had been taught. While the choir of little
children, born among all the sorrow we had
seen, sang for us a pleasant hymn beginning
with the words, "I think when I hear the
sweet story of God," our thoughts went
painfully astray in the direction to which that
line pointed. The story we have told is their
story. When shall it be brought into accord
with that beautiful theme of which they
sang?

PEOPLE'S UMBRELLAS.

SITTING at my chamber window watching
the leaping rain-drops springing from the
swollen puddles—watching the steamy-
windowed omnibus with its stooping, shiny-caped
driver and independent, mournful, head-
shaking conductor—watching the clean-
washed pavement smoking over the bakehouse
ovens—watching the rolling glossy cabs and
the struggling, soaked, and weather-beaten
foot-passengers—is it to be marvelled at
that my thoughts linger upon umbrellas?
Amongst the dwellers in this great city—not
that few who look upon their fellow-creatures
from the glowing interior of the yellow
chariot or the compact brougham, but that
many to whom even the hack-cab is a rare
luxury, and the omnibus an uncertain
convenience—this humble instrument is
cherished as a street god—a companion
—a something to hold silent communion
with—an appendage which, like a dog or
a walking-stick, is modified by the character
of its owner, while it becomes, at the
same time, part of his system, exerting an
influence over him equal to what it receives.
Solitary men who take long constitutional
walks to the commons round London, or
loiter home in the cool of the evening from
quiet offices under government, carry umbrellas
as companions, and not as instruments
to protect them from the rain. The old
play-goer, whose memory extends over the
traditions of fifty years, who can tell how
many waistcoats every actor used to take off
who has played the first grave-digger in
Hamlet for the last half-century, fights his
way to his familiar seat in the pit—always
in the pit—accompanied by an umbrella of
substantial dimensions, upon which he leans
in deep attention, sucking the handle as he
mutters to it his opinions of the performance.
His umbrella has been his constant companion
all these years; and although change
and decay have come to it, as to its master,
in the common course of things, a new covering
confers upon it every now and then the
gift of perpetual youth, while the old play-
goer sinks gradually without any such power
of restoration.

Setting aside the dry utilitarian, who
carries his umbrella as he would a macintosh,
or an oilskin suit—for use, and nothing more
—there is a number of men whom you may
identify by their umbrellas, as you may
identify others by their watches, their watch-
seals, or their snuff-boxes.

There is my nervous friend, my timid
friend, my friend who is sadly wanting in
self-possession. He enters my chambers
silently in soppy goloshes on a rainy day,
with a dripping abomination which he will
not put in the place appointed for the
reception of umbrellas. He brings it through
the mass of horrified clerks into my best
official room; he places it against the wall,
but before he can commence his business,
the ill-constructed nuisance opens with a
burst and a splutter, falling helplessly in the
little pool which it has deposited on the
carpet. He picks it up, and places it once
more hurriedly yet tenderly against the wall;
but it still persists in falling on the floor,
with a grating noise against the wainscot.
Again my nervous friend puts it in a position
of safety, and it is not until he has again
settled down in a chair, to return to the
object of his visit, that he discovers a valuable
piece of polished furniture likely to be
seriously injured by the close companionship
of the dripping abomination. By the time
that he has finally determined to his satisfaction
that the only place for a wet umbrella
in such a room is inside the fender, a smell
of burning discomposes him once more, and
his mind is rendered totally unfit to entertain
business for the day.

Then there is my forgetful friend, my
friend with the weak memory, my friend who
can never tell exactly whether he has lost
his ring, or whether he has left it on his
dressing-table. He is constantly haunted by
the idea that he has left an umbrella
somewhere. When you think you have got rid of
him for the day, his familiar voice is heard in
the outer room, and his familiar head is
thrust in at the inner door, asking in familiar
tones the familiar question, "Did I leave an
umbrella behind me just now?" Then
comes the production of every umbrella in
the place for him to examine carefully, and
endeavour, if possible, to identify the lost one.
Then comes his not very graphic description
of his umbrella; its peculiarities of appearance,
especially its very curious and striking
handle; and his very lengthy and vague
account of the places he had visited that day,
and the most likely shop, club-house, or
vehicle in which he had left it. I meet him
sometimes full in the street, and I see him
stop suddenly, hesitate, scratch his chin, and
then walk a short distance back in an
undecided manner; the suspicion having just
crossed his mind that he has lost his umbrella.
When my forgetful friend pays me another
visit, after the trouble that he put me to in
searching for a phantom of his brain, I am
amused by his quiet statement that the
supposed lost umbrella was resting calmly at
home in its accustomed corner, covered with
the idle dust of many weeks' inactivity. All
men have their uses: and I fully believe that