A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



self amid the foliage of a locust and saw 

 him savagely bite through the shank of the 

 flower and extract the nectar, followed by a 

 honey-bee that in every instance searched 

 for this opening, and probed long and care- 

 fully for the leavings of her burly purveyor. 

 The bumblebee rifles the dicentra and the 

 columbine of their treasures in the same 

 manner, namely, by slitting their pockets 

 from the outside, and the honey-bee gleans 

 after him, taking the small change he leaves. 

 In the case of the locust, however, she usu- 

 ally obtains the honey without the aid of 

 the larger bee. 



Speaking of the honey-bee reminds me 

 that the subtle and sleight-of-hand manner 

 in which she fills her baskets with pollen 

 and propolis is characteristic of much of 

 Nature's doings. See the bee going from 

 flower to flower with the golden pellets on 

 her thighs, slowly and mysteriously increas- 

 ing in size. If the miller were to take the 

 toll of the grist he grinds by gathering the 

 particles of flour from his coat and hat, as 

 he moved rapidly about, or catching them 

 in his pockets, he would be doing pretty 

 nearly what the bee does. The little miller 

 dusts herself with the pollen of the flower, 



