260 



THE AMERICAN BEE-KEEPER. 



iSeptember 



FIRST LOVE. 



First love is best, the poet said— 



Ah, poet, wise and true I 

 In youth it fanned my heart to Same, 

 In manliood burns— about the same — 



And will my whole life through. 



That first love I Can I e'er forget 



The dawn of that fair time 

 When dinipk'd cheeks and soulful eyes 

 Revealed a glimpse of paradise, 



And I bowed at the shrine? 



'Twas then I swore my heart was true; 



That she was wondrous fair. 

 But here today I've tried in vain 

 Just to recall her Christian name 



And gave up in despair. 

 ****** 



Many a maid I've loved since then- 

 Hope to love many yet — 



An Alice or.ee, a winsome Ray, 



A Beatrice and twice a May, 

 And then a Margaret. 



But then I know the poet said 

 The first love stirs tlie flame. 

 Though maids galore you love and woo, 

 That first love lasts your whole life 

 through. 

 Naught changes but the name. 



—Albert Lang in Boston Globe. 



SHROUDED IN SNOW. 



There is, perhr.ps, no finer view of 

 Mont Blanc in or around Geneva than 

 that to be obtained from Colonel Tron- 

 chin's tower on the hill above Coligny. 

 There you get a sunset effect that must 

 have made many a painter despair, and, 

 in the estimation of some, is superior to 

 the grandeur of the sunrise seen from 

 the Rigi. It is astonishing how the light 

 lingers and the snow reddens in the suu 

 after the orb has vanished beyond the 

 green range of the Jura. The changing 

 hues of tlie twiliglit — from the alabaster, 

 to the crimson, from the crimson to the 

 steely gray, from the gray to the vivid 

 pink, and then to dimness of the veil of 

 mist arising from the valleys — are alone 

 worth the trouble and expense of a spe- 

 cial journey. 



Geneva, indeed, is a delightful place 

 at all times. The lovely lake, the stately 

 Rhone, the turbulent Arve, the snowy 

 mountain ranges cut in dazzling white- 

 ness on the azure sky are attractions' 

 the like of which are not found together 

 elsewhere, 'but with Mont Blanc in- 

 cluded there is a combination of pleas- 

 ing scpnerv Derfectlv irresistible. The 



many peaks that circle the Val d'Aoste 

 are beautiful undoubtedly, but lacking 

 the monarch of the mountains the view 

 would seem shorn of half its glory. 

 With him the panorama is perfect, the 

 picture is complete. 



From this point of vantage a couple 

 of tourists, with a peasant girl, are ad- 

 miring the inimitable tinting of the 

 sunset sky. "You are right, Gisela, by 

 Jove! This is the best I have seen since 

 we entered your wonderful country. If 

 this golden glow would only lastl 1 be- 

 lieve I could look at it almost as long as 

 I could at your pretty face, ma chere. ' ' 



It is Sydney Athelstan, a tall, dark 

 haired, well set up young Englishman, 

 who speaks. He is touring Switzerland 

 for the first time. Gisela's face flushes 

 as rosy red as the fragrant rhododendron 

 that flames the snow and ice 5,000 feet 

 above them as she answers: 



"You flatter me, m'sieur, but it is 

 beautiful, for the night is clear. Let go 

 my hand, please. 1 am only a peasant's 

 child." 



"But with the grace of a lady and the 

 beauty of an artist's ideal!" fervently 

 exclaims the young man. "M'Dieu, but 

 you were made for something better 

 than a mere cottager's daughter." 



Tte girl wrenches her hand from his. 

 The rose flush on her cheek fires into 

 vivid scarlet. She points down the rug- 

 ged path. 



"If you will not have prudence, 

 m'sieur, I must return alone to my fa- 

 ther's roof, where Giotto, my betrothed, 

 awaits me. I came to show you and 

 your friend the place where the great 

 English poet lived, and then the view 

 of the mountain from here. Let us re- 

 turn together. " 



Athelstan listens with his soul in his 

 eyes. Blue, uncertain, distrustful eyes 

 they are, but fascinating to women. 



As for Gisela, her wild rose beauty 

 grows in fairness every day under the 

 influence of maturing womanhood and 

 the glow of a deep passion, for, despite 

 her betrothal to Giotto and despite her 

 shyness, sh"- loves her stalwart young 

 Euglishmai"^ iier heart, and her bright 

 eyes fl;ish with pleasure at his coming. 

 And his coming is frequent, is habitual. 

 Together they climb the mossy banks of 

 the valleys or the rugged ridges of the 

 lower range, and when Giotto, ill at 

 ease and revolving vengeance in his 



