A HONEY-DEW PICNIC 1 63 



are lost in the distance. The hum of this bum- 

 blebee is a frequent musical feature of the enter- 

 tainment, and many is the dance that is set to its 

 minstrelsy, as the burly insect darts in among the 

 merrymakers and is off to his perch near by. It 

 is only as we steal away and observe him closely 

 that we learn the secret of his occasional sorties. 

 There on a clover blossom he sits — sipping hon- 

 ey ? Oh no. It is honey-dew that he is enjoy- 

 ing, and second-hand at that, as he devours the 

 satiated bluebottle-fly which is empaled on his 

 black horny beak. For this is only a bumblebee 

 in masquerade — a carnivorous fly, in truth, which, 

 safe in its disguise of respectability, hovers in the 

 flowery haunts of the innocents and, of course, 

 reaps his reward. 



And what is this ? A yellow-jacket has found 

 an ambrosial attraction here upon the bramble 

 leaf. Meanwhile a great black and white paper- 

 hornet has seen his opportunity, and is soon slyly 

 approaching behind the sipper. That he has de- 

 signs on that jacket and its contents is apparent. 

 In a moment the onslaught is consummated, and 

 in the struggle which ensues the black assailant 

 relieves his victim — of his watch presumably, for 

 he has captured the entire garment, which he soon 

 rifles and discards with some show of satisfaction. 



