THE BUSY BEE 213 



shall see how the bee behaves separated from 

 this delicious fluid, so I knock it completely off 

 its sunflower. To such treatment a volcanic out- 

 burst of rage would be the right response, but 

 nothing of the sort takes place. The bee has 

 landed on its back, and so it lies, buzzing weakly 

 and waving its feet in the air. An active 

 imagination might detect in its song the words, 

 " We won't go home till morning," and there 

 is a distinct leer in its large eye. A few ribald 

 remarks follow, not fit for publication, and finally 

 the bee goes to sleep. In half an hour it bestirs 

 itself, stretches its legs, and manages with an 

 effort to get right side up. Then with a prodigious 

 expenditure of energy and output of noise it 

 manages to launch itself into the air, and after 

 one turn round it plunges right into the heart of 

 the sunflower once again. 



By this time it is what policemen call a clear 

 case. The bee is a drunkard, and the sunflower 

 is its favourite " pub." When it first opens shop 

 and puts out its yellow sign, the sunflower is a tem- 

 perance establishment none more respectable. It 

 opens two or three hundred barrels filled with a per- 

 fectly innocent beverage, and invites bees to come 

 and drink. The bees come worthy, industrious, 

 law-abiding creatures, who extract the nectar and 

 go home with it, and deposit it in the honeycomb. 

 But gradually a change comes over the character 

 of the sunflower. Its nectar ferments, and from 

 being a temperance-house it becomes a shebeen. 

 It is then no place for respectable bees. And, 

 as a matter of fact, those bees of which I have 



