1897 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CaLTURE 



291 



" Yes, doctor, she is the lady we have talked 

 about so much. Her name is Aifaretta Buell." 



" Fred Anderson, you are mistaken. You 

 have been deceived;" and as the doctor arose 

 and paced the floor he said, in terrible earnest- 

 ness, '* Fred Anderson, that young lady's name 

 is Aifaretta Hayden— my long-lost daughter." 



" No, doctor," said Fred, with equal earnest- 

 ness, " you can not mean it. Your daughter, 

 doctor — ha, ha! are we all going crazy ? are we 

 dreaming?" 



The doctor stepped across ihe cabin to a little 

 cabinet, and took from an inner recess an old- 

 time ivorytype; " look upon this picture, Fred." 



"Aifaretta, for sure," said Fred. 



"Alfaretta's mother," replied the doctor. 

 " Now, Fred, sit down. I must talk. Let me 

 tell you the story of my life. I believe I have 

 told you that 1 was born in Western New York. 

 The farm adjoining ours was owned by my 



'LOOK UPON THIS PICTURE, FKED." 



uncle, Wm. Bull. His son Clarence was about 

 my age, and we were always fast friends, and 

 were always together until we graduated from 

 college. Our ways parted then for a time. I 

 went to Germany to finish my education in 

 medicine, and he to the far West as a surveyor. 

 The civil war brought us together again— I a 

 surgeon and he in an engineer corps. We 

 escaped the dangers of war, and returned to 

 our paternal homes. We longed for the quiet- 

 ness of home life, and, soon after our return, 

 we both found suitable companions, and set- 

 tled down to a happy domestic life— Clarence a 

 teacher, and I in the practice of a country 

 physician. Perhaps our lives were too full of 

 joy. Our homes were the scenes of happy 

 gaiherings, and the sunshine of love filled our 

 cozy homes; but in the midst of this happiness 



the storm lowered, and in the birth of Aifa- 

 retta the life of the one I loved went out. Ah, 

 dear Fred! little do you know of the sorrow in 

 losing one so near and dear as a wife. No more 

 the face greets you at the window; the smile 

 that gave the heart a stronger throb of joy is 

 now only a memory; where there was cheery 

 presence, laughter, song, all is still. In the 

 deep silence of night, in some lonely trysting- 

 place, I uplift my clasped hands and cry, 'O 

 lovely spirit! dear one, come and whisper words 

 of love and hope to me; clasp my hand; let me 

 but feel thy presence.' The summer breeze 

 stirs the foliage above me, but there comes no 

 answering word— lonely, so lonely; and when I 

 retrace my steps to that desolate home, an un- 

 rest seizes me and I would haste away to the 

 far corners of the earth. The young life that 

 had come into my home under such sad circum- 

 stances was taken into the home of my bosom 

 friend, Clarence Bull. Their little Adrietta, 

 after a few mouths of life, had died, and Aifa- 

 retta found a warm welcome there. It is need- 

 less for me to tell you that, from the hour of the 

 death of my wife, I became a wanderer. I first 

 went to Mexico, then to Peru. I became a 

 prominent factor in one of their periodic revo- 

 lutions, and upon the defeat of our party I was 

 sent far into the interior, and for several years 

 had no communication with my distant kindred. 

 When I did return to my old home, things had 

 greatly changed. My cousin Clarence had 

 moved to Denver; thither 1 went in search of 

 him: but he had left his position there under a 

 cloud— some scandal connected with his school, 

 and no trace of him could be found until I met 

 you. But the changed name misled me. His 

 wife's pride, or perhaps the scandal, led to the 

 change. 



" I have had some bif^er feelings against him 

 this morning, but I am sure my old-time friend 

 is far too (generous to ever deceive me. I shall 

 trust him. But, O my daughter Aifaretta! 

 would that I had not found thee." 



The doctor's reflections were suddenly inter- 

 rupted by a great noise from the terrace above, 

 like the crushing of glass, followed by shrill 

 shouts by the squaws, the agonized braying of 

 a donkey, and Gimp shouting, "She's killed! 

 she's killed! oh she's killed!" 



ANOTHER DEFUNCT .JOURNAL. 



Noticing in your January 15th number an ar- 

 ticle by Dr. C. C. Miller, giving a list of defunct 

 bee-journals, as the subject seems to be of in- 

 terest to your readers I write to call attention 

 to The American Bee Gazette, which started 

 some time in the '60's in New York City, under 

 +he management of E. Van Slyck, and, after a 

 few issues, was absorbed by the American Bee 

 Journal, of Washington, D. C. 



Bellaire, Mich. Roswell Leavitt. 



