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TRUST IN GOD,
BY MAY MORRIS.
•' Tho' He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."
If Sorrow comes and o'er thy brow
In furrows deep, her image planteth,
Or Melancholy's voice so sad,
Its lonely song, so solemn chanteth
As to unnerve thy soul in thee,
By death, of some dear friend bereft,
Most desolate thy home Is made,
One promise unto thee is left —
On God may then thy heart be stayed,
" He'll not forsake,"—but calleth thee
Not willingly doth He afflict!
'Tis for thy good these trials come,
To wean thee from this earth, so dear,
And nearer draw to heaven—thy home;
The Spirit ever whlspereth thee,
Thus one by one, each tie is riven,
And Youth's bright morn of life, o'ercast;
But Faith neWlife to thee hath given,
And brightly shadows o'er the past,
Heaven's carrier-dove* hath brought to thee,
" Trust me!"
Then e'er to God in humble prayer,
Till life shall end, thy voice be raised!,
God heareth—He is everywhere,
With grateful heart, let Him be praised!
Suffer, be strong! He saith to thee
— " Trust me!"
Rendezvous of Distribution, Feb. 26,1864.
ZENAB CAREY'S R,EWAI_r>.
A SOLDIER'S STORY.
Red and sullen, like the eye of some baneful
demon, the low sun glowed through tho tangled
depths of the November woods, casting bloody
lines of light across the fallen trees, whose mos
sy trunks were half hidden in drifts of faded
yellow leaves, and evoking faint, sweet scents,
like orient sandal wood and teak, from a thous
and forest censors, hidden away, who knows how
or where. And through that line of dull flaming
tire tho sky frowned —a leaden-gray concave,
freighted, as the weatherwise could tell you, with
snow-flakes sufficient to turn that broken forest
into a fairy grove of pearl and ermine. So the
daylight was ebbing away from this Thanks
" Now I wonder where lam ?" said John Sid
dons, pausing abruptly in the scarce visible foot
path that wound among the trees. "As com
pletely 'turned round' as though I stood in the
deserts of Egypt! I wish I had been sensible
enough to keep to the high road; these short cuts
generally turn out very long ones. However, if
I keep straight ahead, I must inevitably emerge
from these woods somewhere."
He sat down upon a mossy stump, loaning his
head carelessly on one hand, while with the other
he played unconsciously with the worn brim of
his blue soldier's cap—a slender, pleasant-faced
young man, with gray-blue eyes, and dark hair
thrown back from a bronzed forehead, which had
been touched by the fiery arrows of many a
Southern sun in lonely swamps, and along the
fever-reeking shores of sullen rivers.
" Houseless, homeless !" he murmured to him
self. "I wonder how many others aro saying
the same tiling this Thanksgiving eve? To think
that I should fight through the campaign unhurt,
and return with an honorable discharge in my
pocket to a place whore no one cares whether
I'm alive or dead, while so many brave fellows
were shot down by my side with bullets that
tore through a score of hearts at home, carrying
sharper pangs than death has to give! It's a
queer thing to have only one relative in the
world, and he a total stranger. If I find this
second cousin of my father, ho'll probably kick
me out of doors for a shiftless, soldiering vaga
bond. But hang it, a man can't live alone like
a tortoise in its shell. I remember wondering,
when I was a boy, why tho Madeira vinos over
the porch stretched out their green tendrils, and
seemed to grope through the sunshine for some
thing to cling to, I think 1 understand it now."
He rose up and walked on through the russet
leaves that rustled ankle-deep beneath his tread,
still musing—musing; trying to study out the
unknown quantities in life's great equation,
while the sun went down behind a bank of lurid
clouds, and the chill night-wind began to sigh
sorrowfully in the tree-tops. And suddenly the
sturdy woods tapered off into a silver-stemmed
thicket of white birches, and the white birches
fringed a lonely country road with a little red
house beyond, whose windows were aglow with
fire-light, and whose door-yard was full of the
peculiar perfume of white and maroon-blossom
Zenas Carey was leaning over the gate, sur
veying the stormy sunset with critical eyes.
" I told Melindy so 1" ejaculated Zonas, appar
ently addressing himself to the crooked apple
tree by the road. "I bet my best steer we
have a good old-fashioned fall of snow to keep
Thanksgivin' with. I smelt it in the air this
mornin', but women don't never believe no
thin' until it comes to pass right under their no
This rather obscure sentence was nipped in the
bud by a footstep at his side. Zenas turned
abruptly to reconnoitre the new arrival.
" Will you be kind enough to give me a glass
of water, sir?" said John Siddons, wearily.
"Sartin, sir!" said Zenas. -'So you're a sol
" A returned soldier," said Siddons, draining
the cool element from the cocoa-nut shell that
always lay close to the well-curb at the side of
" Goin' home to keep Thanksgivin'?" ques
M Home ! Sir; I have no home!"
Siddons had spoken sharply, as if tho thought
were goading to him. Zenas put out his brown
knotted hand and grasped the retreating man's
"My boy," he said, with kindly abruptness,
"you're a soldier, and to tell by your looks, I
should guess you were about tho ago of him that
is buried at Gettysburg—my only son! I love
that blue uniform for Davie's sake, and if there's
a soldier in tho world that hasn't a home to go to
on Thanksgivin' eve, there's a corner for him by
Zenas Carey's fireside. Come in, sir! come in !
You're welcome as the flowers of May!"
John looked into the wet eyes and working
face of tho old farmer an instant, and accepted
bis invitation without another word.
What a cheerful change it was, from the frosty
air and chill twilight of the lonely road to that
bright kitchen with its spotless board floor, and
fire of resinous pine logs! And when Melinda
Carey drew a hump-back rocking-chair to the
hearth for him, and spoke a word or two of wel
come, John Siddons wondered if the eyes of tho
mother, who died when he was a babe, had not
beamed upon him just so !
" I told mother so this very morning, said Ze
nas, with a triumphant flourish of his hand, as
he stirred up the logs to a waving, glorious sheet
of flame. " Says 1, Melindy, we'll kill the big
gest turkey, and I'll pick out they allerest pump
kins on tho barn floor. And, says she, 'What
for, Zenas, when there's only us two to eat 'em?'
and says I, 'Mother, Davie was hero last Thanks
givin' with his now uniform, as brave and hand
some as you'd often see!—now, mother, don't
Zenas interrupted himself to stroke his wife's'
gray hair with a strangely tender touch, and
" Says I, 'He's gone where its Thanksgivin' all
the year round, now, my poor boy—my brave
boyl but,' says I, 'we'll make somebody wel
come for Davie's sake; won't we, mother?' And
now, sir, you'll spend to-morrow with us, and
toll mo about the battle of Gettysburg, where
Davie died, crying out with his last breath, not
to let the flag be captured !"
Zenas' voice died out in a choking* gasping
sob. John Siddon's laid his hand softly on the
rough, toil-hardened hand of the farmer, while.