by my friends, the apple-trees, on our return, and I saw a row
of old-fashioned square bee-hives near them, which I had not noticed
before. Miss Cynthia told me that the bee money was always hers; but
she lost a good many swarms on account of the woods being so near, and
they had a trick of swarming Sundays, after she'd gone to meeting;
and, besides, the miller-bugs spoilt 'em; and some years they didn't
make enough honey to live on, so she didn't get any at all. I saw some
bits of black cloth fluttering over the little doors where the bees
went in and out, and the sight touched me strangely. I did not know
that the old custom still lingered of putting the hives in mourning,
and telling the bees when there had been a death in the family, so
they would not fly away. I said, half to myself, a line or two from
Whittier's poem, which I always thought one of the loveliest in the
world, and this seemed almost the realization of it. Miss Cynthia
asked me wistfully, "Is that in a book?" I told her yes, and that she
should have it next time I came up, or had a chance of sending it.
"I've seen a good many pieces of poetry that Mr. Whittier wrote," said
she. "I've got some that I cut out of the paper a good while ago. I
think every thing of 'em."

"I put the black on the hives myself," said she. "It was for mother,
you know. She did it when father died. But when my brother was lost,
we didn't, because we never knew just when it was; the schooner was
missing, and it was a good while before they give her up."

"I wish we had some neighbors in sight," said she once. "I'd like to
see a light when I look out after dark. Now, at my aunt's, over to
Eliot, the house stands high, and when it's coming dark you can see
all the folks lighting up. It seems real sociable."

We lingered a little while under the apple-trees, and watched the wise
little bees go and come; and Miss Cynthia told me how much Georgie was
like his grandfather, who was so steady and quiet, and always right
after his business. "He never was ugly to us, as I know of," said she;
"but I was always sort of 'fraid of father. Hannah, she used to talk
to him free's she would to me; and he thought, 's long's Hannah did
any thing, it was all right. I always held by my mother the most; and
when father was took sick,--that was in the winter,--I sent right off
for Hannah to come home. I used to be scared to death, when he'd want
any thing done, for fear I shouldn't do it right. Mo