At the Saviour’s feet, 
To go no more out from the saint’s retreat, 
But forevermore 
On that blissful shore, 
Shall ye hand in hand. 
An unbroken band, 
Roam the halcyon fields of Beulah land. 
A REMEMBRANCE. 
A man never feels more lonesome and 
forgotten anywhere on the face of the 
earth than in the land of his boyhood after 
an absence of fifteen or twenty years. He 
goes back with a sort of half belief that he 
will find everything just about as he left it, 
and is startled to see the little read headed 
girl he was wont to help at mud pie baking, 
the mother of a growing family, and the 
«herry tree of his childhoods happy hour 
full of the sons of the boys he used to play 
with. 
About a year ago I went over to the land 
of my boyhood, where I was wont to chase 
the bright hours hunting the amusing bum¬ 
ble bee in his native lair. I had been away 
from the locality about eigteen years, and 
it was half a day's work to find a person 
I could call by name. It seemed to me 
that everybody I knew when a boy and 
lived there, had died or moved away. The 
cherry trees I used to climb, the streams I 
used to dam for water power to run min¬ 
iature saw mills, the hills I used to coast 
upon, the great chestnut trees I used to 
shake till they showered down their nuts— 
all were there, looking very much as they 
looked nearly a score of years before; but 
the people had all changed. 
Near the old house in which I was a hap¬ 
py boy with a great longing for pie and a 
marked distaste for work between meals, 
I found a solitary, white-haired man lean¬ 
ing against a fence. He was apparently 
occupied with his thoughts and a large 
chew of tobacco. He was an old inhabi¬ 
tant. I had stolen apples from him twenty 
years before. I knew him at once. I recog¬ 
nized him by a strawberry mark on his 
nose. I thought I would question him and 
see if he remembered me, and approaching 
him I asked in a kindly and reverent tone 
of voice. 
‘My good sir, do you remember a fair, 
bright youth with a thoughtful, pious air, 
who was the light and joy of a family who 
lived in yonder house some eighteen or 
twenty years ago?’ 
‘No, I never knew any such boy in this 
quarter,’ said the old inhabitant, slowly, 
and in a dry, husky tone of voice. 
‘But I used to know a tow-headed, freck¬ 
led-faced youngster who lived over there 
about as long ago as you speak of. I can’t 
forget him well, for he was the worst boy 
in the community, a boy who was as 
frisky and chipper as he could be when 
there was water to be carried to harvest 
bands, firewood to be fetched in, or the 
cows to be hunted; a boy who was always 
at work at a rabit trap or a machine to hull 
walnuts, or a saw mill, or something not 
wanted; a boy who had a dam across every 
run in this section, and a flutter wheel 
agoin’ at every dam. That’s the only boy 
I ever knew to live over there in that house 
on the hill.’ 
I saw that he hadn’t entirely forgotten 
me. 
‘What do you suppose that boy is doing 
now ?’ I asked. 
‘I don’t know,’ he answered, in a medi¬ 
tative way; ‘but I expect he is in jail. He 
ought to be anyway, if he is still alive, 
and hasn’t reformed.’ 
‘No, he is not in jail,’ I said, thinking 
I would surprise him; ‘he’s the editor of 
a newspaper.’ 
‘Well,’ answered the old inhabitant, 
slowly, after changing his quid from his 
left to his right cheek, ‘I ain’t a bit sur¬ 
prised to hear it. I always said he would 
come to something bad.’ 
At this point the conversation flagged, 
and a sort of coolness appeared to spring 
up between the old inhabitant and yours 
truly. I decided not to surprise him by re¬ 
vealing to him the fact that I had once 
been a boy and had lived in the house re¬ 
ferred to. I was afraid the news might 
shock him, if broken ever so gently. He 
was a very old man and the shock might 
have been too much for him .—Chicaqo 
Herald. 
Those who come after us have to work just as 
hard as we do.— Burdette. 
