52 MY FARM. 



I have a neighbor, a, quiet old. gentleman, who is 

 possessed of this passion ; his swarms multiply indefi 

 nitely; I see him holding frequent conversations 

 with them through the backs of their hives ; all the 

 stores of my little colony would be absorbed hi a 

 day, if they were brought into contact with his lusty 

 swarms. 



Many of the old writers tell pleasant stories of 

 the amiable submission of their favorites to gentle 

 handling ; but I have never had the curiosity to put 

 this submission to the test. I remember that Van 

 Amburgh tells tender stories of the tigers. 



I have observed, however, that little people listen 

 with an amused interest to those tales of the bees, 

 and I have sometimes availed myself of a curious bit 

 of old narrative, to staunch the pain of a sting. 



&quot;Who will listen,&quot; I say, &quot;to a story of M. 

 Lombard s, about a little girl, on whose hand a whole 

 swarm of bees once alighted ? &quot; 



And all say &quot;I&quot; save the sobbing one, who 

 looks consent. 



M. Lombard was a French lawyer, who was 

 for a long time imprisoned in the dungeons of Robes 

 pierre ; and when that tyrant reformer was beheaded, 

 this prisoner gained his liberty, and went into the coun 

 try, where he became a farmer, and wrote three or four 

 books about the bees : among other things he says : 



