'"

Yes, with a will we can do almost anything that ought to be done; and
without a will we can do nothing as it should be done. To all of us,
whatever our station, there come difficulties and trials. If we yield to
them, we are beaten down and conquered.

But if we, ourselves, conquer the temptation to do wrong, calling the
strength of God to aid us in our struggle with the enemy, we shall grow
stronger and more valiant with every battle, and less liable to fall
again into temptation. Our wisdom and our duty are to rouse
ourselves,--to speak to our own hearts as the child did in his simple
words, "With a will, Joe."

[Illustration: "_I shan't go to school_."]

EFFECTS OF DISOBEDIENCE

The following affecting narrative was related by a father to his son, as
a warning, from his own bitter experience of the sin of resisting a
mother's love and counsel.

What agony was on my mother's face when all that she had said and
suffered failed to move me. She rose to go home and I followed at a
distance. She spoke to me no more until she reached her own door.

"It is school time now," she said. "Go, my son, and once more let me
beseech you to think upon what I have said."

"I shan't go to school," said I.

She looked astonished at my boldness, but replied firmly:--

"Certainly you will, Alfred! I command you!"

"I will not," said I.

"One of two things you must do, Alfred--either go to school this minute,
or I will lock you up in your room, and keep you there until you promise
implicit obedience to my wishes in the future."

"I dare you to do it," I said; "you can't get me up stairs."

"Alfred, choose now," said my mother, who laid her hand upon my arm.
She trembled violently and was deadly pale.

[Illustration: _"Take this boy up stairs and lock him in his room."_]

"If you touch me, I will kick you!" said I in a fearful rage. God knows
I knew not what I said.

"Will you go, Alfred?"

"No," I replied, but I quailed beneath her eyes.

"Then follow me," said she as she grasped my arm firmly. I raised my
foot,--O, my son, hear me,--I raised my foot and kicked her--my sainted
mother! How my head reels as the torrent of memory rushes over me. I
kicked my mother, a feeble woman--my mother. She staggered back a few
steps and leaned against the wall. She did not look at me.

"O, heavenly Father," she cried, "forgive him, he knows not what he
does." The gardener, just then passing the door, and seeing my mo