i%y 



GLEANINGS: IN BKE:CUI.TURE. 



169 



BY THERON BROWN. 



I suck the dews of May and June 



When blossom-time is young ; 

 All summer long you hear my tune 



In spicy gardens sung ; 

 September days I swim amid 



The buckwheat's milky foam, 

 But — never lost and never hid — 



I know the bee-line home. 



Sometimes where plum or peach begins 



To blush I love to stay, 

 Or pasture-mint or thistle wins 



My flight a mile away. 

 A thousand circles I describe, 



Vet never where I roam 

 Forget my master and my tribe, 



Nor miss the bee-line home. 



Praise pinks and milkweeds to the bee. 



Wild rose and goldenrod, 

 Or call the fragrant basswood-tree 



The honey-maker's god. 



But banks of bloom could ne'er delay 



The call that bids me come, 

 Nor tempt the hive-born heart astray 



That knows the bee-line home. 



There brim the crystal nectar-cups, 



The pollen-cakes are clean. 

 There, soothed with tender music, sups 



The brown-eyed castle queen. 

 What wonder that I longing seek 



My walls of flowery comb 

 And quit the balmiest posy's cheek 



To wing the bee-line home ? 



Ye bees that walk on human feet. 



You hurry everywhere, 

 But straight for you a shining street 



Leads homeward through the air. 

 To find it in your evening flight, 



Unlost amid the gloam, 

 Have you the light that burns at night, 



And shows the bee-line home.? 



— Courtrty Chriitian Endeavor H'$rld, 



