the boy,
and he did something wrong and got flogged. When he got over his mad fit
he forgot the threats of his father and went to pray. His father had
been drinking more than usual, and coming in found the boy offering a
prayer. He caught the boy with a push and said, "Didn't I tell you never
to pray again? Leave this house. Get your things packed up and go." The
little fellow hadn't many things to get together--a drunkard's boy never
has, and went up to his mothers room. "Good-by, mother." "Where are you
going?" "I don't know where I'll go, but father says I cannot stay here
any longer; I've been praying again," he said. The mother knew it
wouldn't do to try to keep the boy when her husband had ordered him
away, so she drew him to her bosom and kissed him, and bid him good-by.
He went to his brothers and sisters and kissed them good-by. When he
came to the door his father was there and the little fellow reached out
his hand--"Good-by, father; as long as I live I will pray for you," and
left the house. He hadn't been gone many minutes when the father rushed
after him. "My boy, if that is religion, if it can drive you away from
father and mother and home; I want it." Yes, may be some little boy here
to-night has got a drinking father and mother. Lift your voice to
heaven, and the news will be carried up to heaven, "He prays."

GOLD.

-- The drunkard, the open blasphemer, the worst sinners, are precisely
the ones that need Jesus most. The well don't need Him at all.

-- There is many a gem in these billiard halls that only needs the way
pointed out to fill their souls with the love of Christ.

LIBERTY.

Old Samba and "Massa."

A friend of mine said he was down in Natchez before the war, and he and
a friend of his went out riding one Saturday--they were teaching school
through the week--and they drove out back from Natchez. It was a
beautiful day, and they saw an old slave coming up, and they thought
they would have a little fun. They had just come to a place where there
was a fork in the road, and there was a sign-post which read, "40 miles
to Liberty." One of the young men said to the old darkey driver, "Samba,
how old are you?" "I don't know, massa. I guess I'se about eighty." "Can
you read?" "No, sah; we don't read in dis country. It's agin the law."
"Can you tell what is on that sign-post?" "Yes, sah; it says 40 miles to
Liberty." "Well, now," said my friend, "why don't you follow that road
and g