls.

On Friday morning she was much favoured with the Lord's presence, and longed to "depart and be with Christ," saying repeatedly, "Do, dear Lord Jesus, take me to-day! I do so want to go!" I said, "We must wait His time." "Yes," she replied--

"Till He bids, I cannot die; Not a single shaft can hit Till the G.o.d of love sees fit."

Her throat and breathing at this time were very bad, and she asked the doctor when he came if he could relieve her at all. He said he was afraid he could not, but it would not be long. After he was gone she again said, "I do so hope the Lord will take me to-day. Do come, Lord Jesus; do come! Oh, how I long to go! What a glorious meeting it will be for me, if I am right!" Then clasping her dear hands together, she said, with such a sweet smile as nurse and I shall never forget, "Oh, blissful home! What a glorious meeting! I shall see Christ in all His beauty!"

In the afternoon her breathing altered, and she seemed gently pa.s.sing away. Looking up so sweetly, she said, "Am I dying, auntie?" I answered, "Yes, dear; it won't be long now. You want to go, don't you?" "Oh, yes,"

she replied. Her difficulty of breathing returned, and she suffered much through the night. In the morning she said, "You thought me dying yesterday, and the doctor too; but the dear Lord did not, did He? It was not His time." She continued very ill through the day--scarcely able to speak. Towards night she slightly rallied, and looking up at the clock, said, "Oh, the night!" She had often during her illness dreaded the nights. I said, "You know that beautiful hymn, dear--'Sun of my soul'?"

She took it up, and said--

"Thou Saviour dear, It is not night if Thou be near; Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise, To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes,"

after which she did not say any more about the night.

Her dear Pastor and others bade her "good-bye," but her breathing was too bad for her to speak, until about two o'clock, when she startled the dear friend who was sitting up and myself by turning round, calmly putting her hand in mine, and, with a kiss, said, "Good-bye." Then turning to Mrs. T----, she did the same to her, and then very quietly remarked, "You don't hear it now, auntie?"--alluding to the rattles. I said, "No; the conflict will soon be over, darling." Still, it was not yet ended--not until a quarter to four on the 8th of May, 1887, was her soul permitted to "depart and be with Christ," whom she had longed to see in all His beauty.

LITTLE BY LITTLE.

One step and then another, And the longest walk is ended; One st.i.tch and then another, And the largest rent is mended; One brick upon another, And the highest wall is made; One flake upon another, And the deepest snow is laid.

So the little coral-workers, By their slow but constant motion, Have built those pretty islands In the distant, dark blue ocean; And the n.o.blest undertakings Man's wisdom hath conceived, By oft-repeated efforts Have been patiently achieved.

Then do not look disheartened O'er the work you have to do, And say that such a mighty task You never can get through; But just endeavour, day by day, Another point to gain, And soon the mountain which you feared Will prove to be a plain.

"Rome was not builded in a day,"

The ancient proverb teaches; And Nature, by her trees and flowers, The same sweet sermon preaches.

Think not of far-off duties, But of duties which are near; And having once begun to work, Resolve to persevere.

C. SWAIN.

FLYING FOXES.

Among the many anomalies presented by Nature, that of a flying mammal has seemed strikingly incongruous, and has always left an impression on the popular mind generally the reverse of the truth. The fox-bats are an example in point. Superst.i.tion has gathered about these strange creatures the wildest fears; and their uncouth and weird looks have strengthened a foolish credence in the stories of the vampire. They, it was declared, settled at night upon the wearied sleeper, and sucked his life-blood, or with a malicious bite involved the souls of the virtuous in the terrors of their own lost estate.

The examinations of the naturalist long ago put to flight these romantic tales; but in their haunts, among the woods of Southern Asia, in Africa, Australia, Java, and Sumatra, their black swarms and flying movements yet cause dread and disgust.

The flying foxes are ranged under the order of the _Cheiroptera_, or hand-winged mammals, and are grouped together in the sub-section of the fruit-eating bats, as distinguished from those feeding mostly upon insects.

Their depredations upon orchards and vineyards are notorious. Sailing through the air at sundown, and guided by an acute sense of smell, they will enter the plantations containing some plant upon which the fruit has reached maturity, and, covering it in crowds, will revel in the delicious repast, leaving the tree or vine at dawn stripped of all its precious wealth. They fly rapidly, but never at any great height, and sometimes will traverse considerable s.p.a.ces, migrating from island to island over intervening arms of the ocean. On the ground they are agile and curiously active. They climb trees with ease, and during the day hang by their hind limbs, their wing membrane wrapped around them, from the loftier boughs. So densely are they sometimes congregated that the tree seems a solid ma.s.s of black, motionless bags.