Skip to main content
Hide Articles List

9 articles on this Page

Advertising

POET'S CORNER. I

News
Cite
Share

POET'S CORNER. I 1ELLING THE BEES. I Sen is.the place; right over the hili Runs the ath I took iYpu can see the gap in the old wall still, And the s-epping-stoncs in the shallow brook. flChere is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the i>oplars tall, tA.nd the barn's brown length, and the cattle- yard, 'And the white horns tossing above the wall. IMere are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Ðf the broo!- are her poor flowers, weed-o'er- run, Pansy anil daffodil, rose and pink. A 7 ear has gone. as the tortoise gOf-S, Heavy anl slow; (And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, fADd the same brock sin.as of a year ago. Where's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm "angles his wings in the trees, < Settling, > then, over Fo-nside farm. I mind me 1-ow with a lover's care From my Sunday coa.t tbrushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, 1.A.nd coolfcu at the brookside my brow and throat. fiince we parted, a month has passed, To love, it year; Vown through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate a.nd the well-swept near. lean see it c.11 now—the slantwise rain Of light througrh the leaves, tThe sundown's blaze on her window-pane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves. JJust the same as a month before— The house and the trees, trhe barn's brown r;ab!e, the vine by the door- I Nothing changed but the hive of bees. (Before them, under the garden wall. Forward and back, KVrent drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black. (Trembling, I listened; the summer sun Had the chill of enow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we ail must go. CThen I said to myself, "My Mary. weeos For the dead to-day (Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away." But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in. fAnd the song she was singing ever since In my ears sounds on.- rStay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!" -By John Greenleaf Whittier. 'i

- The Road to Love

FUN AND FANCY.

FOR THE YOUNG FOLKS.

Advertising

FOR MATRON AND MAID.

A NEW DRUG FOR ECZEMA. -I

Advertising