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named was brought in dead by another relief boat on that fateful afternoon of the storm.

The three black caskets lay side by side before the altar. Pastor Bange officiated. A silent gloom within was enhanced by the storm which howled without. On the front seat sat Erik Svensen, and Harald Einersen, with a number of other fishermen, relatives or dear friends of the dead. Harald's face was pale and thin, as if he had been ill for a month.

At the close of the services, comrades bore the caskets to the little graveyard, at the foot of a steep crag. Paths had been shoveled to the graves, upon which the long procession moved through the driving snow. The three coffins were lowered, and then the pastor, taking a small spade-like implement, tossed three times a little earth on the coffin of Jens Monson, repeating the usual formula of “Dust thou art, to dust thou shalt return; and of the dust thou shalt come forth.” Then the same ceremony was performed over the grave of Ivar Soroe. Here the pastor stopped. He then breathed a short prayer, covered his head, raised his umbrella, and walked away from the graves between the long lines of men standing on each side of the path.

The silence was so perfect that the hard breathings of some of the men could be heard, and the lapping of the sea against the beach below. The men who were to fill the graves stood still, not knowing what to do.

Then Harald Einersen darted from the edge of Johan Bernsen's grave, ran along the path, and stopped in front of the retreating priest. He blocked the passage, and, holding up his open hand said:

"Give my cousin Christian burial!"
“I can not give him Christian burial,he is not a Christian!"

“You lie, Pastor Bange; give my cousin Christian burial! I knew Johan Bernsen-I know he is a Christian, a better Christian than you ever can be. Give him decent burial!"

The priest tried to pass, but Harald blocked the way. His pale face was paler yet, while his eyes fairly shone from their hollow depths.

“Men," said Harald to his comrades around him, “was my cousin a Christian?"

“Yes;" shouted one close by.

"He was-yes, yes

came from all directions. Then the murmur grew louder. The priest hesitated.

"Go back and finish your work!" shouted one.
"Go back, pastor!" said another.

There was more tumult. Harald stood firm in the path. Then the priest turned, walked back to Johan Bernsen's grave, and performed the usual ceremony!

When the priest departed, his face was pale with emotion; but something like a cheer broke from the assembled fishermen when Harald stepped aside to let the pastor pass.


I can

But there is flying through the world the story of another builder, a foolish eye-servant, a poor rogue. He and his little ones were wretched and roofless, whereupon a certain good Samaritan said, in his heart, “I will surprise this man with the gift of a comfortable home. So without telling his purpose, he hired the builder at fair wages to build a house on a sunny hill, and then he went on business to a far city.

The builder was left at work with no watchman but his own honor. “Ha!" said he to his heart, “I can cheat this man. skimp the material and scamp the work.” So he went on spinning out the time, putting in poor service, poor nails, poor timbers.

When the Samaritan returned, the builder said: "That is a fine house I built you on the hill.” “Good,” was the reply; "Go, move your folks into it at once, for the house is yours. Here is the deed.”

The man was thunderstruck. He saw that, instead of cheating his friend for a year, he had been industriously cheating himself. "If I had only known it was my own house I was building!" he kept muttering to himself.

But in a deep sense we are always building our own houses. Each one dwells in the heaven or hell of his own making.

I care not what his temples or his creeds,

One thing holds sure and fast, -
That into his fateful heap of days and deeds
The soul of a man is cast.

-Edwin Markham in Success.

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A few years ago a young man, fresh from one of the higher institutions of learning in the North,” paid a visit to the plantation of his uncle in one of the Southern States. The house, of "ante-bellum" style, was one of the few in that section that had not felt the direct blows of the war. The master, a gentleman of the old school, prided himself upon his hospitality and faithfulness to the traditions of the older times.

To this home and by this man, the younger one was welcomed with love and respect.

Upon the broad veranda, at the close of the day, the uncle and nephew could usually be found chatting until long after "early candle light." Favorite subjects of conversation, on the part of the elder man, were of the stormy days of the past; his love for the boy's mother, a brother's child whom he had raised and loved as a daughter; the family history; and the plans for the summer's work. The young man took pleasure in telling of his college life, the struggles there, and the final victory, as well as of his plans for the future.

One evening, near the close of the visit, when twilight was casting its silent shadows over the land, and the moon peeped through the tops of a clump of pines to the east of the house, the uncle and nephew took their usual places upon the porch; the elder man spoke:

"Edward, I do not feel like talking much tonight. You are going out in the world to fight the battle of life, and I feel that I would like to sit and listen while you tell me of your ambitions and hopes; what mark you expect to make in the world, as well

as what you intend to do to uphold the family name. I will listen, my boy-speak freely.”

“Uncle, you know so well how grateful I am for your kindness to me, during the years since my mother died, that I need not speak of that now. To use a college phrase, I can say that I expect to make good' on your investment. My hopes and ambitions are high, but I believe that I can fulfill them. Hopes I have many, fears none; I have health, strength, a good education, and, through the family name and your good influence, I shall go out among friends. In the morning, I shall leave this dear old place, and go to the capital of the state, there to follow my chosen profession; I shall open an office, hang out my ‘shingle,' and be ready for fame and fortune. At first clients will be few, but I shall win their cases, and that will give me a start; other cases will then follow; I shall study and work hard, and more victories will be added to my credit. It will not be long before you hear of me, uncle, for I intend to make my mark and uphold the family name.”

The old man sat and listened.

"It will not be long before I am recognized as one of the brightest men before the bar of the state, and instead of having to wait for small cases, large ones will come to me. I expect that the tender passion will come into my life, but, when I marry, it shall add to my influence, and lustre to the old name. In a few years, I expect to be known throughout the state as a leader in my profession, in politics, wealth and business. This will be but a step to higher honors-a state legislator, congressman from my district, governor of this commonwealth, and then a seat among the members of the upper branch of our nation's lawmakers; then will I be known as a leader, a man of influence and power. Such are my ambitions and hopes, uncle."

“And should you accomplish all this, what then?”
“What more could a man ask?

“But little; your ambitions are high; I wish you success; if your expectations come true, what then? What about the later years of your life?"

"Should I live, I expect to pass the declining years of my life among those who love, honor and respect me.

"And then ?

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“Why—then-of course, like the rest of mankind, I shall pass to the silent sleep of death."


The young man sat in silence for several minutes, then slowly raised his head and murmured, "And then?"

"My boy, you have told me freely of your hopes and ambitions for this life, which life, by the way, is but the first short step in an endless career. At the end of your life story, I felt, and still feel, to ask, “And then ?”

In silence the young man's head fell upon his bosom; after a few minutes he arose, stretched forth his hand and said: "Uncle, you have brought thoughts to my mind such as I have not known since I knelt at my mother's knee in the long ago; let me go to my room and think; perhaps I am not so learned, or have planned so well as I thought." Slowly, he walked away.

As the night wind sighed through the pine tops, and the low notes of the whipoorwill came up from the "bottoms,” the old man walked slowly into the house, whispering to himself, “Yes; this life, and then?

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“Ah, neighbor,” said one farmer, dolefully, to another, “how unfortunate you and I have been! I've done nothing but fret ever since our potatoes were destroyed by that untimely frost. But how's this?” he asked in amazement, -"you seem to have a fine, healthy crop coming up now."

"Why, yes," was the reply; "I planted those directly after I found the first crop was destroyed."

"What! and they're coming up already ?"

"Yes, while you were fretting, I was working. I put off my fretting till I'd mended the loss.”

"Why, then, you've no need to fret at all.”
“True, and that's the very reason why I don't!"

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