CHAPTER XVIII. 



THE HONEY BEE. 



" Poor guilty drone before the bees." LOUD HOUGHTON. 



FEOM a boy I have loved the bee with a love that even 

 the mild impertinences of Dr. Watts could not quench. 

 Scarce any sound in Nature is, to my ear, more soothing 

 than the " murmuring of innumerable bees," heard in an 

 hour of idleness beneath the fragrant limes. Scarce any 

 sight is more pleasant than the reiterated pilferings of my 

 choicest blossoms by these ever-welcome little pillagers. 

 Nor has my love been a sordid one. I have never been 

 a bee-keeper. I have never had occasion to rejoice over 

 a good take, nor suffered anxiety from foul brood. Not 

 that I despise the sweet product of the honey-bee's in- 

 dustry. But much as I have ever admired the products 

 of innate power or industrious application in man or bee, 

 articulate or inarticulate, I have always felt a keener 

 admiration an admiration touched with reverence for 

 the living and breathing producer. Thus my love for the 

 bee is a purely personal one. Of me, the untiring worker 

 can say, as of Lord Ronald, Lady Clare 



" He loves me for my own true worth, 

 And that is well." 



