“Every little mite,
    Every little measure,
  Helps to spread the light,
    Helps to swell the treasure.

  “God will surely ask,
    Ere I enter heaven,
  Have I done the task
    Which to me was given?”

“One Talent Improved.”  One day, amidst the crowded streets of London, a poor little newsboy had both his legs broken by a dray passing over them.  He was laid away, in one of the beds of a hospital, to die.  On the next cot to him was another little fellow, of the same class, who had been picked up, sick with the fever which comes from hunger and want.  The latter boy crept close up to his poor suffering companion and said: 

“Bobby, did you ever hear about Jesus?”

“No, I never heard of him.”

“Bobby, I went to the mission-school once; and they told us that Jesus would take us up to heaven when we die, if we axed him; and we’d never have any more hunger or pain.”

“But I couldn’t ax such a great gentleman as he is to do anything for me.  He wouldn’t stop to speak to a poor boy like me.”

“But hell do all that for you Bobby, if you ax him.”

“But how can I ax him, if I don’t know where he lives? and how could I get:  there when both my legs is broke?”

“Bobby, they told us, at the mission-school, as how Jesus passes by.  The teacher said he goes around.  How do you know but what he might come round to this hospital this very night?  You’d know him if you was to see him.”

“But I can’t keep my eyes open.  My legs feels awful bad.  Doctor says I’ll die.”

“Bobby, hold up yer hand, and he’ll know what you want, when he passes by.”  They got the hand up; but it dropped.  They tried it again, and it slowly fell back.  Three times they got up the little hand, only to let it fall.  Bursting into tears he said, “I give it up.”

“Bobby,” said his tender-hearted companion, “lend me yer hand.  Put your elbow on my piller:  I can do without it.”  So the hand was propped up.  And when they came in the morning, the boy lay dead; but his hand was still held up for Jesus.  And don’t you think that he heard and answered the silent but eloquent appeal which it made to him for his pardon and grace, and salvation, to that poor dying boy?  I do, I do.

Bobby’s friend had been once to the mission-school.  He had but a single talent; but, he made good use of it when he employed it to lead that wounded, suffering, dying boy to Jesus.

“Good Friends.”  “I wish I had some good friends, to help me on in life!” cried lazy Dennis, with a yawn.

“Good friends,” said his master, “why you’ve got ten; how many do you want?”

“I’m sure I’ve not half so many; and those I have are too poor to help me.”

“Count your fingers, my boy,” said the master.

Dennis looked down on his big, strong hands.  “Count thumbs and all,” added the master.

“I have; there are ten,” said the lad.