290 



THE AMERICAN BEE-KEEPER 



October 



A COWBOY RACE. 



A pattering rush like the rattle of hai» 



When the storm king's wild coursers are out 



on the trail, 

 A long roll of lioofs— and the earth is a drnml 

 The centaurs 1 See! Over the prairie they come! 



A rollicking, clattering, battering beat, 



A rhythmical thunder of galloping feet, 



A swift swirling dustcloud — a mad hurricane 



Of swarthy grim faces and tossing black mane. 



■purrah! In the face of the steeds of the sun 



The gauntlet is flung and the race is bfgun ! 



—J. C. Davis. 



THE PRIMULA LADY. 



I entirely forget the name of the 

 opera, what it was about and who sang 

 in it, but I know it was the first I ever 

 saw — if indeed I can be said to have 

 seen it ! At all events, I was present at 

 the performance, and the evening and 

 its occurrences are indelibly stamped on 

 my memory. I was 17, thoroughly un- 

 musical, but possessed of a keen sense 

 of enjoyment, and the scene, looked 

 upon for the first time in my life, de- 

 lighted me. The fair faces, the gorgeous 

 toilets, the hum of voices, the light, the 

 movement, all combined to quicken the 

 beat of my pulse and make me feel giddy 

 and light headed. 



The curtain went up, and after the 

 first few minutes I began to be bored. 

 It was a heavy opera, so I was told, 

 with no "airs" in it, and full of loud, 

 deafening choruses. It seemed to me 

 there were nothing but choruses — 

 choruses of monks and soldiers and vil- 

 lage maidens and peasants — and the noise 

 wearied me. I did not iinderhtand the 

 plot, and I turned to the spectators for 

 amusement. Opposite to us, in a box 

 immediately facing ours, sat a couple 

 whose appearance arrested my attention. 

 I could not see the lady's face, for it 

 was turned away from me toward the 

 stage, but in her hair was a diamond 

 comb of quaint design that took my 

 fancy. Against the smooth dark tresses 

 the stones sparkled and glittered as in a 

 setting of onyx. It was a warm evening, 

 but she kept her brocade cloak of a cu- 

 rious shade of Rose du Barri pink shot 

 with gold wrapped closely roiind her. 

 She had no bouquet, but in front of her, 

 on the ledt^e of the box, was an enor- 

 mous black feather fan mounted in tor- 



toise shell. Ker companion — a slight 

 man with a pale olive complexion and 

 dark beard streaked with gray — had a 

 face that interested me strangely. It 

 wore such a weary expression — more 

 weary perhaps than actually sad. He 

 looked like a man who at some time or 

 other during his life had made an effort 

 beyond his strength and had never re- 

 covered from the exertion. Like me, he 

 did not appear to be interested in the 

 story of the opera. 



The noise went on. The peasants re- 

 tired, and after a short love scene be- 

 tween the hero and the heroine a band 

 of soldiers came on and sang to some 

 very loud music. I leaned back in my 

 seat. My head was beginning to ache 

 and my eyes to feel tired. I closed them, 

 simply for a few minutes' rest. When I 

 opened them, they seemed to light nat- 

 urally on my opposite neighbors, and I 

 started as I noticed the changed aspect 

 of the bos. The lady had evidently 

 thrown off her cloak and had come more 

 forward. Her eyes were no longer fixed 

 on the stage. They were turned toward 

 me. And what different eyes they were 

 from those I thought she would possess. 

 They were soft and veiled by lashes very 

 little darker than her hair, which could 

 scarcely be termed golden, it was so 

 fair. How could I have believed her to 

 be a brunette? She must have been 

 seated in the shade when I first saw her 

 and had since emerged into the light. 

 She had moved her fan, and in its place 

 lay a bouquet of mauve and white prim- 

 ulas. A small bunch of the same flow- 

 ers were pinned into her simple high 

 white dress at the throat and another 

 showed among the loosely coiled tresses 

 of her fair hair. 



"It cannot be the same woman," I 

 said to myself, "and yet my eyes were 

 not closed for more than a minute or 

 two, I am certain. There could not have 

 been time — and — yet" — The irritating 

 accompaniment to the "recitative," the 

 perfume of my chaperon hostess' bou- 

 quet, the effort to exjilain the mystery, 

 the unusualness of the scene, and the 

 exhausted state of the air, all combined 

 to produce an overpowering effect on 

 my brain. I closed my eyes again and 

 was very nearly asleeji — not quite, I am 

 certain — when a touch from Mrs. Wal- 

 do's fan and the sound of a light, un- 

 familiar laugh recalled me to myself 



