of pervishun for fault findin'. He 'low dere'll be
trubble, but he tells us ter be of good cheer on account of hevin' him
ter git de victry fer us, an' ef we keep singin' all de time, dere ain't
no time fer sighs. Let us keep a-whisperin' to our Father, my friens.
It's a beautiful worl' he's put us in, an' dere ain't no combine ter
keep us back from enjoyin' de best tings in it. De sky belong ter us ez
much as to de rich folks, an' de grass an' de trees an' de birds an' de
flowers; de rollin rivers an' de mighty ocean belongs ter us. De only
priviluge de rich folks hez is dat dey kin sail on deir billows while
we hez ter stan' alongside,--but dey's powerfu' unhappy sometimes when
dey hez so much ter look after, an' we kin enjoy lookin' at deir fine
houses widout hevin' any of de care.

"We'se not payin' much complimen' ter Jesus, friens, when we 'low dat de
good tings of dis worl' kin make people happier dan he kin, an' 'pears
like we ought ter be 'shamed of ourselves. De Bible sez we'se ter 'live
an' move an' hev our bein' in God,' an' it don't 'pear becomin' when we
hev such a home pervided fer us, ter be allers grumblin' 'cause we can't
live in de brown stone fronts an' keep a kerridge. We don't begin ter
understan' how ter live up ter our privilegus, friens, an' I'se bowed in
shame as I tink how de dear Lord's heart must ache as he sees how little
we'se appresheatin' his lovin' kindness."

The tender, pleading voice ceased and then Dyce lifted her clasped
hands,--"Oh, Lord Jesus, help us ter glorify thee before de worl'. Help
us ter understan' an 'preciate de wonderful honor thou hez put upon us.
Make us used ter dwellin' wid thee on de earth, so as we won't feel like
strangers in heaven. Oh, blessed Jesus, by de remembrance of de thorn
marks an' de nail prints an' de woun' in thy side forgive thy
ungrateful chillen. We'se ben a' lookin' roun on de perishin' tings of
earth fer our comfort, an' a' seekin' our homes in this worl'. Lord,
help us ter find our real home in thee! Help us ter steal away ter
Jesus, when de storm cloud hangs low and de billows roar about our
heads. Dere's no shadows in de home thou makes, fer 'de light of de
worl' is Jesus,' an' ebery room is full of de sunshine of thy love.
Dere's no harm kin cum to us ef we'se inside de fold, fer thou art de
door, Lord Jesus; dere's no danger kin touch us ef we'se hidden in de
cleft of de rock. Lord, make us abide in de secret place of de Almighty
an' ho