The Life of the Bee 
sun’s delectable murmur, that in the year 
1730 gorged themselves with honey in 
the gardens of Charenton, were absolutely 
identical with those that to-morrow, when 
April returns, will be humming in the 
woods of Vincennes, but a few yards 
away. From Réaumur’s day to our own, 
however, is but as the twinkling of an 
eye; and many lives of men, placed end 
to end, form but a second in the history 
of Nature’s thought. 
[ 109 ] 
Although the idea that our eyes have 
followed attains its supreme expression in 
our domestic bees, it must not be inferred 
therefrom that the hive reveals no faults. 
There is one masterpiece, the hexagonal 
cell, that touches absolute perfection, —a 
perfection that all the geniuses in the 
world, were they to meet in conclave, 
could in no way enhance. No living 
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