"LETTER FOR ME, SIR?"

MEN, women, children, rich and poor, black and white, are hurrying into the post-office, and pressing close up to the delivery window. Some are expecting letters from distant friends.

That old man you see standing nearest the window, has been coming for a long time. He gets nothing, yet keeps coming.

He had a son once, whom he brought up very tenderly. He was an only child and was dearly loved. But the boy had a bad companion who led him astray. Once he enticed him into a saloon and to drink. He was carried back to his father drunk.

Do you wonder the poor father was heart-broken, and that he spoke severe words.

But the boy instead of being ashamed and begging his father's forgiveness, became very angry, and after a little, gathered all he had into a bundle, and without a word of farewell slipped away one dark night, where no one could tell.

When the father awoke the next morning and learned that his boy had gone, his grief knew no bounds. He wrote letters in all directions and put notices in a great many newspapers about his lost son. And he travelled many hundred miles in search of him. But all to no purpose.

He thinks he is somewhere in Mexico. Poor old man! In the last few months he has grown gray very fast. I don't think he will come here many more mornings asking for news from his lost Henry. Death will come and take him to the arms of Jesus, I trust, and maybe then he will get some good word about his wandering boy.

How are you treating your parents and your Heavenly Father?

Standing next to this old man is a boy nine years old. His mother has sent him to see if a letter has come yet from his father. Not long ago this father joined the army and went a thousand miles away to the West to fight the wild Indians.

But not a word has come from him. Many battles have been fought with the savages, and the papers say that some of the soldiers have been shot down.

Sometimes the soldiers wander away from the camp and while every thing seems so safe around them, suddenly the crack of a rifle is heard, and a bullet from an Indian gun speeds through the soldier's heart.

Or maybe he finds his way to a saloon and becomes drunk, and quarrels, and is killed, and his friends far-away at the East, expecting some day to welcome back a brave soldier, hear no more from him. I suppose whisky kills a great many more than war.

I am so glad this dear child does not know what dreadful thing has happened to his father, or his face would not be so sunny.

Next to this child is a lady. She is richly dressed and seems very cheerful. She is laughing and talking with the gentleman near her. She tells him she expects good news from her husband who is in Europe. But, see! There comes a letter for her, and there's a black border about it. She turns pale and trembles, and can hardly command herself enough to break it open. I wonder what it says; she has hurried away weeping and groaning.

And now the crowd presses on. The clerk says to this one and that, "Nothing for you!" "Nothing for you!" "Pass along there!" "Don't block up the way!" But there comes a rough-looking man. Wonder if he really expects any one will write him a letter.

Yet the clerk hands him out one, large and handsomely addressed. How astonished the man is. He blushes and shuffles away to a corner by himself, and after trying a long time he brings forth a great fine parchment. But, poor man! He can't read. He looks around the room for help. His eye rests upon me.

"Sir, will you be so kind as to give me the meaning of this paper? I'm a poor man without education, sir."

I take the large letter. It is from Europe, written by a lawyer, and it says that one of this man's relatives has died and left him five hundred pounds.