THE DEBACLE. 167 
lapping up the hard-won honey they had 
given to a baby. He was a ‘cuckoo’ bee, and 
had no right there really, though he had been 
born there, and went about the place just like 
its real owners. But he didn’t care, nor did 
the workers much, it seemed, for they soon 
went away. Nobody cared. 
A shower of cold rain pattered on the 
ground outside, and passed. A bumble-bee 
staggered in, rolled on her back, curled up her 
legs, and died. A lean, soldierly, armoured 
tiger-beetle worked his way up out of a worm- 
tunnel, and skipped darkly in and out among 
the cells, looting. The pincers of another 
murderous earwig disappeared into a side-cell. 
There came a roll of thunder, and half the 
roof fell in with the giant—to them—form of 
a field-mouse, dimly seen in the midst of the 
landslip, and the mouse was greedily eating 
up honey and grubs. 
Nobody took any notice. Nobody cared. 
Half-a-dozen bees passed our friend, making 
for the entrance. Two were already drunk 
on ivy nectar. Word went round that the 
queen was dead, slain by the mouse. In half- 
an-hour there would be no more bumble-bee 
city. 
Then our bumble-bee struggled clear of the 
falling earth, rose high, and headed straight 
