LITTLE FOXES (continued 2)

What was he to do?

He could not leave him to perish; he could not stay long, for death was staring him in the face. To leave meant dark inhumanity; to help meant fearful suffering! But he was a hero, and took but a few moments to make his choice. He would stay with him and help him through, or perish in the effort.

The exhausted man said, "Leave me; we will both die if you stay." "No," said the brave hero, "I'll help you. Ah! I know how. My back is still left."

It took a lot of persuading, but at last, bending low, with all his wretchedness and hunger, with his bleeding feet and staggering body, he pulled the man upon his back and started to trudge over that awful road.

Miles he travelled until the very flesh peeled off his feet—but he never stopped until the tracks led him back to camp, where he laid tenderly down his burden and fell in exhaustion that nearly proved his end.

It was all told me in the plainest and most simple way, with no boasts—just the quiet eloquence of a story of a deed done, because there was nothing else to do.

As I heard it I fancied I could hear the Indians up the hill in the little mission chapel singing, and this is what they seemed to sing:

"Then scatter seeds of kindness

For the reaping by-and-by."

For he who scatters help and service may suffer, but the glory of the crowning will more than make up for all the pains of heroism.

XXIII

"ONE BY ONE"

The first thing we all do is to learn to count one by one.

At school when I began as a very little boy, they had an object called an "abacus." I hardly know where they got the name, but it was made of wires with beads strung on them, and it is found away back in the time of Greece and Rome.

These beads could be moved along the wires and so we learned to count, moving one bead after the other, one by one. I suppose girls and boys are not taught that way now, but we still have to learn to count one by one.

You can't multiply or divide or do any other of those lessons you all so dearly love in arithmetic until you can count.

All girls and boys love to count and add—stamps and pennies, birthdays and holidays; and nearly every little child loves to look at a calendar and number off the days. You just watch a boy with a bag of marbles or a purse of pennies, and see how often he counts them.

The love of a home is a love one by one. Your parents count their children that way. They never mix people up.

I read in some book lately the story of a man in New York State taking the census; that is, making a list of the people who live in the country. "How many children have you?" he asked. "Well, let me see," she answered, "there's Tom and Bessie and Billy and Jean and——" "Oh!" he said, impatiently, "just give me the number." "Number!" the woman said with indignation. "We've not got to numbering yet. Do you think we have run out of names?"

The dear mother knew her girls and boys one by one, name by name. One will not do for another. Each one is loved, no matter how many there are.

It is always one by one. You count for something at home. You would be missed, even if there were a crowd. You have your place. The only thing is, are you filling it?

Often I have been visiting in a home where at a sick bed a mother has said, "It does not matter how many you have. You could not care to give up any one."

The names given to people nowadays are only tags, to keep them apart so we can distinguish them. They do not always really tell what a child is like. Bible names were supposed to do so. To-day, because a girl is called "Dora," which means a gift, she may not always act as though she were a precious gift to her parents. She may act like a boss instead. But the idea of a name at first was to let that child stand by himself alone.

They are not like policemen or even car conductors, marked by a number, but are known by name.

It is each by each and one by one.

So all the work of the world is done.

"One thing at a time, and that done well,

Is a very good rule, as many can tell."

If you let the one thing at your hand go, you will not get very far ahead.

"One step and then another,

And the longest walk is ended;

One stitch and then another,

And the longest rent is mended;

One brick upon another,

And the highest wall is made;

One flake upon another,

And the deepest snow is laid.

"Then do not look disheartened

At 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."

When I first went to college and looked over the four years' work I was nearly paralyzed. And when I began my ministry and thought of all the years of making two and three new talks every week, and going to scores and hundreds of homes every year, I almost got into a panic until a sensible thought came into my head, and I said, "Now, old boy, do not be silly. Just read one book at a time and go to one lecture at a time, and pass one year at a time, and make one sermon at a time, and visit one home at a time,"—and I have done that ever since, and the years have just gone by with the speed of a streak of lightning.

Girls and boys often look far ahead and picture what wonderful things they will do when they grow up, and they wish they were women and men to do a great world's work.

Well, the way it all comes is one at a time. Each day's task and each day's duty brings you to the next, and so it goes, and life moves on grandly and surely—one by one.

"Would'st shape a noble life?

What each day needs that shalt thou ask.

Each day will set its proper task."

And finally, God's love is a love for each of us—one by one. He says not a sparrow can fall without His will and the very hairs of your head are numbered.

Do you not love the little hymn which says:

"God sees the little sparrow fall,

It meets His tender view;

If God so loves the little birds,

I know He loves me too.

"He paints the lily of the field,

Perfumes each lily bell;

If He so loves the little flowers,

I know He loves me well."

The same great power that makes the sun and planets roll round on their path also controls a little child's toy.

The smallest atom is as much under God's rule as the mightiest world in the universe.

God knows you by name—just you. You, out of all the world!

The telescope shows us one hundred million stars, and telescope photographs add millions more. And when we say millions, it is hard to just grasp it all. But every single one is the object of God's eternal care and is not lost in the many. Neither are you nor I.

Some child story-teller has a beautiful message of an African chief who had a lot of oxen. Some one said, "How many have you?" "I do not know," was his answer. You see he could not count.

"How, then, do you know if one is missing?" he was asked, and with a shining eye he replied, "By the faces I would miss."

Is that not beautiful? The old chief knew the face and probably had a name for every animal.

Dear girls and boys, God knows you and cares for you, and has you all down by name and will miss your face if you are not near Him!

That is a wonderful love, and being a love for each of us one by one, we may well pray:

"Lord, for to-morrow and its needs,

I do not pray;

Keep me, my God, from stain of sin,

Just for to-day."

XXIV

WHAT MAKES A GOOD SOLDIER?

Please note the word "good." There are soldiers and soldiers, but the best kind is the good kind who never brings shame to his regiment.

A story is told of a "parson in arms" who enlisted as a private because he loved the boys. He lived a fine clean-cut life of inspiration, became a captain and went over the top.

When the roll call took place after the battle there was no answer to his name, but later he was found with his forehead pierced by a bullet. Just before the charge he said, "Boys, we are about to charge. Commit yourselves to your Saviour. If you die it will be well; if you live it will be well."

He hated war, but did his duty, and told the men "there is no fitter place for a man to die than when he dies for men."

He was a good soldier and a good man.

First. He remembers the honour of the regiment is in his care. Some people call that "esprit de corps," which is the French way of describing the spirit that enters into and fills a body of men.

It is that spirit that makes the character of any collection of people. In your home, in your school, in your church, in your club, in your class, in your country, there is a hidden spirit, just as your soul is hidden in your body.

To keep that spirit strong and noble is the ambition of every loyal person, and to do anything that spoils it hurts the school or the club or the home.

Now, a good soldier wants to keep the spirit of his company high. His question should be what kind of a company will this be if everybody was like me? And after all, it is what all are like that makes the real character of the whole.

Then second: A good soldier listens to the commands.

There are three leading commands.

(a) "Attention." That means keep yourself ready; put your heart and head into your work. It is the same thought that is often written on the corner of the streets where the cars cross. "Stop, look, listen." Get your mind on the job, and make it thorough!

(b) "Eyes front." Why does the soldier keep his eyes looking straight forward? Simply because side glances spoil attention. To keep looking around distracts, a word that means "draws apart." Instead of looking at one place, the eyes look everywhere and see nothing distinctly.

(c) "Obedience." Just think of a company with no discipline, where every man does as he pleases, and where orders may be followed or may not. Do you suppose the glorious Canadian army could have followed the barrage at Vimy if they had not been trained to obey orders?

The good soldier is under orders and

"Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why."

They are to take the order and carry it out and the objective is won.

Then third: After all the training, the good soldier adopts four attitudes.

(a) Ready for inspection. How the boys used to hate polishing buttons and smoothing puttees and brushing up, but it was all good and necessary. It made the soldier who could pass muster and who showed care for himself and the appearance of his regiment.

Are you ready for inspection? It takes place. Would you like to think that the Great Inspector of life is looking at you, and if He does, could you stand that look? What about your thoughts? If the full light were turned on, would you like them to shine out just as they are? A good soldier is never afraid of being looked at.

(b) "Semper paratus." When you get to the high school you will learn that that means "always ready."

When I was a little boy I used to love to watch the parade of the Tenth Royal Grenadiers, and when I hear yet the band play "The Grenadiers' March," I can still feel the thrill of that wonderful regiment. Their motto on their crests and on their flags is, "Semper paratus." Whatever comes or goes; whatever orders are given; whatever work is to be done; we are ready.

(c) "Carry on." That means, push the job through. In rain or shine, in camp or trench, in defeat or victory, keep a-going. The war is not yours. It belongs to your country, and winning it depends on no one giving in.

(d) "Over the top." That is the end of it all. All the drill, all the discipline, all the training, all the marching, all the weapons; even all the rest times are to issue in the final charge.

The war is not for fun. It is desperately in earnest. It is meant to attack the enemy and wrest victory from him.

We all have sometime or other to come out into the open; out of the dugouts and trenches into the front firing line, and then over no man's land into the lines of the enemy.

Girls and boys, your battle is ahead of you. Now is the time to get ready. You are in the training camp. Home and school, and even street, are part of it. Would you not like to be ready for it all? Do you not think the end is worth all the toil?

Enrol to-day; listen to the orders; undergo the hard toil; be a good soldier; take the oath and live for it!

Many years ago every youth in ancient Athens, as soon as he was old enough, took a great oath. Here it is:

"I will not dishonour my sacred arms. I will not desert my fellow-soldier, by whose side I may be set. I will leave my country greater and not less than when she is committed to me. I will reverently obey the laws which have been established, and in time to come, shall be established by the judges. I will not forsake the temples where my fathers worshipped. Of these things the gods are my witnesses."

That is a fine oath for such early times, and filled with the modern Christian spirit. If you will take it, it will make of you a good soldier.

XXV

THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—SHOES

Some one says an army moves on its stomach, and I guess it does, for an empty stomach makes a poor traveller.

But it also marches on its shoes.

A poor fellow came to my church office one day to see if I could get him a pair of strong shoes. He was getting a job and his boots would not stand the strain.

In the army the boots are most necessary, because of long marches, and wet roads and soaking trenches.

One of the worst of all crimes was to make and issue bad boots to our fighting men.

There was an army rule that demanded care of the feet. Every man had to watch that part of his body, and the medical men were always seeing to it that that rule was kept.

Many a soldier had to leave his post because he had trench feet.

Donald Hankey, who wrote "A Student in Arms" and who was later killed on the Somme, gives a very tender tribute to the beloved Captain. He tells how careful he was of his men, how thoughtful and wise, how his smile encouraged them, how he bucked them up when tired, and always played the game and tried to make every man do the same. Among other things he says, "When we started route marches, and our feet were blistered and sore, as often they were at first, you would have thought that they were his own feet from the trouble he took. After a march there was always inspection of feet. If any one had a sore foot he would kneel down on the floor and look at it carefully as if he had been a doctor."

It was all because he knew the feet were so important, and you can be sure he was greatly interested in the shoes the men wore.

Now, at home, boots are also important. Sometimes it is a problem to know just how to get enough of them; but every parent likes to see his girls and boys with feet well shod and comfortable.

If they are bad, they develop corns and sores, and they go to pieces, and then what use are they?

One day I was playing in a football team, and I guess the shoemaker did not put his best into his job, for my right boot cracked and the sole fell in pieces, and if I had not borrowed one from another chap I would have been out of the game.

We all feel sorry for a poor fellow who has no good shoes. Somehow or other, even if the rest of your garments are threadbare, one does not look quite so badly off if the feet are well shod.

There is an interesting Bible story in Joshua of some of the people in Palestine who heard of the great deeds at Jericho and got afraid of Joshua and his army; and so they fixed themselves up like far-off strangers and took old sacks and old bound-up Eastern wine bottles and old garments and musty bread, and put old shoes on their feet.

The whole show worked on Joshua's heart, and he made a covenant with them, and when the surrounding people were conquered, these sly ones with the bad shoes were spared because Joshua, like the rest of us, felt sorry for people who looked so worn out.

What a splendid service is rendered by a good shoemaker, a real consecrated cobbler; and what a social wretch he is that makes boots just for pay, and passes out the kind that look all right, but are no use, and spoil the feet.

"If I were a cobbler, 'twould be my pride

The best of all cobblers to be.

If I were a tinker, no tinker beside

Should mend an old kettle like me."

Now, sometimes shoes are worn out without any good cause, like the copper toes a boy uses up, just by kicking, or the soles that go because he slides or slips along without lifting his feet square off the ground when he walks.

Parents get impatient at having to buy so many boots for children who wear them out so easily, and often can't show anything done.

But when a shoe is worn out by hard service, that old boot is quite an honourable object.

The worn-out shoes of the dear boys who fought over no man's land, or marched through the enemy's barrage, or stood for us in the blood and water stained trenches, are relics of honour.

A Spanish lullaby sings about the angels so busy that they wore out their shoes, but when the little tattered angels got to the doorway of heaven they were given new ones.

"Little shoes are sold at the doorway of heaven,

And to all the tattered little angels are given.

Slumber, my darling baby."

That is the strange lullaby sung by some Spanish mothers to put their babies to sleep.

There was a man named Bunyan, who once had a wonderful dream. It was about a sinner who became a Christian and who travelled from earth to heaven. He was shown many wonderful places and saw wonderful things, and had wonderful experiences.

Among the places he visited was the House Beautiful, and in it he was shown a great many things, and among them his guides showed him, "all manner of furniture which their Lord had provided for pilgrims, as sword, shield, helmet, breastplate, all-prayer, and shoes that would not wear out."

Was that not a wonderful thing to have? How pleased your dad would be if he could buy you everlasting shoes. Well, there are such, and I will tell you what they are.

(1) An old legend tells of a maiden whose footsteps left flowers blooming. Wherever she went, things were a little brighter because she went there.

I knew a little girl who was called Little Sunshine, because she was like a ray of light. She tripped around like a dancing sunbeam.

To clothe one's feet in merry sunshine is to get a covering that can't fade. There is no wear to sunshine. It is always fresh and bright and welcome. That is the kind of shoes your mother wears!

"She sings a snatch of a merry song

As she toils in her home from morn till night.

Her work is hard and the hours are long

But the little woman's heart is light."

No one ever has sore feet who wears shoes of sunshine.

(2) The Bible says it is a good thing to wear shoes that are called "the preparation of the gospel of peace."

I wonder what that means? It is not easy to say, but I fancy it means we should be always ready to preach the love gospel of Jesus.

"What!" you say. "I preach!"—Why sure! a preacher is not only a man in a pulpit on Sunday. He is one who delivers a message, and he does not have to always use his voice. Deeds talk too!

A young fellow was converted, so he said, by his mother's preaching—but she never said anything. She just lived so that when people saw her they thought of Jesus. He called it his mother's "translation of the Bible."

Our Bibles are changed from Greek and Hebrew into English. He said hers was changed from print into practice.

And those shoes that cover the feet with a Christ love message will never wear out.

There is a beautiful hymn we all love to sing. You can hear it on a victrola from a trained quartette and it sounds wonderful:

"I love to tell the story,

More wonderful it seems,

Than all the golden fancies

Of all our golden dreams.

And when in scenes of glory

I sing the new, new song,

Twill be the old, old story,

That I have loved so long."

You see it does not wear out. It is the new song and the old story. It is like the love of a mother that stays fresh and strong right up to heaven's gate.

And even a child can sing it, by just being like Him whose song it is.

The girl or boy who lives the sweet, loving Christlike life and is like a little candle shining in the night,

"You in your small corner and I in mine,"

has gospel shoes on.

There is a song we used to sing:

"Brighten the corner where you are."

A little girl in my congregation used to sing it:

"Right in the corner, where you are;"

and I believe if you and I can brighten the corner, right in the corner, where we are, we will be using shoes that never wear out.

XXVI

THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE RIFLE

You all know the difference between a shotgun and a rifle. A shotgun scatters the shot; a rifle centres the shot. A shotgun will splash the target; a rifle can make a bull's eye.

I had a medical friend who gave me what he called a shotgun prescription for rheumatism. It was made up of a lot of different prescriptions mixed together with the hope that if one did not hit the spot some other might. That is what a shotgun is like—it hits all round.

But a rifle puts its bullet just at one spot.

One represents concentration—the other scatteration.

When you examine the part of a rifle you see how it is made just for its work. There is the butt, by which you hold it steady; there is the sight, which helps you to aim; there is the long barrel, that makes the aim sure and that puts power into it; and there is the trigger, very small, but hitting the one spot where the charge is exploded.

That rifle is an object filled full of suggestions for us.

We, too, need to hold steady. A wobbler is a failure.

A piece of glue was asked how to succeed, and said, "Select some proper task, and then stick to it." That is the way a postage stamp carries your letter.

"I have noted with pride that through thick and through thin

You cling to a thing till you do it.

And whatever your aim, you are certain to win,

Because you seem bound to stick to it.

Then I turn to whatever my hands are about,

And with fortified purpose renew it

And the end soon encompass for which I set out

If only like you I stick to it."

I do not know who the author of that is, but he was right. He is a rifle.

We too need to take aim.—Did you ever see the small boy the first time he was allowed to hold a gun?

He held it up, shut his eyes, and bang! it went off, but he had not the first idea where the shot went to.

Take aim, my boy. Look along the sight and see where you are shooting. See if there is anything to shoot.

They say there is a tombstone in one of Europe's royal cemeteries with these words on it:

"Here lies a monarch who with the

best of intentions, never

carried out a single plan."

And to make the aim sure, and put power behind it, there is need of a long barrel. That barrel keeps the shot in. You could have a lot of gunpowder lying around loose and put a match to it and have a regular Fourth of July blaze, but it would not do much. But put a little bit of powder behind a rifle ball and hedge that ball in with a barrel, and bang! it goes with terrific power—a force strong enough to go through a sheet of iron.

That is why you go to school and why you are taught to obey, and why you have to follow rules, and why they drill you and put you under discipline. It gives you power.

The free girl and boy is not the one who can do anything he or she wants to do. That is not liberty, that is license. The free girl and boy is the trained one, and that means hard work and effort and holding in, and ruling.

I knew a girl who used to sit at a piano four hours a day, just lifting her fingers. It was dreadfully tiring, but you should have heard her play after she got the power.

Don't you go growling about being made to do this, that and the other thing. If you were not so made, you would never do anything by-and-by.

Lots of young people would like to be well known, and called a genius, and a wonder, and shine out so that people would look at them as they passed by. Well, genius is just sweating over things. Genius means hard work. It means being intense—that is a word that suggests elastic pulled out. We call it tense. It is the pulled out elastic that, when let go, makes the power of your catapult.

Columbus was a great sailor and a great man. In his journal is found this sentence: "That day we sailed westward, which was our course."

Think of those last four words. He set himself to do a thing—made a course and did it, followed it, and he got there. That is what a rifle does.

And all the great world people were like that.

Jesus "set His face" to go to Jerusalem.

One of my University class was the champion mile runner of America. I guess he would not mind if I told you his name. It was George Orton.

At the University games a lot of us students were sitting in the bleachers watching the contests. One of them was the mile race and Orton was in it. As they settled down for the mile jog, you could see them watching one another, and trying to keep as close together as possible until the last lap.

Then some one said, "Look at Orton!" And as we looked, we saw the great runner coming down the track with his face as though turned into granite, his eyes set, his teeth together, and every muscle hard as steel. He did not seem to be the same person. "His face was set" and in a second his breast had touched the tape line at the winning post.

Paul said, "This one thing I do," and it was because he put all his passion and force behind one great object that he became a rifle in the hands of the Christ.

The Book of Proverbs says, "Let thine eyes look straight forward."

Oh, girls and boys, if you want to make your mark in the world, choose a great aim, endure the work that brings it near, and then go at it and stay with it!

It was one of the most wonderful mornings of history when was fought the battle of Vimy Ridge, that helped to turn back the German hosts.

I had a friend in Vancouver who stood at one end of that fiery line, at the early zero hour that day. He said it was the most majestic sight he ever saw when, in the early gray dawn, three thousand artillery opened at once and belched forth fire and shot all concentrated on one spot. He said it was so terrible that he could hardly think of even a pin being left on the ground.

It was a clean sweep, that barrage that prepared for the bayonet charge of the Canadian Brigade.

All victory is won by that concentration of purpose.

Do you not want victory?

I am sure you do not want to be defeated in your life. You want to make a bull's eye. If you do, take a definite aim; form your plan and fire in that direction.

Do you know that one of the Old Testament words for sin means "missing the mark"?

You and I are not made to hit the target of life on the outside edge. We are made to hit it in the centre.

Therefore, young folks, be a rifle with a single aim, and make your bull's eye!

There is a poem by a great man called Goethe. It is a little hard, but I believe you can understand it if you study it out, and it is worth a little study. Here it is:

"Are you in earnest? Choose the very minute

What you can do, or think you can begin it.

Boldness has genius, power, magic in it.

Only engage, and then the mind grows heated.

Begin, and then the work will be completed."

XXVII

THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE BELT AND PUTTEE

Nearly every girl and boy loves a uniform. I am not sure but that grown-up people do too.

Now, a uniform has to be neat. If it is not, it looks the opposite of attractive.

And two things help to make it neat and trim: One is the belt that holds the tunic in, and the other the puttees that fold up the trouser legs. They make the soldier smart-looking. As the modern small boy says, "They are classy!"

And they are so useful.

To-day, golfers and outdoor sports, even women, put on knickers and roll up tight things that are loose, because then they can do better work and play.

The belt and puttee make the soldier firm and strong, and fit for travel and work. They brace him up, hold him together, give him support.

Now, one of the Bible messages is, "Gird up your loins." The loins are the centre of your body, where you are apt to get weak or sore backs.

Perhaps you have had that feeling come, as though you were going to break in half. It is because you have not been strong enough in the centre for the strain.

1. Why should we be girded up? Well, of course, in Bible days, and in Eastern countries, the very clothing made a hard journey or a task needing exercise very difficult. They wore flowing robes with wide sleeves, like a college gown. Now, nobody could do a trail ranger's work within that dress.

When a racer runs a race, or a boxer enters the ring, or an athlete goes into a gymnasium or on to the field, they take off all that is not necessary.

Even the Eastern people wear girdles and sashes to hold in their loose clothing.

You need to be held tight together if you want to be able to swing yourself. You can't be free in garments that cling to you, and wrap themselves about your legs and arms.

The same is true of your mind. It won't work if it is not held in.

Nor will your soul.

Jesus, in His parable, says we must have our lamps lit and our loins girded, because only then will we be ready for the chance when it comes—and it may spring on us unannounced.

That is the purpose of school and work and lessons and exercises. Life is not an easy job.

If you have read "Tom Brown's Schooldays" (and I hope you have or will) you will find the author saying that "life is no fool's or sluggard's paradise, but a battlefield ordained from of old, where there are no spectators, and the youngest must take his stand, and the stakes are life and death."

If you go to a hockey match or a baseball game, you can sit in the grand-stand and look on; but there is no grand-stand in life, and no looking on. We are all in it, and, therefore, we need to be ready.

Now, being ready is just girding yourself—gathering yourself together so you can make an effort. And if you do not make an effort, you will leave behind no mark, any more than you do when you put your finger in a pail of water and pull it out again.

2. The puttee is to make us tight and strong and ready to march; but the belt is also to hang things on.

That is the worst of life—we have to carry a lot of burdens. Some of them, of course, we make for ourselves. We often tie things on to us by silly acts and sins. The best thing to do with them is not to have any, or get rid of them as soon as possible.

But there are real burdens that God sends. They are His gifts to us, and we need a place to carry them—duties and tasks and home calls and troubles and sorrows. Oh, there are a lot of things to do, and if you have no belt, where in the world are you going to hang them all?

Now the Bible says a splendid girdle is "Truth."

A true girl and boy is well-knit, straight up and down, like a perpendicular line. You know where to find them. They will always win out. They have no sloppy one-sidedness that will tip them over. And they can carry a lot of things on their belt.

A false boy and girl double up when a burden is put on them. They are too weak to bear up. But a true one stands so nobly, and whatever you lay on them, you know they will carry safely.

And what is Truth?

It means being real, whole, not broken up, not a fraction, but a whole number. It means ringing true, like a bell without a crack.

In early times, they used sometimes to make images, and when they got cracked and old, they would patch them up with wax and putty and then paint them over till they looked lovely; and sold them for real things. By-and-by the weather and time wore off the paint and dug out the wax, and then they stood in their shameful cracky look, and people said, do not be waxy, but genuine right through.

The word "sincere" is from two Latin words, sine—without, and cera—wax.

The true girl and boy is unwaxed. There is no paint covering up nasty cracks. They ring true.

I went into a store once in Toronto and had an awful experience. I bought some article and sent in an American cart-wheel. That, you know, is a silver dollar. It shot up the wind tubes to the office, and in a jiffy it was shot back down again, with an acid stain on it.

It was a false piece! What do you think of that? I was so confused, for I feared they might think I was trying to pass bad money. And me a minister too!

When it struck the testing table, it did not ring right, and the acid soon told the story, and I got the old fraud back again.

Any life like that has not got on the girdle of truth. It is like a glittering object on the ground that looks like a diamond, but proves to be glass. It is like a piece of timber that looks all right and is put in the ship, but it had a worm inside, and became rotten, and the ship sank.

Gird yourselves up, girls and boys. Fasten up your life, strong and firm, and be true, and you will have a great help in being a good soldier of Jesus Christ.

XXVIII

THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE KIT BAG

When you go on a journey you carry a suitcase, or you take a trunk, in which you place your belongings that you will need while away from home.

When the soldier goes off to the war he has a bag in which he puts some of the things he cannot do without—things that are absolutely necessary.

First. It is wonderful when you come down to bed rock, how few things we need, after all. Most of us are overburdened.

There is hardly a girl or boy that has not a whole lot of unused baggage lying around—old toys and books, old ribbons and hats. They fill the bureau drawer and lie around the room and take up space in cupboards until your mother simply gives them away or burns them up.

When I left Vancouver to come to Toronto, I had a bonfire in my back yard for a lot of stuff that I used to think I had to save up.

Houses are like that, too. I roomed once in a very beautiful home, but the drawing-room was so full of furniture that you could not turn around without getting a bump somewhere.

There are a lot of things in our homes and a lot of material in our lives, and a lot of stuff in our minds that is just like piles of old lumber in the fence corner, doing no good; or like a lot of old clothes in a cupboard, only gathering moths.

The soldier knows that, and he just carries around what he can use, and the kit bag is where he keeps them. It is a very fine thing to be able to carry useful things around with us.

A useless girl or boy is usually in the road.

What is the good of a lot of clothes if you can't wear them?

I saw a man on the vessel on which I once sailed to Australia who had seventeen suits of clothes, and their chief use was in keeping busy his cabin boy, who brushed them.

And what's the use of a lot of information in your mind if you can't use it?

I do not know which is the worse, having too many things or having nothing useful.

I have read of a beehive in California, away out on the face of a cliff. It is stored full, but all day long hundreds of bees swarm around the cave; and while men have put on leather suits, very little has ever been secured from that nest of useless sweetness.

But second: The kit bag has in it not merely things the soldier has to daily use—socks to keep his feet warm and dry; brushes to keep the snarl out of his hair; razors to keep his face smooth; soap to keep him clean—but he also stores away in it precious things, and they are useful too: Letters from home—what would he do without their messages of love?

They say the saddest sight in a camp was the disappointed face of a boy when the mail came and there was nothing for him.

If you are a young person, away from home and forget the old folks, that's the way your mother looks when you neglect to write.

"The tender words unspoken,

The letters never sent,

The long-forgotten messages,

The wealth of love unspent.

For these some hearts are breaking,

For these some loved ones wait;

So show them that you care for them,

Before it is too late."

There are books and photographs of those beloved, looked at first thing in the morning and last at night; and when the kit and all belongings are left in store when the battle is on, those precious photos are taken out and hidden next the heart, under the tunic.

There, too, is the Testament, placed by loving hands when the outfit was packed—perhaps the mother gave her own to her boy when he left; and there is a smudge mark yet on the cover, where a tear dropped, that she tried very hard not to let fall, but could not help it.

Many a boy valued that Testament, and after some of them were found, there lay in the pocket, with the pages glued together by the blood, and sometimes torn with a bullet mark, the gift of pious love.

Oh, how grand it is to have a life filled with precious values—the values that make us richer, and help to adorn us and cheer us and brighten us.

A little child on the seashore saw a bright spangle. Picking it up, she found it was attached to a gold thread, and drawing the thread, she found other spangles, which she wound round her neck and body, covering it with brightness. And as we go through life, it is very lovely to pick up the precious sparkling things filled with love value, and wind them around our hearts.

Dear girls and boys, have you anything of value in your lives—of a real worth while—real costly things?

Marbles and toys and air balloons, and wrist watches and spats and gorgeous neckties are all right; but you will need more if you are going to amount to anything, and I suggest you store up your kit bag with precious things of noble thoughts and full minds and sweet memories and useful deeds, for it is not what you have or how much you weigh that counts, but what you are and what you can do.

Did you ever hear people discussing somebody, and did you overhear some one say, "Oh, there's nothing in him." There may be feet in his boots, and arms in his coat sleeves and legs in his pants, and a head in his hat, but his real self is empty—"To Let" is seen written over his face.

Be something in this toiling age

Of busy hands and feet.

A light upon some darkened page,

A shelter from the heat.

Be found upon the workmen's roll,

Go sow or plant or plough.

Bend to the task with willing soul.

Be something, somewhere, now.

Third: Each soldier has to have a kit bag, and he puts his name on it in white paint, so that everybody knows it is his.

You and I have to carry our belongings with us too, good or bad, and nobody can steal them, as sometimes happened with the boys' kit bags. Ours always go along with us.

It seems so foolish not to gather good belongings that you won't want to bury or throw away. Life is a queer sort of thing, and the strange thing is that while you carry your belongings with you, you are also sending them on ahead of you, and they build your future home.

A woman once dreamed that she died and went up to heaven. Angel guides took her through the lovely city and showed her its wonderful streets and homes.

One was a magnificent palace with a beautiful situation, and great towers and windows. She asked who it was for and was surprised to hear it was for her footman who did the dirty work around the stable and house.

In another street was a little bungalow—beautiful too, for everything was fair and lovely, but still very small and humble. She asked who that was for, and was told it was to be her future home. In disgust she said, "What! Do you know who I am, and how much wealth I have? You give my ignorant footman a great palace, and me this little bit of a place!" And the angel quietly said, "Well, madam, we are doing our best with what's sent up."

So you see your kit bag possessions are with you now, but the real possessions of your life, your thoughts and words and deeds are helping to form the home you will some day live in forever.

I think it would be a good idea to see that we have only the best, and send on only those things that will help build a beautiful home of the soul.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, a great American writer, once wrote these words:

"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll;

Leave thy low vaulted past;

Let each new temple nobler than the last

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea."

XXIX

THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE UNIFORM

The uniform helps to change a variegated mass of men into an army. A regiment would not look anything like what it does were it not for the uniform.

It is the kilts that not only have a history but that give the Highlanders their glorious influence. The Scotchman thinks the kilties are the only soldiers, and one can respect his enthusiasm, for great deeds have been done by the troops from the land of the heather.

The uniform puts the finishing touch on a soldier.

I have seen the boys take the oath, but it was after they visited the storehouse and came out in the glory of the khaki, with their swagger stick, that you saw written all over them, "I'm a soldier of the king."

That uniform is the badge of service. Every one who wears it is a marked man. His uniform proclaims him. He does not need a tag.

A girl was once converted at some church meetings, and she went up to an old member and with shining face, said, "Oh, Mr. Blank, I am a Christian, and I wish you were one too." The old man flushed and said, "My dear little girl, I have been a Christian for forty years." "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, "I'm sorry I spoke. I never knew."

He was a Christian but nobody knew. He lacked the marks.

But a soldier, once he dons the uniform, is at once known.

More than that, a uniform is like a flag. It represents the empire. Each nation has its own flag and its own uniform, and wherever its soldiers go, they carry, so to speak, their country with them.

If they are bad, they dishonour their flag and bring disgrace on their colours and the uniform.

One of the greatest motives behind the men in the war was "the honour of the company or the regiment or the battalion or the brigade."

One company lost a trench and were heartsick with depression, and when the time came, half dead with weariness and hunger and thirst, they retook it and were happy because they had saved the honour of the company. The uniform means that.

A bad man or a coward not only hurts himself, but he brings disgrace on the company. Every deed of evil or cowardice comes back on the flag and the country to which the man belongs who wears its uniform.

The uniform speaks to the soldier of duty—it makes duty easier. In New York the street sweepers were clad in a white uniform and they say every man felt a little bigger and better and more anxious to do better work because of the uniform.

A boy in the Trail Rangers or the Boy Scouts can't help feeling the influence of his uniform.

A mother told me about her daughter, a Girl Guide, doing something wrong in school one day when she had on the uniform. The mother said, "Oh, daughter, you did not do it with the uniform on, did you?" And it nearly broke the child's heart.

You can't do things in uniform you might do in plain clothes. It makes you a member of a league of honour, in spite of yourself. It bucks a fellow up and sort of puts him on his honour. It says, "Here, you are not your own now. You belong as you never did before to your country, and your country is counting on you." A chap can hardly go back on that!

The uniform proclaims loyalty too.

To don the khaki meant that the boy heard the call. The S.O.S. sounded his country's need, and up he sprang because he was a loyal subject. Of course, some loyal subjects could not and did not have to join the army. But every one who could did, unless he was a shirker and a slacker.

Loyalty means doing your duty. It means ready to do your bit whether at home or on the firing-line. It does not matter which, if it is your bit.

More than that, the uniform puts responsibility on the wearer. You know how big even a boy can feel when he joins the Boys' Brigade or the Boy Scouts and gets a uniform on. It makes him feel inches taller, and his chest gets thicker, which is perfectly right. He will do things in uniform and under the spell of what it all means that before he would hardly dare believe to be possible.

The uniform is full of history, just as the flag is, and somehow when it is donned, all the great history presses on the wearer and makes a bigger man of him, if he has anything in him, and makes him able for big things.

"Britain be proud of such a son!—

Deathless the fame which he has won.

Only a boy—but such a one;

Standing forever by his gun;

There was his duty to be done—

And he did it."

If your dad had a boy or if you had a brother who heard the world's call, and signed up and was measured and had his muscles and heart and lungs and eyes all tested, and then in one big moment, while his dad's throat was choking, stood up erect before the officer and swore in for service; and if later that boy or brother came up home all shining in buttons, with his boots black and his puttees neat and strong, and his belt tightening up his loins—you know just how a new passion of loyalty would surge through you.

If you were a girl you would be sorry, and decide to try to go as a nurse, or perhaps drive a car; if you were a young boy, you would hit your toy drum harder and step out more briskly and tell all the other boys you thought you could get the job of a drummer.

Oh, the uniform does help to deepen our sense of loyalty.

Now, girls and boys, I am telling you all this for a purpose. You know there is another army all over the world called the Salvation Army, made up of people who wear uniforms and play bands and go to war against the worst of all enemies, the one called Sin. And they do a wonderful lot of good in the world and deserve our respect and support. They have won by their loyalty even homage from kings.

But did you know your father and mother, who are members of the church, belong to an army too, and wear a uniform too? It is the great army of Jesus Christ, those who have sworn to be His servants and to do His work, and the uniform is just their Christian life.

I know some church members do not look or act any different from those who are not. But the real member tries to and when he joins he puts on the uniform of a Christlike life which works for Christlike ends.

When the Christians first began to live it all out, the world used to say, "See how these Christians love one another." Their Christian membership was like a badge. Everybody knew where they belonged.

I want to ask you to join up there and put on the uniform of church membership. I will tell you why.

It helps to make you a better Christian. It is taking your stand on His side, and you can't do that, if you mean it, without being made deeper and stronger.

I do not think any one can be as good outside the church as in it, and I am sure we should be better inside than out of it. Those who are good without going to church are good because the church has made it possible. Just as all who were not in the army were safe because the great army and navy were protecting them. But it is not fair to borrow other people's money to live on. You should have your own. And it is not fair to get the good the church brings us without coming in and helping her. It is not fair to give no return for service received.

So I ask you to join God's church because it helps you, and it helps the church and it tells everybody where you stand.

Then it expresses your loyalty. Jesus gives us His church and if everybody refused to come in, it would die, and His work would perish.

Announce your loyalty now! Fight the fight now!

"He is counting on you!

On a love that will share

In His burden of prayer,

For the souls He has bought

With His life blood and sought,

Through His sorrow and pain

To win 'home' yet again.

He is counting on you;

If you fail Him—what then?"

It is very hard to be a citizen-at-large, that is, a citizen of the world. You have to be a citizen of some country.

A great Scotch poet said:

"Breathes there a man with soul so dead

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land."

To love the world you have to know how to love your own part of it.

And so in order to tell the world of our loyalty to Christ, we need to fasten down to the church that stands for Christ.

To have a sort of general love for God without helping to spread His cause will soon result in the loss of your love for God.

Take away the church for ten years, and you would not want to live in your town after.

And then it is a fine thing to put the church uniform on as early as possible. It is not fair to live your life for yourself and your own pleasures until you get too old for them, and then bring what is left and offer it to God.

In the Old Testament days it was the unblemished lamb that was asked for; and, dear girls and boys, God wants you now, in the days of your youth. The church needs your fresh, bright young lives. The future so big with promise needs strength and vigour, and you have it. Therefore, do not stand off, but line up soon, and then you will have a long life of service, and not a poor little meagre piece at the end.

The sooner you become an out-and-out worker for Jesus, the more you will be able to help Him. There is no life sadder than to have to go out at the end with no record of service.

A young man, dying, had given himself to God but seemed sad and troubled, and they asked him what was the matter, had he lost his trust? "Oh, no," he said, "not that, but I have to go and meet Jesus with empty hands!"

And some one wrote a hymn which says:

"Must I go and empty handed,

Thus my dear Redeemer meet,

Not one day of service give Him,

Lay no trophies at His feet?"

You, girls and boys, put the Christian uniform on now; join up soon. Then think of the long and splendid record of service that will be yours if you stand loyal to the army of Jesus Christ.

XXX

"Q" AND "S" GROCERY

Did you ever hear of that sort of a store? When I first saw the sign I wondered what it meant. I had heard of college societies with letters that describe them, and I had seen letters like that on music sheets; but whatever could it stand for over a grocery store?

Perhaps it meant "Quick and Sure" or perhaps it was the name of the men who owned it, only I could not see why they should be ashamed of their name, for most merchants want their name known.

At last some one told me it stood for "Quality" and "Service." Then I saw what a splendid sign it was.

It made people curious. It was so mysterious-looking that everybody would ask about it and talk about it, and that would advertise it; while the meaning, once found out, made you feel confident. A store that serves out quality is worth going to.

Any one who can show that he has quality and that he is anxious to serve is worth getting acquainted with.

Think of those two things.

(a) Quality.

So many hunt after quantity. When I was a very small boy my grandfather used to offer me my choice between a nickel and a big copper penny, and I took the penny every time. It was more to hold. I could feel it better.

Every child would rather have a big apple than a little one, and they all hunt the plate for the biggest piece of cake or pie. Some big people are no better, for they do not always look for quality, either.

Big things do appeal to us.—Big mountains and big seas, and big trees and big houses, and big horses and big automobiles, and big men, and I suppose it has a place.

It is wonderful to stand in the mountains and just feel their great size; it is an inspiration to go out to British Columbia and stand in some forest corridor and look up at those great Douglas firs, that tower up above your heads and spread their branches over a field.

In Vancouver, at Stanley Park, there is one so big that autos back into it and have a photograph taken.

But after all, the chief thing is not size, but meaning and character. There are some big vegetables that are so big they are no use. They are soft and overgrown.

Soul is more important than bulk.

"For tho' the giant ages heave the hill

And break the shore and ever more

Make and break and work their will

Though world on world in myriad myriads roll

Round us each with different powers

And other forms of life than ours

What know we greater than the soul."

Have you ever gone out on a frosty night and looked up at the sky and thought of the great spaces above you, and the sun millions of miles off? Did you know that if a train travelling one mile every minute could fall off the earth and keep going, it would take forty millions of years to reach the nearest fixed star? And yet your soul is more important than it all!

"Knowest thou the value of a soul immortal?

Behold the midnight glory, worlds on worlds

Amazing pomp. Redouble this amaze;

Ten thousand add, add twice ten thousand more

Then weigh the whole; one soul outweighs them all,

And calls the astonishing magnificence

Of unintelligent creation poor."

There is a wonderful instrument used by men of science, called a microscope, and it shows us that the smallest things are more wonderful even than the big things you can see with your eye. The little insect that makes the coral, that is so graceful, is an object of wondrous beauty under the microscope.

When you buy a flower, it is not the biggest you want, it is the richest and loveliest, the one of quality.

What is it makes a man? Not size. That may make a prize-fighter, but who wants to be a prize-fighter? He is muscle and bone and beef, but that is not manhood.

A real man is a gentleman, even if he is not much to boast of in size. The real signs are not those of bigness, but something inside of him—the peculiar quality that makes you honour and love him.

Here is what Margaret Sangster says of it:

THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN

I knew him for a gentleman

By signs that never fail;

His coat was rough and rather worn,

His cheeks were thin and pale;

A lad who had his way to make

With little time for play;

I knew him for a gentleman

By certain signs to-day.

He met his mother on the street,

Off came his little cap;

My door was shut, he waited there

Until I heard his rap.

He took the bundle from my hand;

And when I dropped the pen,

He sprang to pick it up for me—

This little gentleman of ten.

He does not push or crowd along.

His voice is gently pitched;

He does not fling his books about

As if he were bewitched.

He stands aside to let you pass,

He always shuts the door.

He runs on errands willingly,

To forge or mill or store.

He thinks of you before himself;

He serves you if he can,

For in whatever company

The manners make the man.

At ten or forty 'tis the same.

The manner tells the tale;

And I discern the gentleman

By signs that never fail.

I have read of three women who were once talking about pretty hands. Not one of them tested the matter by the size of their hands, and yet they, too, forgot quality. One said she kept hers pretty by washing them in milk; another dipped hers in berry juice, and the third washed hers in the fragrance of flowers.

While they were talking, a poor old woman came and asked for something to eat, and they were so busy talking about the kind of hands they had they could not help her.

Another woman whose hands were worn with work, and hardened by the sun, and all wrinkled, and who was passing by, listened to the poor old woman's cry, and fed her. Then she asked the three what they had been doing, and they said, "We will leave it to you to say whose hands are the loveliest." And do you know, girls and boys, she passed by the hands of milky whiteness and the hands that smelt of flowers, and turning to the working woman said, "She has the prettiest, for she uses them for gifts to others!"

It is quality of character that counts.

You may be as big as a giant and as strong as a horse, and yet lack in the only thing that really counts or lasts—a quality that gives you worth.

What is worth anyhow? What are you worth? You say, "Oh, my daddy is a millionaire. We have a lovely house and gardens, and I get new dresses every month. Whew! We are worth a lot!"

Well, perhaps you are, for a man can have money and something more. If he has only money piles, he is terribly poor.

You are worth just what you are. Just what your quality is.

They used to talk years ago of "ladies of quality" and they meant the upper uppers—the swells and people with titles. Now we know there are splendid ladies with titles, but it is not the title that makes them ladies of quality, it is what they carry in their hearts.

I will tell you how to get character quality.

"I would be true, for there are those who trust me,

I would be pure, for there are those who care;

I would be strong, for there is much to suffer,

I would be brave, for there is much to dare.

"I would be friend to all—the foe—the friendless;

I would be giving and forget the gift,

I would be humble for I know my weakness,

I would look up, and laugh—and love—and lift."

But you need quality in work too. We live in a pushing day when we judge by quantity. Pile things up, drive ahead, keep moving, hustle along. Do a lot of things.

Now, there is a better rule—not how much, but how well done.

I have a lovely picture with a beautiful frame that has a history. It is the picture of The Doctor. You all have seen it.—Where the good man is sitting by the side of the sick child, studying the case, the lamplight shining on the face, and the father and mother in tears and anxiety in the background.

Some Scotch craftsmen who knew me framed it in bird's-eye maple, inlaid with basswood, and the frame has the story on it—The Iris plant on the sides, a symbol of immortality, the Egyptian symbol of eternity above, and the sand-glass below; all meant to illustrate the battle between life and death in the picture itself.

Now, the frame is not very big, but it is very beautiful, because the Scotch handicraft men have as their ideal to make every piece of work as perfect in quality as possible.

Solid, steady, sure work tells, not always brilliant.

Lots of brilliant people in school never amount to anything afterward, because they lack the quality of always sticking at it and doing each thing the best way possible.

If you ever watch men bowling on the green, or curling on the ice, you know that a shot that is too swift, that has too much quantity in it, goes through the house; the telling shot is the quiet, steady one with the right quality of delivery in it.

(b) Service.

That grocery store said, "We want to help you." It was thinking of others and living for others.

The motto of the Prince of Wales is "Ich dien," which means, "I serve."

In long past years the big man was the fellow who bossed the job.—He was called the ruler, the magistrate.

To-day, especially since Jesus, the big man is the minister.—I do not mean the preacher in your church, but the man who gets down beside the people and serves them. You know "minister" is a Latin word that means "servant." Every one who tries to serve other people is a minister. He is the biggest man everywhere. The biggest word to-day is "Service."

There were four letters in the war that were very touching to me, C.A.S.C.—The Canadian Army Service Corps.

They worked for everybody. They were supply centres. The army never could have done its work without them. They were worth all the honour could be given them, because they were the army helpers.

Oh, if everybody would only help, what a happy world this would be!

Most of our troubles are because we want to be helped. It makes us selfish and jealous and mean and grabby.

The war came from it—nations seeking to get.

School is made unhappy by it. It spoils play and games and dinner tables and Sunday Schools and churches and lives.

God serves and nature serves. Parents and teachers serve.

Why don't you? What do you want to be always getting for?

A small boy once put a note by his mother's plate, and when she came to breakfast, she found a bill.

The dear mother never said a word, but left the bill on the table. Next morning a note was at the boy's plate.

The second day a shame-faced boy tore up that first bill and later on laid his head in his mother's lap and cried.—I guess you know why!

Before a train starts, the wipers go all over her to wipe and examine the engine; the fireman comes and builds and starts the fire; the engineer comes and goes carefully all over the machinery; the mechanic comes and tests all the wheels; and then she is linked on the train, the lever is pulled, and puff! puff!—away she goes, drawing her long line of passengers and freight!

You are going through the process now of getting ready. By-and-by you will be hitched on to some life job.

See you get ready properly, and get coupled to the right train; and then pull for all your might, and help serve humanity by bringing in your load to the final station where some day we all must land.

XXXI

BETSY

Henry W. Longfellow, the poet, tells us that

"Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And departing, leave behind us,

Footprints in the sands of time.

"Footprints that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, may take heart again."

That is all beautifully true. It is also true that many a humble, obscure life can teach us lessons of trust and loyalty, and devotion to good things.

The story I am going to tell you is about a humble Indian girl, whose forefathers had been all savages, but whose home was a Christian one among the simple native children of the North.

Over fifty years before the time of our story, an unchristianized band of Indians fished in the inland waters, trapped in the forest for mink and otter, muskrat, bear or silver fox; and paddled the lake in birch barks; sometimes supplementing their paddle strokes by a sail contrived of a blanket fastened to a pole cut from a neighbouring bluff.

From far over the Atlantic came a brave man, with a heart full of peace, and anxious to acquaint the native with the brightness of his own life.

It meant much to settle in such a district in early days, long before the iron horse had made a path across the prairie; days when the trail wound its wandering way over rock and soil, skirting the bluffs, penetrating forest, mounting granite hills or hiding itself in rocky ravines.

And even after the perils of the trail were passed, there still remained the privations of the lonely Mission, cut off from companionship, with the keen biting winds of winter, the ice-locked lake, the powdery-dry snow falling and falling until one wondered if the air had turned to snow, and when morning came little was left of the buildings except the chimney tops; the whole Mission was buried in white as though shut up in the garments of the tomb.

Twice a year the mail carrier braved first the heat of summer and then the rigour of winter, and when the contents of the mail-bag were emptied on the parlour floor what delight in once more touching the outside world. It was like reading history after it was past to scan the doings of the year. It was like a breath from the dear old home to see the familiar postage stamps and to read the welcome words of dear ones from letters, enclosing home flowers and fragrant love messages.

In all this life no one made greater sacrifice than the missionary's wife, who saw no women save her dusky pagan sisters with the dark brown eyes with a yearning look in them.

Many years ago Keewatin, the "North Wind" with his little daughter Akwinanoh were sitting by their wigwam door looking down the long stretch of the Northern Lake, when suddenly a strange apparition some miles away startled them into attention. Their cry gathered almost the whole camp, which watched with wonder and amaze a changing object moving toward them, but unexplainable by even their keen Indian sight.

Whatever it was it gleamed and glistened in the setting sun until finally Keewatin, with a glimmer of inspiration in his eyes, said, "I know what it is. It is an island of light." He was nearer the truth than he knew, for it was the tin canoe of the English missionary, the tin reflecting, in scintillating rays, the sunlight, and the canoe bearing the messenger of a light that so far had never yet shone for them. Every stranger excites the curiosity of the savage man, but Akwinanoh had a new object of interest from that day, for with the white man came a tiny white baby that soon grew into the pet of the reserve!

The little daughter of the North Wind adopted the white man's child as her special charge, and while the missionary worked and prayed to bring the Gospel of the Christ-child into the hearts of the Saulteaux, another little child slowly but surely worked its way into the life of the brown maiden, transforming her, and through its gentle pressure Akwinanoh soon yielded to the influence of the Gospel of Bethlehem's babe.

Later she became the Christian mother of her who was known as Betsy. Betsy grew into a girlhood that was beautiful, even from the white man's point of vision.

She was gentle as the breath of the south wind, with a sweet grace of manner and a consistency of life that made her a strong support to the man who came to them in his canoe.

To be a follower of Christ seemed natural to her, for she had His spirit, and was full of unselfish thoughtfulness.

One day as she was walking along the river edge she saw a child slip and fall. Without a moment's hesitation she plunged into the deep, brown stream, six fathoms at the rock, and brought the child safe to its parents' tepee. It was early in the spring and the waters were cold, and before night a raging fever laid her low.

For weeks she suffered, waited upon by the heathen medicine man, uncomplainingly swallowing the hideous compounds from his mix-all bottles, and slowly sinking under the fatal grip of pneumonia.

The young husband refused at first to allow the approach of the white doctor, and the missionary could only pray and hope.

Finally, when one day the light burned low, the obstinate young Indian bowed before the compelling force of necessity, and proper medical attendance began. Then the doctor took hold, nursing her as though she were his own child; watching symptoms and succeeding in bringing back hopeful conditions into the wasted frame.

It was a gay day when the report circulated through the camp that Betsy, the beloved, was recovering under the magic spell woven around her by the English medicine man, for no one could fail to notice the sweet spirit and to wish for victory in the stern battle brought on through her unselfish act.

One day in the evening, the missionary found her, oh so quiet and worn, but gentle as ever. She could speak a little English and seemed glad to think that she was cared for.

"Well, Betsy," said the missionary, "you have been very ill."

"Yes," she answered sweetly, "very ill, but the good light the white man brought has been shining in my heart and all is well."

"We are glad, Betsy," said the missionary, "that God is going to spare you. We could ill do without you. Your life has been a benediction to the whole reserve."

"Oh, Missionary," said Betsy, weeping, "do not say that. When I think of the story of His love it makes me ashamed. But I do wish my people could feel and know as I do. I would like to stay among them for a little while, for I love them. But sometimes I have a feeling in my heart that perhaps it is not to be. I had a dream last night, Missionary. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes, Betsy," he replied, "but are you strong enough to talk so long?"

"Oh, yes; I feel quite strong this evening, thanks to the white doctor.

"I dreamed I was going along the trail when suddenly away before me I saw a wonderful light. It was coming my way and as it got nearer it took on the form of a person. Soon it stood beside me and I saw that it was the face of Christ, but oh, it was too beautiful to describe! And I said, 'Have you come for me?' 'No,' said a voice, 'not yet.' And I thought I was so disappointed, and I said, 'Well, will you be long?' And the answer was, 'No, not very long.' And as it spoke it disappeared, and I awakened."

He listened, hushed and awestruck at the story of the dream of this dusky sister of the plain.

"Well, Betsy," said he, after a moment of silence, "it is all well. That dream may not come literally true, but the spirit of it is yours, and some day He will come to your people, and when the right moment arrives He will come for you too. Shall we pray, Betsy?"

"Oh, yes sir, pray," she said, "pray for me, but do not forget my people, and my man."

The night shadows were growing darker as reverently he knelt beside the prostrate form of that northern saint, Indian in race, but akin to God the Father of us all. A daughter of the King, if ever there was one.

Then reaching out her hand, she took from a corner of the tent near her couch a birch-bark basket, made by her own hands, and sewn with sweet grass. Giving it to the missionary, she said, "Keep that as a remembrance for your kindness in coming to see a poor sick Indian child."

That night the northwest wind began to moan. Soon it bore down with the terrific force of a gale, in howling wrath. Drenching rain fell; wild gusts of storm dashed against the Mission buildings.

The wildness of the storm howling in mercilessness in the deep night stillness struck chill to the heart of every one. It was one of those sudden storms that sometimes sweep in gales over the north country, gone in a few minutes, but ofttimes leaving a wake of destruction.

When morning dawned, some of the boats were driven fifty yards into the forest; trees around the camp were stripped of limbs, and great rents ran down the bark and fibre of more than one.

But the worst deed done by it was when it lifted the tent off Betsy's sleeping form, and left her to the wild elements whose work was soon finished in her death through shock and wet.

It was not long until the news spread throughout the settlement, and the Indian wailing could be heard in that lonely, long-drawn lamentation that is theirs.

Two days later crowds of Indians thronged the little Mission Chapel. They came dressed in their prints of all colours and fantastic variety of costume; some with yellow handkerchiefs on their heads. Purple, blue, white, red were seen everywhere, but mourning was on every face, and sorrow sat on every bowed form.

A touching service in Cree, with plaintive music set to the words of Christian hymns, and then, one by one, men, women and children came to the front and printed a kiss upon the cold brow of the dead woman, while some whispered messages to her to be taken to the land of blessed spirits.

It was a sad procession that wound its way through the Mission fields, over the hills, across the bridge and up the opposite side of the ravine. There, amid the wooden monuments that marked the resting-place of relatives and friends, was laid the sacred dust of Betsy.

As the coffin was lowered, the conquering wind whistled its triumph through the limbs of the trees in the near-by forest, but it was a hollow triumph, for beyond the forest were the hills of light and faith could see there the real conqueror, whose face once shone in beauty in Betsy's dream, and who had come now for her in the guise of the storm on which He rode, but who gave His weak one conquest through the storm.

Reverently they lowered her body, the worn-out jewel-case of Betsy, simple-hearted, large-souled, unselfish Betsy; heaped the clods upon her coffin; waved farewells across her grave and went back to the old life where storms still raged and duties dared and dangers sought to breed fears within. But many were made stronger now because of her.

Brave Betsy, dark of skin, but white of soul; true-hearted Betsy, beloved of all, foe of none; she got her death through giving another life, and for many a day her story will be told, and children will be carried to the little Indian burying-ground and shown the simple wooden cross, simple as herself, on which they will see in simple letters—

"BETSY"

XXXII

A LIFE DEGREE

The other day the papers announced that when the Prince of Wales returns from his recent tour, he is to be given the Order of the Garter, the highest honour in the Empire in civil life, just as the V.C. is the highest in military service.

And it is a great honour to do some deed or fulfill some duty, so that a college or a nation gives you some distinguished degree which allows you to put letters after your name.

But it is all right to be proud of honours, if a fellow really earns them by hard work or genuine service. The only kind to be shunned are the kind you buy with money or get through some second-hand institution without any standard of toil.

Yet, after all is said and done, the great majority of you will perhaps never have a college degree, and will never be called over to meet the king and kneel before him, dressed up in gorgeous court clothes, while he strikes your shoulder with a sword and says, "Rise up, Sir Knight." You may never be a big lawyer and write K.C. after your signature, to show you can plead in the king's name; or K.C.M.G., to show you are one of the select knights of the royal castle; but I want to suggest you can still wear a title, and use the letters that stand for things worth while.

"Say, Billy, would you not feel big if the day came when your friends called you Sir William?" Who knows but what they may! The big men were schoolboys with some one else, and you may be one of the coming big men.

You remember when Tom Brown went to Oxford, he used to walk around and read the names of men like Raleigh and Wycliffe, and feel two inches taller. He said, "Perhaps I may be going to make dear friends with some fellow who will change the history of England. Why shall not I? There must have been some freshmen once who were chums of Wycliffe and Raleigh!"

Now, my point is that even if you do not, you need not fail.

Some day when you read, or now when you are reading Tennyson, you will find a poem called "Idylls of the King," where he speaks of knights who are "wearing the white flower of a blameless life," and who "live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the king——"

If you are that, then I have the power to confer on you titles, and although you may not put the letters after your name, you can if you care to—William Blank, K.C.

"K" stands for kindness, and you know,

"There's nothing so kingly as kindness;

And nothing so royal as truth;"

and you know,

"So may we in bonds of love,

Each living creature bind,

And make them gentle as a dove,

If we are only kind."

There is something very attractive about a kind man; and we should be that, for we live in lands where Jesus has been heard of, and He has filled the earth with kindness.

A street-car line was held up once in Brooklyn, the city with its roar and busy bustle, all because a kitten had got on the rails. In China, they would not have bothered, but we have learned to be kind, to be friends even to animals.

"C" means courtesy, the behaviour of a lady and gentleman in heart and home and street.

I met an Indian in the North land, which I have told you about in my talks in "Boucher" and "Betsy," whose name was John Everett.

He had been a pagan Cree, but his tribe were now Christian. His clothes were not the best and he was a poor fisherman, living in an Indian hut, but I could have put him into Buckingham Palace; and while a lot of things would have been new to him, he would not have disgraced himself, for he was a perfect gentleman.

Courtesy means being courtly; that is, fit to stand in a court and not be ashamed of your actions. Here is a definition I read of a gentleman, and which I pass on to you:

"A gentleman is clean inside and out—a man who looks neither down to the poor nor up to the rich; who is considerate of women, of children and of everybody; who is too generous to cheat and too brave to lie; who takes his share of the world and lets others have theirs; who can win without bragging and lose without squealing."

But I can add three more letters, just as sometimes you see men whose names have a lot of honours tacked on. John Smith, M.A., LL.D., C.M.S. So I would like to confer on you not only K.C., but also R.S.P.

LL. D. means Doctor of Laws; and the one who has it can wear a wonderful gown of red silk. K.G. means Knight of the Garter; the most distinguished decoration of Great Britain, bestowed by the king, and won only by a favoured few. It runs back nearly six hundred years, and gives the one who receives it the right to wear special garments; a black velvet hat with white ostrich feather plume, a gold collar with twenty pieces of gold in it, and a silver star.

P.C. means Privy Councillor; one who belongs to the council that gives special advice to the king on state affairs. They wear a Windsor uniform with buckled shoes and knee breeches, and embroidered coats and cocked hats, and they look quite dressed up when it is all on.

The trouble is, a man may be all this and yet not be very much else except a clothes horse. He may be a knight without being knightly, or have a degree and lack real worth.

But the degree I want you to get always stands for something real.

R.S.P.—

"R" means reverence, which is one of the chief titles, for if you have not that it matters nothing what else you have.

Reverence for God and for God's name; reverence for yourself, your body, the wonderful gift of mind, the power you have of choosing; reverence for yourself as a temple in which God wants to dwell; reverence for everything that is sacred and holy; reverence for the church and the Sunday School.

When the Prince came to Canada everything was made as beautiful as possible, and every one uncovered their head because he represented the king.

But, girls and boys, you are children of the King. You are sons and daughters of the Lord God Almighty. Do you not think you should be very reverent toward all your life, because you represent the King?

Up among the Indians I was struck with their reverence in church and in our camp. Every night before going to our tents we stood around the camp-fire and sang a hymn and had a good-night prayer and every one of those Indians stood, the very picture of reverence.

You have a chance in church service and Sunday School to show your reverence for all these sacred things and to be all that makes you very knightly. An irreverent boy or girl, who does not care, or who makes a mock at holy things, will never get very high; or if he does, will some day topple down, sure as fate.

"S" stands for self-control, and that means able to use yourself and to use your temper.

It means you are sitting on the wagon-seat doing the driving and not running between the shafts while something drives you. It means you are the engineer in the cab, with your hand on the lever, and if you can't be that, your life train will run away with you and then smash goes everything!

Out in the Rockies they used to have safety switches on the heavy grades so that if a train got away it would run into the switch and up-hill and stop. But a good, strong engineer, with a strong hand on the lever, usually does the work. Self-control means you are in charge and are keeping your lever well in hand.

You know, girls and boys, we are like gunpowder. We fire off easily. We have so many nerves and are so high-strung; and if we were not that, we would never do anything.

Appetites and passions do things and give us all life force, but they have to be held in, like a splendid horse kept under bit and bridle.

Out in California there is a shell called the Abalone. It attaches itself to the rock by a very strong muscle that holds so tight it has to be pried open often with a crowbar. When it is all cleaned up it is wondrously beautiful in varied colours of green and pink and opalescent pearl.

One day a little child was walking on the beach and stepped on an open shell, when quick as a flash it closed and held her there. They suppose she called out in terror, but no one heard, and the tide rose and covered her, and the body swaying at last, broke off and all they found was a boot, with bones, in the heart of the shell.

They tell of some fishermen going out to gather Abalone shells. One, in a hurry, reached out to pull it off the rock, when it closed on him and held him as in a vise, and the rising tide gradually drew him out of the boat and drowned him. You see, instead of possessing the shell it possessed him.

Lose self-control and you become possessed by something. Keep self-control and you are master.

Life's end is to be master and not mastered.

"P" stands for purity. You know how you love a flower and what a picture of purity a white flower is. The beautiful Easter lily, or a white rose with waxen petals and shining heart, what is there more lovely?

Perhaps there is something even more lovely than that. It is the face and eyes of a little child who has never yet learned to sin, and looks up into your face with a look so sweet and holy that you wonder how you could do or be anything mean in its presence.

All knights are said to seek purity. The poet says they swoop

"Down upon all things base and dash them dead;"

and one of the noblest was said to wear

"the white flower of a blameless life."

How can we be that?

By killing bad thoughts that, like worms in the timber, eat away the best, and if put into the ship, may cause it to sink in the storm. Nearly every girl and boy who falls does so because he lets some evil thought linger until it weakens him, and when temptation comes, the weak spot caves in.

Out on the prairie the wheat is often ruined by what is called "smut," a little fungi that turns the grain black and spreads rapidly by spores. If once it gets into the heart of the wheat the only way to get rid of it is by destroying the grain.

Keep yourselves pure, girls and boys—in thought, word and deed.

One of the Girl Guide laws is that of purity. "God make me beautiful within," is said to be a prayer of Socrates many centuries ago in Greece.

Pure as the snow fresh fallen; pure as the light that streams into dark spots and brightens all it touches; pure in what you look at; pure so you can be your mother's and your sister's friend; pure so you can see life's beauty, for nothing so surely blinds the eye as being impure.

Here are two degrees I offer you, girls and boys.

In college, at graduation, the Chancellor puts your hands between his as he says, "Admitto te ad gradum," which means "I admit you to a degree in this college." And one of the officers puts a college hood over your shoulders and you rise a B.A. or M.A. or M.D. or something else.

But it takes some years to get to that day.

But these degrees are yours now if you will take them. You do not have to work, and if you are really trying for them you never will be plucked. If you want them really and truly, you can have them. And if you take them, I don't care much whether you have any other or not. And if you have a lot of them and not these, all the rest will be of very little value.