WHEN THE SHIP COMES IN

LOWN hither by favoring winds, or battered by adverse gales, it makes little difference, if only the ship comes safe to land, bringing her passengers home, and depositing her cargo with its consignees. The important thing is not so much that the ship has had either rough weather or a smooth voyage, but that she has reached her destination. Always there are light hearts and glad voices when the ship returns. Often there are tears when she sails away, for partings are hard, and meetings are joyful. Long and dreary may be the nights of watching, but they are soon forgotten in the rosy dawn, when up the harbor sails are spread, her flag is flying, and the ship comes gallantly home.

Some of us have had ships at sea for a great while. They have tarried many days, many weeks, perhaps many years, and we've almost lost heart, thinking we shall never see them more. In the meantime, if discreet and thrifty, we have worked steadily on just as if we owned nothing in ships that were out of sight. The little craft that we manage close in shore must always be our main dependence. There is a good deal of peril, and waste, and the pain of hope deferred, in counting too much on our faraway ships. People of sanguine temperament are given to mortgaging the future, drawing recklessly on investments that are vanishing quantities, and spending with a lavish hand gold, that for all they know, may be lying at the bottom of the ocean. Until the ship has actually made its wharf, don't publish your balance sheet.

Some of the ships that start forth with fairest hopes are never seen again. Some drift into wrong courses, and

some are wrecked on stormy coasts. We cannot reckon very much on the ships that delay beyond their appointed time. To drop metaphor, it is the part of prudence to let each day tell for the best that it can, in work, in study, in aspiration, not sitting down and supinely waiting for some good fortune that is expected, but which may never be ours. For example, the man who takes a house bigger and more costly than he can afford, because he has the prospect of a large legacy from the estate of a kinsman, who may change his will a dozen times before he dies, is foolishly investing in a ship that may never come in. All sorts of complications and mortifications will be his portion while he is waiting for the good luck that may be, after all, a broken reed. A woman one day appeared at the house of a friend, arrayed in velvet and costly furs. The friend controlled her surprise at the magnificent raiment conspicuously out of character with the position of the wearer, but the latter airily explained: "We haven't very much ready money, but I have an account at several shops, and these things won't have to be paid for till the season is nearly over. By that time, John's ship will have come in. You know he is going to make a pile of money on that Western land of his."

The pile of money was not made. The ship did not come in, and a good deal of suffering was undergone by the couple who had so unwisely allowed themselves to become embarrassed, by buying what they could not afford.

A husband, proud of his wife's beauty, and hating to deny her any request, sometimes breaks down, and dies in the middle of his days, through carrying too much weight; the man is bowed under burdens he should never have borne, and worn out with the strain of corroding anxiety.

Other days there are when the ship comes in, days which have no such shadow of gloom. Deep is the gloom when the ship arrives too late, and everything is spent be

fore it comes. It does not then bring very much satisfaction.

There are little ships that come to harbor bringing nothing but radiant gladness. The day when the baby is born is one such day of joy.

Some of the sweetest love poems that have been written when the baby's ship has come safe in, have sprung from the thankful hearts of fathers. Mothers have no monopoly of tenderness when babies are concerned. And men write as fondly as women of home and childhood and love.

Mr. George W. Cable wrote a lovely little verse called "The Last Arrival." If it happens that you have not read it, you will be sure to like it, as it is quoted for you here:

There came to port last Sunday night,
The queerest little craft;
Without an inch of rigging on,

I looked, and looked, and laughed!

It seemed so curious that she

Should cross the unknown water,
And moor herself within my room,
My daughter, oh, my daughter.

And George MacDonald, writing when the same sort of ship came in, said:

Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into the here.

Where did you get those eyes of blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.

Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?

I saw something better than any one knows.

Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into bonds and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
From the same box as the cherub's wings.

How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear?

God thought about you, and so I am here.

Whenever a deserved recognition comes to a man or woman, in any sphere of service, it is in effect the coming in of a ship that has been waited for. The prizes of life earned by brave endeavor are white-winged ships that bring delight.

We are, by the way, of being much too serious and grave, in the conduct of our days, and we do not allow ourselves to be as merry as we ought. After childhood, very few of us in this strenuous time of ours, know how to play. We feel that we must always be tense, keyed up and ready for action. When our ships come in, do not let us be so sober that we cannot enjoy them. Every such arrival should give us a chance to have a household reunion, or a festival, or wholesome gaiety and mirth.

As we grow older, we especially need to remember that this is a good world to live in, full of good people who love us, and that our business here is to be happy ourselves, and make others happy. Away with the spirit of the pessimist, who sees no blue in the sky, because a shower is passing, who hears the sobbing of the wind, but not the joyous symphony of the breezes that float from shores of balm. Though there are losses, there are gains; though sorrow enters, joy stays longest, and it's a good world, whether our ships come in or not.

THE LARGE FAMILY OR THE SMALL?

"M

AY I ask what advantage there is in raising a large family? I notice that many writers of distinction speak with admiration of a family of six children or more. Can the mother of average health and means get six children ready for church on Sunday morning, go herself, and call it a day of rest?"

When there are six children in the home they are not all babies together. The elder children may be so trained that they will help with the younger and do their share in getting themselves ready for church on Sunday, and in helping their mother through the week. Among the photographs that have given me most pleasure is one sent me from the State of Washington, which shows a very beautiful family group. Father and mother are in the prime of life, and their eight boys and girls are sturdy, healthy, fine looking young people, every one of whom has some share in the carrying on of the home. The mother's happiest time, though she does not always know it, is when her babies are not too far apart to enjoy one another, and when at night she may go from one bed to the next, tuck her darlings in, hear them say their prayers and say her own beside them, and give each a good-night kiss. The anxious time for mothers is not when they are little ones to be washed and dressed, made ready for school and church, and carefully trained in the way they should go with tender home discipline and plenty of love. Greater anxiety comes when they reach the reefs and shoals of young manhood and womanhood. The mother who asks the question as to the advantage of the larger family has two sweet children, the elder of whom is five years old. The chil