214 ODD HOURS WITH NATURE 



been writing are not, and never have been, entitled 

 to the name. They are drones. 



There is a tragedy in drone life, and it is being 

 worked out just now, though in no very tragic 

 spirit. Throughout the long summer the drone 

 had a glorious time of it. When the sun shone he 

 moved from flower to flower, sipping nectar all 

 the day, and never bothering to take any home. 

 That was the work of the female in the bee com- 

 munity. When it rained he stayed in the hive, 

 and there was always a little drop o' summat on 

 the chimney-piece to which he could put his lips 

 when so dispoged. Probably he looked with 

 lordly scorn upon the drudgeful female working 

 bees, with their engaged and over-anxious ways. 

 But all the time those ladies had an eye upon 

 him. Perhaps they communed with one another 

 about him and his idle, wasteful habits, nodding 

 the while and saying, " Wait, you, till we have 

 no more use for him." The moment when they 

 had no more use for him came, and they bundled 

 him out-of-doors, and if he returned they stung 

 him to death. Most of the drones did not try 

 to return ; they knew better. Down in the mouth, 

 they flew to the nearest sunflower " pub." to drown 

 their sorrows in drink, and their last days are 

 those of the sot. In the cold of the night-time 

 they become numb and three -fourths dead, and 

 when the sun rises it thaws them out and they 

 resume their course of tippling. At noon they 

 are tolerably competent, " a little rocky about 

 the feet," yet able to move from shebeen to 

 shebeen. By four o'clock they are blind fou. 



