REMEMBEREST THOU 1 
BY CONSTANTLY. 
“We bury our sorrows, and the turf grows over 
them—sometime* even beautiful flowers; but every 
now and then there comes an earthquake, and the 
graves open.”— Extract. 
REMEMBEREST thou, oil friend ! 
One lovely autumn any 
In bright October weather, 
We met from homo half way 
And walked and talked together? 
Ah! I remember well, though years have passed, 
Those happy hours—for oh ! they were (lie last. 
Our friendship was so pure— 
Our converse guy 
As slowly on we strolled 
Alone that day. 
That happy day 1 thoro are none now for me, 
for nevermore I’ll walk and talk with thee. 
Thou'rt gone I thou’rt gone! 
And yet thou didst not die! 
1 might have mourned tho less 
Hudst thou been dead : 
For then not dead to mo, 
Dear friend, for aye! 
And as for me, my UjM of life has tied, 
And shadows only hover o’er my head. 
-♦♦♦- 
PORTRAITS. 
BY FLORENCE WALLING. 
Eyes of ebon blackness, slilning raven hair, 
Parted red lips, aud a magnificent air, 
Fresh rounded chocks, and a noble brow— 
A youth to whom sorrow is unknown now. 
Byes like bine violets, gloaming gold hair, 
Dips like ripe cherries, and a wondering air, 
Kose-blooining chocks and an innocent brow— 
A maiden to whom grief is a stranger now. 
(Dur J^torn-Seller. 
CATCHING A BUTTERFLY, 
[Concluded from page 290, last week.] 
Floy, frozen with horror, knelt silently a 
moment, gazing at tho pale face and rigid form 
beneath. Her head swam, her heart, grew sick. 
Was he dead V How stiff and still he lay ! Hu* 
burst into loud cries of entreaty and self re¬ 
proach. 
“ O, John—John! are you dead ? Look up, for 
God's sake! O, wicked girl that I was, not to 
speak. Help help! ’’ she shrieked, wildly. 
Slowly the heavy eyes unclosed. With Infinite 
pain, John turned his head a little. “ Who’s 
that?” ho said, faintly. 
11 0, thank God ! " cried Floy, joyfully, spring¬ 
ing to ber i'eet. “Keep quite still, and 1 will 
come down to you.” 
John muttered something she did not under¬ 
stand. Going a little distance, she began to 
descend theateep path loading down t he bank. 
11 was ticklish work, even for our light footed 
Floy, and, half way down, she slipped, foil, and 
rolled ignominloualy the rest of t he way. John 
uttered a brief ejaculation, but Floy was up in 
an instant, scratched and bruised, her white 
dress black with mud, but otherwise uninjured. 
Scarcely pausing for breath, she bounded to 
John's side. 
"O, Mr. Durham, are you much hurt?” she 
asked, in tremulous tones, as she knelt beside 
him. John opened his eyes again, and fixed 
them on her wil h a bewildered stare, a moment. 
Then, with another low groan, ho tried to raise 
himself. 
“ Don’t move—don't move! ” entreated Floy. 
“ O, your poor head—how it bleeds! There'S a 
brook near by; I’ll bo back in a moment.” 
Taking up his cap, he bounded oil in the di¬ 
rection of tho stream. Dipping her handker¬ 
chief in the water, and filling the cap, she dart¬ 
ed back to John's side. 
“Now, let me see this poor head,” she said ; 
and, sitting down, she took it gently on her 
knee. Poor child! siie was little used to 
wound? and bruises; tho very sight of the flow¬ 
ing blood made ber tremble from bead tn foot. 
But she controlled herself bravely, and, with 
what simple skill she. possessed, bat lied his head 
and face, and bound up the former carefully 
with her two handkerchiefs. Then she paused 
a moment,looking down with womanly tender¬ 
ness at the pale face on her knee. How helpless 
he lay—the great, strong fellow—as helpless as 
a little infant, almost! She felt a great rush of 
pity and tenderness toward him. 
“Thank you,” said John, faintly. The fresh, 
cool water had somewhat revived him. 
“O, don’t thank me,” said Floy, hurriedly. 
“ You are in dreadful pain, aren't you V " 
“ Yes; it's my ankle,” muttered John. “I’m 
afraid it’s broken. Where arc all the rest, Miss 
Floy?” 
“Tho dear knows!” said Floy, clasping her 
little hands in distress. “ Hurry, Kate—help O 
help! ” 
“It’s no use,” she said, after waiting a mo¬ 
ment. “ I must go in search of them again. But 
first let me look at this poor ankle, Mr. Dur¬ 
ham.” 
“ No—no," said John, alittle fretfully. “ What 
can you know about broken bones, child ? " 
“ But I might make it feel a little easier," 
gently persisted Floy. 
“ If you could slit the boot down from the 
top," said John, his brow contracted with 
agony. “ Here’s my knife.” 
Floy took the knife, and, following his direc¬ 
tions, carefully slit the boot from the top to the 
bottom, on both sides. Then, with a hand still 
slightly tremulous from the operation, she 
gently removed the remains of the boot. 
“Ah, that is a relief ! ” said poor John. Great 
drops of agony were standing on his brow, and 
Floy softly wiped them away. He looked up 
gratefully into her face, smiling for the first 
time. “What a nice little nurse you are, Miss 
Floy! ” be said. 
Floy rose, blushing a little, and, folding her 
soft, white shawl into a sort of pillow, placed 
it under his head. “And now T will go for more 
efficient help,” sho said, turning away. 
“But take that path on the opposite side of 
the bank," said John, eagerly It is safer. 
And, O Miss Floy, would you first do me one 
more favor, please ? ” 
“Certainty,” said Floy, returning. “What 
is it? ” 
“Just see.” said John, with a faint groan “if 
that, butterfly is anywhere about. I’m sure 1 
had my hands on it. I only hope it isn't crushed 
to pieces.” 
“ The ruling passion ! ” muttered Floy, as she 
turned away. “ Lying there half dead, with a 
broken ankle, and he can still think of that 
miserable insect.” 
“ Here he is," she said aloud, coming round 
to Jolin'B side. “Horrid little thing!” she 
could not help adding, with a vindictive look 
at the innocent Insect »he placed in John’s open 
palm. 
John gave her a slightly surprised look, but 
smiled with pleasure as he surveyed the treas¬ 
ure In his hand. “ It is very little injured," he 
exclaimed, in almost child-like delight. “ And 
so, after my long search, .1 have obtained it, at 
last." 
“And a broken ankle into the bargain," 
thought Floy, turning away, in mingled vexa¬ 
tion and amusement. “ Now I must go." 
“ Hilloa!" cried a shrill voice above them. 
Floy looked up, and saw a man standing on the 
bank opposite the one from which John had 
fallen. He wa* evidently a farmer—a tali, wiry 
looking specimen—dressed in coarse, blue 
clot lies, arid an immense straw hat. “ What on 
airth's the matter? " shouted he. 
“O, sir,” cried Floy, springing joyfully for¬ 
ward, “do-do bring some Help, and take this 
gentleman away from hero! " 
The light blue eyes stared blankly down into 
the ravine a moment. “ How inthundor did he 
get downthar?” was his next question, in a 
tone of the ui most astonishment. 
“ He fell dowu, of course,” said Floy, impa¬ 
tiently. 
“ Lost the use of his eyesight, hain’t he?” re¬ 
sponded the farmer. 
“A T n/” said Floy, grinding her little teeth 
wil Ii rage and anxiety. “ How many more ques¬ 
tions are you going to ask, you inhuman man, 
before coming to Ids assistance? I tell you, his 
leg’s broken.” 
“Well, I swan!” said tho farmer, turning 
slowly away. “ I'll be back In a moment.” 
“ I’ve sent little 1 tan,” said he, returning, “ Lo 
bring some help. He won’t bo gone long; he’s 
got the wagon, and the doctor lives only a couple 
o’mlies from hero." 
Floy groaned in spirit,but,resolving l obe pa¬ 
tient for John’s sake, mildly entreated the 
farmer to seek out “ their friends.” 
“ Friends? Yes inarm ; so soon as r examine 
this here leg. It’s broke jist above the ankle, 
marm." 
“Knew that before you told us,” snapped 
Floy. 
“ You seem kind o’ riled, marm. Yes, as I 
was sayin', it’s broke jist above the ankle— 
marm!" 
“ Well, I must, try and make hint a little more 
comfortable; this hot sun shines right in Ills 
face," said Floy, with u compassionate look at 
the poor tortured fellow. Pressing Farmer 
Stokes into the service, she made him strip sev¬ 
eral armsful or green branches from the adjoin¬ 
ing trees. Sticking her parasol in the ground, 
she disposed tho branches over and around it, 
in such a manner that it formed a shady bower 
above her patient's head. 
“Ah, how refreshing that la I’’gasped poor 
John. "And now,do go under the shade of 
the trees, Miss Floy; your poor little face will 
be burned to a coal.” 
“O, no; I have on my broad brimmed hat," 
said Floy. Seating herself near theentranco of 
the green 1 1 at, she waved a long bough to keep 
away the flies. John watched her, a dreamy 
tenderness in his half closed eyes. What a 
darling she was. after all, with her round, ehild’s 
face, and sweet, womanly ways 1 
“ You are too kind to the cross old bear, Miss 
Floy,” he said, suddenly; “too good to him, 
altogether.” 
“O, don't, speak so," said Floy, coloring vio¬ 
lently. 1 wanted to ask your forgiveness for all 
my inipertinence the last two weeks.” 
John's answer was prevented by tbe return of 
Farmer Stokes, who, after a very short and in¬ 
effectual attempt to find “ their friends,” again 
obtruded upon them ills somewhat unwelcome 
presence. 
“Can’t find ’em nowhar,” he said. “Keep 
that ankle well kivered up, miss: and here's a 
drop o’ somethin’ ’ll put a leetle life into him 
maybe.” 
John drank from the farmer’s flask, and 
scorned somewhat revived by the draught. Floy 
resumed her ministrations. The farmer, lying 
back upon the grass, watched them with specu¬ 
lative eyes. “Darn it all,” he suddenly burst 
out, “ how did you git down here, mister? I'm 
hanged if I can make it out at all.” 
“Well, if you must know,” said Floy, petu¬ 
lantly, “ ho was looking for something.” 
“Pocket-book, eh? ” 
“No.” 
“ Gold-headed cane? ” 
“No, no: a specimen," said Floy, impatiently 
producing it. “This gentleman is a naturalist, 
and, In trying to secure this, ho lost his footing 
and fell.” 
She held the “ specimen ” out in her little, 
soft palm. The farmer surveyed it in blank 
amazement. 
“ That 7 ” he asked, incredulously. Floy nod- i 
ded. Mr. Stokes sat silent, a moment, while a 
broad grin slowly overspread his leathery coun¬ 
tenance. “A miller!” he exclaimed, at last, 
with a long, low whistle. 
“ It’s a butterfly,” said Floy, indignantly. 
“So I perceive, marm,” said the farmer. 
“Wal, I swan.” 
After this brief ejaculation, he bent forward, 
and, pointing to John, whose eyelids had again 
closed, ho said, in a low wills per, “ How long 
sence ho lost the use of his wits, marm ? " 
“ He hasn't, lost them at all." said Floy, star¬ 
ing. “ You do ask mo the queerest, questions.” 
“Why you jist, soul lie was a nat'ral,didn’t 
you?” 
“No; 1 said a naturalist,” said Floy, choking 
down a little laugh, as she answered him. 
“ Wal," responded the farmer, after a pause, 
“ I don't ’zackly take your moanin’. But chas¬ 
in’ butterflies docs see in rayther a loony ocop- 
patlon for a man of Ids age. don't it ? ” 
“You don’t understand," said Floy, indig¬ 
nantly. “ It's a curious specimen.” 
“ No, miss, I don't understand," said the farm¬ 
er. “ It’s a very kourious business, altogether.” 
Tho dry tone In which 1)0 nald this, and the 
manner in which he eyed t hem both as he rose 
to his foot, nearly upset Floy’s gravity again. 
And. glancing at John, she saw the corners of 
his pale mouth twitching suspiciously, too. 
“Wal, I reckon I’ll try and find your friends 
agin.” Hi* tone said plainly, “ 1 think you need 
friends to look after you.” 
“ 0, there they are now! ’’ cried Floy, spring¬ 
ing to her feet. ’’Harvey—dear Harvey-how 
glitad I am to see you! ” Her voice broke i n sobs. 
She was fairly overcome with her long excite¬ 
ment and the sudden relief of my presence. 
“ Katy, dear, don’t you think John and Floy 
are growing quite good friends, now ? ” 
“Well,I shouldn’t wonder, lovS,” said Kate, 
with a peculiar smile, as, leaning upon my 
shoulder, sho surveyed the pretty scene below. 
There in our rustic arbor sat John Durham, a 
slight pallor and a cumbrous crutch the only 
tokens of his late illness. By ids sldo sat our 
pretty Floy, examining with him the huge port¬ 
folio spread upon bis knees, and listening with 
child-llkeinterest to his entertaining descrip¬ 
tions of the “specimens” be unfolded to her 
view. 
“A pretty tableau, John,” said Kate; “but 
there comes an interruption, in the shape of Mr. 
Stokes. Come, 1 larvey; we’ll go down.” 
“Good morning, Mr. Stokes,”said I, meeting 
him at the entrance of t lie arbor; “ you find qur 
patient pretty well recovered, sir.” 
“ O, yes; 1 shall soon be In condition to hunt 
the‘pesky millers’again,” John replied, with 
a humorous glance at Farmer Stokes. 
“Humph!” said that worthy, contemptuously, ... ( , u . r (i<> to 
‘it docs seem a pity a strong, able-bodied young ' t to n | ni nir - 
non like you can’t find a bettor business’than would be glad to see you, bu win 
„ * always glad to see. Help to put 8 
“That’s a fact, Farmer Stokes,” said I, 
gravely. 
“ Ho won't, git no sensible gal to tackle herself 
to him. In a hurry—eh, Miss Floy ? ” the old man 
wont on. 
“I’m sure T don't know, sir,” said Floy, as¬ 
suming an air of supreme indifference. 
“ Ef ever he axes you. Miss Floy, you bid him 
fust quit this varmint business. You can’t make 
grasshoppers an’ sfeh serve for wlttles, as they 
did in John the Baptist's time.” 
“ A delicate way of putting the matter, farm¬ 
er," said I, as Floy, her cheek? like bramble ros¬ 
es, vanished with Kate ; but 1 must inform you 
that this ‘varmint, business,’as you call It, Is 
really quite a profitable thing for our young 
friend here.” 
“But does it really pay ?” asked the farmer, 
attiring. John, shaking with laughter, follow¬ 
ing Floy into the house, while I strove, by my 
explanations, to enlighten a little the farmer’s 
bewildered mind. But I found it a difficult as 
well as a thankless task. 
“No—uo, sir," he interrupted me, testily; “1 
don't flee it at ol). Beg pardon, if I'm imperlite, 
sir; but It strikes mens a sort of imposture, 
girtin' a lot ol' fools to pay a big sum for what 
they know already. Why, I'll bet I know more 
about bugs'n ho doe*. Ef he’d find out some¬ 
thin' to ’tarminato 'em, now—somethin' like 
Lyon’s powder, for instance ^ I 
“ I'll try to impress it upon his mind, farmer,” 
said I, solemnly. 
“ Do, sir—do," replied the old man, earnestly. 
“ It really concerns me to see a smart young 
man like that tiirowin’ away all his chanees ot 
usefulness.” _ 
Our storv crows too long. Three j ears have 
P Sd ffif& !A|CS!S» 
which time great I 
Near the dear old niansi... n : . ,. ut tagc over- 
tubahlt still, has risen a ruin.. Durham 
grown with vines. There lives Jou. ' ■ 
and his pretty wife, who, with her little in¬ 
ter, Florence, makes sunshine in his heart an** 
home. You sec, doar reader, in spite of Farm¬ 
er Stokes' prediction, John Durham did succeed 
in capturing our Floy, the prettiest little but¬ 
terfly that ever fluttered across a mortal’s path. 
—Overland Monthly for April. 
THE CROSS. 
Blest they who seek, 
Whiife in their youth. 
With spirit meek. 
The way of Troth. 
To them the sacred Scriptures now display 
Christ as the only true and living way; 
ilia precious blood ou Calvary was given 
To make them heirs of endless bliss in heaven. 
And c’f-n on earth tlic child of Uod can trace 
Tho glorious blessing of his Saviour's grace. 
For them He bore 
His father’s frown; 
For them He wore 
The thorny crown; 
Nailed to the. cross, 
Endured its pain, 
That His life's loss 
Might be their gain. 
Then haste to choose 
That hotter part, 
Nor dare refuse 
The I.ord your heart, 
Best He declare 
“ I know you not,” 
And deep despair 
Become your lot. 
Now look to Jesus, who on Cnlvary died, 
And trust to Him who there was crucified. 
\XVUmm'jt<m (Del.) Wayside. 
--——— 
SUNDAY EMPLOYMENT. 
Wo wish to suggest some things which can be 
done to add interest to the Sunday of those who 
find its freedom dull. Take an hour Sunday 
morning and sit down alone, and think what 
you have done during the past week, and agi¬ 
tate the question whether you have done just 
as you really think is best, and mean to keep on 
doing. Have you told any Hostilepast week? 
Count them on your fingers, if you can, and 
seriously consider whether you always mean to 
be u liar? Have you abused your neighbor, run 
dow n your competitor In other stores, slandered 
other politicians, or hurt anybody’s reputation 
tho post week? These things are unspeakably 
mean ; you know they ate. God be thanked if 
you haven't done them I But somebody does 
them. I ask that somebody whet her he always 
intends to be a mean fellow ? Have you cheated 
anybody in the last ten days? Have you de¬ 
ceived any employer or kept back the jngt pay 
of any workman? Have you advertised decep¬ 
tion of any kind? Does any money stick to 
you, which belongs to anybody else? Are you 
going to make a permanent cheat of yourself? 
Are you not smoking too many cigars—running 
up debt* which you don't know how to pay; 
making a larger swell than your capital justifies 
—and getting ready for asmash and a run ? We 
hope not. But all these things happen, and if 
any one is overdoing himself in these days, 
ought he not to know it, and settle whether his 
course is best ? Take another hour on Sunday 
to do somebody some good for which you 
haven't the time on any other day. Write a 
letter to the mother, or brother or sister, win on 
you have forgotten for along time. Hunt out, a 
friend whb has disappeared from your inter* t, 
and renew a cordial acquaintance. Find out 
somebody who is suffering, and carry fresh 
cheer to him or her. Goto see the folks who 
would be glad tn see you, but whom you are not 
always glad to see. Help to put some kind of a 
home feeling into everybody who is homeless. 
There are plenty of good acts, which are not 
common—aud on Sundays you want to do 
something uncommon. That is what the day is 
made for.— licit J. M. Smith. 
PROFANITY. 
We are living emphatically in the age of pro¬ 
fanity, and it, seems to us that we are on the 
topmost current. One cannot go through tho 
streets anywhere without having his ear? of¬ 
fended by the vilest of words, and his reverence 
shocked by the most profane u.?e of sacred 
names. Nor does it conic from tho old or mid¬ 
dle-aged alone, for it is a fact as alarming as it 
is true, that the youngest portion of the com¬ 
munity are the most proficient in the degrading 
habit. Boys have an idea that It is smart to 
Bwear, that it. makes them manly ; there never 
was a greater mistake in the world. Men, even 
those who swear themselves, are disgusted with 
profanity in a young man, because they know 
how of all bad habits this clings the most closely 
ami increases with years. It is tho most, insid¬ 
ious of habits, growing on one so insensibly 
that almost before hi is aware be becomes an 
accomplished curser. 
THOUGHTFUL PARAGRAPHS. 
Reason never shows itself so unreasonable as 
when it comes to reason about things which are 
above reason. 
I hate to see a thing done by halves; if it bo 
right, do it boldly ; if it be wrong, leave it un¬ 
done.— Gilpin. 
To clothe the naked and feed the hungry is 
good; to teach men how to provide for thom- 
selves is much better. 
He is happy whose circumstances suit his tem¬ 
per; but he is more happy who can suit his 
"tier to any circumstances. 
is speaking as we think, believing 
Sincertt *• ■ ! n g as we profess, performing 
as we pretend, acw , as we appea r to be. 
as we promise, and being 
