53 



away from the hive, some the most part 

 fly low across the grass, sipping now from 

 this white chalice, now from that, nearer, 

 ever nearer, till the last short flight sets 

 them, half-sated, in the heart of some blos- 

 som-clump, fine and green - fringed and 

 thorny-stemmed indeed. 



Whoso has eaten of the fruit of such la- 

 bors must wonder that the laborers, save 

 under stress of hunger, can decline to any- 

 thing so commercial and coarse-flavored as 

 buckwheat. It is bee-pasturage of man's 

 providing. The honey of it is fair to see 

 rich and clear, and set in fine, yellow-white 

 comb ; but, ah ! the savor of it a heavy, 

 cloying sweet, with the tang of artifice, in- 

 stead of the sweet spontaneousness of Nat- 

 ure's store. 



These rangers of the air lay wide spans 

 under tribute. Nor vine, nor bush, nor 

 weedy flower escapes them. Neither ripe 

 fruit of any sort, once it begins to drip 

 juice. They follow close upon the birds, 

 and grow drunken often with juice of grape, 

 or peach, or apple, or over - ripe berries. 

 About wine-press or cider-mill they grow 

 into tipsy loafers buzzing, swarming, crawl- 

 ing, eager even to drown them in the rich- 

 flavored floods. For ages the little, busy 



