Deckmbkr, 191S 



O I, E A N I N G S T N TiKE C U L T U R K 



a tlay, just to avoid lit'tiii<>' thoni complete, 

 so that particular niaui])ulation stopped 

 right there. But not far from Nashville 

 there is a beekeeper who — no, I'll wait. He 

 is tackling the wintering ])roblem too ear- 

 nestly to have any incomi)lete reference 

 made to his plans. "If a little work and 

 expense, providing protection, will prevent 

 a recurrence of last winter 's losses, ' ' he 

 says, ''there won't be any more in my 



yard.'' 



* * * 



At the Fair, a young Williamson County 

 beekeeper told me he was going to try out 

 the winter case this fall. So, little by little, 

 the trials are being made — the ticket being 

 scratched, as it were; tho by far the over- 

 whelming majority of Dixie bees remain un- 

 protected — a traditional solid South. 



October brought to our home very serious 

 sickness, and then the "Great Release," so 

 preventing our own bees from receiving the 

 attention this fall that I had planned. When 

 these grave things come into our lives, bee- 

 keeping does become a mere side line indeed. 

 We still hope to do certain things; it will 

 be later than Dr. Phillips advises, but per- 

 haps he would say not too late, as November 

 usually has much warm weather. 



Probably, it has been because of this 

 new sad experience that the thought has 

 been with me so often of late that whatever 

 our side lines, or even our so-called main 

 lines, life itself and the living of it, the 

 quality of the living of it, are the matters 

 of our deepest concern. We call ourselves 

 beekeepers or doctors or soldiers or pilots or 

 laundresses; but after all, these words grow 

 out of what we do, not out of what we are. 

 I remember having once heard a brilliant 

 young woman break out in impulsive indig- 

 nation because some one said that she was a 

 writer and her sister was a teacher and her 

 friend was a bookkeeper. ' ' Those things 

 are not what we are! ' ' she protested; ' ' they- 

 're just the labels fastened on us while we do 

 certain things. We are something so much 

 more than that— we're women. And for 

 that matter, we're something so much more 

 than that — w^e're human beings." It is 

 somewhat true that giving us labels classifies 

 us like specimens, for the things these la- 

 bels signify are the things wherein we differ. 

 And those are really our side lines, howso- 

 ever main linish they may sometimes ap- 

 pear. In the great curves of our lives we 

 are very similar. We love and we aspire and 

 we die. Babies and books and sunsets and 

 wise old people and stars at night are pre- 

 cious things to all of us. We all revere 

 holy thoughts and thrill to noble deeds, and 

 we long to be ourselves both noble and holy, 

 ('curtesies and gracious manners go straight 

 to our hearts; and one and all we are dream- 

 ers of high dreams and doers of what we 

 hope are good deeds; and we all stand awed 

 and uplifted in the presence of death. Truly 

 beekeeping is but a side line, as are all pro-. 



fessions and occupations; only living is a 

 main line. 



An<l somehow today I feel no mood for 

 side-line verses — nor, indeed, much mood 

 for side liners themselves. So in the little 

 verses that follow there are no bees at all. 

 But is not all song, even that which only 

 reaches out longingly toward the hem of 

 Beauty's garment, and touches it not at all 

 — is not all song of the very stuff of life? 



* * * 



CHRISTMAS DREAMS. 

 Christmas conies with all its dreams, 



And I fold them one by one 

 To my heart until it seems 



I have touched the star.s and sun. 



One dream i.s a great low star, 



One a carol sweet and wild, 

 One a hill where shepherds are, 



One a Mother and a Child ; 



Siime are friendly dreams and near, 

 Stockings hanging: by the fire. 



Children's gallant shouts of cheer 

 When they find their heart.s' desire; 



Cities gay with crowds and light ; 



Folk who pass with noiseless feet. 

 Bundle-laden thru the night. 



Down some dark and narrow sti'eet ; 



Soldiers in the far-off lands. 



Under grey and leaden skies. 

 Home-sent letters in their hand.s 



And the answers in their eyes; 



Then the fairest dream of all 

 Glows again and yet again. 

 While the ancient carols call 

 "Peace on earth, good-will to men!" 



* * # 



THE AMERICAN HOUSEWIFE'S SONG. 

 [Prefatory Comment: If Mrs. Puerden will 

 allow me, I should like to echo her enthusiastic 

 pleas for food conservation. While this verse stresses 

 wheat only, not only I but every loyal American 

 housewife feels the same way about sugar, fat.s, or 

 whatever food stuff is particularly needed — " lest 

 dreams, too, die."] 



I may not ride a snow-white steed 



With silken banners flying, 

 Or charge a wall so grim and tall 



With soldiers round me dying: 

 But I shall make my war-time bread 



And find it good to eat ; 

 With corn and rye and barley, I 



Shall .save my bit of wheat. 



Dear Maid of France, our woman hearts 



Have not forgot your story — 

 We fight today another way 



W^ith lesser light of glory : 

 For we at home must save them there, 



And send them food to eat 

 Or they shall die, so gladly I 



(live up my bit of wheat. 



Kiir ilrcnnis of righteousnes.s on earth 



Heidic blood is flowing. 

 Shall lack of 1)read betray the dead '. 



Nay — keej) the wheat-ships going! 

 And if the need still greater grows 



Of daily bread to eat, 

 Lest dreams, too, die — then know that 1 



Will give them all my wheat. 



