Death, ever present all the world over-- how softened his grim visage is when associated with the name of Jesus, how awful when he appears alone. The writer still recalls one summer long ago, May, 1889, when funeral preparations were being made before a neighboring house. He made inquiry of An, his host: "I didn't know that there was a death." Yes, the master of the house is dead; they will bury him." "But when did he die? To-day when we were out?" "No, no, not to-day. He died before you came." I had been there two months. They had a bier ornamented with dragons' heads, painted in wild colors, that suggested skull and cross-bones. The funeral service was a fearful row; everybody was noisy, many were weeping, many were drunk. A more gruesome performance than that which I saw, over that horrible, unburied body, no one could imagine. To-day that same village sits as it did then, with background of mountain and foreground of sea, but how changed! All is Christian; Sunday is a day of rest, and every house is represented at the service in the chapel. They have lived down old-fashioned death in that village and exchanged it for quiet sleep.--James S. Gale, "Korea in Transition."

Priscilla Leonard is the author of these lines found in the Pittsburg Christian Advocate.

Into the basket of thy day
Put each thing good and each thing gay
That thou canst find along thy way.
Neglect no joy, however small,
And it shall verily befall
Thy day can scarcely hold them all.
Within the basket of thy day
Let nothing evil find its way,
And let no frets and worries stay.
So shall each day be brave and fair,
Holding of joy its happy share,
And finding blessings everywhere.

Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot,
And cut up all my follies by the root,
I never trusted in an arm but thine;
Nor hoped but in thy righteousness Divine,
My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled,
Were but the feeble efforts of a child;
Howe'er perform'd, this was their brightest part,
That they were offerings of a thankful heart;
I cast them at thy feet, my only plea
Is, what it was,--dependence upon thee;
While struggling in the vale ot griefs below,
This never failed, nor shall it fail me now."