fall down upon their faces in fear. But in a voice strong and deep, yet mellow as the notes of a trumpet came the words, "Fear not,' and at the magic sound all fear was swept away and peace and joy filled the hearts of the watchers; and the shepherds arose, then bowed low again in adoration before the angelic visitor. But still the angel was speaking in the same melodious voice:

"Behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people, for unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger."

Then from the heavens swept a shining band of angels, and the air was sweet with the music of their voices as they sang:

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!"

Of those who listened surely there was none purer or more precious in the sight of the Father than the little child watching in wonder with the white lamb clasped to her breast. A long time she stood, until the heavenly host was gone and the mantle of night had fallen again upon the plains; but methinks an angel must have lingered a little while to guide her childish footsteps home again that night, although she could not see the glory of his brightness.

"I tell thee, Lois, I have no faith in the Healer. If he healeth, as

so many say, he doeth it by the power of Beelzebub. But I think they are idle tales for the more part, told by ignorant, mysteryloving people."

"But Marah, thou hast told me so many times in days past, of the strange thing that happened when thou wert a child. How canst thou talk so, when thou sawest it with thine own eyes?" "I may have fallen asleep that night and dreamed it-I know not. Children dream so many things."

"But it was not a dream that our father and the other shepherds came back from Bethlehem singing and praising the Lord after they had seen the babe. And they saw the angels even as thou didst. How canst thou doubt, Marah?"

"Many people, even wise ones are deluded sometimes. If this be the Messiah, as he claims, why does he not free this miserable people from their oppressors instead of healing a few ignorant beggars?" and the woman looked out across the green hills with straight, set lips, unconscious of the warm beauty of the scene before her.

"His kingdom is not of this world, he says, and he has come to free this people from sin. Oh, Marah, if thou couldst only see and hear him, I know thou wouldst believe! But I will tell thee more later, for I must hasten home now or the little David will wake and cry for his mother," and the little woman bustled away to her own home and household duties.

Marah sat quietly by the window after her sister had left, watching the blue waves of Galilee rippling in the sunshine, beyond the white roofs of fair Capernaum. Who was this man whose name and fame were filling all the land? The silver sails of a ship far out on the waters recalled the tale she had heard of his calling two fishermen to be his followers; and only this morning had Lois told her of a rumor that Matthew had forsaken his tax-collecting and joined his lot with this man Jesus. Strange Messiah indeed to choose for his companions fishermen and publicans! Then again came the memory of that night so long ago that it seemed vague and unreal as a dream, and uneasy doubts assailed her, though she scarcely knew why. An eternity seemed to lie between the night on Bethlehem's plains and this sunny morn in Capernaum, for the simple hearted, childish faith had changed to weary unbelief; and the years, often so unkind, instead of wearing the rough edges of character away and making it a stone ready for the builder, sometimes beat it into callouses and indifference.

But her reverie was broken by a shrill, boyish whistle, and a sudden love-light leaped into her eyes as a slender, dark-eyed lad of some thirteen or fourteen summers crossed the courtyard and came in at the open door.

"Come down to the market place with me, mother," he requested blithely. “I saw some fresh dates brought in only this morning, and the walk in the sunshine will do thee good. Besides, it is great sport to watch the strange Gentiles who come there with their wares."

The woman smiled and rose at once to go. Seldom indeed could she refuse to grant a favor to this son of hers, her greatest joy and pride. With difficulty he restrained his impetuous footsteps to keep pace with hers as they passed out into the street, and he lifted her veil every now and then that he might look into her eyes as he told animated stories of his boyish escapades.

"See that crowd, mother," he exclaimed suddenly as he spied a multitude gathered in the street not far ahead. "What are they doing, I wonder?" Then as they came nearer he solved the problem. "It must be the Healer. I heard that he was coming to the city this morning. Hast seen the Healer, mother?"

"No, my son. Let us hasten by, for the multitudes throng us." "This way, then, mother. We must pass through the edge of the crowd," and he led her along the side of the pavement where only a few stood, watching the scene with idle curiosity. Then it was that she saw him-this man of whom she had heard so much-standing quietly in the midst of the people, speaking to them in a voice that thrilled her very soul; bringing back afresh the flood of emotions that had been stirring in her heart that morning, awaking

new doubts and fears that she had indeed been in the wrong about his divinity.

"Look, mother," Philip's eager eyes saw everything, "here comes Jairus, the ruler of the synagogue. What can he want in this crowd of common people?"

Marah lifted her eyes as the ruler passed by, his face white and worn with anxiety; then almost mechanically she followed him as the people gave way for him to pass. In a moment he was at the Master's feet and she heard him entreating him passionately. "My little daughter lieth at the point of death: I pray thee come and lay hands on her that she may be healed!"

Ah, the look of infinite love and pity on the Healer's face! The marks of sorrow and pain were there, of things suffered, of things more bitter yet to come; yet overshadowing all was divine compassion and love that passeth understanding. What matter now that she had doubted? He had come to seek the lost, to heal the sick, to bring sinners to repentance; and with her faith suddenly made strong again she reached out with trembling fingers and touched the hem of his robe as he turned to follow the ruler.

"Who touched me?" His eyes were searching her, though his disciple tried to persuade him that it was but the press of the multitude. And before the compelling tenderness in his eyes she came forward and threw herself at his feet and told nim all.

"I was not worthy to ask of thee, Master," she said, "and I touched but the hem of thy garment and straightway was made whole."

"Daughter, be of good comfort. Thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace." And he left her standing there with peace and healing in a weary, storm tossed soul, as well as a suffering body; for the faith of her childhood had come back out of the years.

EDITOR'S CORNER

AUTUMN LEAVES is published monthly for the youth of the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Price $1.00 per year in advance. Herald Publishing House, Lamoni, Iowa.

ELBERT A. SMITH, Lamoni, Iowa.

Aliens.

In dreams the dear old home you sought,
And found it as one joys to find
Some cherished friend by fancy brought
For days before a homesick mind.

You heard the blackbirds overhead
At eventide their chorus sing,-
The low, slant sunbeams softly shed
Upon each glossy neck and wing.

While through the leaves, among the trees,
And o'er the quiet meadow land,
Thin evening mists upon the breeze

Came forth, a gray and ghostly band.

Oh long, black strips of steaming earth
The plow has turned upon the field,
The farmers prize you for the worth

Of corn and wheat that you will yield;

But those who loved you, even now

Recall how oft they spanned your bound,
Behind the harrow or the plow,

And watched your increase round by round;

And saw in you the grace to be

The great, green billows that would skim
Across your breath, as on a sea,

To break on the far prairie's rim.

You found the old familiar trees,

Each one you knew and each you named; 'Twas here you played, and under these Your first rude hut of clods was framed;

Or mimic pastures built of sticks,

With stems of grass and weeds for rails,
Here was your barn, and here your ricks;
Yonder your hay in stacks and bales.

The ants have claimed the little farm,
And sunk their mines with careful toil;
They rally, at some swift alarm,

To swear their title to the soil.

Perhaps 'tis well to change our thought,—
Old days grip hard upon the heart;

Memory is an artist taught

In a sad school,-and loves his art.