CHASING BUTTERFLIES!

"I HAVE YOU NOW!" exclaimed Henry, as running with all his speed he came close upon a fine white butterfly, which, invited by the warm sun, had left its retreat, and come abroad for the first time one fine morning in May-"I have you now !" said he, lifting up his cap with one hand and extending the other to make sure of his prize. Ah but you have not Henry! For the insect making one of its erratic movements, eluded his grasp, by flying first downward and then backward and then upward, far out of the reach of its pursuer, who now stood gazing at the object of his pursuit as it sped away higher and higher and farther and farther, until it was lost in the distance, and Henry could see it no more.

His father, who had been watching the boy's motions for some time, came up to him as he stood gazing on the clear blue sky after the white butterfly.

"Ah! Henry, he has escaped you; I thought he would. I often chased butterflies when I was a boy, but they mostly got away from me."

"I wish I had caught him; and I thought I should then; I was so very near to him."

"I dare say you did; and you feel disappointed, dont you ?"

"I do, father."

"Well, Henry, I cannot say I am sorry for you, though I do not like you to be disappointed. But what good would it have done you if you had caught it ?" "I dont know, but I should like to have had it.” "Ah, that is just it. I thought so. But did you think anything about the poor little insect itself. Had you caught it and held it in your warm hands, you would have given it great pain. The butterfly is such a very delicate creature, that it cannot bear to be roughly handled."

"I did not think of that.' "I thought you did not. cessful chase this morning lesson Henry."

"What is that, father."

But I wish your unsucmay teach you another

"Not to chase butterflies when you grow up to be a man."

"I dont think I shall father."

"Ah, my dear boy, you do not understand me. I will tell you what I mean. Many people may be said to chase butterflies all the days of their life; for they are always in pursuit of some vain and gaudy object which glitters before their imagination. They do not know what good that thing will do them, but they would like to have it. Most of these, after years of labour and effort, miss the prize, as you missed yours, just when they imagined they had secured it; and those who do succeed, find when they open their hands to look at their prize, that they have only grasped a poor painted dying butterfly!"

STREETS of bird's-nests! Yes. Dr. Coulter, when in the South Atlantic Ocean, touched at the Falkland Islands, called by the sailors, "the Egg Market." On these island the flocks of geese, penguins, albatrosses, and other sea-birds are so numerous that double rows of their nests are found along the shores, stretching in some cases to two or three miles in length, and only about six feet apart. The sailors walk down the middle of these rows and carry off the eggs right hand and left. Six or seven tons were thus brought away when Dr. C. visited the islands.

BIRDS AND BIRD'S-NESTS.

'TWAS wisdom infinite, that first imprest
The impulse on each bird to build her nest,
As suits her nature and her wants the best.

The water-tribe select the reed and rush;
The piping blackbird, and the missel thrush,
Prefer to fix their house upon a bush.

The sparrow delves amid the cottage eaves;
The white-throat to the thorny thicket cleaves,
And makes her dwelling-place among the leaves.

The little wren, beneath the hovel thatch,
Within her pretty home will sit and watch,
Until her warmth the downy brood shall hatch.
The sandy banks the sprightly martin please;
The rook and magpie seek the tow'ring trees;
And love the rockings of the morning breeze.

In chinky walls the robin's eggs are found;
The lapwing seeks the spot where grubs abound,
And lays her speckled treasure on the ground.

Treat not the feather'd race with harm or ill,
Since ev'ry one subserveth to fulfil
The wise intentions of its Maker's will.

Poetic Manual.

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.

YES; the soldier's funeral! Did you ever see one? I once did. I was then in my childhood, but I shall never forget it; it was so grand, so beautiful, and so very affecting! at least, so it appeared to me at the time, and even now I could not say but that the thing in itself was so. The soldier, in his day, was a brave looking young man, son to a doctor in my native town, and belonged to a volunteer company. But, with all his youth and bravery, he fell sick, and all the drugs in his father's shop, with all his father's skill, could not save him: he died after a short illness.

But where shall I begin in telling about this funeral procession? First of all, there stands the bier, and the soldier in his coffin is laid upon it; after which the whole is covered over with a black velvet pall, fringed with white. On the face of the coffin was placed the soldier's cap and feather, the very same cap and feather which I had seen him wearing in the ranks, and when gaily parading the streets. And just below the cap was the soldier's glistening black belt, and the shining bayonet, placed crosswise with its sheath. Immediately behind the bier you would see the group of mourners,-the soldier's father and mother, sister and brother, and a great many of his friends, all appearing in their deep black garments of mourning. Behind them again, were the company's band of musicians, in their gay feathery white uniform, trimmed with pink and scarlet, and having their drums both muffled, and under a covering of black mournful crape. But, where are the other soldiers ? There they stand last of all, all in rank and file, the whole company, (about a hundred men,) with its officers, all in their bright scarlet coats, and milkwhite trowsers, with their heads and whiskers pow

dered as if covered with snow,* and each man wearing a black ribbon of crape, tied neatly round, just above the elbow of the right arm.

All being in readiness, the bier was shouldered, the men reversed arms,—the butt end of the gun being in front, and the muzzle sloping behind towards the ground, and, with a full, but, as it seemed, tender tone, the word of command was given,-"march!" Then the movement began, and the fine music, so soft and so slow! ("the dead march in Saul," to be sure!) whilst, ever and anon, and still again and again, "boom, boom," went the solemn muffled drum, step after step, step after step, and “boom, boom,” again, as the whole procession, slowly, but regularly, moved on together, just like the flowing tide in the waters of the great sea, and still the music played, and "boom, boom," went the drum. "Were there any crowds in the streets ?" Plenty, plenty; and also at the doors and windows; but all very silent, except that, now and then, some would whisper a kind word for the dead soldier: "What a fine young man! what a pleasant companion!" and such-like things they said, as they slowly wiped their tears. So, all through the streets, and down the church lane I followed, still looking and listening. And now, also, mixing with all, there was a solemn, solemn peal from the six bells in the steeple of the old church, muffled, all muffled; and that peal could be heard redoubled by the hills, and borne along, softly and sweetly, by the streams of the winding Severn, "in a dying, dying fall." It was all very fine; but I could not remove my childish peepers away from that same cap and feather, nor my ears from that drum.

Now you are at the grave, and the parson and clerk have finished. What next? "Prime and-load!"

Nearly all men-people, at this period, wore powder, except John-a-Nokes, and Peter the ploughman; and even they wore powder when in the ranks as volunteers.