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It has been beautifully said that Reason is the compass by which we direct our course; and Revelation the pole star by which we correct its variations.

Experience, like the stern-light of a ship, only shows us the path which has been passed over.

Happiness, like the violet, is only a way-side flower.

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Original.

“WHY ARE WE NOT CHRISTIANS?”

A SKETCH FOR DAUGHTERS.

It was the day for the meeting of the Monthly Missionary Society, in the village of C.; a day of pure unclouded loveliness in early summer, when the sweetest flowers were blossoming, and the soft delicious air was laden with their perfume, and that of the newly-mown hay.  All nature seemed rejoicing in the manifestations of the goodness and love of its Creator, while the low mingled murmurings of insects, breezes and rivulets, with the songs of birds, formed a sweet chorus of praise to God.  The society was to meet at deacon Mills’s, who lived about four miles out of the village, and whose house was the place where, of all others, all loved to go.  Very early in the afternoon all the spare wagons, carriages, carryalls, chaises and other vehicles were in demand.  A hay-rack was filled with young people, as a farmer kindly offered to carry them nearly to the place, and toward evening, they considered, it would be pleasant to walk home.  So deacon Mills’s house was filled with old, middle-aged and young, who were all soon occupied with the different kinds of work, requisite for filling a box to be sent to a missionary family among the distant heathen.  Seaming, stitching, piecing, quilting and knitting, kept every hand busy, while their owners’ tongues were equally so, yet the conversation was not the common, idle talk of the day, but useful and elevating, for religion was loved, and lived, by most of those dear and pleasant people, and it could not but be spoken of.  Still there was interest in each other’s welfare, as their social and domestic pursuits and plans were related and discussed.

There was a piazza in front of the house, the pillars of which were covered with vines, running from one to another, gracefully interlacing, and forming a pleasant screen from the sun’s rays.  At one end of this piazza, a group of five young girls were seated at their work.  They were chosen and intimate friends, who shared with each other all that was interesting to themselves.  They had been talking pleasantly together for some time, and had arrived at a moment’s pause, when Clara Glenfield said, “Girls, I think this is a good opportunity to say to you something that I have for a long time wished to say.  You know we are in the habit of speaking to each other upon every subject that interests us, excepting that of religion.  None of us profess to be Christians, although we know it is our duty to be.  We have all pious mothers, and, if yours are like mine, they are constantly urging, as well as our other friends, to give our hearts to God, and we cannot but think of the subject; now, why should we not speak of it together? and why are we not Christians?”