The Poor Slave


I WONDER if the little readers  ...

when surrounded with blessings, 

remember to praise God for them?

When you lie down upon your beds at night

in quiet repose, and when you rise in the 

morning, having the society of parents, brothers

 and sisters, do you kneel and praise God for 

giving you such.

While such bounteous favors are conferred upon

you from your heavenly Father's hand, do you

think of some poor sufferers who are deprived of

them? There are the poor little slave boys and

girls who have feeling, sensitive hearts, like your

own. They are torn from the embrace of parents,

brothers and sisters, and sold on an auction 

block, to be sent far away among strangers,

 where they are unmercifully treated, and often

 whipped if they do not obey all their masters'

 wishes. They hear no words of comfort when in

 distress, but their aching hearts must ever ache

 on. They have no mother's fond caress. They 

hear no father's gentle encouraging tones. They

 have nothing to amuse them, and have naught to

 fear but their master's bloody lash. They have 

no one to tell them of God, and how Jesus died

 to save them from their sins.

They have not even a Bible to point them to the

Lamb of God. Oh, who can hear or read of such

 cruelty without hearts of pity? Much more, what

 must those hearts be who inflict such sorrow

 upon their fellow-creatures?

But God and angels notice it all, and it is

all remembered in heaven.

When the day of God's vengeance comes upon

his enemies, these brutal slave-dealers will be

 rewarded double for all their sins. I remember a

number of years ago of reading a slave-boy's 

wish, and committed it to memory. 

I will here insert it,


"I wish I were that little bird,

Up in the bright blue sky,

Who sings and flies just where he will,

And no one asks him why.

"I wish I were a cunning fox,

And hide me in a cave;

I'd rather be a savage wolf,

Than what I am a slave.

"My mother calls me her good boy,

My father calls me brave;

What wicked action have I done

That I must be a slave?

"I saw my little sister sold,

So will they do to me;

My heavenly Father, let me die,

And then I shall be free."




 N. D. B.



The Curse of our Country.


 LITTLE READERS:


 I want to say a few words

to you about one of the

miseries of our country,

which is as sinful in the eyes of

the great God as it is vile and abhorrent

to us. I mean the awful

system of American Slavery. The

scene in the engraving is not a

familiar one to us; but if we

lived in the Carolinas, in Georgia,

Louisiana, or any of the

Southern States, we might see

slaves as plenty as cattle and

sheep at the North. Did you

know, children, that at this moment

there are more than three

million of colored people at the

South, who are not their own

masters as we are, but who are

bought and sold, worked and

whipped, like animals of the

brute creation? Did you know

that many of these have not so

good food to eat, nor so comfortable

places to live in, as your father's

oxen and horses? And did

you ever happen to think that

among this vast throng are a multitude of 

children little boys and girls like yourselves 

except that they are slaves? This is a painful

 fact, if you have never thought of it; and may 

God open the avenues of sympathy in your 

tender hearts, that you may think of the little

 slave children at the South. Look at the little

 African boy in the picture; perhaps he is sitting

 at his mother's grave. How sad he looks! He 

seems to  feel as though he had not a friend in

 the world.

 Perhaps his father and older brothers are with

 that company of men in the field, which you see

 working under an overseer.

Poor little boy! How we should pity him! He 

knows that if he was only a little older and

 stronger he would not be sitting by his dead

 mother's grave.

Oh, may kind heaven pity the poor slaves!

And may we soon behold our King coming who

 will "rule in righteousness," and put an 

everlasting end to this iniquitous work. These

 poor creatures in bondage do not get pay for

 their labor as we do;ah, no. They have their task

 assigned them, and then if they fail to perform 

it, they are often lashed and beaten till the blood

 wets the ground on which they stand. The little

 slave children, too, they have no pretty books 

and papers to read, no Sabbath-schools to 

attend, no kind teacher to teach them to read

 and spell. God's word is to them all,

old and young, a sealed book, and about all they

ever hear of it is, "Servants, obey your masters,"

and, "Cursed be Canaan, a servant of servants 

shall he be to his brethren."

But a day of awful retribution is rolling on, when

men-stealers and men-buyers, and all traffickers

 in the image of God, will meet the reward of

 their hands. The perverters of God's truth will

 also be remembered then. The overflowing 

storm will sweep away "the refuge of lies" in 

favor of slavery, and priests and people who

 have  connived at this atrocious crime will 

howl because of the fierce anger of the Lord.

Let us continually bear in mind the Golden Rule

of the Saviour, "WHATSOEVER ye would that men

should do to you, do ye even so to them," and 

"Remember them that are in bonds."



"O Lord! Whose forming hand one blood

To all the tribes and nations gave,

And givest to all their daily food,

Look down in pity on the slave.

"Oh, kindle in our hearts a flame

Of zeal, thy holy will to do;

And bid each child who loves thy name,

To love his bleeding brother too."





 YI