“Remember Thy Creator In The Days Of Thy Youth.”

WHILE in the tender years of youth, In nature’s smiling bloom, Ere age arrive and trembling wait Its summons to the tomb,

Remember thy creator, God, For Him thy powers employ; Make Him thy fear, thy love, thy hope, Thy confidence, thy joy.

He shall defend and guide thy course Through life’s uncertain sea, Till thou art landed on the shore Of blest eternity.

Then seek the Lord betimes, and choose The path of heavenly truth: The earth affords no lovlier sight Than a religious youth.

GIBBONS.

THE DEAF SHOEMAKER.

TOILING—rejoicing—sorrowing, Onward through life he goes, Each morning sees some task begun, Each evening sees its close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night’s repose.

LONGFELLOW.

BENEATH the scorching rays of a blistering summer’s sun, or chilled by the piercing blast of winter, a puny, sickly youth might have been seen daily ascending a ladder, bearing on his head a heavy weight of slate. There is nothing about his appearance but his feeble step and emaciated frame, calculated to attract the attention of the passer-by: a closer observation, however, will show that he possesses an eye which bespeaks an amount of patient perseverance but seldom known.

On one occasion, when about twelve years of age, while engaged in his accustomed labor, his foot misses the round of the ladder which he had so long ascended, and the infirm youth is thrown a distance of thirty-five feet on the hard stone pavement beneath. In a state of perfect insensibility he is taken up and borne to the arms of his afflicted friends. For two long weeks he remains in a state of unconsciousness, not knowing the nearest and dearest of his relatives.

At the expiration of this time his mind begins to revive, and his feeble eye wanders about the room with listless indifference. Recovering from his attack, he immediately inquires for a book in which he had been deeply interested previous to the accident which came so near terminating his earthly career.

No one seems to answer his inquiries. “Why do you not speak? Pray let me have my book!” Still no one replies. At last some one takes a slate and writes upon it that the book had been returned to its owner.

“Why do you write to me?” exclaimed the sufferer—“speak, speak! SPEAK!” Again was the pencil taken and the three words—you are deaf—written.

How severe the affliction! No more can that ear drink in the sweet melody of the little warblers; no more listen to those words of affection which make home the brightest and happiest spot in the world; no more hear the gentle notes of the “sweet singer of Israel,” or gather the soul-stirring anthems that echo and reëcho through the vaulted roof of God’s sanctuary.

As his father was very poor, he was placed in an almshouse to keep him from starvation.

He was soon removed, however, from his lonely prison home, and placed under a shoemaker, but was treated so unkindly that his friends found it necessary to have him again put in the poorhouse.

His studious habits and intellectual qualities soon attracted the notice of the officers of the almshouse, and he was treated with marked kindness and attention. While others were wasting the golden moments of youth, the deaf shoemaker was busy garnering his spare minutes, and storing his mind with information which was destined to exert an influence throughout the world.

In a short time he was removed to the London Missionary Society, whence he went to Malta as a printer.

Here he studied very closely, and, after returning to London, accompanied Mr. Groves in a tour through Russia, Georgia, Armenia, Kurdistan and Persia.

During this tour he gathered a vast amount of information relative to Eastern manners and customs, which rendered him one of the most instructive and interesting writers in the world.

He published, as the fruit of his arduous toil during this journey, quite a number of books, which have been greatly sought after both in Europe and America, and have made him a welcome guest at thousands of happy firesides.

His toilsome and unceasing labors for the cause of truth and religion were too severe for so feeble a frame, and at an early age, not fifty years old, JOHN KITTO—the deaf shoemaker of Plymouth—gently fell asleep in the arms of his Saviour—beloved and respected by all who knew him, and honored by those who had become familiar with him from his deeply interesting and invaluable productions.

In speaking of Kitto, a clergyman of considerable distinction uses the following beautiful language:—

“Rarely have we read a more touching record of heroic struggle than the toilsome ascent of the deaf boy of Plymouth to the lofty position of the world-famed Editor of the Biblical Encyclopædia, the Pictorial Bible, the Daily Bible Illustrations. He reached, through incredible difficulties, a position that few attain under the most favorable circumstances, and has left behind him nearly fifty volumes, some of which take high rank as works of critical authority. Truly the heroic ages have not yet ceased, and there is a heroism of the solitary student that is a nobler thing than that of the warrior on the field of battle; and such heroism is seen in the life of Kitto.”

My young friends, how touchingly beautiful and highly instructive is the brief but brilliant life of John Kitto! Do not

“Lives of such men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of Time—

“Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again?”

* * * * *

THE CHILD OF POVERTY.

LORD, I am poor, yet hear my call; Afford me daily bread; Give me at least the crumbs that fall From tables richly spread.

Thou canst for all my wants provide, And bless my homely crust; The ravens cry, and are supplied, And ought I not to trust?

Behold the lilies, how they grow, Though they can nothing do; And will not God who clothes them so, Afford me raiment too?

O may I heavenly treasures find, And choose the better part: Give me an humble, pious mind, A meek and lowly heart.

JANE TAYLOR.

NORMAN HALL;

OR, THE BOY AND THE ROCK.

“BLESSINGS, Lord, vouchsafe to give On the teaching I receive.”

NORMAN HALL was what most of us would call a “dull boy;” that is, though he studied hard, yet he was never ahead in his classes, and could not master his lessons as easily as a great many other boys. He was respected and beloved not only by his teacher, but also by the scholars. His father and mother both felt very sad because their only boy did not rank among the first in his class, and knew not how to account for it.

One Friday, Norman missed nearly all of his lessons, and was so much discouraged that he almost determined to quit studying entirely and go to some honest trade. He left the school-room with tears in his eyes, thinking that he had entered it for the last time. As he was going home, he saw a large and deep hole in a rock, which a small stream, by continually falling in the same place, had worn. It was the very thing he needed, and suited him exactly. The thought at once arose in his mind, if a little stream, so soft in itself, can make such a deep and lasting impression on this hard and flinty rock, I am sure, by hard studying and close application, I can make an impression on my mind, which certainly is not as hard as this rock.

He returned to school on Monday, and studied more diligently than he had ever done before; and as he grew in years, he grew in understanding, and at length became a learned man.

Remember, “That a drop hollows out the stone not by force, but by falling often; so you will become learned, not by a violent effort, but by frequent reading.”

* * * * *

THE SLUGGARD.

’TIS the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, ‘You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.’ As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;” Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher: The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find He had took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talk’d of eating and drinking; But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me,” This man’s but a picture of what I might be; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.

WATTS.