Canton Register

I Blot Out a Day!

I keep, on the desk before me, a calendar of the year, with the day of each week by numerals. When a day is passed, I draw my pen across a figure or the figures representing a day. It is gone, and I blot it out. So far as the column of numerals is concerned, I can do so.

But I am startled by the words, "I blot out a day!" A day is a wheel in the great machinery of life-a link in the chain of my probation. It is as truly a part of vital and essential being as a year or a century. The day is given me. Will it vanish at my bidding? I did not originate, I only received it. I have no more power to blot it out than to bring it in. It was a gift. How should I treat the Giver, if I could and would blot it out? It came as a proof of the love of the Giver. To many that day came not. It was on its way, but the chain broke.-But Divine kindness would not allow me to be a loser. Shall I not honor the Giver?

A day of sadness, perhaps. Blot it out for that reason? If my sins made the sadness of the day, then let the day stand-a memento of and reminder of my folly. That day is worth saving that brings such a voice of reproof. Perhaps the day was sad under Divine discipline. Surely, then, it ought to stand, lest, blotting it out, offense be given to Him who afflicts "for our profit, that we might be partakers of His Holiness."

A day of gladness, perhaps-the sky bright; the air balmy; joy in friends and all worldly comfort; above all, joy in the Lord and gladness in His salvation. Shall I mar such a beautiful picture? Shall I blot out such a day? As I erase the figure with a pen, shall I drop it out of my mind as if there had never been such a day? Is this the kind return?

A day! That day just erased from my calendar, how much could have been accomplished in it! What a noble river of holy emotions might have rolled through my soul in that one day-what fervor of love, ardor in prayer and workings of faith, bringing the light and joy of Heaven into the soul!

There hangs my calendar. I cannot blot out much longer. The last day of the year is at hand. The symbols of what remain may be erased by my driving pen; but these links of life, these waymarks of the path to eternity, these gifts of God, these opportunities of usefulness, my gratitude shall welcome them, my love and zeal carry out their great design. They shall aid in the grand result, that my name shall not be blotted out of the Book of Life!

-Rev. H. B. Hooker, in N. Y. Observer.