s. Yatman still less
is known. It has, however, been positively ascertained that the medical
attendant of the family was sent for in a great hurry on the day when
Mr. Yatman returned from the milliner's shop. The neighboring chemist
received, soon afterwards, a prescription of a soothing nature to
make up for Mrs. Yatman. The day after, Mr. Yatman purchased some
smelling-salts at the shop, and afterwards appeared at the circulating
library to ask for a novel that would amuse an invalid lady. It has been
inferred from these circumstances that he has not thought it desirable
to carry out his threat of separating himself from his wife,--at least
in the present (presumed) condition of that lady's sensitive nervous
system.

* * * * *

TELLING THE BEES.[A]

[Footnote A: A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country formerly
prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a
member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and
their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be
necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a
new home.]

Here is the place; right over the hill
Runs the path I took;
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 poplars tall;
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the bee-hives 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,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

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 brook-side 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,
The bloom of