TELLING THE BEES.
OUT of the house where the slumberer lay
Grandfather came one summer day,
And under the pleasant orchard trees
He spake this wise to the murmuring bees:
"The clover-bloom that kissed her feet
And the posie-bed where she used to play
Have honey store, but none so sweet
As ere our little one went away.
O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low;
For she is gone who loved you so."
A wonder fell on the listening bees
Under those pleasant orchard trees,
And in their toil that summer day
Ever their murmuring seemed to say:
"Child, O child, the grass is cool,
And the posies are waking to hear the song
Of the bird that swings by the shaded pool,
Waiting for one that tarrieth long."
'Twas so they called to the little one then,
As if to call her back again.
O gentle bees, I have come to say
That grandfather fell asleep to-day,
And we know by the smile on grandfather's face
He has found his dear one's biding-place.
So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low,
As over the honey-fields you sweep,—
To the trees abloom and the flowers ablow
Sing of grandfather fast asleep;
And ever beneath these orchard trees
Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees.
THE TEA-GOWN.
MY lady has a tea-gown
That is wondrous fair to see,—
It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed,
As a tea-gown ought to be;
And I thought she must be jesting
Last night at supper when
She remarked, by chance, that it came from France,
And had cost but two pounds ten.
Had she told me fifty shillings,
I might (and wouldn't you?)
Have referred to that dress in a way folks express
By an eloquent dash or two;
But the guileful little creature
Knew well her tactics when
She casually said that that dream in red
Had cost but two pounds ten.
Yet our home is all the brighter
For that dainty, sensient thing,
That floats away where it properly may,
And clings where it ought to cling;
And I count myself the luckiest
Of all us married men
That I have a wife whose joy in life
Is a gown at two pounds ten.
It isn't the gown compels me
Condone this venial sin;
It's the pretty face above the lace,
And the gentle heart within.
And with her arms about me
I say, and say again,
"'Twas wondrous cheap,"—and I think a heap
Of that gown at two pounds ten!
DOCTORS.
'Tis quite the thing to say and sing
Gross libels on the doctor,—
To picture him an ogre grim
Or humbug-pill concocter;
Yet it's in quite another light
My friendly pen would show him,
Glad that it may with verse repay
Some part of what I owe him.
When one's all right, he's prone to spite
The doctor's peaceful mission;
But when he's sick, it's loud and quick
He bawls for a physician.
With other things, the doctor brings
Sweet babes, our hearts to soften:
Though I have four, I pine for more,—
Good doctor, pray come often!
What though he sees death and disease
Run riot all around him?
Patient and true, and valorous too,
Such have I always found him.
Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes;
And when skill's unavailing,
And death is near, his words of cheer
Support our courage failing.
In ancient days they used to praise
The godlike art of healing,—
An art that then engaged all men
Possessed of sense and feeling.
Why, Raleigh, he was glad to be
Famed for a quack elixir;
And Digby sold, as we are told,
A charm for folk lovesick, sir.
Napoleon knew a thing or two,
And clearly he was partial
To doctors, for in time of war
He chose one for a marshal.
In our great cause a doctor was
The first to pass death's portal,
And Warren's name at once became
A beacon and immortal.
A heap, indeed, of what we read
By doctors is provided;
For to those groves Apollo loves
Their leaning is decided.
Deny who may that Rabelais
Is first in wit and learning,
And yet all smile and marvel while
His brilliant leaves they're turning.
How Lever's pen has charmed all men!
How touching Rab's short story!
And I will stake my all that Drake
Is still the schoolboy's glory.
A doctor-man it was began
Great Britain's great museum,—
The treasures there are all so rare
It drives me wild to see 'em!
There's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they are
Big monuments to learning.
To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!)
We all are fondly turning.
Tomes might be writ of that keen wit
Which Abernethy's famed for;
With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills
Most doctors now get blamed for.
In modern times the noble rhymes
Of Holmes, a great physician,
Have solace brought and wisdom taught
To hearts of all condition.
The sailor, bound for Puget Sound,
Finds pleasure still unfailing,
If he but troll the barcarole
Old Osborne wrote on Whaling.
If there were need, I could proceed
Ad naus. with this prescription,
But, inter nos, a larger dose
Might give you fits conniption;
Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend
I'd hold before these others,
For he and I in years gone by
Have chummed around like brothers.
Together we have sung in glee
The songs old Horace made for
Our genial craft, together quaffed
What bowls that doctor paid for!
I love the rest, but love him best;
And, were not times so pressing,
I'd buy and send—you smile, old friend?
Well, then, here goes my blessing.