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GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE. 



Dec. 15 



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Once I had a friend, a Hoosier, 

 Who kept bees the modern way, 



Usin' all the newest flxln's, 

 And he surely made it pay. 



But he caught the western fever- 

 Went out there to strike it rich, 



Where he landed plump alongside 

 Of an irrigatin' ditch. 



He had lots of skill and knowledge. 

 And alfalfa yielded well : 



For he got his tons of honey; 

 But when that he came to sell, 



There was no one there to buy it. 

 So he had to ship away; 



And when dividends were counted 

 He found it didn't pay. 



Price was low the rat<^s were high. 

 Check was mighty small; 



And the extra cost of livin' 

 Gave his hopes an awful fall. 



But I'll let him tell his story- 

 It will not detain you long : 



Oft it has been told you— 

 This same old mournful song. 



I was born in Indiany, 



An' I'm pinin' to get back 

 From prairie winds that howl and moan 



'Rround my little shack— 

 From this dreary endless wildness, 



Stretchin fur as yer can see. 

 An' my heart is nigh to breakin' 



Fur the sight o' an old oak-tree. 

 I was raised in Indiany. 



An, I'm wishin' I was back 

 Where the shiftin' shinin' Wabash 



Cuts its twistin' trailin' track— 

 Plowin' through the rustlin' cornfields, 



Loafin' under hangin' boughs. 

 Where there's pools to hide the fishes. 



An' there's shade to cool the cows. 



We'll leave him out there for a while, but 

 he'll get back, like the proverbial cat. They 

 never say die or give up. Those who have 

 never been "homesick" hardly know what 

 life is. Those who have been, never can de- 

 scribe the disease. There's only one cure 

 for it ever been found. It's an old remedy, 

 but has never failed. Like the prodigal son, 

 go back home. Many poor creatures fix 



Indiany was my old home. 



An' I'm heartsick to get back ; 

 Where th' creeks an' woods have a song 



That these lonesome prairies lack ; 



Fur there's nothin' here but silence 



'Cept the never endin' cry 

 O' winds that mourn until yer think 



That yer just about to die. 



An' ye hain't no use fur livin'. 



An' the dearest thing yer crave 

 Is to die an' have it over— 



If they'll only make yer grave 



Back there in Indiany, 



Where the WaDash twirls and turns — 

 Where the sun has trees to shine on, 



An' the autumn color burns— 



Where the sycamore's gnarled branches 



Show the way the river goes. 

 An' across the yaller cornti-jlds 



Yer can hear the cry o' croiifs— 



While the leaves are droppin' softly— 

 Nature's tears fur days that's dead. 



An' amongst the hick'ry's tremblin' boughs 

 Where th' gray squir'l peeks its head — 



Where oak an' maple colors 



Make the woods aglow with tint 

 O' the land yer lookia' fur at last. 



An' ye seem to catch a glint 



O' the glory streamin' down'ards 

 Through a break in heaven's wall, 



An' in the whisperin' silence 

 Yer can hear the angels call. 



Indiany's purt nigh heaven. 



An' I'm wishin' I was home; 

 If there's them that's thinkin' diff'rent, 



Taey've a license fur to roam. 



Indiana and high heaven 

 Are just two things which I lack — 



I'm a good way off from both now. 

 An' a prayin' to get back. 



themselves so they are unable to get back. 

 Many a poor woman has spent weary days 

 of a homesick life in the western country 

 where all the shade was the north side of a 

 barbed-wire fence, longing for the dear old 

 home. It was a Hoosier, I believe, who said 

 he was "glad to see a dog from Indiany," 

 and I'll bet he told the truth that time, any- 

 how. So, sons and daughters of Indiany, if 



