was from shame; he had
no undergarment, and as at the third command he pulled slowly off his
coat there went a sob through the school. They saw then why he did not
want to remove his coat, and they saw the shoulder-blades had almost
cut through the skin, and a stout, healthy boy rose up and went to the
teacher of the school and said: "Oh, sir, please don't hurt this poor
fellow; whip me; see, he's nothing but a poor chap; don't you hurt
him, he's poor; whip me." "Well," said the teacher, "it's going to be
a severe whipping; I am willing to take you as a substitute." "Well,"
said the boy, "I don't care; you whip me, if you will let this poor
fellow go." The stout, healthy boy took the scourging without an
outcry.[4] "Bravo," says every man--"Bravo!" How many of us are
willing to take the scourging, and the suffering, and the toil, and
the anxiety for other people! Beautiful thing to admire, but how
little we have of that spirit! God give us that self-denying spirit,
so that whether we are in humble spheres or in conspicuous spheres we
may perform our whole duty--for this struggle will soon be over.

A CHRISTIAN HOUSEKEEPER.

One of the most affecting reminiscences of my mother is my remembrance
of her as a Christian housekeeper. She worked very hard, and when we
would come in from summer play, and sit down at the table at noon, I
remember how she used to come in with beads of perspiration along the
line of gray hair, and how sometimes she would sit down at the table
and put her head against her wrinkled hand and say: "Well, the fact
is, I'm too tired to eat." Long after she might have delegated this
duty to others she would not be satisfied unless she attended to the
matter herself. In fact, we all preferred to have her do so, for
somehow things tasted better when she prepared them. Some time ago, in
an express train, I shot past that old homestead. I looked out of the
window and tried to peer through the darkness. While I was doing so
one of my old schoolmates, whom I had not seen for many years, tapped
me on the shoulder and said: "De Witt, I see you are looking out at
the scenes of your boyhood." "Oh, yes," I replied, "I was looking out
at the old place where my mother lived and died."

That night, in the cars, the whole scene came back to me. There was
the country home. There was the noonday table. There were the children
on either side of the table, most of them gone never to come back. At
one end of the table