GERTRUDE laid aside the paper in which she had been reading of a family that had been discovered in great destitution, and very near starvation. 

Looking up to her grandmother, she said, "It must be a terrible thing to have nothing to eat and to fear that one must die of starvation." 

"Indeed it is, my dear child," replied the grand-mother, laying her hand on the golden curls. "It is a terrible thing." 

"But nobody ever knows anything about that here," said the child. - 

"Not now," replied the old lady, " but I remember the time when starvation stared us in the face." 

"Oh, grandmother !" cried Gertrude. "Do tell me about it. I did not suppose anything so dreadful ever happened." 

"Sit down, Gettie," said the grandmother, "and I will tell you of something that happened here in this very place where we now live, sixty-five years ago. I lived here then, not in this nice house, but in a log cabin. 

My father came here and bought this farm when it was a wilderness. He built a log house, and made a clearing ; and then he married my mother, and brought her here. Year by year he cut away the forest, burned off the brush, dug out the stumps, enlarged his fields, and planted and harvested his crops. I was the oldest of three children, and I think we were a very happy family, though things were rough about us, and we all had to work as hard as we could. 

I was ten years old in 1816, a year never to be forgotten by those who lived through it. Though the spring was cold, the farmers put in their seed; but there was never such a summer known. It was so cold that even -the grass did not grow, and nothing of all that was planted yielded a harvest except the rye, and that was very poor. But another affliction, still more terrible, fell on us in the autumn. A malignant fever, they called it spotted fever, swept through the country, and thousands died. It came here, and took away my father, and little brother and left poor mother alone to provide for me and my little sister Mary, in that year of famine. Qur neighbors could not help us, for the famine and pestilence had entered every house. There was then no great West with its grain-fields. There was no easy means of transportation, and food became very high and scarce. 

Mother sold the cattle, and procured corn enough to keep us through the winter. The spring came, warm and beautiful, but we saw with terror that our corn could not hold out till the early vegetables would give us food. For weeks my mother gave us our daily portion of bread, always reserving the smallest piece herself, and we ate silently, thinking that even this might fail. One morning she scraped the barrel, and baked a little cake, which, with tears, she divided among us. Then she fell on her knees, and said, ‘Father in heaven, thou seest our distress. Remember the widow and orphans according to thy word, and send us bread.'  She rose up, and went 'about her work, but her face was so pale and full of anguish that I ran out into the thicket, which then covered the ground where the orchard now stands, and sat down on a fallen tree to cry. I had not been there long when my sister came and said, Come, Susie, let -us get some ovenwood.' 

"What do we want of oven-wood? ' said I, we have nothing to bake.' 

"She looked at me as if astonished, and replied, Mother asked God to give us bread, and I know he will.' " 'How do you know?' I said.  You see I was not like my sweet sister, who was laid away to rest so many years ago. 

"I heard mother read it,' she replied. He said, Ask and you shall receive.' I know he will give us bread. Mother must bake it before we can have any dinner. Let us get the oven-wood.' 

"We filled our arms with the dry sticks that were lying about, and carried them into the house. 

Mary said, Mother, here is the oven-wood.' 

"Mother looked surprised, and said, The oven-wood?' 

"Yes, mother,' said Mary. You know God will send us meal, and you must have the oven hot. Here is the wood.' 

"Mother stooped down, and kissed the face of my little sister, and then, without a word, began to make a fire in the oven. You see, we baked our bread in brick ovens that were heated by a fire inside, in those days. The fire was beginning to burn briskly, when the door-latch was raised by the leather string that hung on the outside, and Uncle John came in. He lived fifteen miles from us, and the roads were so bad that we had not thought he would come to us. It was a glad surprise, and when he had kissed us all, he said, looking at the fire in the oven, I hope you are comfortable, but I felt so worried about you last night that I could not sleep, so I started early this morning.  I have brought you 'a bag of meal, and some other things.' 

"Mother burst into tears, and pointing to the oven, she said, We have not a spoonful of anything to eat in the house. My little Mary said we must heat the oven, for the Lord would send us meal. Surely, he has sent you, my brother. 

Blessed be his name! 

"Our kind uncle had brought some maple sugar that he had just made, and that day our dinner was a feast never to be forgotten. We had cornbread and sugar, all we wanted. You do not know what that means to a hungry child that has not been satisfied for weeks. I have heard a child complaining when she had an abundance, because she fancied something different. She does not know how sweet the plainest food would be if she were really hungry." 

Gertrude blushed; "I think I will never complain any more," she said. "But do you really believe that the Lord sent your Uncle John to bring you that food?"  "Indeed, I do believe the Lord sent him," she replied; and from that day, I have learned to know that he never disappoints any one who trusts him as my little sister did. I have told you this true story, my dear child, hoping it may help you to appreciate the blessings you enjoy, and if trouble ever comes on you, that it may teach you to trust in God."

The Little Star.