You can see at once how helpful these little brigades are in every Sunday school (where they exist) to the officers and teachers. Some children will not go to Sunday school when it is raining or when it threatens to rain; some will not go forward and occupy front seats when they do go; and there are others who are always tardy. What a blessing it would be if all the little children would organize these brigades at once in their schools, and try to get every scholar to join each one of them. “HOME, SWEET HOME.” Go with me, boys and girls, to the gay streets and gilded saloons of the great city of Paris far across the sea. Here is said to be the centre of all the world’s follies and pleasures. It is at night. An American, who has left his home and native land to view the splendors of the wicked city, is passing along the street. He has beheld with delight its paintings, its sculpture, and the grand and graceful proportions of its buildings. In the midst of his keenest happiness, when he was rejoicing most over the privileges which he possessed, temptation assailed him. Sin was presented to him in one of its most bewitching garbs, and he yielded to the voice of the siren. He drank wildly and deeply of the intoxicating cup, and his draught brought madness. Reason was overthrown and he rushed out, all his scruples overcome, careless of what he did or how deeply he became immersed in the hitherto unknown sea of guilt. The cool night air settled damp and heavy upon his heated brow. Walking on and on, not knowing or caring where he went, by-and-by strains of music from a distance met his ear. Pretty soon, following in the direction from which the sounds came, he was able to distinguish the words and air of the piece. The song was well remembered. It was “Home, Sweet Home.” Clear and sweet the voice of some singer, using his native tongue, rose and fell on the air; and the poor wild man stopped and listened to the soft cadences of that beloved melody. [Illustration: HOME, SWEET HOME.] Motionless he stood until the last note floated away, and he could hear nothing but the ceaseless murmur of the great city. Then he turned away slowly, with no feeling that his manhood was shamed by the tear which fell as a bright evidence of the power of song, and also as an evidence that he, the guilty sinner, was not yet absolutely lost beyond recall.