SMALL THINGS. THERE is nought that God has made, so small All things in their turn his purpose serve, A grain of dust to the eye unseen, With myriads may combine, To form a bulwark to the sea, And its hoarse wild waves confine. That little drop of pearly dew, Which on the blue-bell lies, May dance in the sun's bright beams, away Or from the bosom of that cloud Upon the parched and fainting flowers Or with other tiny sister drops, It may lave the mariner's lifeless brow, And thus the humblest of us all, MORLAIX, BRITTANY. On the other page we give our young readers a view of the Baptist Chapel, at Morlaix, Brittany. Brittany, as our readers we hope know, is one of the provinces of France, and it is the only place in France in which the Baptist Missionary Society has a mission established. For many years Mr. Jenkins has laboured there alone, and his labours have been much blessed by God; but lately he has been joined by Mr. Monod, a young French gentleman whom God has converted by his grace, and who it is hoped will be a great help to Mr. Jenkins, and a useful missionary and minister of Christ. The chapel, which was opened in 1846, is a very plain building, without any ornament, measuring about thirty-three feet by fortyfive. It is not such a chapel as we have so many of at home, with galleries, pews, and everything beautiful: it is, as we have said, very plain indeed, and is fitted up only with pulpit and benches; but it is at least light and airy; and every Sunday from sixty to seventy persons assemble to hear the word of God. Mr. Jenkins, who generally preaches, preaches in the French language; but he also addresses the Bretons who are present in their own dialect, and he also contemplates setting up an entire Breton service, as the number who attend is increasing. There is also a Sunday School held in the chapel. The chapel is open not only on Sunday, but on Saturday also, when some thousands of country people come to market; and Guillion (one of the colporteurs) attends to sell Testaments and tracts, and to converse with any one who may come in. The number of members in the church at Morlaix is now thirty-four. Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Monod have several other stations where they preach besides that at Morlaix. During the last year seven were baptized, and there are several others, we are told, who are disposed to follow Christ their Saviour. But they are surrounded by an ignorant and superstitious Roman Catholic population; and they have difficulties consequently to contend with of which we in this happy country have no idea. Let us pray that they may be blessed of God, and may be the means of bringing many of the to a knowledge of the truth. poor Bretons "AFRAID OF JESUS." I HAVE been thinking for the last five minutes how I can best begin to describe Susan Walter's home, and at last I have hit the mark. It was very pleasant. Not grand, for it was simply a farmhouse; nor romantic, for it was only a plain, square, solid-looking place, with a neat garden, and a cluster of farm-buildings, and a large yard, and a row of graceful trees in its neighbourhood; but pleasant decidedly pleasant. Susan was only ten years old; but she was so thoughtful, that every one treated her as if she had been fifteen. Her mother spoke of her as "my right hand;" her father made her the companion of his walks; her governess regarded her as a young but valued friend; and the servants looked upon her as a person of very superior intellect and education. All this might have turned Susan's brain had she been conscious of the fact that other children had not the same position; as it was, having no child-friend with whom to compare herself, she rather accepted her honours as things of course. Susan was clever, there was no doubt about it. Her fondness for reading, and her remembrance of what she read, her intelligence in study, and her reflections on what she studied, all tended to convince her parents that she was gifted. Already she touched the piano skilfully, read French with a good accent, wrote a fair hand, and excelled in arithmetic. Yet there was something wanting in Susan Walters. She was not all that could be wished, for she was not religious. Clever, kind-hearted, affectionate, agreeable, industrious, she was yet destitute of that one thing which the Bible declares to be absolutely necessary peace with God through his Son Jesus Christ. It was a great want; and the misfortune was that Susan did not feel it. She was content to live without Jesus Christ; and as to dying, she seldom thought of that. She was only ten years old! The parents of Susan Walters were earnest Christians. They talked with their child, and prayed for her; but it seemed as if their prayers were all unheard. In regard to all things else, the child was interested and intelligent; in regard to religion, she valued forms alone-and even these only as so many steps to the good opinion of those around her. "I am quite strong," she thought; "not likely to be ill, and still less likely to die. There will be time enough when I am old, eb, Richard!" This question was, one day, addressed to Susan's bird, a canary, remarkable for its intelligence. Dick answered by a shake of the head, which for a moment puzzled his little mistress. "Do you say 'No'?" she inquired; "how dull of you! but I see you are quite melancholy for want of exercise. Come into the garden, and let us swing together." They went, and the canary appeared to enjoy the change; for he grew cheerful, and sang a pretty song in Susan's ear, as she swept languidly to and fro between the fir-trees at the end of her father's garden. "How lovely!" exclaimed the child; "I could stay here always." Then, seeing her father standing at the door of the house, she shouted that it was "nice," and invited him to join her. "I would swing you myself, dear papa," she continued, laughing, "and Richard would sing on your shoulder." Her father drew near and thanked her. He would come by-and-by, when he returned from Crofton. "From Crofton, papa?" exclaimed Susan; "is Hannah Brown worse?" "Much worse. They all think she is dying." "May I not go with you? I so want to see Hannah again. Poor little Hannah!" The swing was forgotten, and friend Richard was hastily restored to his gilded cage, as Susan turned quickly from the garden, and hastened to her mother's parlour to announce that poor Hannah was dying, and that she, Susan, wished to say "Good-bye" to her. "I will come back in time for school," she pleaded, earnestly, "and Hannah is always so very glad to see me." "But you have never yet seen a dying person," said Mrs. Walters, "and this may alarm you. Think well before you decide, and be very serious. If you go prayerfully to this sick room, you will receive a blessing; but if you enter it from mere curiosity, its holy lessons will be lost upon you." The child sat down, and for a few minutes was lost in thought. Then, rising, she put on her hat, kissed her mother, and went away. It was a hot day, and ¦ Mr. Walters walked but slowly through the lanes which led to Crofton. He was attached to Hannah-the faithful negress whom a dying friend had committed to his guardianship some twenty years before -and it was with solemn feelings that he went to bid farewell to one who was so soon to join her beloved friend and master in heaven. The cottage in which Hannah Brown had found a home stood almost within the shadow of Crofton Mills. It was a place very rich in trees, and fruit, and flowers-in ferns, and bees, and butterflies-in tinkling streams and meadowflats, and views of far-distant hills, that touched, as Hannah thought, the sky above them. A simple creature was Hannah, but "rich in faith." When |