Music of the Wild 



lingers, and it is perfumed with the pungent fra- 

 grance of these blossoms. Then the dormant bees 

 awake and come pouring from hollow tree and 

 hive to their great festival. No insects are play- 

 ing or singing to rival the swarming gold and 

 black performers; the birds have not yet returned 

 to drown undulant humming with floods of song. 

 The "little busy bee" comes down to the footlights 

 and captures an appreciative audience. But the 

 bee cares nothing for the generous applause that 

 always greets his first appearance. Dishevelled 

 with backing from flower clusters, his head and 

 wings powdered with gold, his burden-bearing legs 

 high piled with gold, he goes humming on his way. 

 If there is anything in the idea of coloration by 

 association, he appears to be striped with the dark- 

 ness of his hollow-tree home and the gold of the 

 pollen in which he constantly immerses himself. 

 His mumbling, humming bumble opens the great 

 song festival of the fields. 



After a day or two, when the blossoms are ripe, 

 the pollen dust loosens. It sifts over the fields, 

 burnishes the breast of lake and pond with a sheet 

 of gold, and sails on the surface of the river. 

 Throughout the summer season nature revels in 

 gold, but now it submerges her. She is covered 

 from head to foot. She breathes it, she bathes in 

 it. No wonder the coats of the bees that live upon 

 pollen are striped with it! So beneficent is the in- 

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