290 ANNUAL REPORT. 



liappy school days, and the sight of some tree or flower such as grew in the old 

 school yard may call up the innocence of those days, and the salutary teachings re- 

 ceived there, and save them from sin. 



A poor creature had fallen into a drunken sleep on the steps of a building in St. 

 Petersburg, Russia. A saintly woman who had been carrying flowers to the sick 

 in hospitals, passed that way, aad stopped to look in tender pity on the poor, sinful 

 girl. She would not waken her, but taking from her basket two or three pansies, 

 leftover from her work, she laid them tenderly on her breast and went on her way 

 with a prayer in her heart for her poor lost sister. Hours after, arousing from her 

 stupor the girl found them there, and burst into tears at the sight. She wailed out, 

 "The morning I left home to find work in this great city, my mother gave me a 

 bunch of pansies, and God must have sent them to me to call me back to my home, 

 I will arise and go to my mother. ' ' And we read that she was saved and became a 

 good, true woman. 



A few years ago, a young man lay dying in this city; he was going out in the 

 dark, he did not know the way. Christian friends labored lovingly with him and 

 urged him to give his poor broken heart to the blessed sympathizer ; they grew to 

 love the poor boy, far from home and friends, but could not seem to touch him, till 

 one day a lady gave him a few geranium leaves to cheer him. As he took them in 

 his poor wasted hands, and drew in their fragrance his heart melted, tears came, 

 and in broken tones he sobbed out "Mother had a geranium in her window at 

 home and this smells like it." Remembering then his mother's undying love and 

 her gentle teachings, he gave himself into the arms of the pitying Heavenly 

 Father, owned his need of him, and died trusting in his Savior, while the leaves 

 were in his hand. 



We can all remember the story of Azim, the tempted youth in Moore's beautiful 

 romance of "Lalla Rookh," who was kept from temptation by memories of flowers 

 called up by the sweet song : 



There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, 

 And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; 



In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream. 

 To sit in the roses and hear the birds sing. 



That bower and its music I never forget. 



And oft when alone in the bloom of the year, 

 I think — "is the nightingale singing there yet ? 



Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ?" 



No, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave, 

 But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone. 



And a dew was distilled from their flowers that gave 

 All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone. 



Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies. 



An essence that breathes of it many a year, 

 Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes 



Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer. 



