228 NAT URE-ST UD Y RE VIE W 



now that they offered their wine in dainty cups of white and pink 

 and lavender and blue, many were the creatures that came to sip. 

 Among butterflies the monarch seemed the most noble guest, 

 and there were various flies and wasps and bees. Most of these 

 happy creatures were soon to die — their joy was only of the 

 moment — but the honey bees whose wing-song filled the fragrant 

 air were storing honey for hard times to come (unconsciously, no 

 doubt) . The honey they were making now would keep them alive 

 and warm in their winter clusters. There was no thought of 

 robbing while the aster flow continued. From sunrise until 

 late in the night their swift wings sang of their joy in performing 

 the work by which they live. 



So I came to know a honey flow from, the bees' view point as a 

 time of plenty, when some morning they go forth and find the 

 fields strewn with manna. It is the time when their hopes are 

 highest and the queen and her 50,000 daughters work with all 

 their energy while their hearts sing. No thought of past struggles 

 nor of times to come, clouds their sky. When the night frosts 

 came the asters willingly laid down their blossoms, for fertile 

 seeds were plentiful in their ovules — thanks to the bees. My 

 bees, after dragging out the now useless drones, settled down 

 with subdued but contented humming to wait until maples and 

 willows should bloom in the spring. 



