often the voices of God's Spirit; sometimes by changes of
circumstances, either for the better or for the worse; and oftentimes
by sorrows. The straw is pulled out of the nest, and it is not so
comfortable to lie in; or a bit of it develops a sharp point that runs
into the half-feathered skin, and makes the fledgling glad to come
forth into the air. We all shrink from change. What should we do if we
had it not? We should stiffen into habits that would dwarf and weaken
us. We all recoil from storms. What should we do if we had them not?
Sea and air would stagnate, and become heavy and putrid and
pestilential, if it were not for the wild west wind and the hurtling
storms. So all our changes, instead of being whimpered over, and all
our sorrows, instead of being taken reluctantly, should be recognised
as being what they are, loving summonses to effort. Then their pressure
would be modified, and their blessing would be secured when their
purpose was served.

But the training of the father-eagle is not confined to stirring up the
nest. What is to become of the young ones when they get out of it, and
have never been accustomed to bear themselves up in the invisible ether
about them? So 'he fluttereth over his young.' It is a very beautiful
word that is employed here, which 'flutter' scarcely gives us. It is
the same word that is used in the first chapter of Genesis, about the
Spirit of God '_brooding_ on the face of the waters'; and it
suggests how near, how all-protecting with expanded wings, the divine
Father comes to the child whose restfulness He has disturbed.

And is not that true? Had you ever trouble that you took as from Him,
which did not bring that hovering presence nearer you, until you could
almost feel the motion of the wing, and be brushed by it as it passed
protectingly above your head? Ah, yes! 'Stirring the nest' is meant to