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and his brothers sold him, but he had for gotten his name. We asked, “Was it Jos eph?” “Oh, yes, have you those stories?” “Yes, indeed, we had them with us in a book and would read them to him, if he liked.” Then we promised he should have a book of stories all his own about Moses and Joseph, David, Daniel and all the rest. The next week when we did go back, im agine our disappointment and his, to be told his mother had said he must not take any more books from us. The door that had stood open in such friendly fashion on the previous visits was closed and the faces of the little foreigners had lost the sweet friendliness. It was written all over their faces, “We’re most afraid of yoy.” It was in vain that we told Milton that this book was all right. We knew his mother would be glad to let him have it for it had not the name of Jesus in it. He was almost persuaded, took it lovingly in his hands, looked at the picture and found the story of Moses. He wanted it so much, but she had said he must not take any more books from that lady and loyally to his mother, he stood the test. He gave it back. We might go to the shop where she worked and ask her, but he could not take it. They were Jews and loved God. He was their Father and they would always love Him. You see? It was the veil. —2 Corinthians 3 :14-16. the Yokefellows eousness?” asked a man, one evening be fore the meeting, of one of the workers. “I surely will be glad to do so,” answered the worker, and in a few moments they were on their knees together with an open Bible in front of them, seeing what God had to say about the matter. The way was made plain, the Saviour was received and the man confessed to a new-found joy and power. A n old man , crippled, has been coming out to the evening meetings for some time, and the other evening I spoke kindly to
were in a strange land and they did not know the stranger’s friend. We left a Gospel and tract in Yiddish and praised God for the wonderful medium of com munication, that corrupt form of Hebrew, the jargon which most Jews can read. This day we called again on the family, but were helpless to make them understand until they called someone from within to come and interpret. You should have seen him. A beautiful, sweet-faced boy of about ten years. Never before had we seen a Jew ish boy whom we could imagine Jesus to have been like—until we saw this boy. Sweet-faced, serious, spiritual, pure—a dear little Jewish boy, with brown eyes and curly black hair. “Yes,” he said, “they liked the books,” and wanted to know more. Might he have some? He would like a story. We hesitated. Would it do to give him the story? A heartfelt prayer impells lis to say, “Here is a story, but perhaps your mother would not like you to have this one. It’s about Jesus.” Evidently he didn’t get the name, for he took the book, looked it over, hesitated and then gave it back but with fine courtesy. There was a story he would like to have, had I ever heard about Moses? His teacher had told him and he thought Moses was an English man, but when he told his grandmother, she said Moses was a Jew. And there was another story about a boy who had dreams The Work of i ' HE STIMSON Sunday School is m growing and if the Lord doesn’t open up the way for larger quarters pretty soon, we will have to put the boys "two deep.” The record attendance at this time is one hundred and forty-five. We are praying and working for a mighty turning to God on the part of these boys. Some have already confessed Christ, and as practically nothing but God’s Word is given to them, we expect a reaping time to come soon. Pray to this end, will you not?
“W ill you show me the way of right-
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