THE TEACHER'S CALL.

Give of your garnered treasure
Ever with willing heart,
Never the stinted measure,
Never the needless part.
Look for the cause that calls you
Ready to help as you may,—
Most to the little children

Give of yourself to-day.

Give of your own life's sunshine
And, to the sad, your tears,
Hope to the heart that falters,
Courage to him who fears.
Be to the sightless, vision;
Strength to the weak alway;
But to the little children

Your spirit's best to-day.

Train little feet for walking
Far from forbidden way;
Train little hands for labors
Of love from day to day.
Train little hearts for blooming
Sweet in their early youth;
Teach little lips to utter

All fearlessly the truth.

Scatter the good you've gathered—
If need be, the all you glean;
Work as a faithful steward

Of the lowly Nazarene.

Tend'rest was He, of teachers,

Shepherd of sheep astray

Fold them, His flock, securely,

Carry the lambs alway.

Muskegon, Mich.

-Martha A. Seiders.

It is said that the study of German is increasing in France, while the study of English is on the decline. In the Ecole des Sciences Politiques, in Paris, where diplomats are trained, many more study German than English.

CRADLE SONG.

I.

Sleep, little warrior, on the tented field,
Against my heart, thy willing battle shield.
My mother thoughts stand guard about,
Faithful to listen, while I sleep,

Lest. any stranger foot seek out

The tent the Captain bade me keep.
To-morrow, in the battle, will there follow thee-
Noiselessly come and go with word for me.

II.

These never-resting thoughts, whose eager feet
Shall bring to naught the ground between us, Sweet.
And if, some hour, they find me not,

And, homeless, turn to thee again,

Dear, let them sleep, wrapped in our love,

While Faith stands silent guardsman, then.
His banner, over thee, is love-did I not know,
My babe, my babe, how could I let thee go?

III.

This is the land of stainless skies,
Mother and babe, and shading trees,
Upon whose branches fall and rise

The snowy banner-folds of peace.

Far to the east, the battle lingers still.

Soon shall I see, rose-red, on yonder hill,

The light of burning cities—then will I

Arm my brave soldier-lad, and kiss my child good-bye.

IV.

Yesterday, in those eyes of thine

I saw the torch, which soon shall turn
This fair dream-land, my babe's and mine,
To ashes. Let the old tent burn!

But mother-love, dear heart, shall be set free,
Unto the gates of peace to follow thee.

-Morgan Groth.

"The school should give the child resources which may restrain him later in life from idleness, corner-loafing, sensuality and gossip."-Supt. C. N. Kendall, New Haven.

A young woman who patronizes the free library at San Jose was anxious to read Hopkinson Smith's "Tom Grogan," but whenever she called for it the book was invariably "out." She begged them that the librarian would notify her by telephone as soon as the book came in, so that she could come at once and get it. The book was returned next day, and the librarian telephoned. It was the girl's father who answered. "Tom Grogan!" he shouted, indignantly "So Tom Grogan wants my daughter to come up after him. Look here, you tell that young man from me, if he wants to see my daughter he had better come here and do it."-San Francisco Wave.

Probably no American preacher has had his sermons more faithfully reported and more widely published than Dr. De Witt Talmage, who has recently left his Washington pastorate to devote his whole time to writing and lecturing. Dr. Talmage believes the press is mightier than the pulpit, and is a most congenial companion when among newspaper

men.

"Many years ago, when my sermons first attracted the attention of city editors," said Dr. Talmage in a recent conversation, "you reporters used to make me fume and fret, but since I have come to know you better I have transferred much of my wrath to your adversary, the compositor. My eyes were opened when, after annoying blunders in print, I determined to report my own sermons for a certain New York morning paper. It chanced that the first time I reported myself I was preaching a sermon on the Penitential Psalms, in which sermon I said with emphasis:

"You will notice that in these verses the name of God does not appear once. Is not this significant?""

"Calm and confident that this time the sense of my sermon would not be distorted by careless reporting, I picked up the paper on Monday morning and read:

"You will notice that in these verses the name of God does not appear once. Is not this magnificent?'"

WORKINGS OF THE CHILD-MIND.

A little girl of nine was asked to name the races of mankind. This was her answer: "Chinese, Indians and Brownies."

Anna, aged six, had pneumonia twice last winter. The last time, everybody had lost hopes of her recovery. Her Cousin May came to visit her one day when she was a little better. Little Anna held up her little chapped hands to May and said: "See, May, my hands are so rusty!"

Frank, who read well in the second reader, was looking at the picture of Washington. He noticed the hair of Washington which stood out from the head, and said to another little man near by: "Tommy, George Washington has got on his night-cap."-0. H. Bauer.

YORKVILLE, ILL., APRIL 16, 1899.

EDITOR OF CHILD-STUDY MONTHLY:

Little Glenn, five years of age, seems to have very practical ideas of the power of the Creator. While riding through the woods some time ago he saw a tree broken off about four feet from the ground. He turned to those riding with him and said: "God will have to fix that tree up again." While lying down one day, he was tracing, with the fingers of one hand in and out between the fingers of the other and, turning to his mother, said: "Mamma, did God make my hands?"

"Yes, dear," she answered.

"What did he do with the pieces?"

He had evidently been watching his mother cutting out garments and, perhaps, had the pieces to play with.

When old enough to admire and talk about the moon he

saw it when it

father and said:

was waning. He turned quickly to his "Moon b'oke, papa, fix it?"

The same little one most uncomplimentarily said to his mother the other day: "Mamma, G'enn loves you, but you ain't pretty."-Mrs. Herbert Bassett.

MARY ANN.

Mary Ann is six years old. Aristocratic mammas with whose children she goes to school, have been known to refer to her as "that little greaser."

Perhaps her appearance justifies this unsympathetic title. As seen on the street, from the windows of her critics, who have had no nearer view, her scant calico skirt just clearing the ground, her hands covered by long sleeves, and her face concealed under a limp and shapeless sunbonnet, Mary Ann is surely not prepossessing.

To her teacher, whom she approaches with noiseless step, voice softened to a whisper, and laugh hushed to a smile, she seems to be clothed in a mantle of silence which is singularly becoming to the night of her hair and eyes.

Then, when the radiant smile fades out with an almost inaudible sigh of content, and the little face is turned away, revealing the soft curves of the profile, while the tiny hands with their slim, tapering fingers reach for some coveted book, the teacher has a picture that is as full of haunting beauty as a poem.

Mary Ann herself is one of Nature's poems, bound in silence and clasped in mystery. Covered with calico and entitled Mary Ann, the little volume will find few readers, but they will rise from oft-repeated perusals, with hearts refreshed and purified and with glad hands outstretched to waiting, trusting childhood.-Lola A. Balis.

East San Jose, Cal.