“No, ma, it ain’t none o’ mine.”

“John,” continued she, with a cold, unimpassioned earnestness, “where did you get this thing?”

“Why, ma,” returned the hopeful, “that’s Pap’s.”

“John”—­and there was just a touch of severity in her voice—­“when your mother asks you a question you should answer that particular question.  Where did you get this?”

“Out in the medder, then, if you’re so derned pertikeller,” retorted the youngster, somewhat piqued; “the mowin’ machine lopped it off.”

The old lady rose and restored the head into the hands of the young man.  Then, straightening with some difficulty her aged back, and assuming a matronly dignity of bearing and feature, she emitted the rebuke following: 

“My son, the gentleman whom you hold in your hand-any more pointed allusion to whom would be painful to both of us-has punished you a hundred times for meddling with things lying about the farm.  Take that head back and put it down where you found it, or you will make your mother very angry.”  Deathbed Repentance.

An old man of seventy-five years lay dying.  For a lifetime he had turned a deaf ear to religion, and steeped his soul in every current crime.  He had robbed the orphan and plundered the widow; he had wrested from the hard hands of honest toil the rewards of labour; had lost at the gaming-table the wealth with which he should have endowed churches and Sunday schools; had wasted in riotous living the substance of his patrimony, and left his wife and children without bread.  The intoxicating bowl had been his god-his belly had absorbed his entire attention.  In carnal pleasures passed his days and nights, and to the maddening desires of his heart he had ministered without shame and without remorse.  He was a bad, bad egg!  And now this hardened iniquitor was to meet his Maker!  Feebly and hesitatingly his breath fluttered upon his pallid lips.  Weakly trembled the pulse in his flattened veins!  Wife, children, mother-in-law, friends, who should have hovered lovingly about his couch, cheering his last moments and giving him medicine, he had killed with grief, or driven widely away; and he was now dying alone by the inadequate light of a tallow candle, deserted by heaven and by earth.  No, not by heaven.  Suddenly the door was pushed softly open, and there entered the good minister, whose pious counsel the suffering wretch had in health so often derided.  Solemnly the man of God advanced, Bible in hand.  Long and silently he stood uncovered in the presence of death.  Then with cold and impressive dignity he remarked, “Miserable old sinner!”

Old Jonas Lashworthy looked up.  He sat up.  The voice of that holy man put strength into his aged limbs, and he stood up.  He was reserved for a better fate than to die like a neglected dog:  Mr. Lashworthy was hanged for braining a minister of the Gospel with a boot-jack.  This touching tale has a moral.

Moral of this touching tale.—­In snatching a brand from the eternal burning, make sure of its condition, and be careful how you lay hold of it.  The New Church that was not Built.