thee a preacher of righteousness, a rebuker of sin, thou little stray lamb of the Savior’s fold? The Sabbath-school,—­lone instrument of good in these western wilds, has taught thee, and thou teachest thy father.  Nor is the reproof vain.  Heart-stricken and repentant he is henceforth a new man.  “God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform.”  But we will on.  The woods are passed, and we emerge again into the highway.  Who goes yonder with painful effort in the road before us?  It is a crippled boy.  Stop—­let us speak to him.  Can spirits converse in human tones?  We will try.  “Good morning, my poor boy; are you going far on your crutches over this rough road?”

“Only to the village, sir, about a mile from this.”

“And pray what may be your errand that you make so much effort?”

“Oh, sir, one of the boys, last week, gave me a little book, which told about God, and heaven, and hell, and I am frightened about my soul, and I am going to ask the good minister who lives in the village what I shall do that I may go to heaven.”

“God speed and teach thee, and give us to see thee at last among the ransomed ones.”

We have left the village where the “good minister” lived, far behind, and now we approach a populous town.  By our side travels a thoughtful man, all unwitting of his company.  It is the Sabbath, and he has been ten miles to hear the gospel preached.  No church-going bell has as yet ever gladdened the place which he calls his home.  Deep sighs escape from his breast, as he rides slowly along.  He meditates on the wretched condition of his neighbors and friends.  As we approach the town the sound of voices is heard.  The good man listens, and distinguishes the tones of children familiar and dear.  He approaches the hedge from which they proceed.  What anguish is depicted on his face as he gazes on the boys, sitting under the hedge, on God’s holy day, busily engaged in playing cards!  Are you a parent, kind reader?  Are you a Christian parent?  If so, perhaps you can understand his feelings as he turns desparingly away, and murmurs to himself—­“No preacher of the gospel—­no Sunday-school—­no Sabbath day.  Alas! what shall save our children?”

Our journey is ended.  Every incident which we have imagined we saw, is recorded in God’s book of remembrance as a fact.

My plea is in behalf of those who would establish Sabbath-schools among the thousands of precious infant souls in the far-off West.

Do you ask what you can do?  Perhaps you can increase your donations to the Home Missionary and Sunday-school Societies.  Every dollar goes far, given to either.  But perhaps you are doing all you can in that way.  Have you then no good books lying about your home which have done their work for your loved ones, and can be dispensed with?  Can you collect among your friends a dozen or more?  Do not think it a small thing.  Gather them together, and put them in some box of clothing which is destined to Michigan.  Every one of those defaced and cast-off books may be a messenger of life to some starving soul.