The age-herald., 1902-03-09

thing that will ever happen to them will be their grave
 What people want is warmth. Many years ago a man was floating down on the ice of the Merrimac. and great ef- forts were made to rescue him. Twice he got hold of a plank thrown to him and twice he slipped away from it, because that end of the plank was covered with ice and he cried out For Gods sake, give me the wooden end of the plank this time!" and, this done, he was hauled to shore. The trouble is that in our efforts to save the soul there are too much cold ness and icy formality, and so the inn periled one slips off and floats down.
 Give 1t the other end of the plank; warmth of sympathy warmth of kindly association warmth of genial surround ings The world declines to give it and in many cases has no power to give V and here is where Christ comes in, and as on a cold day, the rain beating and the atmosphere full of sleet, the hen clucks her chickens under her wings and the warmth into the wet feathers and the chilled feet of the infant group of the barnyard. so Christ says to those sick and frosted and disgusted and frozen of the world: Come in out of the March winds of the worlds criticism, come in out of the sleet of the worlds assault, come in out of a world that does not understand you and does not want to understand you. 1 will comfort, and I will soothe, and I will be your warmth, as a hen gathereth her chicIens under her wing Oh, the w;-rm heart of God Is ready for all those to whom the world has given the cold shoulder.
 Christ Takes the Storm.
 But notice that some one must take the storm for the chickens. Ah the hen takes the storm. I have watched her un- der the pelting rain. have seen her in the pinching frosts Almost frozen to death or almost strangled in the wa ters, and what a fight she makes for the young under wing if a dog or a hawk or a man come too near! And so the broodng Christ takes the storm for us. What flood of anguish and tears that did not dash upon his holy soul? What beak of torture did not pierce his vitals? What barking Cerberus of hell was not let out upon him from the kennels? Yes. the hen takes the storm for the chickens and Christ takes the storm for us. Once the tempest rose so suddenly the hen could not get with her young back from the new ground to the barn, and there she is under the fence half dead. And now the rain turns to snow, and 1t is an awful night and in the morning the whiteness about the gills and the beak down in the mud show that the mother is dead, and the young ones come out and cannot understand why the mother does not scratch for them something to eat. and they walk over her wings and call with their tiny voices but there Is no answering chuck. She took the storm for others and perished. Poor thing Self sacrificing even unto death! And does it not make you think of him who endured all for us? So the wings under which we come for spiritual safety are blood spattered wings are night shad- owed wings, are tempest torn wings. In the Isle of Wight I saw the grave of Princess Elizabeth, who died while a prisoner at Carisbrook castle. her finger on an open Bible and pointing to the words. Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and l will give you rest" Oh, come under the wings
 But now the summer day is almost past, and the shadows of the house and barn and wagon shed have heightened. The farmer. with scythe or hoe on shoul- der. Is returning from the fields. The OK en are unyoked The horses are crunch ing the oats at the full bin. The air is bewtchng of honeysuckle and wild brier. The milkman, pail in hand, is approach ing the barnyard. The fowls, keeping ca. iy hours are collecting their young "Cluckl" "Cluck!' "Clucls!" And soon all the eyes of that feathered nursery are closed. The bachelors of the winged tribe have ascended to their perch, but the hens, in a motherhood divinely ap- ponted, take all the risk of a slumber on the ground, and all night long the wings will stay outspread, and the little ones will not utter sound. Thus at sundown lovingly safely, com pletely, the hen broods her young So if we are the Lords the evening of our life will come. The heats of the day will have passed. There will be shadows and we cannot see as far. The work of life will be about end ed. The hawks of temptation that how cred in the sky will have gone to the woods and folded their wings. Sweet silences will come. The air will be redol- ent with the breath of whole arbors of promises sweeter than jasmine or even ing primrose. The air may be a little chill, but Christ will call us, and we will know the voice and heed the call, and we will come under the wings for the night, the strong wings, the soft wings, the warm wings, and without fear and in full sense of safety, and then we will rest from sundown to sunrise, 'as hen | gathereth her chickens under her wing"
 Dear mel How many souls the Lord l hath thus brooded. Mothers, after watch | ing over sick cradles and then watching | afterward over wayward sons and daugh- | ters, at last themselves taken care of by | a motherly God. Business men, after a lifetime struggling with the uncertain ties of money markets and the change of tariffs and the underseling of men who because of their dishonesties can af- ford to undersell, and years of disap- pointment and struggle, at last under wings where nothing can perturb them any more than can a bird of prey which is ten miles off disturb a chick at mid night brooded in a barnyard.
 Under the Divine Wings.
 My text has it's strongest application for people who were born in the country, wherever you may now live. and that Is the majority of you. You cannot hear my text without having all the rustic scenes of the old farmhouse come back to you.