m was not simply the magician of the "Arabian
Nights."

Mrs. Mulford's pride was truly humbled by this manifestation of God's
goodness, and long and earnestly she prayed that henceforth, whatever
trials might come upon her, she might bear the burden with cheerful
patience, trusting in God to lead her through the shadows into the
sunshine of a more perfect day. And in after life no memory was more
precious to her than that of a Christmas morning when the children
taught her a lesson of unselfishness and duty.

Come into our homes, oh ye Christmas angels! Brush away the cobwebs
that regret and selfishness have strewn around, and put in their stead
the wreaths and vines that are fragrant with the immortality of love!
No home so poor that will not be the brighter for your coming! No
heart that is not enriched by your presence, oh ever blessed Christmas
guests!

"There are as many lovely things,
As many pleasant tones,
For those who dwell by cottage hearths
As those who sit on thrones."

WITH A WILL, JOE

It was a summer afternoon; the wheelbarrow stood before Mrs. Robin's
door; the street was empty of all traffic, for the heat was intense. I
sauntered languidly along on the shady side opposite the widow's
house, and noticed her boy bringing out some linen in baskets to put
on the wheelbarrow. I was surprised at the size of the baskets he was
lugging along the passage and lifting on to the wheelbarrow, and
paused to look at him. He pulled, and dragged, and then resting a
moment began again, and in the silence of the street, I heard him
saying something to himself. I half crossed the road. He was too busy
to notice me, and then, in a pause of his toil, I heard him gasp out,
"With a will, Joe." He was encouraging himself to a further effort
with these words. At last, bringing the large basket to the curbstone,
he ran in and got a piece of smooth wood as a lever; resting one end
of the basket on the wheelbarrow, he heaved up the other end, and
saying a little louder than before, "With a will, Joe," the basket was
mounted on to the wheelbarrow.

As he rested, and looked proudly at his successful effort, he saw me,
and his round, red face, covered with perspiration, became scarlet for
a moment, as I said, "That's a brave boy." The mother's voice sounded
in the passage, "I'm coming, Joe," and out she came as the child,
pointing to the basket, said, "I've managed it, mother." It was a
pretty