And just here it is, I think, that many persons, especially those who are hard-worked, and those who have some special trouble to bear, make great mistake.  They might, perhaps, say at hasty first sight that it would be selfish to aim at providing themselves with pleasures.  Not at all.  Not one whit more than it is for them to buy a bottle of Ayer’s Sarsaparilla (if they do not know better) to “cleanse their blood” in the spring!  Probably a dollar’s worth of almost any thing out of any other shop than a druggist’s would “cleanse their blood” better,—­a geranium, for instance, or a photograph, or a concert, or a book, or even fried oysters,—­any thing, no matter what, so it is innocent, which gives them a little pleasure, breaks in on the monotony of their work or their trouble, and makes them have for one half-hour a “good time.”  Those who have near and dear ones to remember these things for them need no such words as I am writing here.  Heaven forgive them if, being thus blessed, they do not thank God daily and take courage.

But lonely people, and people whose kin are not kind or wise in these things, must learn to minister even in such ways to themselves.  It is not selfish.  It is not foolish.  It is wise.  It is generous.  Each contented look on a human face is reflected in every other human face which sees it; each growth in a human soul is a blessing to every other human soul which comes in contact with it.

Here will come in, for many people, the bitter restrictions of poverty.  There are so many men and women to whom it would seem simply a taunt to advise them to spend, now and then, a dollar for a pleasure.  That the poor must go cold and hungry has never seemed to me the hardest feature in their lot; there are worse deprivations than that of food or raiment, and this very thing is one of them.  This is a point for charitable people to remember, even more than they do.

We appreciate this when we give some plum-pudding and turkey at Christmas, instead of all coal and flannel.  But, any day in the year, a picture on the wall might perhaps be as comforting as a blanket on the bed; and, at any rate, would be good for twelve months, while the blanket would help but six.  I have seen an Irish mother, in a mud hovel, turn red with delight at a rattle for her baby, when I am quite sure she would have been indifferently grateful for a pair of socks.

Food and physicians and money are and always will be on the earth.  But a “merry heart” is a “continual feast,” and “doeth good like-a medicine;” and “loving favor” is “chosen,” “rather than gold and silver.”

Wanted.—­A Home.