172 



THE AMERICAN BEE-KEEPER, 



June 



©rvflnug luro his bag and then sorted 

 the 11 out later. Some of the cocoons are 

 cinpcy, and these he could tell sonie- 

 tirues by their light weighr, but more 

 cerrainly by shaking them. The pupa 

 is usually loose and rattles inside the 

 coGOOu. The empty shells he put into 

 his coat pocket, the live pupae he sorted 

 ont according to size or perhaps by pe- 

 culiarities which distinguished their 

 character 



It seemed a curious business, but yet 

 it wasn't q^.iite so odd as the comical 

 perplexity in which it kept about a score 

 of Brooklyiiups — New York Sun. 



The Story of Sresca. 



The jittle town of Bordighera, in 

 Italy, lias furnished the Easter palms at 

 Rome since the year 1856. How thia 

 grant was obtained by Bresca, the bravo 

 old sea captain, is a curious story. 

 Stanrling with the crowd in tho open 

 plaza before the cathedral of St. Peter's, 

 he was gazing wirh breathless interest 

 at the workmen engaged in erecting the 

 Egyptian obelisk. So momentous and 

 difficult a task was this regarded that 

 Popo Sixtus V forbade any one to utter 

 a loud word during the operation on 

 pain of death, 



All went well until the massive stone 

 column reached a certain angle, when, 

 to the horror of the multitude and the 

 despair of the engineer, it ceased to 

 move. Various expedients were resorted 

 to, without avail, and all seemed lost, 

 when suddenly a voice broke the silence, 

 crying: 



"Aiga. Dai de I'aiga ae corde!" 

 (•'Water. Give water to the ropes!") 



This suggestion, which came from the 

 old sailor, was quickly acted upon. The 

 obelisk slowly righted itself and was 

 successfully raised to the position it 

 DOW occupies. 



When the trembling Bresca was 

 brought a prisoner before the pope for 

 punishment, t'^e latter not only par- 

 doned the offense, but offered to grant 

 him any reasonable request. The un- 

 selfish soul of the nian showed itself 

 when, instead of petitioning for some 

 persona! jireferment, he begged that the 

 right of furnishing tho palms for Easter 

 should be bestowed upon his family 

 and the villagers of Bordighera, his 

 birthplace. Tho request was granted 

 and is respected to this day.— ' "" '" 



EIYAL EDITORS. 



I had establislied The Weekly Herald at 

 Calabash City and was getting along well 

 when an opposition paper was set up. 



"The Calabaph City Spy, George Rowe, 

 editor and proijrietor, " appeared in all the 

 glory of secondhand type — mine was third 

 hand — and a grade of i;aper somewhat re- 

 semljliug real "news" — mine did not re- 

 semble it at all. 



Rowe was a good looking, bright, active, 

 well educated young fellow, v.-ith whom I 

 should certainly have been friendly undei 

 different circimstances, but this was now 

 quite impossible. 



One publiciition day I sat down early to 

 do up the customary batch of "scathing 

 exposures" aud "unanswerable arraign- 

 ments" of The Spy when Bud Haskins, 

 my editorial assistant, compositor, job 

 printer, mailing clerk and man of all work, 

 came in beaming with joy. 



"Got some good news for you, Mr. War- 

 ren!" said he, grinning. " 'Cording to 

 the way it looks now, there wont be no 

 Spy this week — p'r'aps not next week — 

 p'r'aps never!" 



"How's that?" I inquired, much i^leased. 



"Rowe's sick abed — fever or sunthin. 

 He can't do a stroke of work, 'n that fel- 

 low McKay he has with him ain't of no 

 gi-eat use. No Spy this week, I tell you." 



For a moment, mean as the emotion 

 was, I felt glad. If Rowe missed an issue 

 or two, he would lose the ground he had 

 gained and probably would have to give 

 up altogether. Then I should be left with 

 the v.'hole field to myself. Yes, I actually 

 felt glad. 



"I'm going out for a few minutes. 

 Bud," I called to Haskins. 



My reception at The Spy office was chill- 

 ing. As I entered the dingy, pine boarded 

 room McKay, a big, stupid looking man, 

 stared and then sidled toward a mallet on 

 the imposing stone. 



"I want to see Mr. Rowe," said I. 



"He's in bed up stairs, " growled Mc- 

 Kay, lifting the mallet. 



On a camp bed in the attic lay Rowe, 

 flushed, breathing with difHculty and roll- 

 ing his head irritably about tho coarse pil- 

 low. He seemed a combative person. It 

 took so2ue little time to convince him that 

 my inteutitjns were friendly, but when he 

 became assured of this he met me with the 

 manliest frankness. 



"You're a good fellow, Warren," he ex- 

 claimed, seizing my hand. "I've been a 

 fool"— 



"No more than I." 



"Well, then, we've been a pair of fools. 



