The Farmer is the Lord. "I am the true Vine, and My Father is the Husbandman," said the Son, Jesus (John xv. i). The farm is the Bible, and the sixty-six fields are the books thereof. The Bible is sown all over with spiritual food, which is the Word of God, for His people. Those people who seek after the Lord must have a will to come, and patience to wait for an answer. There are some people who have the Bible, but have no desire after the Lord; but they find other things they think better of than seeking after the Lord. There are some people who say they hate the Lord, and the Bible, and there is not a minister that they will say a good word to. This, Jesus and His servants can vouch for a truth. The people who live in those low-built houses are those who are humble in the sight of the Lord; and not far from where they dwell the ministers live, and they think it a great liberty to speak a few words to the ministers, and, as for the Lord, they often feel they dare not attempt to speak to Him. But the Lord says, in Luke xii. 32, "Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom." You would almost wonder how these people exist; but they get a little help from the Lord now and then, which keeps them alive. And then it is said, one came to the Bible, and looked in the Book of Ruth, but could not gather anything; and Christians cannot gather anything from God's Word unless God opens it to them; and if they do not get good out of one part of the Bible they go to another, and would be glad to glean in either field of Ruth or Esther. In the end, the labourer directed the gleaner to the forty-second field, and he gathered handfuls (Luke xi. 9-13), and then he told others where to go to find plenty of food. MARY WILLERTON (Aged 11 years). _Corby, Grantham._ [This is the most correct answer received up to the time of going to press.--ED.] BE GENTLE. There is a plant that in its cell All trembling seems to stand, And bends its stalk and folds its leaves From each approaching hand. And thus there is a conscious nerve Within the human breast, That from the rash and careless hand Shrinks and retires distressed. The pressure rude, the touch severe, Will raise within the mind A nameless thrill, a secret tear, A torture undefined. Oh, you whose nature is so formed Each thought refined to know, Repress the word, the glance, that wakes That trembling nerve to woe! And be it still your joy to raise The trembler from the shade; To bind the broken, and to heal The wound you never made. Whene'er you see the feeling mind, Oh, let this care begin! And though the cell be e'er so low, Respect the guest within.--L. H. A BIBLICAL DISCOVERY.