II 



It is the patient humble bee that goes 

 down into the forest of the mowing grass. 

 If entangled, the humble bee climbs up a 

 sorrel stem and takes wing, without any 

 sign of annoyance. His broad back with 

 tawny bar buoyantly glides over the gold- 

 en buttercups. He hums to himself as 

 he goes, so happy is he. He knows no 

 skep, no cunning work in glass receives 

 his labour, no artificial saccharine aids him 

 when the beams of the sun are cold, there 

 is no step to his house that he may alight 

 in comfort; the way is not made clear 

 for him that he may start straight for the 

 flowers, nor are any sown for him. He 

 has no shelter if the storm descends sud- 

 denly; he has no dome of twisted straw 

 well thatched and tiled to retreat to. The 

 butcher-bird, with a beak like a crocked 

 iron nail, drives him to the ground, and 

 leaves him pierced with a thorn ; but no 

 hail of shot revenges his tortures. The 



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