HER Death-bed. ER suffering ended with the day, And breathed the long, long night away In statue-like repose. But when the sun in all his state Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through Glory's morning gate And walked in Paradise. J. ALDRICH. TELLING THE BEES. Telling the Bees. HERE is the place; right over the hill You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago. There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. Since we parted, a month had passed, To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. I can see it all now, the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, Just the same as a month before, The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, – Nothing changed but the hives of bees. Before them, under the garden wall, Went, drearily singing, the chore-girl small, TELLING THE BEES. Trembling, I listened; the summer sun For I knew she was telling the bees of one Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away." But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still And the song she was singing ever since 66 Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! J. G. WHITTIER. Katie. IT may be through some foreign grace, And unfamiliar charm of face; It may be that across the foam Which bore her from her childhood's home, Some English sunshine, warmth, and air! She seems to me, go where she will, I meet her on the dusty street, |