Connecticut western news., 1890-08-20
pull them down. To the fields! ReapI

pull them down. To the fields! Reapi Reap!
 TIME FOR THRESHING.
 Again I remark, in grace as in farm ing there is time for threshing. I tell you hluntly that is death Just as a farmer beats the wheat out of the straw so death beats the soul out of the body. Every sickness is stroke of the fail and the sickbed is the threshing floor. What, say you, is death to a good man only taking the wheat out of the straw? That is all An aged man has fallen asleep. Only yesterday you saw him in the sunny porch play ing with his grandchildren. Calmly he received the message to leave this world. He bade a pleasant good-by to This old friends. The telegraph carries the tidings, and on swift rail trains the kindred come, wanting once more to look on the face of dear old grand father Brush back the gray hairs from his brow; it will never ache again. Put him away in the sfumber of the tomb. He will not be afraid of that night. Grandfather was never afraid of anything. He will rise in the morn ing of the resurrection. Grandfather was always the first to rise His voice has already mingled in the doxology of heaven. Grandfather always did sing in church. Anything ghastly in thati No. The threshing of the wheat out of the straw. That is all
 The Saviour folds lamb in his bosom. The little child filled all the house with her music, and her toys are scattered all up and down the stain just as she left them. What if the hand that plucked four-o' clocks out of the meadow is still7 It will wave the eters nal triumph. What if the voice that made music in the home is still2 It will sing the eternal hosanna. Put white rose in one hand, and red rose In the other hand, and wreath of orange blossoms on the brow-tlle white flower for the victory, the red flower for the Saviour's sacrifice, the orange blossoms for her marriage day. Anything ghast- ly about that2 Oh, no. The sun went down and the flower shut. The wheat threshed out of the straw. "Dear Lord, give me sleep" said dying boy, the son of one of my elders; Dear Lord, give me sleep" And he closed his eyes and awoke in glory. Henry w. Long fellow, writing 8 letter of condolences to those parents, said: 'Those last words were beautifully poetic, Dear Lord, give me sleep'"
 Twas not in cruelty, not in wrath
 That the reaper came that day;
 Twas an angel that visited the earth
 And took the flower away.
 So it may be with us when our work is all done. Dear Lord, give me sleep"
 have one more thought to present. have spoken of the blowing, of the sowing, of the narrowing, of the reap ing, of the threshing. must now speak @ moment of the garnering.
 HARVEST HOME AT LAST.
 Where is the garner9 Need I tell you2 Oh, no. So many have gone out from your own circles, yea, from, your own family, that you have had your eyes on that garner for many a year. What 8 hard time some of them had! In Gethsemanes of suffering they sweat great drops of blood. They took the ''cup of trembling" and they put it to their hot lips, and they cried, If it be possible, let this cup pass from me-" With tongues of burning agony they cried, 70 Lord, de liver my soulp But they got over it. They all got over it. Garneredl Their tears wiped away; their battles all ended; their burdens lifted. Gar nered! The Lord of the harvest will not allow those sheaves to perish in tho equinox Garnered! Some of us re- member, on the farm, that the sheaves were put on the top of the rack which surmounted the wagon, and these sheaves were piled higher and higher, and after while the horses started for the barn, and these sheaves swayed to and fro in the wind, and the old wagonl creaked, and the horses made strug- gle and pulled so hard the harness came up in loops of leather on thefr backs, and when the front wheel struck the elevated floor of the barn itseemed as if the load would 20 no further, un- til the worknen gave a great shout, and then with one last tremendous strain the horses pulled in the load then they were unharnessed, and forkful after forkful of grain fell into the mow. O my friends, our getting into heaven may be pull, a hard pull, very hard pull, but these sheaves are bound to 60 in. The Lord of the harvest has prom ised it. I see the load at last com ing in the door of the heavenly garner. The sheaves of the Christian soul sway to and fro in the wind of death, and the old body creaks under the load, and as the load strikes the floor of tho celestial garner it seems as if it can go no farther. It is the last struggle until the voices of angels and the voices ot our departed kindred and the welcom-' ing voice of God shall send the harvest rolling into the eternal triumph, while all up and down the sky the cry k heard: Harvest home! Harvest hOmeW
 The Umbrella on the Congo.
 A journal indulges in pleasantly be- cause an umbrella maker in Brussels puts on his sign the words, "Furnisher to the Congo state" Perhaps If the io,,r, o1 lrpaxy ,noro oho,,t tho c,,l,}or~k