THE UNBUSY BEE 177 
still November morning, doing just the things you 
wowd never expect a bee to do. The greater 
number of them merely take long desultory reaches 
a-wing through the sunshine, going off in one 
objectless direction, turning about at the end of a 
few yards with just as little apparent reason, coming 
back to the hive at length on no more obvious 
errand than that, where there is nothing to do, 
doing it in another place bears at least the semblance 
of achievement. 
But many of them succeed in conjuring up an 
almost ludicrous assumption of business. One 
comes driving out of the hive-entrance at a great 
pace, designedly, as you would think, going out of 
her way to bustle the few bees lounging there, as 
if the entrance-board were still thronged with the 
streaming crowd of summer days foregone. She 
stops an instant to rub her eyes clear of the hive- 
darkness; tries her wings a little to make sure of 
their powers for a heavy load; then, with a deep 
note like the twang of a guitar-string, launches out 
into the sun-steeped air. But it is all a vain pretence, 
and well she knows it. Watch her as she flies, and 
you will see her busy ding-dong pace slacken a dozen 
yards away. She fetches a turn or two above the 
leafless apple-branches of the garden, with the rest 
of the chanting, workless crew. She may presently 
start off again at a livelier speed than ever, as 
though vexed at being allured, even for a moment, 
from the duty that calls her away to the mist-clad 
hill. But it always ends in the same fashion. A 
little later she is fluttering down on the threshold 
of the silent hive, and running busily in, keeping up 
the transparent fiction, you see, to the last. 
M 
