THE LIFE OF A BEE 



to our hive. A few excited bees were still flying back 

 and forth, but Crip and I, like the condemned, stood 

 stolidly and wondered. 



His lips moved, but he said no word; he turned on 

 his heels and went away. 



Shortly, however, he returned, the little Shadow 

 with him. They were talking of the swarming, for 

 he pointed the way the bees had gone. In his hand 

 he held that horrid smoking thing, and Crip and I 

 both knew what that meant. He would open our 

 house. I resented this, for I remembered the smoke 

 in my eyes when he took the top off our hive and lifted 

 out frame after frame, taking away from us part of 

 our honey. I remembered, too, how I longed to sting 

 him, but how all my efforts were unavailing, for he had 

 hidden himself under a screen. And yet I really did 

 not want to sting him. Just why I flew at him I could 

 not understand. 



"He is angry with us now," said Crip. "He knows 

 we are insane. He probably will take away our honey 

 and leave us to starve, as we merit. We have proven 

 our short-sightedness and have lost our right to sur- 

 vive." 



"No, he will not do that," I replied. 



On the instant I seemed no longer to distrust him; 

 I remembered his kindness to me on a day when, 

 overladen, a gust of wind had felled me to the earth. 

 He had placed me on a twig, where, after disgorging 

 part of my load, and washing my body and my wings, 

 I again made way to my home. 



But it was certain that we should know his intentions 

 shortly, for, on coming close, he sent a puff of smoke 



87 



