Once more I write to you for help. You boys and girls are as necessary to our work as your fathers and mothers. If England is ever to be made a happy country, you will have to do your part, and perhaps give up a good deal for the sake of others. We are going to have a very hard winter indeed, much harder than for many years past. There is so little work and so little money that I am afraid many a home will lack food and firing, and hundreds of little ones go hungry and ill-clad to school. Yesterday I saw just opposite our Boys' Club some little girls dancing to a street organ, one wee bairnie I noticed especi ally looked quite happy while she was dancing and seemed to be enjoying herself, although she bad no shoes or stockings, and had a dress on that must have belonged to her mother; it was so big, but the moment the organ stopped playing a cloud of unhappiness seemed to settle down on her face, and a look of care that one so often sees here blotted out all the brightness. No wonder, for she had a drunken mother who neglected her all day and beat her at night. Often she was locked out of doors for hours together, and would have to sit on the doorstep and wait till eleven o'clock, when mother came home drunk from the gin-palace. I don't want you to think that all poor people are bad and ill-treat their children, because that is not a bit true. I know many fathers who have gone for days without proper food in order that their children might have enough, but what I do want you to remember is that whether the fathers and mothers are good or bad, the little boys and girls are not to blame, and you can help to make them happy if only for a little while.

I wonder whether you know Oscar Wilde's story of the statue and the swallow. It is about a prince who was so good and true to his people that when he died they set up a great statue of him in the city, and it was called "The Statue of the Happy Prince."

No expense was spared to make it beautiful—the eyes were of magnificent diamonds, the sword-hilt was all studded with precious stones, and the armour with small plates of gold.

The story is that one day a swallow, flying by, perched on the shoulders of the statue for a moment’s rest, and was greatly surprised to see tears trickling down the prince’s cheek. When asked why he wept, the prince made answer: “Because I see so much misery all around me every day—so many people cold and hungry and unhappy, so many children sick and crying for food, and no one to care for them, and I myself cannot help.” The heart of the little swallow was touched, and he asked how he, a poor little bird, could help. The prince said: “Look at that poor beggar there; all his life he has been unfortunate. He has no friends, and no one to love him. Take him one of these precious stones so that he may be able to get food and clothing.” The swallow picked a big ruby out of the sword-hilt and flew off with it; and the poor old beggar found a friend at last before he died. So day after day the tender-hearted prince and the gentle bird ministered to the wants of the poor, the sick, and the suffering throughout the great city. At last, even the diamonds in the eyes of the statue had been taken away; and as it was getting towards winter, and the warm sun had long ceased to shine, the poor little swallow felt that he must leave the cold city and fly to a warmer clime or he would perish of cold. But the prince entreated him to stay, for without that swallow, he said, he could not help the people, and now he had no eyes to see their pain and distress. So the swallow stayed on until at last all the jewels and gold plates of the armour were used up, and then it was too late for him to fly away from the country. The hard winter found him still trying to save the poor and needy, but one bitterly cold night he was frozen to death, and there at the feet of the good prince the swallow lay quite stiff and dead.

The brave little bird had given his life for the people. Next morning, as the mayor and aldermen of the city were walking through the streets, they saw the statue stripped of its jewels and gold, and said it was a disgrace to the place. They issued an order that it should be taken away and melted down. This was done, but the iron heart of the statue would not melt with the heat as quickly as the bronze did, so it was thrown on the dust heap with the dead swallow. And when the angel sent out by God to collect what was of most worth everywhere came to the city, he took the iron heart of the statue and the little dead swallow as the most precious things it held.

There is no need for me to say anything about the lesson my story teaches. Last winter some of you sent money for teas and entertainments at Christmas, and for the children’s dinners; some of you sent toys, picture books, etc., to be given away at those teas; some sent clothes and books. See if you can do the same again and get your friends to help. Anyway, do all you can, and you will make me happy: you will bring happiness to your own hearts, and into the lives of your little brothers and sisters in East London. Above all, you will make Jesus Christ glad, for He grieves very much to see the children suffer and wants us all to help them if we can.

With much love and best wishes for a merry Christmas.—Your big brother, Percy Alden. Mansfield House, Canning Town, E.