The Carbon advocate. [volume] (Lehighton, Pa.) 1872-1924, 1880-06-26

before. How many times her lips
touched softly the baby's lips; how
many times she took the pink velvet
of its hands In hers, holding them ten
derly, as something precious how
many times she drew the curls of its
brown hair between her fingers And
each time, love, in gentle electric cur
rents, passed from the babe to her.
The baby did not 60 back on that
for itself home in the heart of this
borrowing mother, opening the shut
windows of that heart aud letting In
heavens sunshine.
Nothing to live for That was mis-.
take; the evil suggestion of an evil
counselor, who sits down beside us,
when we draw around our souls the
drapery of selfish sorrow. She had
much to live for. Oh no; her work
was not done. She saw it lying about
her, and gathering for her hands in the
future; and her heart went down into
it, and rested upon It in peace and
hope.
Day by day the baby grew In beauty,
and day by day 1t opened new chambers
in the moufner's heart chambers
Which had beeh shut and locked open
ed and possessed them as his own.
Nothing to live for It seemed to
her that she had, now, world of new
interests; and world of new duties.
Not cold, lard duties, into which she
must descend in painful reluctance; but
duties in which love was an inspiration.
She was of those who tenderly love
children. The loss of her own touched
her very life. 1t seemed as if she must
die under the pain of this afflicton.
And so, when the objects of her deep
affection were tdken, she said to her
self, "My work is done" and, sitting
down in darkness, she refused to be
comtorted. But that tender love of
children was Gods love in her heart,
and, as all sots arc his, be could fill
it with life and joy again If she would
but let it have free course in some new
direction. The babe of another might
be as purely loved as the babe she had
lejoiced over when its feeble cry first
came to her ears as the sound of deic.
ious music. And just Gs purely loved
was this stranger babe, in time; Just as
tcDderly cared for; just as wisely min
istered to for its best good, as if it had
been her own.
No, her work was not done. She
had something 20 live for, as all have,
whom God leaves still among the har-
vest fields of lite. And you, reader,
be your age, condition. or sorrows what
they may, have something to live for.
If your hands are dropping idly, il you
have shut yourself up in the glootI of
some dark room; or lie PROSTATE under
the ruins Of worldly hopes after some
great msfortune; awake Arouse
yourself God still has work for you
to do, and in that work He will give
you peace and consolation. If this
thought does not quicken your pulses
with healthier beat, we give you an
other, and one of graver lnpOtt. What
are you writing in your book of life,
in all these improbable days ? In that
book Of life, from which you will be
judged when this fitful fever Is past,
aud you rise into the world of eternal
verities? Do not push the Question
aside Do not call it intrusive 1t
comes to you, now, with directness
that claims attention. 1t is not the
noralist speaking from himself He is
only the medium of a solemn admonit-
ion. Are you, in any sense, feeding
the hungry, clothing the naked, or
visiting those who are sick, or in pris
on? If not, depend upon it, you have
something to live for, and the quicker
your hands take hold upon your work,
the better will be for you in this world,
and in the great hereafter.