The Life of the Bee 
scorn wherewith the workers regard them, 
of the constantly growing hatred to which 
they give rise, or of the destiny that awaits 
them. For their pleasant slumbers they 
select the snuggest corners of the hive; 
then, rising carelessly, they flock to the 
open cells where the honey smells sweetest, 
and soil with their excrements the combs 
they frequent. The patient workers, their 
eyes steadily fixed on the future, will silently 
set things right. From noon till three, 
when the purple country trembles in blissful 
lassitude beneath the invincible gaze of a 
July or August sun, the drones will appear 
on the threshold. They have a helmet 
made of enormous black pearls, two lofty, 
quivering plumes, a doublet of iridescent, 
yellowish velvet, an heroic tuft, and a four- 
fold mantle, translucent and rigid. They 
create a prodigious stir, brush the sentry 
aside, overturn the cleaners, and collide with 
the foragers as these return, laden with their 
humble spoil. They have the busy air, the 
extravagant, contemptuous gait of indispen- 
sable gods who should be simultaneously 
venturing towards some destiny unknown to 
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