The Mason-bees 



corner of the veil of truth is a fine and noble 

 thing, a mighty stimulant in the face of dan- 

 ger; but still one may be excused for display- 

 ing some impatience when it is a matter of 

 receiving forty stings in one's fingers at one 

 short sitting. If any man should reproach 

 me for being too careless with my thumbs, I 

 would suggest that he should have a try: he 

 can then judge for himself the pleasures of the 

 situation. 



To cut a long story short, either through 

 the fatigue of the journey, or through my fin- 

 gers pressing too hard and perhaps injuring 

 some articulations, only twenty out of my 

 forty Bees start with a bold, vigorous flight. 

 The others, unable to keep their balance, 

 wander about on the nearest bit of grass or 

 remain on the osier-shoots on which I have 

 placed them, refusing to fly even when I tickle 

 them with a straw. These weaklings, these 

 cripples, these incapables injured by my fin- 

 gers must be struck off my list. Those who 

 started with an unhesitating flight number 

 about twenty. That is ample. 



At the actual moment of departure, there 

 is nothing definite about the direction taken, 

 none of that straight flight to the nest which 

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