AMERICAN BEE JOURNAL. 



77 



ing you fly away ; but where can you 

 find whiter lilies, or bluer violets, or 

 more interesting pansies ?" 



" We are not looking for whiteness, 

 or blueness, or interestingness,"the bees 

 explained. " We are looking for honey ; 

 and the honey is better in the clover 

 field that is only a mile away." 



" Oh ! if that is all," I exclaimed 

 gladly, " pray do not have the honey on 

 your minds — " 



" We do not," they said. " We carry 

 it in little bags." 



"I mean, do not mind about the 

 honey — " 



"Certainly not; how could we, when 

 we haven't any minds ?" 



" But please do not feel obliged to 

 hunt for honey. I do not care at all for- 

 honey ; that is," I added hastily, as a 

 slight buzzing made me fear that perhaps 

 I had hurt their feelings, "I like you, 

 you know, for yourselves alone, not for 

 what you can give me. The honey is 

 delicious, but we can buy it very nice at 

 the grocer's. If you like honey for 

 yourselves, I will buy some and fill the 

 hives for you, so that you need not work 

 at all, if you will only stay in the garden, 

 and hover over the lilies, and — and-— be 

 picturesque." 



They promised to try. And they did 

 try. Whenever I looked from my 

 library windows I could' see them prac- 

 ticing their hovering, and they really 

 hovered extremely well. Satisfied that 

 my garden was at last complete, I gave 

 up watching it, and devoted myself to 

 literary work. Every morning I seated 

 myself at the desk and wrote rapidly 

 4 until noon. But one day I was inter- 

 rupted by a bee. 



He had flown in at the window. 

 Perching himself on the lid of the ink- 

 stand, he waited awhile; then at last 

 asked quietly : 



"Why are you not out-of-doors this 

 beautiful morning ? The garden is 

 lovely ; I cannot see — " and he glanced 

 critically at the vases about the room — 

 " I cannot see that these lilies are any 

 whiter, or the violets any bluer, or the 

 pansies any more interesting than those 

 out there. And we miss you. A garden 

 really ought to have people walking in 

 it. That is what gardens are for. I do 

 not see why we must be out there to be 

 seen when there is nobody to see us." 



"But, dear bee, I am not looking for 

 flowers this morning ; I am writing." 



" And what are you writing ?" 



" A sonnet." 



"Are there no sonnets to be had at the 

 stores ?" 



" Oh, yes ! Shakespeare's and Milton's 

 and Wordsworth's, of course." 



" And are your sonnets better than 

 Shakespeare's ?" 



" Why, of course not." 



" Then let your sonnet go. Come out 

 in the garden with us, and on the way 

 home I'll buy you a sonnet at the store ; 

 a Shakespeare sonnet — the very best in 

 the market." 



" But, you see, I want to try making 

 a sonnet of my own." 



" Very well, let me see you try." 



I took up the pen again, and was soon 

 absorbed in my rhymes and rhythm. 

 Indeed, I had quite forgotten that the 

 bee was there, till he stirred uneasily, 

 and finally sighed. 



"Are you not happy in the garden?" 

 I asked. 



" Not very." 



"But why not? Haven't you all the 

 liberty you want ?" 



"No; we have every liberty except 

 the liberty we want." 



" And that is — " 



" The liberty to work. We find that 

 it is not lilies ; it is not clover ; it is not 

 honey ; it is gathering the honey that 

 we like. It is not even gathering the 

 honey for you that we care, so much 

 about; because, you see, you do not like 

 honey ; it is just gathering it." 



" Ido not understand. I cannot see 

 how anybody can really like to work." 



" But we do. Suppose you finish your 

 sonnet, while I try to think over a few 

 arguments to present to you later." 



So again I took up the pen, and again 

 I was soon happily absorbed, and had 

 entirely forgotten the poor bee, till I 

 heard him say wearily : 



" It does not seem to be very easy to 

 write a sonnet ?" 



"No," I exclaimed enthusiastically, 

 "it is not at all easy. That is the charm 

 of it. Anybody can write some kind of 

 verse, but very few people can write 

 sonnets. There are a great many rules 

 for making' a sonnet ; you can only have 

 just so many lines, and just so few 

 rhymes, and the sentiment must change 

 in just such a place, and very few people 

 have the patience for it. Even Shakes- 

 peare did not keep to the severest style 

 of sonnet." 



" And are you trying to obey all the 

 rules ?" 



" Yes." 



"Why?" 



" Why, for the fun of it. It is so 

 interesting to see whether anyone can 

 do it." 



" But it must be awfully tedious ; and 

 from your own account you are really 



