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CHAPTER XIII. THE Fountain of Living Water. The water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life. John 4:14. This story of Christ at the wayside well, with its figures of the well and the living water running through the conversation, is of great interest to any man or woman here who was born in the country and who has a memory of the wells near the old farmhouses all over the old farmhouses. My own mind is full of such pictures. They come up before me now, the different wells that I knew in my boyhood. One had a square well curb which surrounded the well with a little room on top to keep the rain from beating in, or the sun from shining its depths. And inside, under the roof, fastened into the long rope which in turn was fastened to the windlass, was an old, oaken bucket, like unto that about which Samuel Woodward sings. May God make the oldest of our hearts mellow again as we recall it. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood when fond recollection presents them to view. They orchard the meadow, the deep-tingled wildwood, and every love spot which my infancy knew. The widespreading pond and the mill which stood by it. The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell. The cot of my father did dairy house nigh it, and even the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket, the moss covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss covered vessel, a hail as a treasure. For often at noon when returned from the field, I found at the source of an exquisite pleasure, the purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it with hands that were glowing, and quick to the white pebble bottom it fell, then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, and dripping with coolness arose from the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket, the moss covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, as poised on the curb it inclined to my lips. Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now far removed from the loved situation, the tear of regret will intrusively swell. As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, and sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket, the moss covered bucket which hangs in the well. What an emblem the old well of living water is, the generosity and fullness of the up-springing peace which the savor plants in every trusting heart. The water from the old well did not need any ice to get it ready for use. It was a nectar fit for the king on the hottest day of summer, and it never needed a plumber to keep it going in winter. The story we are studying tonight had its setting in a country of wells, a dry country, not well watered, where the possession of a well of water was a matter of great importance. This well of Sikar, where Jesus had this immoral conversation with the woman of Samaria, was then 15 centuries old, and now after the lapse of more than 1800 years still exists. Let us learn the great lesson of our theme tonight, that no one is fitted for a safe journey through this dry and thirsty world who does not carry within his own heart a living fountain of spiritual life. Let us learn the great lesson of our theme tonight, that no one is fitted for a safe journey through this dry and thirsty world who does not carry within his own heart a living fountain of spiritual life, the source of whose confidence and hope is not ever green in his own soul. Every wayside well will at one time or another be dried up by the drought, and in the time of our greatest emergency fail to give us comfort. Every earthly source of satisfaction is of this character. What is more common for men to the put their trust in than their health, their strength of body, the physical consciousness which they feel of being able to bear burdens, endure toil and exposure? Other men belong to the sick and dying world, but they belong to the strong and the healthy and the well. I shall not soon forget a conversation which I had with a friend, a physician, whose pastor I had been for several years immediately before coming to this church. I went to bid him good-bye, and just before I parted from him he said, What can I say to you that will be of help to you about your health? And then he went on to give me some good advice. Told me I was getting to be stoop-shouldered, ought to throw my shoulders back and learn how to walk. And he went on to tell me of some experiments he had been making with himself, some exercises which he had been going through, how easy it was now for him to walk upstairs compared to some years before, and declared that he never felt so strong and well, that he believed this new system of exercise would add twenty years to his life. That was less than nine months ago, and last Saturday night he came home, sang it to his chair and said, Wife, the end is at hand. And in a few moments was dead. The well of physical strength had dried up. Another common source of earthly confidence, a well to which men turn with profound satisfaction, is a good name, a splendid reputation, and they have a spiritual right for that. Solomon says a good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, but alas, both of them are only wayside wells that are likely to be dried up. For our good name depends not only upon what we do, but upon what other people think we do, and many a man who has rejoiced for years in a well-earned fame has lived to see it torn to tatters and every vestige of it swept away through no fault of his own. Money is another source from which men and women constantly expect to get comfort and support. They have a confidence and assurance that so much money coming in every week, every month, every year, will make their mountains to stand sure and be a perennial source of enjoyment and peace. And there is so much reason to expect that money will accomplish many things. It is many times social and political power while it lasts, but it is never moral power and is never able to give any real peace. Not only so, but it is likely to vanish away at any time. Thousands of people every year who a little while ago thought they were certain of a sure income, large enough to supply all of their once and even luxuries as long as they should live, and leave an abundant reserve for their children, has suddenly awakened to the fact that their riches have taken wings and flown away. And the most conservative, wise financiers of the world are a power sea or ward off many of the dangers to fortune. But even if they keep it through life, it is a well that dries up entirely at death. We brought nothing with us into this world, and we can take nothing away. -it must all be given up at the grave. None of it will pass in the exchange of the spiritual world beyond. Another most beautiful and sweet luxury of their loving and sympathetic. we have here. But pure and noble as this is, and satisfying as are the pleasures of a pure home, it is, alas, after all, only a wayside well at best, that is likely to be blown upon by a cold breath and destroyed. I doubt not that there are some here tonight who remember only a little time ago when they looked forward to long years of such comfort and rest, but now the home is broken and never can be gathered together again upon earth. There are some of you who could never hear the word home spoken without grief. In the valley of the shadow of death you have learned to appreciate Gene Engelow's sweet song, a song of a boat. There was once a boat on a billow, lightly she rocked to her port remote, and the foam was white in her wake like snow, and her frial mast boat when the breeze would blow, and bent like a wand of willow. I shaded my eyes one day when a boat went curtsying over the billow, I remarked her course till a dancing moat she faded out on the moonlit foam. And I stayed behind in the dear left home, and my dreams upon the billow were about the boat. I pray you hear my slung of a boat, for it is but short. My boat you shall find, none fairer afloat in river or port. Long I looked out for the lad she bore on the open desolate sea, and I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, for he came not back to me. Ah, me! A song of a nest. There was once a nest in a hollow, down in the mosses and not grass pressed, soft and warm and full to the brim, vets lined over at purple and dim with buttercup buds to follow. I pray you hear my song of a nest, for it is not long. You shall never light in a summer quest the bushes among. Shall never light on a prouder sitter a fairer nestful, nor ever know a softer sound than their tender twitter, that wind like did come and go. I had a nestful once of my own, ah happy, happy eye. Right dearly I loved them, but when they were grown, they spread out their wings to fly. Oh, one after one they flew away, far up to the heavenly blue, to the better country, the upper day, and I wish I was going to. I pray you what is the nest to me, my empty nest, and what is the shore where I stood to see my boat sail down to the west? Can I call that home where I anchor yet, though my good man has sailed? Can I call that home where my nest was set, now all its hope hath failed? Nay, but the port where my sailor went, and the land where my nestlings be, there is the home where my thoughts are sent, the only home for me. Ah, me. And so there is no wayside well that's up and leave us without comfort. But blessed be God, for the gift of the Lord Jesus Christ, who comes to plant in our hearts a well of living water, not a stagnant pool, but an up-springing fountain that should be ever fresh and new. What a blessing it would be for all these young men and women, if in their youth this fountain of immortal youth could be-started flowing in all their hearts. I have been reading this week an article by Dr. Barros in a Christian register, titled The Horey Heart, in which he shows with great clearness how easy it is in this rushing time of ours to waste all the glorious strength and privileges of youth, so that the best possibilities of life are wrecked, and it is impossible almost before manhood or womanhood is reached. Youth, he declared, is only velvet on the flower of life. While we say it, it is passing. It is gone. Before we have time to note them, the first gray hairs have appeared, the first wrinkles about the eyes. But sadder far than these physical tokens are the signs that the power of enjoyment and self-renewal have been wasted. While the youthful glow still lingers on the cheek, the heart has begun to grow old. Oh, a man does not need to go to the Bible to find proof of God and immortality. He may find it in the power to punish which God has put in one's own body. A man may suck poison, if you will, but it will torture him in return. The soul, avenging itself for its own sins and abuses shows it has a power lying beyond a sphere of its will. The stories they sometimes tell us of a rattlesnake when crazed with anger driving its fangs into its own body until it dies of its own poison are a fair illustration of the way to pray soul off and stings itself to ruin. Its weapons are disgust, satiety, that lead to suicide or insanity, or to what is far more common, a miserable, useless death in life. The faculty of relish, Dr. Barrow's aptly says, is the most delicate and vibratory and responsive of all the qualities of the soul. God has written His sternest judgment over against the abuse of the good gift of enjoyment. The power to punish lies hidden in every emotion, every impulse, every desire. What is so terrible as to see men or women created with a more delicate organism than any musical instrument that ever was made, but who have so abused the delicate creation placed in their hands, that it is all to be numbled and helpless. And in place of the old gladness and enzuberant joy, there is a deadly oncoming of indifference. The blasé of worn out temper, fires burned down to the ashes, a black ring of dead things, a smoky pit, a burned out crater where there was once a rose garden, only loathing at what once caused the heart glad joy and delight. Can there be anything more terrible than that? Beauty, love, faith, hope, all fallen to rottenness, cynicism and cursing in place of prayer and song. These are what comes to those who live as though they were mere creatures of the earth, as though there were no God and no immortality. Dear friend, is this picture a portrait of your own career? Have you thus made a wreckage of life's first glorious possibilities? There may have been no actual debauchery. You may have had sufficient strength to keep the respectable appearance and to win what is called the set and the world, while the gold of your holiest feelings was scattered to the winds. If so, I bring you tonight the message of the Lord Jesus Christ, who was able to take this poor, wasted heart that throbbed in the bosom of the woman of Samaria and despite its waste and sin, to plant within it the fountain of living water. And not only to you do I appeal, but with a special emphasis and with a special yearning in my soul, do I come to the young, to those before whom the fascinations of sin are as yet largely only a temptation. I beg of you that you cherish your innocence, that you cherish all the generous impulses and noble inspirations of your youth. And now, while life is fresh and strong, you invite that full and perfect fellowship with Jesus Christ, which shall cause a spring up in your heart an ever-living fountain that shall make all of your life, like Damascus, a garden of the Lord.