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 



