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'Try once more," he said. "We fishermen must have patience." I did try, but not with patience.

As he spoke, there was a splash in the water, and I saw the arrowy gleam of a scared fish shooting into the middle of the stream.

My hook hung empty upon the line. I had lost my prize. I was so overcome by my great and bitter disappointment that I sat down upon the nearest tuft of grass and refused to be comforted.

My uncle assured me that there were more fish in the brook, but what did I care for that? He put the pole again in my hands, and told me to try my luck

once more.

"But remember, boy," he said with a smile, “never brag of catching a fish until it is on dry ground. I've known older folks to do that in more ways than one and thus make fools of themselves. It's no use to boast of anything until it's done - nor then, either, for it speaks for itself."

How often since have I been reminded of the fish I didn't catch! When I hear people boasting of a work which is not yet done, and trying to win credit for what they think they are going to do, I call to mind that wise caution of my uncle, "Never brag of your fish until it is on dry ground!

EXPRESSION: Learn to speak these words distinctly and correctly: excursion; experience; patience; anxiously; haunts; wriggling; arrowy; disappointment; comforted.

Read and memorize the poem on page 248, and remember that the "barefoot boy" is the same boy that is here telling you how he went fishing.

WHO TOLD THE NEWS?

Oh, the sunshine told the bluebird,
And the bluebird told the brook,
That the dandelions were peeping

From the woodland's sheltered nook.

Then the brook was blithe and happy, And it babbled all the way,

As it ran to tell the river

Of the coming of the May.

Soon the river told the meadow,
And the meadow told the bee,
That the tender buds were swelling
On the old horse-chestnut tree.

It was a pleasant morning in May. The orchards were white with apple blossoms. There were thousands of wild flowers in the fields and woods.

The bees in the hive had been very busy ever since the warm weather began. To-day they were crowding all about the doorway of their home. Some were flying out to seek sweet things. Some were coming back laden with the pollen of flowers. But most of them were humming and buzzing and rushing hither and thither in a very aimless way.

"It's time to swarm!" they seemed to be saying.

Several of the best fliers had been sent out as scouts to find a place for a new home. About ten o'clock they came bustling in.

"We've found a good place far in the woods," they said. "Now, swarm! swarm! swarm!"

Now, in every hive there is a queen bee. She is

not only the queen, but she is the mother of all the young bees. Worker bees live only a few weeks. So there must always be young bees to take their places. Without a queen, all would soon perish.

Within the last two weeks thousands of young bees had been hatched, and the hive was crowded. More than this, a young queen had been hatched, and no hive is large enough for two queens at the same time.

At first the old queen was furious. She tried hard to get at the young queen to kill her; but her attendants held her back. "Have patience," they said.

"Very well, then," said the queen, "I shall take some of my best workers and fly away. We shall find a new home, and the young queen and the rest of the workers may have this hive to live in."

This, then, was why the scouts had been sent out. When they came back with their cry, "Swarm! swarm! swarm!" the whole hive was in an uproar.

The bees who were to go with the old queen hurried to fill themselves with honey; for it might be several days before they could have any in their new home. Then some of them stood as guards by the doorway, while others, with a great buzzing, flew circling about the hive.

"Good-by, my children," buzzed the old queen, looking back at the bees who were to remain in the hive.