THI

HE December number of the Leaves comes to us with words full of comfort and encouragement, and, with a dear sister, we feel like exclaiming,

Autumn Leaves grow better with each number! But is it only this? Or is it also that our lives are blending more harmoniously with the teachings of Christ, thus fitting us to appreciate them wherever and whenever found? We trust and believe this is true.

Our faith in God and his promise to the Saints is just as strong as it was the day it led our feet into the waters of baptism. How can it waver or grow dim, when we reflect upon the many blessings it has brought us?

Of late we have been thinking a great deal about the gifts of the gospel and their importance in our daily warfare. If one only could be granted. an individual, which should he choose, which would be most desirable?

To us it seems that faith, more than others, would bring joy and happiness, as it is the foundation for all the promises and blessings of God. Paul says it is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. As such it is the foundation of every hope or desire in this life and in the life to come.

Being, as it is, the embodiment of humility and love, without it, this gracious gift of faith, the promises of God avail us nothing; for he has made it the primary condition upon the exercise of which hang the blessings assured us.

With its help we are enabled to endure, to battle successfully with the host of difficulties to be encountered in this Christian warfare.

This principle of faith is one which dwells to a greater or less degree in every heart, and which will, in the same proportion, be cherished as long as life shall last.

Those who bring into their daily service of God a goodly measure of this gift and let it glorify their every act and thought, making of the hum

blest duties offerings to him, dwell in the very zenith of its brightness.

Every duty, poor and inconsequent as it may seem at the time, when performed to the best of one's ability, is done for Christ, and thus it becomes a holy and a precious work, a work for him, the giver of all good. And it is this faith in God, which causes us to believe he will accept and cherish these humble offerings. That glorifies them.

Faith whispers to us the sweet message, too, that death is not the end of our existence, that the tomb is not our final abode. It tells us of a life beyond the valley of death, of an eternal home on the other side of the grave! Ah! what blessed assurances, what bright pictures does it hold up to our view!

Dear friends, pause for a moment to view and fully comprehend them. Is not the great difference between our conditions here and those which will surround us there, very apparent to all? We have here the heartaches, but there we shall have the pulses of joy; here, the prayers and the longings, there the praise and content; here, the stumblings and the tears. but there, the path clearly shown and from the lips ascend glad songs of victory.

Where now it seems so drear, looking, as we do, but through a glass darkly, then all will be bright; we shall see as we are seen and know as we are known.

"We see, but never reach the height, That lies forever in the light," may be true of our condition here, but then regrets will be unknown. We shall stand firmly upon heights of purity now seemingly unattainable.

Then what has greater power to bless and comfort our lives than faith? It hovers near the infant, walks hand in hand with the child. Yes, it keeps step with more mature and firmer tread.

If we would but listen, we could hear all through the journey of life, its many whispered words of hope and

cheer, when all else seems drear and waste.

And when we near the goal, the close of our earthly pilgrimage, we find it is still our companion in our silent walk to the grave.

We cross the river of death and it stands upon the opposite shore to bid us welcome, to whisper again that God lives, and as he lives, we shall live also; that we shall be like him, that we shall see him as he is.

In correspondence with a lady, earnestly investigating our doctrine, she once wrote that which impressed me strongly:

"I am very favorably impressed with the teachings of the Latter Day Saints. I know of none better, if they

would live up to the knowledge they possess."

Ah, if we would but live up to the standard we have raised! If we would but let others see by our daily actions that we appreciate the light we have received.

But we realize that many times we do not come up to the mark we have have set for others to reach.

But the gospel is unchangeable, and the fact that we stand or fall, "come up higher," or sink into misery cannot alter the truth of this latter-day work.

Let us one and all strive earnestly for the faith as delivered to the Saints of ancient days. Then we shall be able to overcome all obstacles and indeed be as a light set upon a hill which cannot be hid.

"It was late in mild October, and the long

autumnal rain

Had left the summer harvest fields all green with grass again;

The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay

With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow flowers of May."

IF

Fit had been the identical day Mabel was then enjoying upon which the poet had looked forth, he could have given no more accurate description of it. It was late in October, but while the air held the mellow autumnna haze so peculiar to the Indian summer time, the sun shone bright and clear, pouring down upon the earth a flood of warmth and light which was rapidly ripening the golden ears of corn in the fields. The frost had opened the shell of the hazel and hickory nuts and from the boughs of the forest trees waved many a banner of crimson and gold.

It

Upon this beauty of field, wood, and autumn coloring Mabel Grant was looking forth as the day waned and the sun sank towards the west. was so quiet, calm, and peaceful that it harmonized most perfectly with her dreamy mood. The sun found way for his parting beams to enter between the leaves and they lingered

amid the waves and braids of her smooth, soft hair and imprinted the shadow of the clinging vine on the carpet at her feet. Presently she turned to a young girl sitting farther back in the room busy with her needle, saying,

"Amy, the day is just perfect. I have literally been absorbing it into my being for the last hour. Come, lay down your work and let us go for a walk. We may not have another such a day in a long, long time."

"No, perhaps, before another autumn comes," answered Amy," and if you will wait just a few moments I will have finished this work and we can go by and leave it at Aunt Martha's."

"What is it you are doing?" asked Mabel, now for the first time noticing the garment on which Amy had all the afternoon been busily sewing.

"I am just finishing a dress I have been making for Cousin Anna," she answered. "Aunt Martha has not been well this fall and I found this in her work basket when I was there yesterday and brought it home with me. There, the last stitch is taken and I am so glad, for I have been longing for a walk all this afternoon."

"Longing for a walk!" exclaimed Mabel. "Why did you not let the sewing wait until a rainy day? We might have had such a lovely time."

"But Cousin Anna needs the dress to wear to school, and then, you know, the present is the golden moment. Each rainy day will bring its own work, be sure of that," said Amy as she folded up the dress, and putting on her hat joined Mabel at the gate.

Never was an evening in autumn more perfect and seemingly the enjoyment of Mabel and Amy was perfect. But could anyone have penetrated the most secret thoughts and feelings of each heart, they would have discovered a difference, of which perhaps the girls themselves were not aware. Mabel enjoyed it with a sense of the pleasure she took in all things beautiful, but added to this there was in Amy's enjoyment a keen sense of having first earned the pleasure. Nor was this all. Her walk was not aimless, but while she took in every beauty of nature and counted every step, almost every respiration of the pure crisp air a delight, there was the consciousness of a kind act done, and she felt the ready gratitude with which Aunt Martha would receive it.

Withal she was very quiet, and few would have judged her to be the happier of the two. Mabel chatted as they walked along, revealing by her words the various fancies of her imagination, her love of the beautiful and finally her aspirations to be useful in the world.

"I wonder," she said at last, as if giving expression to a thought which had been troubling her. "I wonder why it is that, while I often desire to be useful, I never seem to remember in time. I might have helped you with that work this afternoon," she said half doubtfully, "and then our walk would have been longer."

Let us enjoy more heartily what we have time for," said Amy, too happy herself to reproach her companion even in her thoughts." And so they wended their way along the village street, occasionally stopping to exchange kind words with a friend, or pausing to admire the autumn flowers still blooming upon the lawns of some

at last fell between them, and their steps grew slower, moved perhaps by an indefinite feeling that the steps retarded would prolong the hour.

Crossing a rustic bridge where, at seasons of the year when rain was plentiful, a stream rushed along, instinctively they paused leaning over the railing and taking in the full beauty of the scene. The borders of the dry bed of the stream, the banks and for some yards back where the fields had not been cultivated, were one perfect tangle of purple and white asters growing in rich luxuriance, while the wild sunflowers mingling with the golden-rod, touched here and there by the rays of the sun, made them fairly resplendent with dazzling color and beauty.

"How perfectly lovely!" said Mabel. "It must have been a scene like this that inspired the poet when he called October the 'carnival month' and wrote the beautiful description of it I was reading just this morning. Do you remember it, Amy?"

"No, I do not think I ever read it. Perhaps you can repeat it?" answered her cousin.

"I will try, though I am not sure that I remember it all," said Mabel, and then with a well-cultured voice and in modulated accents she repeated the stanza:

The month of carnival of all the year.

When nature lets the wild earth go its way. And spend whole seasons on a single day. The Springtime holds her white and purple dear; October, lavish, flaunts them far and near. The Summer charily her reds doth lay Like jewels on her costliest array: October, scornful. burns them on a bier. The Winter hoards his pearls of frost, in sign Of kingdom; whiter pearls than Winter knew, Or empress wore in Egypt's ancient line. October. feasting 'neath her dome of blue. Drinks at a single draught, slow filtered through Sunshiny air, as in a tingling wine!"

"It is very fine." said Amy.

"Yes," answered Mabei, "and it has set me to studying seriously as to why it is so, for the poem is true to the scene before us. What profusion, what magnificence of coloring nature has bestowed just as the leaves are ready to fall, and how exquisite in color as well as abundant the last flowers of the year. flowers of the year. Just a little while. and the frost will blacken them with

his touch and leave the earth bare." "It is the richness of the coloring, as well as the profusion which impresses me most," said Amy. "October may burn them in scornful mood, but memory will hold this pic ture forever. What a wonderful faculty, and how much it adds to the sum of happiness in each life!"

"Yes, and of unhappiness as well," Mabel answered, her voice unconsciously revealing the shade of her thoughts, for against her own inclination she was contrasting the fruitage and bloom lavished everywhere around her to the good works which should, in the autumn of life, crown that life with a glory equal to the splendor of this October day, and of a character infinitely higher than this of the vegetable kingdom.

From the bridge the girls walked on in silence until the home of Aunt Martha was reached. It was a plain, neat dwelling, and a cheerful voice welcomed them as the door opened to admit them.

"You have come just in time, girls," said Aunt Martha. "Supper is ready, so take off your wraps and enjoy it with us."

"Thank you, Aunt Martha," said Amy, but I must hasten home and help mamma to get our own ready. She is not strong and needs my help. Mabel can stay," she added, though at the same time she cast a questioning look at her cousin behind which lurked the thought that it would be pleasanter to have her company home. Mabel did not read this thought in Amy's face, or if she did, she did not respond to it. Aunt Martha's invitation was cordial, the sitting room was cheerful, and from beyond came the appetizing odor of the already served supper. Their walk and the pure air had sharpened her appetite, so that, although she had fully intended to return with Amy and help her with the evening work, she forgot her good resolutions and yielded to the enjoyment of the present. While Aunt Martha was busy carrying away Mabel's wraps, Amy quietly and unobserved slipped the dress she had made into the sewing basket and, after a few words exchanged with her

cousins, left them with a cheerful good-bye and started on her way home. The sun had set, the air was growing cool, and the ruddy glow from Aunt Martha's old-fashioned fire place looked very attractive as she stepped out into the fast gathering twilight, but with a brisk step she commenced her homeward walk, and not once thinking of the temptation of a warm supper and pleasant company home, she pursued her way and found her reward more than ample in the grateful look her mother gave her as with willing, helpful hands she laid the table, lit the lamps, and helped to put all things in readiness before her father came to supper.

Later in the evening when Mabel, accompanied by one of her cousins, came home, she was busily engaged on a piece of work intended as a Christmas gift for her betrothed lover.

"I had such a pleasant time with Aunt Martha," said Mabel, but we were sorry you could not have staid. You should have seen how pleased she was when she found the dress you had made. She thought she would do a little work while entertaining me, and, going to her basket, she found the dress. She seemed to know at once who had done it. Are you always doing such things, Cousin Amy?"

"Not always," Amy answered as a blush of pleasure crept over her face, "and there was a time when I found it very hard not only to do a kind act for another, but to do the simple things which duty requires each one to do for himself. Not that my heart was not willing, but I had unconsciously acquired the habit of being very unfaithful in my appointments with myself, and this was leading me to unfaithfulness in the same way with others."

What do you mean by appointments with yourself?" asked Mabel.

The resolutions which I was constantly making of doing good to others. I would waste hours of time when I should have been busily employed with my own work, in dreaming and planning out the good I would do, but when opportunities came I was never ready to meet them. Either they seemed better suited to some one

else, or my own neglected work came between me and the good I might have done.

"I cannot realize this as ever having been true of you," said Mabel, with a look of strong increduilty in her eyes.

"Yes, but it is true, and many unhappy moments I have suffered in consequence of it."

"How did you finally overcome it, Amy, for surely it is not like your present self?"

"I knew my failing, and when at times I had been more than usually unmindful of duty I suffered keen mental regret and would resolve to mend my ways; but this would not last, and the habit was becoming fixed. At times I felt that my usefulness for life was being impaired, but, while I regarded it as a fault, I did not then look upon it as a sin. During this time I became acquainted with Herbert, and upon one occasion when he was talking with father I heard him say, 'Of course. Mr. Arnold, there may be palliating circumstances in his case, but I am persuaded that Emerson was right when he said, "I could never think well of a man's intellectual or moral character, if he was habitually unfaithful to his appointments."'

"They had been discussing the merits of promptness in meeting engage. ments, and father had mentioned a mutual friend whom he esteemed to be in other respects, an exemplary man. I cannot tell you how this sentence of Herbert's affected me. Once or twice already during the then short period of our acquaintance I had failed in promptness in meeting my engagements with him, and now it was not only the chidings of my conscience that troubled me, but a fear crept into my heart that I had been weighed in the balance of his strict sense of honor and had been found wanting. The thought came to me with emotions which were doubly painful, for at the same time that my fears were awakened, I discovered the nature of my feelings for him.

"That night my head pressed a sleepless pillow, but before I arose I had resolved that with God's help I would uproot the evil habit which,

like a upas tree, was already beginning to overshadow my life.

"Upon one occasion when more than usually tried with some of my failures, mother said to me,

'Who learns and learns, and acts not what he knows.

Is one who plows and plows but never sows.' There was now a powerful incentive urging me to act. I felt that never before had so much been staked upon the chances of victory or defeat, and. being thus thoroughly aroused, conquest became comparatively easy. The present was eagerly seized by me as the golden opportunity, and I never resolved upon doing anything for the good of myself or another, without carrying my resolve into execution as speedily as possible."

"It is to love, then, after all," said Mabel, that you are indebted for victory."

"Love and the influence of strong convictions honestly expressed. How many times since that day, while thinking over the habit into which I had fallen, I have felt my cheeks burn with conscious shame as I realized the want of moral rectitude in my conduct. We have really no more right to deal unjustly with ourselves than with others, and God never intended us to form for eternity such dwarfed and misshapen characters as these. I came to realize in its fullest scope that this dreamy anodyne of lofty purpose and sentiments which never takes shape and form in acts is one of the most dangerous delusions which the soul can cherish.

"Of course I did not escape later temptations, but instead of weakly yielding to them as one turns upon his pillow for a few more moments of sleep when the day is abroad and all nature is awake and active, I set the full force of my will against them and silently asked God to help me in overcoming."

"I cannot yet fully realize" said Mabel, "that you ever were so tempted in this direction."

"Yes, but I was, Cousin Mabel, and, as I have told you, I still need to be constantly upon my guard," and while she spoke she rose and folded