THE DEBACLE. 
FAt: fussy, covered with a blackish fur coat 
all over, except for her reddish tail, she 
flew down the ‘lee’ side of the bank with an 
anxious buzz, the feathery tamarisks whipping 
the gray sky above her, and the wind singing 
on the other side straight in from the Channel. 
Any one could see she was not happy. 
Even in spite of her fur coat, she was not 
comfy, for she was very susceptible to the 
cold. In fact, she was a bumble-bee, which is 
a humble-bee, which is a Bombus, according 
to the learned ones. 
The weather was cold to her, and there 
were winds ; the autumn had come, and things 
were not as they had been. It had taken her 
half the morning to gather as much honey as 
a few weeks ago she would have gathered in 
half-an-hour. And the air was full of birds, 
too, mostly tits—cheeky little tom-tits—whom 
she hated like sisters. You can never, if you 
are a bee, trust a tit, you know. 
Along the bank she flew slowly, pausing 
from time to time at the dainty blossom of a 
sea-pink, or fussing round the sweet, gauzy 
film of sea-lavender, till finally she rose high, 
and headed straight away for another part of 
