TWICE BORN.

SELF-WILLED IN INFANCY.

ALTHOUGH I have lived through a half cen

tury, and in spite of the fact that my life has been, up to within seven years ago, a checkered one, the single beacon-light in that life, the one unfailing token of my hopes and dreams, has been my memory of my mother. Left a widow when I was but six months old, and left alone, too, in the large city of Troy, N. Y., without money and with but few acquaintances, to do as best she might in bringing up her small family, she struggled against poverty most bravely. Firm in her faith in God, she made honest and continuous effort to teach me the right way, but without success. She was patient, forgiving, self-sacrificing, and most gentle with me, trying to deal with me as only a mother can, and while I occasionally brightened her dreary, dark existence, it was only for a moment,

so to speak. Well do I remember how she taught me the pretty little petition to the Giver of all good; and many and many a time, since then, both in prison and when free, has come to me the words, "Now, I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

The same prayer, taught generation after generation, most potent in its simplicity, and known to the universal army of children, has been, beyond any question, of inestimable good to the world; but, as in my own case, it has been too often learned as one of infancy's "stints," to be chattered off parrot-like, so long as parental authority demands it, to be finally abandoned when that self-control, which comes with advanced youth, asserts itself. There is one characteristic about the prayer which proves its value; I had almost said its immortality,—it is, that no matter how vicious or how wicked a man or woman may become, the text of that prayer is never forgotten after it has been once committed to memory.

Reader, do you remember it? Does it ever come to you, gray-headed though you may be? God grant that it does, and that it may again,

and that through it, if you are not yet in the light, or, if once a believer, you are faltering, you may be brought to Christ!

While I was, as most young boys are, fond of my mother, and while I used often to help her, to the best of my ability, doing errands, helping about the house, and the like, still I was wayward and unruly, and my chief protests were against attending school and going to Sundayschool.

I wish to say, right here, that the most fatal mistake that can possibly be made by a boy or girl is to neglect whatever school privileges may be offered. Nine-tenths of the beginnings in crime come because of the shiftless, aimless, and degrading hours of idleness, brought about through failure to go to school.

I was sent by my mother to the Rev. Dr. Beaman's (Presbyterian) Sunday-school; and while I did go occasionally, and while once or twice I was known to have my lesson, still I was most irregular and unreliable, and more than that, I could not arouse any interest in the school and its teachings. Yet God is good as well as mysterious, and I often find myself now wonder

ing whether it is not the few scattering seeds sowed at that time, and in that school, and almost by accident, as it were, which, in full bloom and firmly rooted in my heart, are now giving their best blossoms and choicest fruit, in my behalf. Who can say that the Wills who is now writing this, is not like the prolific, full-ripe wheat, that sprouted and grew luxuriantly after having been hidden for ages in the long-forgotten graves of the Egyptian mummies?

Of course my present chief regret is that I did not obey the pleadings of my mother and the instructions of my teachers. Well, I moved from bad to worse until, when eleven years of age, my dear mother died, and I was left alone to battle with life, and educated to that most wicked pitch where I firmly believed that the battle of life meant literally a cruel, unscrupulous, and sanguinary struggle. Mother had said to me, just before she died, "Henry, what will you do when I die?" and while she begged of me to place myself in the care of either my uncle William or my uncle Jim (her brothers), I felt guilty; that is to say, I know now that I felt guilty. At the time, however, I felt angry and

wicked, and humored my false belief that my uncles had no interest in me, and would do nothing for me. Of course I promised my mother that I would go to them, and after she died, I did go to live with my uncle William. He was a wholesale crockery merchant at No. 79 Pearl Street. While I know that I gave him plenty of trouble by refusing to go to school, and by various other acts of disobedience, and while I am sure I was a disagreeable addition to his family, as I had a quick, ungovernable temper, and a natural tendency toward fighting, still I fancy my evil qualities were not wholly the cause of my troubles. For instance, I had many rows through refusing to shine my cousin John's shoes, and repeatedly I resented what I called unwarranted overbearing, both on the part of my uncle and his son. Finally, after I had played "hookey" the larger part of an entire term, the climax was brought about by my uncle's asking me to bring home my schoolbooks, that he might see the progress I had made. Like all sinners, I was a coward. I was afraid to face my uncle's wrath, and so when I left my uncle's house that morning ostensibly to