THE AMERICAN BEE KEEPER. 



January 



rISHER LASSiES. 



The wind blows up from the nor'west waves 

 Chill, salt and strong from its ocean caves. 

 The sea glows yet in the sunset's hue. 

 And the hollowing sky is a cup of blue. 



But the sentinel rocks on the headland's right 

 Are black and grim in the waning light, 

 And out in the west a lone white star 

 Keeps its steadfast watch o'er the harbor baiv 



Over the waves where the red light floats 

 To the glooming shore come the fishing boats, 

 And the girls who wait for their coming in 

 Are something to wave and wind akin — 



Born of the union of sky and sea. 

 Joyous, lithe limbed as the sea birds free, 

 Fearless in danger and true as steel, 

 To friend unswerving, to lover leal. 



No care is theirs. All the world they know 

 Is the sky above and the sea below. 

 Light o'er the waters their laughter floats 

 As they wait on the sand for the fishing boats. 



Brown are they, yet the tint that glows 



In their cheeks has the hue of a crimson rose, 



And never brighter or clearer eyes 



Watched across the bar 'neath the sunset skies. 



When the wearisome toil of the day is done 

 And the boats come in with the setting sun, 

 Sweethearts and brothers, tall and tanned, 

 Bend to the oars with a firmer hand. 



Each one knows at the landing dim 

 Bome one is waiting to welcome him. 

 Over the harbor the twilight creeps. 

 The star3 shine out in the sky's clear deeps, 



Prom far sea caves comes a hollow rear. 

 And the girls have gone from the darkened 



shore. 

 For the crimson has died from the sky line's 



bound. 

 And the boats are all in from the fishing 



ground. 

 — M. L. Cavendish in Youth's Companion. 



SAVED HEE SON. 



Yon must kuow that Mine. Jambe— 

 Mother Jambe the soldiers called her — 

 was for many years cantiniere in a regi- 

 ment of the line, and in this capacity 

 she was a sort of good angel to the 

 troops. OflScers and soldiers alike all 

 respected her, and never, during the 

 quarter of a century she served, whether 

 in Algeria or throughout the Italian 

 campaigns, had she to complain of a 

 single brutal act or word. 



She married, when about 80 years of 

 age, the quartermaster sergeant of the 

 regiment. His time was nearly up, but 

 he remained with the colors in order to 



help his wife to keep the canteen. The 

 little household was a prosperous one, 

 for Mme. Jumbe had more than one 

 string to her bow and well understood 

 how to employ her spare time profitably. 

 She had learned the art (or science, per- 

 haps, it should be called) of hairdress- 

 ing, and on the occasion of any fete was 

 in great request with the officers' wives. 

 Mme. la CoJonelle never employed a 

 professional coiflfeur even for the most 

 ceremonious event. The thrifty woman 

 was thus able to lay by a very consider- 

 able sum of money, which by no means 

 lessened her popularity in the regiment. 



After a year of married life a sou was 

 born, and Mme. Jambe and her husband 

 agreed that as soon as he should attain 

 the proper age he, too, should be a sol- 

 dier. At the age of 16 he passed into the 

 ranks, and, already accustomed, as he 

 was, to military life and discipline and 

 being smart and intelligent, he seemed 

 to have a bright future before him. 



But in the full tide of its prosperity 

 the little family suffered a sad catastro- 

 phe. The husband and father died sud- 

 denly in 1869. It was a terrible shock 

 to our poor Mme. Jambe, and she would 

 hardly have survived it were it not for 

 the thought of her son and the hope 

 that he would be a comfort to her in 

 her declining years. Sorrow aged her 

 more than her rough life had done, and, 

 with regret, she left the service and set- 

 tled in a little cottage left her by her 

 parents in the village of Olusy, near 

 Pontarliers. 



A year later war broke out, and this 

 was another sorrow for her to bear. She 

 was a patriot — Mme. Jambe — but she 

 was a mother also. Her country was 

 in danger, and her son, too, and she was 

 a prey to nervous fears which knew no 

 cessation, no relief. 



During that terrible winter of 1870-1 

 she hardly slept for three consecutive 

 hours in the 24. Always on the alert for 

 news, she chafed sorely at the snow, 

 which almo.# cut off her little village 

 from the outer world and made commu- 

 nication a matter of great difficulty. 

 She passed whole weeks in ignorance of 

 the progress of the war and of hor sou'*. 

 whereabouts, and then, little by little, 

 she heard of the defeats and r.t las» 

 learned that her son, a sergeant now, 

 had been attached to the Army of the 



