"The moon is God's lamp, my darling,
To make the dark night light,

And she walks in her brightness, darling,
In God, her Maker's sight.

But the moon herself knows nothing
Of her golden glory shed,

While the sons of God are singing
Their anthems overhead.

"She gets her light from the sun, darling,
As she lies in his blessed heat.
She doesn't think about shining,

Only there it is warm and sweet,

So she basks in the sun's bright glory,

Till she's steeped in it through and through,

And at night she tells the story

Of his shining to me and you.

"When the sun is high at noon, darling,
We need her not nor see;

But when he sets, the moon, darling,
Sheds his light on you and me.
Just so I have often thought, darling,
We Christians ought to shine,

With a light not ours, but caught, darling,
From the source of Light Divine.

"And the world needs us, darling, As we need the moon at night, Ofttimes it turns from Jesus,

From Him the world's true Light; Its dim eyes shrink from His glory

As something too pure and bright. Then we must tell the story

Of His shining through earth's night.

"We need not think about shining,
That is not for me or you,
But just keep close to Him, darling,
And let His light shine through.
That by-and-by they may seek, darling,
For the source of our borrowed light,
And gladly as moon fades at dawning,
We are lost in His glory bright."

JEANIE MORISON.

of one born in obscurity rising to high service and widespread fame. About eighteen miles from Edinburgh is the small town of Bathgate (which was smaller still half a century ago, its inhabitants numbering only from two thousand to three thousand), and there lived David Simpson, baker, and his wife, Mary Jarvie, whose eighth child was their son James. Deeply devout, his mother, like Mary, loved to sit at Jesus' feet, where she had found "the one thing needful;" like Martha, also, she had care for the work of her house, and exerted no little energy in her husband's business-whom, indeed, by her wise action and prudent counsel she had saved from impending rain. Mrs. Simpson died when the boy James was about nine years

old: yet he had been long enough by her side to receive the impress of her character, and to be influenced by her example. In after-years he loved to speak of her worth. During his childhood her health had begun to fail, and he was left much with her while the other members of the family were at work. The memory of her appearance as she knelt in prayer, which was her habit several times a day, continued fresh with him through life. At her death his sister Mary became second mother to the boy, watching tenderly over him, helping him with his lessons, and storing his memory with the old tales of local superstitions common to every household thereabouts. The quickness of the boy's apprehension led his sister to form high hopes concerning his future, and his elder brothers shared them with her. All the household believed that Jamie was to be a grand man some day. Like most Scotch boys, he was sent to the parish school, which was under an excellent master, and it was there he began to show a love of learning. The winsome child, gentle as a girl, sportive as a bright and loving boy should be, grew up the pet of the family and the favourite of the neighbours. At home he was "the wise man," and "the young philosopher;" at school he was generally "dux" of his class. He devoured every book that could teach him anything; his love of knowledge, and especially of facts, being insatiable. Yet he was ever at the call of the older members of the house; running with rolls to the great house; keeping the shop for a while, book in hand; mounting the pony and riding off with a great basket of bread to deliver; when on the latter expedition he came to grief once. "I remember," says his brother, "finding him sitting in a street on a very dusty day, sobbing bitterly, the tears running down his cheeks covered with dust. 'What ails you, Jamie?' I said; and he answered, sobbing as if his heart would break, 'I've broken the pony's knees!' I told him it was not his fault, but mine. I had ridden the beast so much for a couple of days, that it was worn out and could not help stumbling. This comforted him, but he was very

vexed." The said pony seems to have cost him other trouble. "As I passed along the road with him," says his biographer, "between Bathgate and Torphicen, after he had won a world-wide renown, he recalled an incident which happened to him there. Pointing to a spot by the wayside, where the water from the drainage of a field has formed a deep depression in the ditch into which it falls, he said, 'I

never all my life was in greater terror than there. When a little boy, I was riding with a great basket of bread to Torphicen, and the pony wishing to drink, would go into that hole. I had a hard pull; but letting the weight of the basket fall on the opposite rein, I kicked the pony's sides and urged it past. It was a near shave."

Young Jamie seems to have been never scolded, but loved

into goodness. Father, sister, brothers, all outpoured their loving care upon him. It was a rule of the father that the "till" which received the shop drawings should be open to all who made good a right to it by work; but by common consent Jamie was to use it without work. He was to be free to give himself to study, and all the brothers were willing to work for him. Loving watchfulness was also bestowed on the youth; his brother Alexander especially tenderly cared for him. "When the social usages of the town, and the prevalent free mode of living presented strong temptations to the boy, Alexander would put his arm round his neck and tenderly warn him: Others may do this, but it would break a' our hearts, and blast a' your prospects, were you to do it.' Having been thus spoken to on one occasion, when he had been later out at night than usual, 'Jamie was greatly troubled, and cried a' the night, like to break his heart.'"

At the early age of fourteen, the lad entered the Edinburgh University, and the ambition of his heart to become a student was fulfilled. Here his faculties became yet more sharpened, and he came to see how much he had to learn beyond what he had ever thought of at the parish school. Simpson's reputation was not, however, to be won in Classics, Mathematics, or Moral Philosophy. Science was to be his study, and Medicine his profession. He attended the classes of the eminent surgeons and other specialists, and was a diligent taker of notes and an indefatigable inquirer after knowledge. After hearing lectures he filled in his notes, and studied and characterised the authors that had been referred to, and so made himself master of the subject.

But name and fame were to be gained chiefly through a speciality, which early in his professional studies had suggested itself to him. It is said that, after seeing the terrible agony of a poor Highland woman under amputation of the breast, he left the class-room and went straight to the Parliament House to seek work as a writer's clerk, feeling that he could never endure witnessing, much less inducing,