The Neglected Son.

I

IN this world it is needful not only to put things right, but to keep them right. Anything left to itself soon goes to ruin. Very often to do nothing is to do mischief. The sluggard's garden was overgrown with thorns and nettles, not because he had sown them there but because he had neglected to root them out. "The stone wall thereof was broken down," not because he had thrown it down but because he had allowed it to fall. It is astonishing how soon a house gets out of repair and becomes a ruin if it be shut up and neglected: the tiles drop off one by one, the timbers give way, the windows fall in, the floors decay, and in the course of a few years a house left quite to itself is in a state of dilapidation.

It is just so, too, with human beings. The seeds of evil are already sown in the child's heart as the weeds were in the sluggard's garden. They will spring up of themselves, and it is for us to root them up or they will cover all the soil. The mother who lets them grow unchecked in the heart of her little one will bring the child to ruin and herself to shame.

A few months ago there was a sad case of this kind before one of the London police courts. A poor woman applied to the magistrate for protection against her own son. Her husband, a small tradesman, had died some years before, leaving her with one child. She loved the little one with all the love of a widow

for her first-born-her only child. She could not bear to check or thwart him in anything he wished. He grew up an obstinate, self-willed boy. His poor mother would not believe the complaints the neighbours all made of him. Love blinded her to his faults, and she would willingly have worked herself to death if she could thereby have given him pleasure. His evil habits grew upon him, and bad companions led him further astray. The poor woman now perceived the mistake she had made. But she could not find in her heart to punish him, and she continued to supply him with money from her own hard earnings, which he spent in sin and folly. She wept over him and entreated him to alter his course. But she wanted firmness to use the needful severity. His course was still downward. When the unhappy woman was unable to provide him with the means for self-indulgence he began to plunder the little shop which she kept. She was at last reduced to actual poverty, and her son became not only the companion of thieves but was himself imprisoned for theft. Her poor lodging was, little by little, stripped of its few articles of furniture, which he pawned or sold to raise money. As he grew more hardened and reckless she suffered such violence and cruelty at his hands that she was compelled to seek protection from him. And the bitterest grief of all was to know that her own mistaken fondness had been the cause of his ruin and of her own. Too late she learned the truth of the Scripture warning, "The rod and reproof give wisdom; but the child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame."

66

M

Old John Corbin's Spectacles.

ISFORTUNES will happen," said John Corbin, quoting a familiar, though not very consolatory proverb; "but I would have given something rather than that should have happened. However, it can't be helped."

John Corbin had lost his spectacles, and he was sadly grieved on account of his loss. They were the best he had ever worn, and he hardly believed there was such a pair in England. They fitted his sight exactly, and besides they were perfectly bright and clear. The fact was, they were better spectacles than John could ever have afforded to buy; but they had belonged to Mr. Manisty at the Hall, and when he died Miss Manisty had given them to John. He prized them, not only because they were good ones, but for the sake of the squire, who had always been a kind friend to him; and in a very excusable sort of way John was a little bit proud of the squire's spectacles.

But they were lost-as it seemed, hopelessly lost. John had sought for them in every place that he could think of; he had explored all his pockets; he had searched every corner of his cottage; he had gone down to his little summer-house at the foot of the garden; Jenny his wife and his daughter Mary had both helped him, but all in vain. No spectacles could be found. His little grandson Harry had taken them up from the table, where he had left them shut up in their case, and after playing with them for a short time, he had pushed them into a narrow space, only large enough to admit his tiny hand, between the clock and the wall. Nobody ever thought of looking for them there; so there they remained.

John did very badly without his spectacles-indeed he could not get on at all. He was past work, and his good friends at the Hall, whose family had employed him all his life, allowed him a small pension, which was quite enough for his moderate wants; still he busied himself with odd jobs

about the house and in his garden. Then, too, he was a great reader. He had a few good books, which he was very fond of; and he liked to read the newspaper when he could get one; and besides he had several friends who supplied him now and then with books which they thought would suit him. It will be readily believed that for want of his spectacles John's time dragged very heavily. Indeed he said he was just like a fish out of water.

"It's no use," he said, at last, "I must have a pair of new spectacles. Mary," addressing his daughter-"you'll be going to market to-morrow; just get me a pair."

He recollected a shop where such articles were sold, and told Mary to go there; but she forgot the address, and indeed she had so many other things to think about that she forgot the spectacles altogether, till she saw a man offering some for sale in the market. They seemed very nice ones, and she thought she might as well buy a pair. The man asked how old her father was, and then he selected a pair which he said would just suit him. So she took the man at his word, paid what he asked and set off home.

"What a queer-looking man they've made of this !" said John, as he looked at a portrait of some eminent man he found in a magazine, which had been waiting a day or two for him till he got his spectacles. "Why, his face is all twisted. And the print is all askew."

"No, father," said Mary, "it's all right. It's a picture of Dr. Livingstone, that they're so anxious to know about whether he's living or not; and the print's straight enough." "I tell thee," said John, rather testily, "nothing of the sort. Dost thou think I can't believe my own eyes?"

So saying, he put the magazine into her hand. Again she declared it was all right, and on handing it over to her mother, Jenny said the same.

All at once the thought struck John, "May be it's the spectacles." After looking at the picture a minute or two longer, he said

"Polly, just hand me the big Bible."

That was just the same. The engravings which he had so often admired were just as ugly as Dr. Livingstone.

"Where didst thou get these spectacles, Polly, and how much didst thou give for them?" he asked.

"I gave eighteen-pence for them," replied Mary, "and I got them of a man in the market."

Why they are not worth twopence," he said; "and that was not the place I told thee to go to."

At first John was very angry, but his anger soon subsided, and he laughed at the affair as rather a good joke than otherwise. He could afford to do this the better, because on the following day his grandson went to the house again, and going to the place where he had put the spectacles, he brought them out along with some other treasures which he had hidden with them. But Mary hardly ever heard the last of the spectacles.

John was not without his faults, and one of them was a strong and undue respect for his own opinions: and he had strong opinions on a good many points-on the conduct of his neighbours, on politics, and on religion. We need hardly say that John's opinions were by no means always right.

About the time of which we are writing, the old minister whom John had heard preach for forty years, died. John and he had been always good friends. Indeed there was not one of his parishioners, in John's rank of life, to whom he had paid so much attention. John had a great

respect for Mr. Bond, and he had been wont to receive all his teachings as the truth. He was very sorry indeed when

he died.

Mr. Bond's successor was Mr. Charlton, a man in middle life, who had worked hard in a poor London parish, and had been compelled on account of his health to leave it and.take a charge in the country.

"Well, John," said one of his friends, after Mr. Charlton had been settled a few weeks, "what do you think of the new parson? How do you like him ?"

"Nothing like the old one, Peter," replied John. "It will