RASY POETRY.

 

THE BEE.

I Love to see
‘The busy bee
I love to watch the hive :
When the sun’s hot
They linger not,—
It makes them all alive.

Wesee their skill,
How with good-will

They do their work attend ;
Each little cell

Is shaped so well

|

That none their work can mend.

Now in, now out,
They move about,
Yet all in order true;
Each seems to know
Both where to go
And what it has to do.

89

"Midst summer heat,
The honey sweet
Tt gathers while it may,
In tiny drops,
And never stops
‘To waste its time in play. —

I hear it come—
I know its hum,
It flies from flower to flower ;
And to its store
A little more
It adds each day and hour.

Just so should I
My heart apply,

My proper work to mind;
Look for some swect
In all I meet,

And store up all I find.

—ANonymous.