Deborah: " The Honey-Bee" 287 



numerously widowed, and multitudinously a mother. And 

 all this time the supreme bliss of it ! is the one and only 

 " woman " in the whole hive, the object of every anxiety, 

 the centre of all attention, the cherished "luck" of the 

 commonwealth and its palladium. Poor little neuters. 

 No wonder with your half-awakened female instincts you 

 rush so madly backwards and forwards about your work 

 is it to keep thought away? and so soon wear out the 

 great true hearts beating in your misformed bodies. 



As telling the hours of the day, even the days of the week, 

 and the months of the year, the poets have constructed a 

 bee-calendar 



" The light of morn, with hum of bees, 

 Steals through the verdurous matting of fresh trees." Keats. 



And the poets meet it busy among the heather, as they 

 stand upon the hill to greet the rising sun (Hurdis) : 



" The active bee out at early morn, 

 Just as the opening flowers are born." Charlotte Smitk. 



It is Noon and 



" Glossy bees do field ward pass." Keats. 



and 



' ' Beneath the fervour of the noontide beam 

 All nature's works in placid stillness pause, 

 Save man and his joint-labourer, the horse, 

 The bee, and all the idly busy insect tribe." Grahame. 



" It was noon, and in flowers that languished around, 

 In silence reposed the voluptuous bee." 



It is Evening : 



" The sun is low sinking behind the trees, 

 And crossing the path hum home the bees." Clare. 



It is Sunday no day of rest for the little drudge and 

 the bee's hum sounds louder than usual, marking the 

 Sabbath with more audible canticles. So in Mary Howitt's 



