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THE GUIDE TO NATURE 



A Hymn of God's Mountains. 



BY JOHN A. SHEDD. 



"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills." — 



Ps. 121. 1. 



Come With Me and See the Glory of God's 



Mountains! 



Thy footstool of rocks, the eye of man hath 

 never seen, thy ancient foundations are of 

 the Beginning. 



Thy royal hills wear right regal robes. Hem- 

 locks of grace, lordly pines, the beauty 

 of the elm, the mighty strength of the 

 oak, all these and more are draped upon 

 thy granite shoulders, O Mountains of 

 God. 



Look up! Behold the rich tapestries of 

 clouds woven on the looms of Heaven, the 

 handiwork of majestic fingers, royal pur- 

 ples, cerulean blues; rich reds and wooly 

 whites, shot through with threads of gold- 

 en fire, all from Thy palette, O Artist 

 Everlasting! 



Behold ! The crown of the Mountains I Snows 

 eternal glisten in it, lightning flashes play 

 around it. 



Listen to the music of the King all glorious ! 

 Heaven's organ is playing. Hear the 

 thunder, peal on peal. 



Hark ! 'Tis ten thousand birds chorusing 

 anthems in leafy choir-lofts of vivid green. 



A thousand crystal brooks tinkle over mossy 

 banks, a score of waterfalls sing their parts, 

 while millions of water diamonds sparkle a 

 moment and are lost forever. 



See the clouds of mists, float sparkling in the 

 sun, as incense before an altar. 



O Brooks ! O Waterfalls ! You have been 

 singing every day and every night for ten 

 thousand years, and yet you are not weary 

 for you are from the hand of Him who 

 never is tired. 



The carpets of thy palace courts, O Mountain, 

 are the green velvet of mosses, sprinkled 

 with ten thousand ferns and flowers. 



Thou art the birthplace of Liberty, O Moun- 

 tains, and thou art still her abiding place! 

 Thou art, O Hills, the home of Nature un- 

 defiled. 



I Have Seen the Glory and Wonder of God's 

 Mountains! 



What is man in the presence of thy Moun- 

 tains? O King Eternal! 



What are our tiny labors befo-re the mighty 

 works of God's fingers? 



When I forget Thy beauty, Thy power or Thy 

 might, I will climb up to Thy hills, O God, 

 Maker of Mountains! 



Thou hast planted my feeble feet upon the 

 Rock Immortal, and I am safe forever more ; 

 in the fortress of Thy hills I am secure. 



Mount Meenagha, N. Y.— The Christian Ad- 

 vocate. 



Weeds in Sunday School. 



BY KDITH CAMPBKlvL, ERIE, PENNSYLVANIA 



My microscope often ,goes to Stmday 

 school with me for to me Nature is God's 

 Book of Revelation. One Simday I had 

 a daisy, the fleabane and the hawkweed, 

 "Weeds" we call them but I prefer to call 

 them flowers from Nature's garden for 

 they and their ancestors occupied the 

 ground ages before we came to usurp 

 what belonged to them, to use for our 

 needs and to cultivate what zve call 

 "flowers" beautiful to be sure, but not 

 more beautiful nor often as wonderful as 

 what we call "weeds" with their mechan- 

 isms that help them in their struggle for 

 existence and to overcome difiiculties, as 

 Mr. Faulkner's delightful articles show 

 us. 



When one of our farmer lads saw my 

 cluster of flowers, he exclaimed, "Oh, 

 those weeds ! How we farmers hate 

 them." "I know you do." I replied, "put 

 wait until you see the daisy." 



I put it under the microscope and he 

 looked, looked long and intently, and 

 when he lifted his head there was a beau- 

 tiful expression on his face. "Why," he 

 said, "I have been three years trying 

 to raise one Easter lily and there in the 

 center of that daisy is a whole bunch of 

 them." Then he and the children looked 

 at the wing-scales or feathers from a but- 

 terfly's wing, and as each grain of dust 

 that clung to their fingers was resolved 

 into a beautiful shape and they saw that 

 each of those scales or feathers had its 

 color and its place in the color pattern on 

 the butterfly's wing, awe spread over their 

 faces and thev could only exclaim, "Oh !" 



Hail! to the hills and mountains. 

 Those breezy uplands fine, 

 Where we may find ozone and health, 

 Our souls a touch divine. 



— Emma Peirce. 



Blackberry Vines in Autumn. 



Trailing robes of beauty 



O'er many a lowly weed. 

 Behold our humble neighbors, 



The blackberry vines, indeed. 



Lending to the roadside 



Its deepest, warmest shades, 



A riot of rich coloring 

 Before their glory fades. 



Giving luscious fruitage 

 When in livery of green ; 



Now resting from their labors,- 

 Resplendent as a queen. 



— Emma Peirce. 



