April, 1922 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



in spots, includiug unattended lectures, an 

 undelivered speech of introduction, an un- 

 worn new dress — but far from funny as the 

 months wore on. So we rented out our big 

 old tree-surrounded house in West Nashville, 

 furnished, and started boarding, and Mr. 

 Allen made himself famous with the dic- 

 tum, "Every woman ought to have a rest 

 once in ten years!" For six months we 

 boarded near the downtown section. But 

 last April we went out to the home of the 

 country friends on whose place we had our 

 beeyard. What a delight it was! From the 

 windows of this home we could see the hills 

 and Mrs. Waters' garden. And I walked 

 through a tiny woods lot, going over to the 

 beeyard. Many a morning we slipped over 

 there and cooked our breakfast in the yard; 

 many a hot panting afternoon — O the heat 

 of 1921! — we ate sandwiches and ice cream 

 there and watched the long cool shadows 

 come. (And for that matter, many a hot 

 night we slept there too!) 



One Saturday in mid-May, Mr. Allen, who 

 leaves his office at noon on that happy day, 

 came driving out to the yard to join me, 

 already at work. He brought out a negro 

 man to paint the honey-house, and sand- 

 wiches and ice cream for our lunch. After 

 the man was well started on his work, and 

 we had finished eating, Mr. Allen said, 



"There's an auction over on Lone Oak 

 Road. Let's go." 



"Where's Lone Oak Road?" I asked. 

 "And why do we want to go?" 



"It's the road we've never known the 

 name of, running between Hillsboro Pike 

 and Granny White Pike, ' ' he explained. 

 "They're advertising a country bungalow 

 with city conveniences and two acres. Let's 

 find out what such property can be got for. ' ' 



I saw his point. For several weeks the 

 State of Tennessee had been considering 

 buying our old house, and I had always 

 wanted a little home in the country. 



"All right. But I'll have to stop by the 

 house and change my clothes." Thus spoke 

 the traditional woman. 



"O never mind your clothes, you look 

 all right." Thus spoke the traditional man, 

 adding, "You don't need to get out of the 

 car. ' ' 



Off we went, one of us propolis-stained, 

 short-skirted, cotton-hosed, defiantly hatted. 

 The first thing I did was to get out of the 

 car. The next thing was to become pain- 

 fully conscious of propolis stains and cotton 

 hose, when we promptly encountered the 

 gallant State Librarian, whom we knew, and 

 several silk-clad ladies, whom we didn't. 

 The next thing was to o/( and ah in delight 

 at the arrangement of rooms and the unend- 

 ing windows. The next was to gasp in 

 amazement to hear my husband's voice 

 raised in the bidding. The next was to 

 urge him to one more bid, when he seemed 

 about to stop. The next was to gasp again. 

 For the brown shingle bungalow on Lone 

 Oak Road, with city conveniences and two 

 acres, was ours! Talk about a surprise! 



The Librarian and the husbands of the 

 silk-clad ladies came to congratulate us. 



"But what can we do with it?" we ex- 

 postulated, amazed at ourselves, but mod- 

 estly concealing our inner exultation at the 

 larky adventure. "Our furniture is rented 

 till October." 



So we rented the bungalow, too, for the 

 summer — another story in itself! But on 

 October first, the State having bought the 

 old house meanwhile, we moved our things 

 out here. The moving, too, was a story in 

 itself. Things suited to a big old brick 

 house were utterly unsuited to a small shin- 

 gle bungalow in the country. So there was 

 a feverish time of selling — another story! — 

 giving away, cutting down. From the attic 

 were brought down old beloved dolls, care- 

 fully wrapt, worn-out garments, unfinished 

 quilts, faded wedding slippers. But at last 

 we were moved. 



The first thing we did was to have the 

 kitchen sink raised. The next was to have 

 the two old oaks in front trimmed up and 

 "doctored." Which is still another story. 

 For one of them — O joy! — was a bee-tree. 

 The bees, with nearly 50 pounds of honey, 

 were in the hollow top part that had to be 

 cut off. And after it was cut off, to get the 

 men to finish their job, we had to capture 

 tlie bees and take them to a young friend 

 across the river, where they couldn't pos 

 sibly find their way back. It was all pleas- 

 antly exciting. But the honey was disap- 

 pointing. It was very dark and very strong 

 and very something else and neither of us 

 liked it a bit. And "wild honey" had al- 

 ways sounded so alluring, so flavored with 

 romance and adventure! The disillusion- 

 ments of life! 



AS DREAMING MUST? 

 My heart hath long desired a room 

 That looked on hills and garden bloom. 



This year young April's wizard wings 



Dropped lovely unexpected things. 



And I have watched, as from old towers, 



A cavalcade of magic hours, 



Through windows dawn-filled, star-strown, blue 



Yet picturing earth's beauty, too. 



Through one east-curving panelled glass 



I see a road sweep out and pass. 



Inviting south — where, green and still. 



Another window shows a hill ; 



And where, beneath gift-laden skies. 



A small white-gated garden lies. 



Here I have seen spring come and go 



In clump and bed and border row 



Of violets and daffodillies. 



Peonies and valley-lilies. 



Flags of lavender — nor yet 



Hath summer come with mignonette, 



Hath summer spread her pinks or phlo.x 



Or hinted at her hollyhocks; 



Not yet hath summer brought her rose 



Where beauty's dream of Beauty blows. 



Here I shall watch them, one by one, 

 Break into blossom in the sun. 

 And I shall see them, one and all. 

 Break into blossoming — and fall — 

 As blossomings (and dreamings?) must — 

 Till they shall be but haunted dust 

 Blowing and drifting down the ways 

 Of ancient unreturning days. 



But though the garden dies, yet still 

 I lift mine eyes unto the hill. 



