246 



THE AMERICAN BEE KEEPER. 



August 



HE HO I ^L CHILD. 



The hotel child who clatters through the hall 

 And shculs a weary shout of empty glee 

 Until some finest scuds down an angered call 

 And bellboys tell him he must stop it all — 

 Oh, what a life this life of his must be! 

 He goes to shows, but no tramp dog Is his 

 To play wiih hijn in slied or field or wood. 

 He looks from windows, sees the white steam 



fizz, 

 A forestry of blackened smokestacks is 

 The sum and substance of his "neighborhood " 

 His wealthy father l)tiys him pretty clothes: 

 His mother garbs him out all trig and trim; 

 But, in all gloi-y decked, do you suppose 

 That hungry Jiearted little magnate knows 

 One half the blessings that accrue to him? 



He looks sometimes from out his window high 



Across the intervening roof and sees 



The watchman's child, who shouts a greetinj 



cry 

 To some young neighbor of a loft near by — 

 Pe wishes well he might be one of these, 

 tWth uncombed hair and patches at his knees. 



The hotel child, unloved but by his own. 

 Has plays and toys. The watch man's boy hr/, 



none. 

 But of all dreams the richman's heir hat 



known 

 The fondest is to be the watchman's son. 



—Chicago Record. 



DENISE. 



They had been three years married. 

 They adored cue another. She was 

 young. He was young also. Two happy 

 faces! Two charming soulsl 



Why had they come to this little old 

 and isolated village 100 leagues from 

 Paris? Surely the guides had never rec- 

 ommended it. Here the grass grew be- 

 tween the caved in paving stones of 

 the streets. And one could hear now 

 and then, with its jolting and jogging, 

 the jingling of bells and the rattling of 

 windows, the yellow coach, which re- 

 turned, nearly always empty, from the 

 distant railway station. 



It was Cecile who had thought of 

 thistrip. Kogerhad atfirstsaid, "No," 

 but she, coming closer to him, said 

 coaxingly: 



"Was it not down there in the little 

 village, close to the mountains, that 

 you were born, passed your childhood 

 and became a man? Was it not there 

 you lived with your aged parents, over 

 whom we wept together a year since? 

 I wish to see the good old country 

 house of which you have so often spo- 

 ken. And the garden, too, which seem- 



ed so large when you were a little child. 

 You shall show me the well whei-e you 

 used to throw stones to hear them 

 splash in the water — the tulip tree, 

 where you found the nest of doves. I 

 want to see thi^ road you traveled to 

 the schoolhouse. You used to stop by 

 the way to cat mulberries, little gour- 

 mand tliat yon were. How I shall laugh 

 as I picture you passing by, when you, 

 Roger, were not taller than a boot and 

 wore short trcnsers. On your arm you 

 carried a basket in which your mother 

 had placed a luncheon of breael and pre- 

 serves. No, Roger, I shall not laugh. 

 Do not think me so frivolous. If I wish 

 to go down there to your native village, 

 it is because I love you — I love you sc 

 well — and because I am jealous of ;i 

 past in which I have no share. Perhapl 

 some day you might think of thesij 

 things without thinking of me. 'Ti.( 

 this that grieves me so. Take me wher.s 

 you were, mingle me with that wliicli 

 once surrouiKie'ei you, so that hence- 

 forth you may never have a reverie in 

 which I am not a part, so that I may 

 never be absent from your memories, 

 however distant they may be." Speak- 

 ing thus, she raised her lips to his, and 

 he consented (not without an air of 

 melancholy) because of the proffered 

 kiss. 



The first days passed in this little 

 village were adorable ones. Cecile en- 

 joyed everything in the great, lonely 

 place. Even the ugly, somber streets 

 delighted her. The villagers who pass- 

 ed turned to look after her, marveling 

 at her Parisian grace. 



One evening there was a fete in front 

 of the town hall — a shooting gallery, 

 three turnstiles and some wooden 

 horses. Mme. Prudence, the clairvoy- 

 ant, was there. Cecile entered the wom- 

 an's place to learn her fate. 



"No enemy seeks to harm you, and 

 every possible happiness is yours." 



"Ah, I know it," cried Cecile, fall- 

 ing impulsively upon her husband's 

 neck, to the astonishment of the clair- 

 voyant. 



She visited the old house where Rog- 

 er's mother had died. "What a pity we 

 are not rich enough to buy it," she 

 said. Then she made him relate, with 

 many details, the life he had led when 

 a boy — at what hour he arose, at what 

 hour he went to bed. She wanted to 



