228 



THE AMERICAN BEE-KEEPER. 



Auyiist 



THROUGH THE WOOD. 



through tlie wood, the green wood, the wet 

 wood, the light wood, 

 Love and I went Maying a thousand lives 

 ago. 

 Shafts of golden sunlight had made a golden 

 bright wood 

 In my heart reflected, because I loved you so. 



Through the wood, the chill wood, the brown 

 wood, the bare wood, 

 I alone went lonelj' no later than last j'ear. 

 What had thinned the branches and wrecked 

 n>y dear and fair wood, 

 Killed the pale wild roses and left the rose 

 thorns sear? 



Through the wood, the dead wood, the sad 

 wood, the lone wood, 

 Winds of winter shiver lichens old and gray. 

 Fou ride past, forgetting the wood that waa 

 our own wood. 

 All our own, and withered as ever a flower 

 of May. 



—New York Tribune. 



TEAIX CAN'T WAIT. 



She is just 18, with, golden hair aud 

 gray eyes — large gray eyes that laugh 

 just as well as her red lips. Her figure, 

 though a little frail, makes one thiuk 

 what a pretty woman she will be soon. 

 Her hands aud arms are those of a 

 child. Is she not still a child? Clara 

 left school but a fortnight ago. She is 

 the beloved aud only daughter of a rich 

 miller in the neighborhood of Avesues. 



Nothing is more poetical than a mill 

 in the country. It does not disturb the 

 silence of the air with its monotonous 

 tick tack. On the contrary, its noise, 

 strong and regular, is like an accom- 

 paniment to the many other noises of 

 the wind, and of the trees, and of the 

 birds. Clara was charmed with it all. 



During a few days after her arrival 

 the whole house was upset, making and 

 receiving calls, dinner parties, dancing 

 parties, lawn tennis — the days were not 

 long enough to hold their pleasures. 

 Then all was quiet at the mill. 



In the orchard, which was large, the 

 walks were spread over with sand, aud 

 the trees, loaded with fruit, afforded a 

 beautiful, shady grove. This was Clara's 

 favorite nook. Here she would go and 

 read poetry. She had been given the 

 works of Laraartine, beautifully bound. 



Now, Lamar tine is a very tender poet, 

 aud Clara was still in her teens, and 

 this was summer, and the fragrance of 

 the flowers aud the murmur of the 

 breeze acted on her young mind, and 

 through this book she would dream of 

 things that she hart neve* dreamed of 

 before. 



One day her mother asked her if she 

 remembered her cousin Albert. 



"Oh, yes, indeed!" said she. This 

 answer came from her heart. She 

 blushed, aud from her neck to her brow 

 she felt that sort of electricity that is 

 produced by a little shame and a great 

 pleasure. 



"Well," said her mother, "you will 

 see him very soon. ' ' 



Clara was about to say, "Oh I how 

 glad I am, ' ' but she thought it more 

 proper to say nothing. 



Aud why was she silent? I will tell 

 you — it was because she had read Lamar- 

 tine. Why does pretty poetry make one 

 false? Well, I don't know, but it speaks 

 of love — aud what is love? 



"Well, " said Clara, "I have not seen 

 him for two years. I suppose he is 

 changed. " 



"Not more than you, " said her moth- 

 er, casting a loving glance of admiration 

 at her daughter. "You were a little girl 

 when you went away. You are a young 

 lady now. ' ' 



Clara ran off to her beloved grove to 

 hide tlie blushes on her cheeks and the 

 beatings of her heart. She sat down, 

 drew from her pocket her volume of 

 poetry, but read not a line. 



****** 



Albert arrived a few days before he 

 was expected, but she was thinking of 

 him. She always had roses on her 

 cheeks, but these roses changed into 

 peonies when she saw him, and her 

 hands trembled. He took hold of those 

 hands aud kissed her on both cheeks. 



He was a medical student who had 

 not yet in his brain the least thought ol 

 anything serious. He had suddenly dis- 

 covered in himself a vocation for the 

 beautiful science of ^sculapius, that he 

 might go to Paris to spend a few years 

 of his life and waste a few thousands of 

 his father's francs. 



"Ah, little cousin," said he, "you 

 are pretty now. Why, I am afraid I 

 shall fall in love with you. " 



