GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



December, 1919 



"Oh, not now," protested Anne, suil- 

 dtnlv very vouug and confused. 



"Not that," Jack said gently. " Tho I 

 shall want to know soon if you will marry 

 me before — ' ' 



"Jack— don't!" 



"But Anne dear, you'll really have to get 

 used to the word! " 



" It 's grown to be such a big word — so 

 sort of overwhelming," she explained; 

 ' ' and lovely, too, ' ' she confessed softly. 



Into the boy 's eyes came a look as tho 

 he had bared his head to something holy. 

 Then he went quietly on with his work. 



' ' All I 'm going to talk about — right 

 now," he began again after a few minutes, 

 "is what I'm going to do after the war." 



Anne looked up quickly. "Goody!" she 

 beamed. "That's what I want to hear 

 about. ' ' 



"What would you like me to do?" 



She shook her head. ' ' That 's not the way 

 for you to decide. ' ' 



" It 's one way. But anyhow I 've already 

 decided. You see it's like this. There are 

 two things that I guess are in my blood. 

 They were born in me and I've been brought 

 up on them. And before I ever saw you, I 

 heard that they were the very things you 

 cared most for in all the world. Guess 

 what. ' ' 



' ' Books, probably, for one, ' ' Anne mused 

 daintily, "before I knew you." 



' ' And all outdoors for the other, ' ' Jack 

 added. "Well, I reckon that one time or 

 another I 've decided on every possible ca- 

 reer from cowboy to millionaire. And Dad, 

 like the good sport he is, just kept still. I 

 went to college still undecided. But college 

 did a lot to settle things. The war 's done 

 still more, and I guess you 've finished it. 

 Eiches go hang! I'm going to be a bee- 

 keeper like my Dad!" 



Anne 's eyes were shining. But she said - 

 not a word. So he went on. ' ' I 've thought 

 it all out. All the money in the world isn 't 

 worth a copper cent except for what it will 

 give a fellow. And I figure it gives chiefly 

 luxuries and leisure. I'm going to swap the 

 luxuries for health. As for leisure, you can 

 get that two ways. You can slave for 

 years — with never a minute for history or 

 science (my favorites) — just to pile up a lot 

 of money just to get a lot of leisure some 

 time later. Or you can have a reasonable 

 amount of leisure as vou go and not slave 

 at all." 



"Like Daddy IjOwc," said Anixe. 



"We're going to be like Dad and Mother, 

 aren't we?" 



' ' Perhaps, ' ' the girl . smiled quietly, 

 "when we're as old as they. Meanwhile if 

 you ever get to feeling uncomfortably am- 

 bitious, don 't forget that honey-production 

 can be made a pretty big business — not a 

 get-rich-quick affair, but a get-rich-enough 

 quick-enough business. There are honey- 

 producers whose incomes average — oh, I 

 don 't know — thousands of dollars. ' ' 



•'Well, just watch us," crowed Jack. And 



there came a rap at the door. 



"Katherine!" they both exclaimed as a 

 radiant girl floated in, followed by an em- 

 barrassed but happy-looking Theodore. 



' ' Mr. and Mrs. Lowe sent us out here. 

 They're coming too." Katherine slipped 

 an envelope into Anne 's hand. ' ' We would- 

 n 't let the mail bring it to you, we brought 

 it ourselves." 



"Married!" gasped Jack, looking at the 

 wedding announcement, while Anne touched 

 the other girl 's forehead with her lips and 

 then gave both hands to Theodore. 



Just then the two old people came in, Mrs. 

 Lowe with a foreign letter. ' * From Rob- 

 ert! " Anne cried. "W^ill you all excuse 

 m e ? " 



Hurriedly her half-frightened eyes swept 

 the lines. Then came a low cry and she 

 crumpled into her chair, as white as the 

 paper that fell to the floor. 



" SM^eetheart! " Jack cried, leaping to 

 catch her. ' ' Anne — my Anne! ' ' 



' ' Look at the letter. Jack, ' ' Mrs. Lowe 

 directed gently, "while I tend to Anne." 



So when the girl 's eyes opened at last, 

 Jack was leaning over her, smiling. "It's 

 all right, dear," he was declaring happily. 

 ' ' Old Bob 's in clover. He just told things 

 backwards — the old chump! — and all you 

 saw was that he was hurt and not coming 

 back. He 's had an awfulh^ close call, but 

 the only reason he's not coming back is be- 

 cause he's going to marry a French Eed 

 Cross nurse with a ricli father and be a 

 Parisian bank director all his life! He'll 

 always be lame, but he says he doesn 't mind 

 that, because he suspects Marie is chiefly in 

 love with his limp!" 



After they had re-read the surprising let- 

 ter and talked it all over, Jack smiled un- 

 certainly at Anne. '-'I hope you won't 

 mind, Anne," he said, reddening boyishly, 

 "but I'm afraid I spilled the beans! When 

 you went all in a heap that way, I guess I 

 made our announcement too!" 



"Well," Anne said, after the friendly lit- 

 tle wave of congratulations and good wishes 

 had passed, "for a wartime Christmas, this 

 is going to be a pretty good one after all. ' ' 

 She looked from her letter to the circle of 

 happy faces there in the early winter twi- 

 light of the old workshop, and smiled. " It 's 

 a little like an old-fashioned play," she 

 said, "where everything ends all right in 

 the last act and the actors all come out 

 together and bow to the audience! Now if 

 only the war were over!" 



' ' It will be, before another Christmas, ' ' 

 Mrs. Lowe said serenely, tho no one knew 

 she spoke the truth. 



Anne turned suddenly to the old beekeep- 

 er, laying her hand in his. ' ' Daddy Lowe, 

 if you could give all us young folks one 

 great gift, right into our hearts, what 

 would it be? " 



"Wisdom," the old man answered simply. 

 "For 'in all ages, entering into holy souls, 

 she maketli them friends of God.' " 

 THE END. 



