Ruth going into that harvest-field might have said:  “There is a straw, and there is a straw, but what is a straw?  I can’t get any barley for myself or my mother-in-law out of these separate straws.”  Not so said beautiful Ruth.  She gathered two straws, and she put them together, and more straws, until she got enough to make a sheaf.  Putting that down, she went and gathered more straws, until she had another sheaf, and another, and another, and another, and then she brought them all together, and she threshed them out, and she had an ephah of barley, nigh a bushel.  Oh, that we might all be gleaners!

Elihu Burritt learned many things while toiling in a blacksmith’s shop.  Abercrombie, the world-renowned philosopher, was a philosopher in Scotland, and he got his philosophy, or the chief part of it, while, as a physician, he was waiting for the door of the sick-room to open.  Yet how many there are in this day who say they are so busy they have no time for mental or spiritual improvement; the great duties of life cross the field like strong reapers, and carry off all the hours, and there is only here and there a fragment left, that is not worth gleaning.  Ah, my friends, you could go into the busiest day and busiest week of your life and find golden opportunities, which, gathered, might at last make a whole sheaf for the Lord’s garner.  It is the stray opportunities and the stray privileges which, taken up and bound together and beaten out, will at last fill you with much joy.

There are a few moments left worth the gleaning.  Now, Ruth, to the field!  May each one have a measure full and running over!  Oh, you gleaners, to the field!  And if there be in your household an aged one or a sick relative that is not strong enough to come forth and toil in this field, then let Ruth take home to feeble Naomi this sheaf of gleaning:  “He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.”  May the Lord God of Ruth and Naomi be our portion forever!

THE THREE RINGS.

    “Put a ring on his hand.”—­Luke xv:  22.

I will not rehearse the familiar story of the fast young man of the parable.  You know what a splendid home he left.  You know what a hard time he had.  And you remember how after that season of vagabondage and prodigality he resolved to go and weep out his sorrows on the bosom of parental forgiveness.  Well, there is great excitement one day in front of the door of the old farmhouse.  The servants come rushing up and say:  “What’s the matter?  What is the matter?” But before they quite arrive, the old man cries out:  “Put a ring on his hand.”  What a seeming absurdity!  What can such a wretched mendicant as this fellow that is tramping on toward the house want with a ring?  Oh, he is the prodigal son.  No more tending of the swine-trough.  No more longing for the pods of the carob-tree.  No more blistered feet.  Off with the rags!  On with the robe!  Out with the ring!  Even so does God receive every one of us when we come back.  There are gold rings, and pearl rings, and carnelian rings, and diamond rings; but the richest ring that ever flashed on the vision is that which our Father puts upon a forgiven soul.