76 
THE HONEY-MAKERS. 
Or we are reminded of “ Thomson’s Seasons,” 
where he sings of the meadow, 
“ Full of fresh verdure and unnumbered flowers,” 
and says, 
“ Where their delicious task the fervent bees, 
In swarming millions, tend; around, athwart. 
Through the soft air, the busy nations fly, 
Cling to the bud, and with inserted tube, 
Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul; 
And oft with bolder wing, they soaring dare 
The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows, 
And yellow, load them with the luscious spoil.” 
In the days of this rural poet, the bee was sup- 
posed to “ suck ” the honey with a tube-like 
tongue. The reader will remember that this 
error was corrected a few pages back. 
“ Thou cheerful bee ! come, freely come, 
And travel round my woodbine bower; 
Delight me with thy wandering hum, 
And rouse me from my musing hour. 
Oh, try no more yon tedious fields; 
Come, taste the sweets my garden yields: 
The treasure of each blooming mine, 
The bud, the blossom, all are thine ! 
“ And careless of the noon-tide heat, 
I’ll follow as thy ramble guides, 
