SttEifiet a mi] fcoiorral Home fiamjuartioa. 
[For the Floral Cabinet.] 
WAS IT GOOD-BYE? 
BY GRACE SANFORD. 
“ I must bid her good-bye to-morrow. 
I wonder if she will wear, 
For love’s sake, this tiny trinket 
’Mid the waves of her chestnut hair— 
Her shining chestnut hair ? 
“I will say, 1 This golden humming bird 
Fit emblem is of you, 
For it never yet rested in any heart. 
It never was tender and true— 
To any one tender and true. 1 
“Ah, no! such words I must never speak, 
Lest in anger she turn away; 
But, when I bid her the last farewell, 
I will hold her hand and say— 
Her little hand, and say: 
“ w Will you give me your uncaged heart for mine? 
Ah, sweet, if for me you care, 
Will you take this token of love from my hand 
And wear it just now in your hair— 
In your wavy chestnut hair ?’ ” 
No farewell was said on the morrow— 
The studied words vanished in air— 
Whatever was spoken, I only tell— 
The humming-bird shone in her hair— 
’Mong the waves of her chestnut hair. 
TWO WOMEN. 
Mollie and Julia Hurst sat by an open window, en¬ 
joying the fresh morning breeze. Each had an open 
work-basket before her, and needles were flying— 
Mollie was hemming towels and Julia stitching on 
some delicate lace fabric. There was to be a double 
wedding soon in the little village church, and these 
two sisters were to be the brides. Julia had returned 
the day before from her aunt’s, who lived in the city, 
where she had been for many weeks having her trous¬ 
seau prepared. Mollie contended she could prepare 
her own, and, in spite of her sister’s persuading, re¬ 
mained at home. 
“Now, Mollie,” said Julia, “tell me how you have 
expended the $500 papa gave you for finery.” 
“Oh,” said Mollie, “I’ve bought all I need, and 
have got $200 left for fixing up around and beautifying 
my home.” 
“Pooh!” said Julia, “that’s George’s business; but 
what finery have you got ?” 
“My wedding-dress of tarletan, two organdies, a 
victoria lawn, a silk grenadine and a linen suit.” 
“How many silks?” 
“Not one. I altered and retrimmed my two old 
ones; they are as good as new now.” 
“ I despise new clothes made of old ones,” said Julia; 
“but what else have you?” 
“I laid in a supply of linen underwear—made trim¬ 
ming and garments myself — bought a nice lot of sheets, 
tablecloths, napkins, pillow-cases, etc. With the two 
hundred left I shall have me a pit made to keep my 
fine flowers in during the winter; then I shall have a 
bay window put on the south side of the house where 
there is only a small one now; then I shall buy all the 
flowers, shrubbery, etc., I want, and be happy.” 
“That’s a queer idea for a bride,” said Julia; “but 
mine is every cent gone, and I’m in debt besides; I 
need another dress badly; my blue silk cost $150; my 
others were some cheaper, but the making of them cost 
so much; then the way they charged for making up 
my underwear was outrageous!” 
“ You ought to have made them yourself, Julia, as 
I did mine, thereby saving half your money. We 
have a good machine, and you could have done it very 
easily. You have been very extravagant in your ward¬ 
robe, any way.” 
“Well, a woman don’t generally show off as a bride 
but once in a lifetime, and I mean to make Clarence 
Arden proud of Ins wife,” said Julia; “and as to 
making your own clothes, why in the city you wouldn’t 
be anybody if you didn’t put out your sewing. You 
are to live in the country; you can wear cheap dresses 
and do your own sewing; but in the city, where my 
home is to be, it won’t do for me to wear such clothes, 
or make what I do wear.” 
“But, Julia, a wife should dress and live according 
to her husband’s circumstances. Clarence is poor— 
has only his practice—it would look better to see his 
wife have different ideas, and dress plainer.” 
“Well, she won’t do it. Clarence has rented a fine 
house, and I shall dress to suit my house. I shall 
have fine dresses, no matter what. If he can pay for 
them, it’s all right; if he can’t, then as long as credit 
lasts I’ll have them.” 
“Oh, Julia, don’t talk so.” 
“I wouldn’t settle down here in the country with 
that plain farmer, Mollie, as you are doing, for any¬ 
thing. I would be miserable. 1 shall go to balls, 
theatres, etc.—give big parties—and here you’ll be 
tied down to this life always.” 
“A very pleasant life I anticipate, sister. George 
has all the comforts I ask, I love him, and shall be 
happy wherever he is.” 
“Oh, he is so plain; he don’t show off like Clar¬ 
ence; he can’t write verses nor sing, and he is such a 
prude—why, last week, in town, he wouldn’t drink at 
the bar with Clarence and a lot others—refused point 
blank. I was so ashamed of it when they told me 
about it.” 
“ I thank heaven George won’t drink at the bar, nor 
any other place,” said Mollie; “and the day will come 
when you will wish Clarence was like George in this 
respect.” 
The wedding was over, and the sisters went to their 
respective homes—Julia to the city, where Mr. Arden 
had rented a fine residence in the most fashionable 
part of the city, and Mollie to the large country house 
that belonged, together with the fine tract of land sur¬ 
rounding it, to her husband, George Hilliard. Mollie 
Hilliard was a happy woman. Her husband was a 
man of whom she was proud, if he didn’t show off like 
her lawyer brother-in-law. He was manly looking, 
honest, industrious, temperate in all things, and loved 
his wife. Both of their tastes were refined, yet sim¬ 
ple, and they were cultivated. Her greatest pleasure 
was in constantly improving her home and surround¬ 
ings, and keeping clear of debt. She made a rule, 
when she first took charge of George Hilliard’s house, 
never to run in debt, and never to buy unless her hus¬ 
band was ready to meet her demands; consequently, 
success attended them. His crops did well, stock in¬ 
creased, and he was called a model farmer. She sent 
more butter, eggs and chickens to market than any 
woman in the county. Her garden was always fine, 
i and her flowers never failed. Young people from miles 
around came to her for bouquets, and people wondered 
why her flowers were sweeter, larger and so much 
more of them than her neighbors. In the first place, 
she had had her yard and flower-garden made to suit 
her; her ground was improved, just as it should be ; 
she had bought her seeds and roots from the best seeds¬ 
men and florists, and had subscribed for the Cabinet. 
No wonder she succeeded. 
Julia began her new life with large ideas. First 
she must give a grand ball, which was no little item out 
of her husband’s pockets; then she must attend the 
balls given by others, and in a short time she was 
ashamed to wear her other silks so much, and must 
have new ones. If her husband could give her the 
money, they were paid for; if not, they were charged. 
Every ball or theatre she must have a bouquet from 
the greenhouse, which cost five or ten dollars — she 
wouldn’t bother with raising flowers herself. Clarence, 
to keep up with his club-mates, must give oyster and 
wine suppers once in awhile at his home—then attend 
the club-room and stand his share of the expenses 
there. In course of time he became very fond of these 
wine suppers; in truth too fond for his own good, for 
at length ruin came. 
Four years passed. Again we see the sisters enjoy¬ 
ing the fresh morning breeze—this time on the portico 
of Mollie’s country residence. Mollie has a healthy 
looking, robust little boy playing at her feet with the 
kittens, while in her lap lays a rosy little girl babe. 
Her own face is still fresh and bright, and her coun¬ 
tenance betokens contentment and happiness. Julia 
fondles a frail, delicate little girl of three years, and 
her face bears a sad, wearied look. The deep mourn¬ 
ing in which she is clad tells her story. Yes, the fash¬ 
ionable wine suppers had been too much for Clarence 
Arden’s weak nature. Debt and strong drink had 
crushed him. Six months previous he died, leaving 
his wife and child penniless; but they found a warm 
welcome at Mollie’s home, and now enjoy life as well 
as the widow and fatherless ever do. 
Daisy Burns. 
Pastimes — Gathering Flowers. — I noticed an 
enigma in the February number which reminded me 
of a game we have been trying in school. Choose a 
word containing several vowels. Spell from it as 
many short words as possible without using the same 
letter twice in a word. A young lad made one hun¬ 
dred and eighteen words from treason. Longer words 
yield many more. From words like simultaneously, 
misunderstanding and Episcopalianism two or three 
hundred may be obtained. Perhaps it will be a pleas¬ 
ant and useful pastime for some of your younger 
readers. 
My little friends keep me supplied with wild flowers. 
They have brought me the graceful Uvularia, dark 
blue Cohosh, the delicate Mitre-wort, Early Saxifrage, 
a small number of Dicentra Canadensis, and a single 
specimen of Orchia Spectabilis. Maiden-hair Fern 
grows in great profusion near our house, and in my 
opinion is the most graceful and charming of all ferns. 
Do Trilliums turn pink before they fade ? I have found 
them pink, white shaded with pink, white marked 
with green, and one specimen distinctly marked with 
green in the centre of each petal while the outside edge 
was pink. Sarah J. Sheudon. 
Syracuse, N. Y. 
If you wish particularly to gain the good graces and 
affection of certain people, men or women, try to dis¬ 
cover their most striking merit, if they have one, and 
their dominant weakness — for every one has his own — 
then do justice to the one, and a little more than jus¬ 
tice to the other. 
Love is the crowning of grace and humanity, the 
holiest right of the soul, the golden link which binds 
us to duty and truth, the redeeming principle that 
chiefly reconciles the heart to life, and is prophetic of 
eternal good. — Petrarch. 
To be Pitied.— The man who is able to work and 
does not, is to be pitied as well as despised. He knows 
nothing of sweet sleep and pleasant dreams. He is 
a miserable drone, and eats a substance he does not 
earn. 
