108 



THE AMERICAN BEE-KEEPER, 



April 



grow too fond of li^iog. Besides — and 

 here comes the irony of it — if every- 

 thing were perfection we shouldn't 

 know it. " 



"No, we should want counteracting 

 foils, like milestones, to show us it is 

 perfection." Her eyes traveled up the 

 green slope toward the house, and she 

 added, reverting to it: "But you, you 

 also, like this by no means faultless bi- 

 jou residence. Yes, I can see by your 

 face. Your face assures me that you 

 hava seen something today that pleases 

 you." 



He dropped his hazel eyes upon her 

 and leaned on his cane. 



"Yes," he said slowly. "I have cer- 

 tainly seen something that pleases ml 

 today. But," he added quickly, "I an( 

 •willing to waive priority if 1 have it, 

 which I doubt, in your favor and back 

 out of all competition with regard to 

 the bijou residence. After all, what 

 does it signity? I am a bachelor; any- 

 thing will do for me. " 



"And lam a spinster," she said with 

 a smile. "Why should not anything do 

 for me?" 



"For all their never 'avin met till 

 this 'ere morning, they seem to be 

 mighty friendly," observed the care- 

 taker watching their departure down 

 the shady road together later. "It 

 seems to me to be more a question of 

 taking each other than taking the house. 

 They ain't said nothing about the house 

 one way or t'other, but they 'ave said 

 a good deal about each other judging by 

 their eyes. " 



The woman picked more wild flowers 

 as she went back, the man assisting her. 

 Midway down the dusty lane they rested 

 on a fallen oak, the victim of a recent 

 cyclone, and told each other their biog- 

 raphies. At the inn, close to the rail- 

 way, they lunched together in the inn 

 parlor, criticising the proprietor's ideas 

 of art afterward, a task of elastic qual- 

 ity according to the degree of opportu- 

 nity for lingering desired. And she — she 

 never looked prettier, even in her palm- 

 iest days. 



Have you ever traced the genesis of an 

 acquaintance? It may be quite as capa- 

 ble of wide advances and undreamed 

 conclusions as the genesis of speech. 

 Vou may begin in the tropic of Cancer 

 and end in yiberia ; or you may begin in 

 Siberia and end in the tropic of Canctu 



it's all a matter of chance. But this 

 man and this woman began and ended 

 in the tropic of Cancer, and so there was 

 a marriage in the paper, but the bijon 

 residence is still unlet. — George Wemyss 

 in Sketch. 



He Made Books. 



Miss Eosebud (at her first race) — And 

 who did you say that gentleman in the 

 checked suit was? 



Mr. Straighttip — Oh, that is S — , the 

 bookmaker. 



Miss Rosebud (enthusiastically) — Do 

 bring him up and introduce him. You 

 know I dote upon authors. — Exchange. 



Easily. 



Cumso — What would you take to 

 stand all night on bronze Penn's hat on 

 the top of the city hall? 



Bumso — A bad cold. — Philadelnhia 



Call. 



Henry Clay. 



A Lexington merchant, in conversa- 

 tion with the editor of The Gazette a 

 few days ago, related this interesting 

 reminiscence of Henry Clay: "I remem- 

 ber when a youth and an enthusiastic 

 Clay Whig of coming here during the 

 canvass of 1844 from my home in Har- 

 rodsburg, with the Clay club of Mercer 

 county, on whose banner was the mot- 

 to, 'We Are Few, but True, ' to unite in 

 the celebration held that year in Lex- 

 ington. The barbecue was given at the 

 race track. There a number of distin- 

 guished orators addressed the multitude 

 — among them Tom Corwin, Judge E\v- 

 Ing, probably James C. Jones of Ten- 

 nessee. But after this half century, 

 that which I now remember most dis- 

 tinctly and what most impressed me 

 v.'as this — that Mr. Clay did not go out 

 to the grounds. He considered it be- 

 neath the dii;uity of a presidential can- 

 didate to electioneer. How well I re- 

 member seeing him, as the procession 

 in which I walked passed his oflSce 

 (thou with his son, James B. Clay, on 

 Sliort street, near the engine house), 

 standing in the doorway with his head 

 uncovered, and with the rare grace 

 which few men possessed, bowing to the 

 passing multitude that was wild with 

 huzzas, banners and music." — Lexing- 

 ton Gazette. 



