52 MY FARM. 



I have a neighbor, a quiet old gentleman, who is 

 possessed of this passion ; his swarms nmltiply indefi- 

 nitely; I see him holding frequent conversations 

 with them through the backs of their hives ; all the 

 stores of my little colony would be absorbed in a 

 day, if they were brought into contact with his lusty 

 Bwai'ms. 



Many of the old writers tell pleasant stories of 

 the amiable submission of their favorites to gentle 

 handling ; but I have never had the curiosity to put 

 this submission to the test. I remember that Van 

 Amburgh tells tender stories of the tigers. 



I have observed, however, that little people listen 

 with an amused interest to those tales of the bees, 

 and I have sometimes availed myself of a curious bit 

 of old narrative, to staunch the pain of a sting. 



" Who will listen," I say, " to a story of M. 

 Lombard's, about a little girl, on whose hand a whole 

 swarm of bees once alighted ? " 



And all say " I " save the sobbing one, who 

 looks consent. 



M. Lombard was a French lawyer, who was 

 for a long time imprisoned in the dungeons of Robes- 

 pierre ; and when that tyrant reformer was beheaded, 

 this prisoner gained his liberty, and went into the coun- 

 try, where he became a farmer, and wrote three or four 

 books about the bees : among other things he says : 



