AT THE CITY GATES 55 
of the hive, and come with a little impetuous 
rush to the edge of the alighting-board. Here 
they pause a moment to flutter their wings and 
rub their great eyes free of the hive-twilight. 
And then they lift into the air, hover an instant 
with their heads towards their dwelling, taking 
careful stock of it, sweep up into the blue, and 
volley away with the rest towards the distant 
hill-side, white with its bridal wreath of clover- 
bloom. 
The homing bees move much more sedately. 
They come sailing in like bronze argosies laden 
to the water’s edge. Those bearing full sacs of 
clover-juice for the honey-making seldom carry 
an outside load of pollen as well. They have all 
to do in bringing their distended bodies to a safe 
anchorage on the entrance-board, and charge 
headlong into the hive, possessed of only one 
idea—to hand their garnered sweets over to the 
first house-bee they chance upon, and then to 
hurry out in search of another load. The pollen- 
bearers are impelled by the same white-hot 
energy; but their cargoes are infinitely more 
cumbersome, and demand a more leisurely pace. 
Some with panniers, heaped up with a deep 
orange-coloured material, must rest awhile on the 
threshold before gathering energy enough to drag 
their glowing burdens through the city gate. 
Others just fail to make the harbour, and sink 
down on to the grass below, to wait for the same 
