Title: Happy: The life of a bee
Author: McCaleb, Walter Flavius
Language: English
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[Illustration: AS IT LOOKED TO HAPPY FROM THE KNOLL]



                                  HAPPY
                            The LIFE OF A BEE

                                   by
                         WALTER FLAVIUS MCCALEB

                              Illustrations
                             and Decorations
                                   by
                            CLEMENT B. DAVIS

                      HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
                           NEW YORK AND LONDON



                        HAPPY: THE LIFE OF A BEE

                  Copyright, 1917, by Harper & Brothers
                 Printed in the United States of America
                          Published April, 1917

                                   D-R



[Illustration: TO MY MOTHER]



[Illustration: Contents]


    CHAP.                                    PAGE

           FOREWORD                             9

    I.     THE AWAKENING                       15

    II.    THE CELL-HOUSE                      20

    III.   MYSTERIES                           24

    IV.    THE FIRST FLIGHT                    28

    V.     ROBBERY                             34

    VI.    CRIP                                40

    VII.   CRIP, THE WISE                      45

    VIII.  A GLEANER OF HONEY                  50

    IX.    A STORM                             56

    X.     THE AFTERMATH                       60

    XI.    THE FIGHT WITH THE WEB-WORMS        65

    XII.   THE WOUNDING OF CRIP                72

    XIII.  THE SWARMING FEVER                  77

    XIV.   PERILS                              86

    XV.    A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE                95

    XVI.   TIDINGS OF WOE                     101

    XVII.  THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN             106

    XVIII. CRIP AND THE IMPOSTOR              112

    XIX.   FAREWELL                           116



[Illustration: FOREWORD]


Years ago, banished into the far Rio Grande region, I became a keeper of
bees. As a child I had loved them, even caressed them, and many a time
have I held them one and a hundred at once in my hands. I knew their
every mind and their wilful ways; I loved their sweet contrarieties,
their happy acceptation of the inevitable, and their joyous facing of
life.

So it came about that, grown older, I returned to my old engagements,
and, far from human habitation, amid the wild, brush-set wilderness
enveloping Lake Espantoso, I built my house and brought my bees. And,
too, there came with me a little Shadow, and at his heels a shepherd-dog.
There, in that land of boundless spaces, we waited and watched and
dreamed.

The years went by silently, uneventfully—day following day noiselessly,
as sounds die in the sea. Spring came with its bounty of flowers; and
fast on the trail of retreating winter they leaped forth in multitudes:
daisy and phlox and poppy and bluebonnet and Indian feather and anemone
all tossed their heads and flung their beautiful wings into the sunlight.
The earth was sweet with the wild, fresh sweetness of flowers. Even the
cacti and the brush blossomed like roses of Cashmere, hiding their thorns
amid a profusion of loveliness.

Then the winter came, brief, primordial in its changes. The brown earth
and the brown-gray sweep of the horizon, stretching inimitably away,
wakened in rueful contrast to the riot of the vernal months.

Season after season went by until, indeed, I seemed but a ghost
fluttering in and out among the whirling days. Overhead a sky of
perennial blue; in my face the winds from every zone, and in my ears
the somnolent sounds of the years gone to dust. I was overwhelmed by
the impalpable significance of the primeval world—and by the mysterious
unfoldings of life.

Hours at a time I sat amid my little brothers, the bees, now and again
catching up the harmonies of their existence and marveling much at the
divine rhythm of their speech. The longer I sat and brooded the more I
grew into their lives, until I seemed to know their every mood and to
sound the mysteries of their being.

They seemed to know me and to love me. Often in their flight, tired and
overladen, they would rest for a moment on my sleeve, and then away. Many
a one did I raise from the earth where he had fallen—all too like our
fellow-mortals—weighted down by burdens too heavy to bear. And how happy
I was to see them, with ever so little help, again take wing and fly
heartened to their homes. I have sometimes thought that, after all, men
are but bees in their ultimate essence.

Thus, with the passing years, I, a keeper of bees, came to be one of
them; and even now, though far distant, I wander in dreams through the
open aisles about which their white houses cluster, and through that
sweet rose-garden.

My cottage was framed in roses. Clambering Maréschal Neills, yellow as
the sun; and Augusta Victorias, white as the snows of dead winters,
leaned upon the walls; and all about varieties innumerable and known only
to my mother, lifted their heads and prayed for the fulfilment of the law.

One rose there was of all roses the most beautiful. She called it the
Queen of the Prairie. Red it was as the blood of the martyrs; and, huge
as a lotus leaf, it blew the most wonderful of flowers. Here was my
special pride. I loved it because of her hands; I loved it because it
aspired toward perfection.

Early in a morning now gone—a gorgeous spring dawning—I rose and went
into the garden, as was my wont. The sun had not yet risen, and there
was in the air a brooding, a sound of far-away symphonies. From rose
to rose I turned, until presently I came to the most marvelous of them
all. Wonderful beyond words, I drew it to me—a Queen of the Prairie. I
breathed its fragrance, thrilled at its beauty, when, with a start, I saw
deep within the folds of its heart a little bee, drowsing in sleep. I
could but gaze and wonder, and while I gazed one leg quivered a moment
and then was still.

It is the story of his life that I would tell.

I plucked the rose and bore it away with me; and even now, as I write,
its crumbled leaves lie over him in a memorial urn; and I shall be happy
if I have truly caught the meaning of his life, which carried with it so
much of the sweetness of endeavor, so much of the joy of living, and so
much of love for the Kingdom of Light.

    BEECHHURST, LONG ISLAND,
    March, 1917.



HAPPY

THE LIFE OF A BEE



[Illustration: CHAPTER ONE

The Awakening]


My name is “Happy”—at least that is what the bees have always called me;
and well I remember the first time I heard the word. I suppose I was
joyfully flapping my wings at having emerged, white and feeble, but a
living being, from the darkness of my cell, when I heard a queer, thin
voice saying: “He[1] isn’t a minute old, and yet what a fuss he’s making
with his wings! Let’s call him ‘Happy’!”

All around I could hear little noises of approval; any number of
strange faces came hurrying to look me over; two or three actually
jostled me, and one even drew his tongue across my face—and for the
first time I tasted honey. I found out afterward that this was the
customary salutation to all newly-born bees. Of course I was too young to
appreciate all they said and did, and I soon forgot the jubilation, for I
happened, in my wanderings, upon a cell brimming with honey, and, without
asking permission, I ate and ate until I could not hold another mouthful.

Then a strange drowsiness seized me, and I scarcely knew which way to
turn. But I fell in with what I afterward learned were nurse bees, and
they took me in charge. Presently, hanging fast to the comb with my
half-a-dozen legs, I fell asleep.

Wonderful things had happened in a very few minutes. It seemed to me, as
I began to drowse and the light to fade, that once more I was falling
asleep in my cell, whence I had so shortly emerged. The something that
had awakened within me, that had caused me to turn round and round in my
cell, and that had cried gently in my ear, “See the light—cut your way
through the door and live,” sang me to sleep.

When I awoke, for a moment I imagined I was still in my cell. I thought
I could hear my neighbors, on all sides of me, biting at the wax doors
that closed them in, and that I could see the thin, transparent shutters
giving way before the eager heads which appeared in the doorways—tiny,
whitish-black heads, with huge eyes that slowly issued from the
dungeon-like cells. I, too, unconsciously trying my mandibles, must
have been biting on the combs about me, for presently I was stopped
by an important-looking bee that cried, sharply, “What are you about,
youngster?”

He was rough to me, but I had learned that one must not bite the combs
just for the pleasure of biting; it began to dawn on me that it cost
infinite labor to build the thousands of little six-sided houses which,
laid side by side, made up the combs of our hive. And almost before I
knew it, I came to have vast respect for all the things I could see about
me, for the things I felt lay out there in the unexplored depths of our
home, and for the things which existed only in the consciousness of the
colony.

I was still so young I walked but feebly; but everywhere I was greeted
as a brother. Some of the little fellows climbed over me in their hurry;
some of them, hustling about me, almost knocked me from the combs; and
one actually stopped me, mumbling something I could not understand; but
his meaning was soon made clear. I suppose he said:

“I see you are a novice; you have on your swaddling-clothes. This will
never do. I must clean you up.”

Whereat he proceeded, in spite of my protest, to lick me all over and to
rub my legs and body, saying, “This white powder must come off; you can’t
stand here looking like that; you must get busy and be a real bee!”

When he had finished with me I found that I was no longer so wobbly, that
my wings moved more freely, and, to my astonishment, a smart little bee
came up to me and said:

“I note that you are changed; you are no longer grayish-white, but look
like everybody else; your eyes are gray-black, a little delicate fuzz
is in the middle of your back, and beautiful alternating black and gold
bands make up the rest of your body. You look like a real somebody.”

Then he hurried on, and I heard him make the same speech to another bee.

Still heeding the small voice, I had gone but a little way on my round of
exploration when I plumped into the biggest bee! He was in such a hurry
he nearly ran me down. As he passed I saw on his two rearmost legs great
balls of yellow-looking stuff.

“Out of the way!” he called. “The bread-man! The bread-man!”

Every one seemed to have understood except me, and even I, a moment
later, heard the cry and gave way to a newly-arrived bread-man. Just what
character of bee he was I had yet to learn, and little did I then dream
that I, too, should one day be a bread-man, carrying great baskets of
bread on my legs.

By this time I was again hungry, and presently, as I traversed a white
strip of comb, I came upon a great store—cell after cell, like a thousand
open pots, full to overflowing with honey. I was on the point of helping
myself when I was turned away.

“This is not to be eaten,” a worker said. “We are ripening it and soon it
will be sealed for the winter. On over there you will find some.”

He was busy and gave no further heed to me, but as I turned away I
noticed fully a hundred bees standing ever so still—fanning, fanning
with their wings the open cells to hasten the ripening processes. He
left unanswered my wish to know what the ripening of honey meant—and the
winter.

As indicated by the worker, I soon found plenty of honey and quite gorged
myself. This time I took away with me a supply in my honey-sac. Again I
felt sleepy, and started back to my cell. Finally I reached it. I was
dumfounded to find that it had been over-hauled and that the bread-men
had filled it with shining yellow loaves. Wondering, I fell asleep
hanging between the combs. The last sound that I heard had been a long,
low murmur, which afterward I came to know to be the voice of my hive
singing an immemorial hymn, a hymn, I have been told, the bees have sung
for a hundred times a thousand years.

[1] It is well known that all worker bees are females. But I have changed
Happy to the other sex. Here I have taken a liberty, warranted, I think,
under the circumstances.—THE AUTHOR.



[Illustration: CHAPTER TWO

The Cell House]


How long I slept I cannot say, but I was awakened by a sharp blow which
nearly knocked me from the combs. So nearly was I toppled over that I
seized the first thing my feet fell upon. I felt immediately, by the
way I was being dragged about, that I had grappled something dangerous;
and imagine my consternation when I succeeded in opening my eyes! I was
holding fast to the biggest bee that ever lived. Many of the same kind I
have seen since that awakening, but none ever looked so terrible. When
I had managed to loose my hold on this monster and stood fairly on the
combs, I asked the nearest bee:

“Who is that?”

“Nobody; he is just a drone.”

“Please, then, what are drones?” for I had developed a wholesome respect
for one of them.

“A drone is a great, worthless bee that won’t work. They stand around
the hive until the time comes for them to die. He is nearly the last. For
almost a month we have been driving them away, and when they won’t go
sometimes we sting them. You see, they never work and are useless. Of an
afternoon they fly up into the sky with a deal of buzzing. Sometimes they
follow the Queen into the deep of heaven. If they would stop there! But
worse than that, they bluster about over the hive and eat a lot of honey.
Besides, they get in the way and are just a nuisance.”

I was listening very intently to this speech, when the very same drone
that had collided with me came tearing past me with two mad workers
clinging to his wings.

“Poor fellow,” I cried, “are they driving you away?”

He headed straight for me, as though a friend had come to his rescue, and
the next thing I knew I began to fall and fall, until I landed plump on
the bottom-board of the hive.

In all my life I never fell quite so far again, although once I was high
in the air with a great load of honey when a whirlwind caught me and
hurled me to the earth. You see, I then knew nothing of distance.

I got up on my legs as quickly as I could and staggered about a bit,
trying to get my bearings. Now, indeed, I had gone a long way from the
tiny cell-house where I was born; but strangely enough, I knew the way
back to it without even thinking. I had, up to that time, moved but a few
inches away from it, but suddenly the world seemed to have yawned and
swallowed me up. However, I quickly regained my composure, for around me
bees were running, humming strange words as they went; and over me I
could hear the croon of the nurse bees and other sounds which were still
foreign and mysterious.

Without even thinking of the direction I took, I started on the way back
to my cell. Crawling along the bottom-board until I reached the side of
the hive, I climbed up it until I came to a bridge of comb stretching
to a frame, and a moment later I was crossing from comb to comb, and,
ere long, to my great joy, stood on the spot whence I had started. In
my passage I had met hundreds and hundreds of my brothers, none of whom
seemed glad to see me, although I thought a few stopped to watch me
stumbling along on my way. However, I now know that not one actually
paused from his work. The world they live in is too full of duties and
the dark days of winter are always too close at hand, while eternally is
sounding in their ears the refrain, “Work, work, for the frost is coming.”

I went round and round the cell which had been my house. I couldn’t make
out why I did this, because I was absolutely sure of my location. Still,
to make doubly sure, I even thrust my head into the doorway and scented
the bread with which it had been filled. There still remained about it
a curious odor, which I never forgot, and at this late day, with my
eyes closed, I could find my cell—perhaps not by the smell, but through
the same divining sense that has led me across ten thousand fields and
streams and hills to my home again. I found, however, that I had been a
little bruised by my fall. The foremost leg on my right side was hurting
me. It had probably been sprained when I struck the bottom-board. I began
to claw at it, when a bee interrupted who seemed to understand what
troubled me. Forthwith he laid hold of the lame leg and pulled and pushed
it unceremoniously, and presently, without a word, went on his way. I
found immediately that it gave me no further pain, and I was engaged in
licking my other legs when I seemed suddenly to grow sleepy and in a
trice I planted myself on a comb and prepared to sleep.

If I really slumbered, it could not have been long, for when I began to
drowse a bread-man was busy taking the yellow pollen from the baskets on
his hindmost legs, and when I wakened he was just drawing himself out of
the cell where he had stored it away. In fact, I saw him at the moment
packing it down.

“What are you doing?” I asked, sleepily.

“Can’t you see?” he answered.

Then it all dawned on me. It was interesting to watch him draw himself
out and thrust himself in, head-on, battering down the loaves of bread.

“Why does he do that?” I ventured, of a bee that seemed to be loitering.

“In order that he may store a great deal in the cell, so that it will
keep through the cold, wet months when there are no flowers. Bread comes
from flowers, you know.”

“Flowers! What are flowers?” I cried. “And bread?”

“You shall learn for yourself,” he answered, patiently, turning away.



[Illustration: CHAPTER THREE

Mysteries]


I thought he might have answered my questions, but, without knowing why,
I started off on an excursion, and surprised myself at feeling so much
stronger. At least I could scamper along without swaying and staggering
and clutching at every bee and thing I met. I began to feel brave and big.

As I went forward I encountered a stream of workers. They were humming
a home-coming song as they hurried up the combs to deposit their loads
of honey. I overheard some of them saying that the dark had dropped on
them suddenly out of a cloud and that rain had begun to fall. I could
not then understand what terrors were couched in these words—rain and
darkness—else I might better have appreciated the thanksgiving hymn
which these late-returning, rain-draggled workers were uttering. In days
to come I was to learn what danger meant, for more than once I, too,
was forced to flee before a storm in the growing blackness, bearing a
load almost too much for my wings; and to spend a night in the woods,
hiding as best I might under a leaf, and quaking at the nameless fears
that beat about me in the gloom. There was no comfort even in the tiny
lights that glowed over my head, nor in the small voices that called to
me in the night. It was not fear that I should be lost that oppressed
me, but that the load I had gathered with so much travail should never
reach the storehouse upon which the life of the colony depended, for
food was necessary to life. And life? I knew naught of it. But was it
consciousness of imperative duty that made me shake in every passing
wind? Even to this day my own life has given me no concern. I scarcely
know that I have any interest in living, apart from serving, apart from
the lives of these, my little brothers.

I noticed as I moved onward that the workers brought home no pollen.
Their baskets were empty. I thought this strange and inquired about it,
learning that the flowers yield pollen more freely in the morning; that
the sun, wind, and insects tend to dissipate it, and that, therefore,
bread was largely gathered in the early hours. I also learned that as a
food it was far less important than honey; and that honey, too, was more
abundant when the day was young. I knew that the incoming hordes were
now laden with honey, and instinctively where it was carried, for my own
sac was still stuffed nearly to bursting.

On I went without thinking, at each turn facing laden and singing
workers. It never occurred to me that my progress would eventually lead
me to the door of the hive, which was the boundary between my home and
the wide universe that spread away to the stars. Many things there were
that stopped me on the way. The last laden workers had passed, and I
found myself still wandering on. The night song of the hive was already
submerging the hymn of the late-arriving workers; but the two were
strangely commingling, the one flowing into the other, even as the shades
of twilight merge with the dark.

A mysterious feeling was creeping over me. I felt as though something
imponderable was pressing upon me. Suddenly a whiff of air dashed in
my face and I stopped, stricken with an indefinable fear. Then, the
reassuring note of the guards at the door brought again my courage, and
boldly I walked out into the night.

Several of the guards ran up to me, smelling me strangely, then let me
pass. I must have been wandering as in a trance; all around me the night
lay black and the soft wind shook my wings, and the little stars seemed
hanging just over my head. I was seized with a wild desire to try my
wings, to fly into the beckoning unknown. But my wings could not lift me,
and happily one of the guards, seeing me approach too near the edge of
the alighting-board, cautioned me and suggested my going back into the
hive.

As I turned in I cast one long look back into the great black space that
lay outside, and wondered and wondered. Overhead the sprinkled lights,
like flowers in the gardens of heaven, leaned a little wistfully toward
the earth; and near, ever so near it seemed, a wonderfully bright light
shone, calling me to fly into its embrace.

“What is that?” I asked of the gentle guard.

“The Master’s lamp,” he said.

The Master’s lamp! What might that be? But I asked no more questions.
There was too much of mystery around me. I clambered over the combs as
rapidly as I might, back to my cell; but even there it was a long time
before I slept, so spellbound was I, so stirred to the depths. Vast
harmonies seemed athrob in the outer world, and one dim undercurrent of
tone, the night song of my hive, ebbed and flowed ceaselessly around me.
Gradually I seemed to lose my identity and to merge with the spirit of
the things about me.

In a flash I felt that I was no longer just a helpless little bee,
floating about in the maze of life, intent on my own purposes, bound no
whither, owning no duties and driven by no destinies. Up to the moment
I had given no concern to things beyond dipping into honey-cells for
food, to exploring the house in which I found myself, to groping about
with eyes wide and ears that missed no sound. But now I had been shaken
with new desires. I seemed to have climbed out of myself, even as I had
crawled out of my cell on that other day, now but a memory—so far away it
seemed. My thoughts, my activities, my soul were no longer my own—they
belonged to my little brothers buzzing in the alcoves or busy with
endless tasks which I seemed to know without knowing.



[Illustration: CHAPTER FOUR

The First Flight]


My sleep was interrupted by I know not what strange dreams or fantasies.
I suppose I was shaking my wings or my legs unduly, when a kindly nurse
laid her hands on me.

“What troubles you?” she asked.

I did not immediately answer, because I was at a loss for a reply and
seemed still to be clinging to the edge of things. Such wonderful vistas
had been opened to me, I suppose I acted like one entranced.

“I don’t know,” I answered at last.

“Wake up a bit, then.”

Again I seemed quite alone, although all around me hundreds of my
brothers were sleeping, or working at their manifold tasks.

It was still very dark, but I began to move about drowsily, giving no
heed to the way. From comb to comb I clambered, passing over unexplored
regions. Presently I came to what was clearly the outermost comb. I
saw a lot of workers tugging and pulling at the cells. I stopped and
watched them. Each cell had its bee or bees busily engaged upon it.
They would seize the sides of it with their sharp mandibles, and, by
dint of biting and drawing, extend it little by little. I could see
that it was a laborious process, this building of comb. I was standing
quite still, looking on and meditating, when, without ceremony, one of
the comb-builders rushed up to me and began to touch my body, then left
as suddenly as he had come. Instantly I was inclined to resent this
treatment, and called to him as he turned:

“What is all this about?”

He did not stop to answer, and I was left to discover that he had
mistaken me for a comb-grower. Just what that meant I was soon brought to
understand.

Hours passed and still I hung around the comb-builders, until I felt that
I had mastered the secret of the art. Then slowly I turned and made my
way back to my home cell, tired, but greatly pleased with my experiences.

I suppose I must have slept, for with startling suddenness it dawned on
me that the night had passed. The faintest light was coming into our
hive, and over the whole colony there was ringing the early summons to
the field. The cry caught me and unconsciously I moved forward with the
workers, a solid stream of them making way to the entrance. I, too,
passed out, and once more—now the full dawn upon me—stopped upon the
alighting-board and flapped my wings, essaying flight, only to find that
I could not lift myself.

I was distressed and sick at heart. I wanted to go—I knew not where;
but instead, there I was, an obstruction; and I could not immediately
re-enter the hive on account of the outward press of workers. The growing
light, and then the sudden burst of the sun, quite fascinated me. Besides
this, the flight of a thousand of my brothers, each taking the note of
the field-worker when about to embark, filled me with longing to go into
the wide world that spread around and that called me with infinitely
tender phrases.

I suppose I was acting strangely, as well as blockading the entrance,
when one of the guards mildly remonstrated with me and suggested
my re-entering the hive. By this time practically all the veteran
honey-gatherers had gone, and indeed those first out were beginning to
return, chanting the song that tells of a successful foray into the
fields. So, following the mandate of the guard, I seized the opportunity
of falling in the wake of a laden bee. Instinctively I followed him.

He rushed along like mad, darting into the hive, and then over the
bottom-board to a point where a bridge of wax stretched downward within
his reach. Up it he scampered, with me at his heels, until he came to the
very spot where the workers had been building cells the night before.
Finding one to his liking, he buried himself in it, and in a moment had
emptied his sac, depositing the honey at the bottom of the cell. Before
I could turn around from inspecting what he had done he had gone. He
appeared delighted to think he had been one of the first to return with
a load, and as he went out I heard him calling aloud to his fellows to
follow him, for he had found a new rich harvest field.

I hurried along and reached the alighting-board in time to see him fly,
closely pursued by half-a-dozen eager workers. I rambled about on the
alighting-board, constantly buzzing my wings for I knew not what reason,
when I overheard one say:

“There’s that Happy again!”

It made no difference to me, for I was determined to stay to watch the
incoming bees, and presently the worker I had followed inside returned
and, at the briefest intervals, those that had gone with him. And now a
real sensation was astir. These half-a-dozen all began to cry aloud:

“Hurry—hurry—honey—honey.”

In the briefest space a multitude was flying over the field to I knew not
what rich storehouse. Indeed, every worker, on returning, was told the
great news, and from one I gathered that a colony was being robbed, that
something tremendous had happened. _The Queen had died!_

I knew not what robbery meant, nor had I ever heard the word _queen_.

“What is a queen?” I asked.

One of the guards stared at me impatiently. “You had better go inside.”

I refused to comply with the suggestion; on the contrary, I remained
where I was, ever and anon flapping my wings, and presently to my
overpowering joy I felt my body being lifted off my legs, and without
thinking I rose in the air! It was a wonderful sensation. I hardly knew
what I was doing, but back and forth I flew about our hive, looking and
looking to make sure I should know it when I returned; for now, indeed, I
felt my soul bounding within me and that the wide world, upon which I had
yearningly gazed, was about to swallow me up. Back and forth I flew, ever
widening the distance, taking into view other white-faced hives and trees
and houses, until presently, in a long spiral I rose into the heavens.
Up and up I went toward the sun, glorying in the power of wings and the
infinite grandeur of the world that spread out below me. How far away
it seemed and how cool and green and inviting! I could hear around me
strange noises, mingled with the whirring of wings. The note of my hive
now and again faintly broke on my ears, and I knew that my brothers were
traveling the airy spaces, working ever toward a goal far removed from
thinking.

I did not feel lonely at all, but after a time I decided to return to
my house to make sure that I knew the way. You would be surprised to
know how straight I came back to it. Down and down I dropped into the
bee-yard, and, turning right and left, without further thought I landed
on the alighting-board. Immediately a guard fell upon me, but passed me
without question. Then, with glee bubbling in my soul, I fled into the
hive and set up such a buzzing for joy as I think none ever surpassed.



[Illustration: CHAPTER FIVE

Robbery]


Now that I had taken my first flight into the blue, I felt at last that
the world had truly opened for me, and that I was a real bee with duties
and responsibilities—and without hesitation I accepted them. Rushing
around in uncontrolled delight, I heard again the laden workers murmuring
about the great stores of honey they were taking. It seemed, from what I
could gather, that practically all the workers of the hive were directing
their course to this new, rich field.

I was listening as hard as ever I might to all this converse, when an
important bee cried out:

“Why don’t you get to work?”

Up to that moment I had done nothing nor had I even then thought of it,
but at the suggestion I made off, following to the entrance and then
into the air a worker bound for the unknown treasure-field. I got off a
little more slowly than he, but to my surprise I found I could easily
outfly him. We had gone but a short distance when he began to descend,
and, with no ceremony, landed at the same instant on the alighting-board
of a strange hive where a thousand bees were struggling. I discovered
immediately that many of the bees around were strangers to me and that
all acted like mad—pushing, pulling, and fighting. Some were struggling
to get in and some to get out. I saw at once that those outward bound
were heavily laden with honey, and that they had to fight the hungry
bees scrambling for a taste of the nectar. I collided with an old fellow
heavily loaded and was about to attack him, when he hurled me aside. I
was now aflame with the passion of acquisition. Honey I must have, even
if it cost my life!

I scrambled along with the rest to get in and finally succeeded. But
there the trouble began. Whether it was because I looked young or was
really ignorant of the procedure, the first thing I knew a bad-tempered,
elderly bee attacked me. I learned long afterward that he was one of the
last survivors of the colony, fighting to the end. First, he seized me by
the leg, but I kicked him off; then, undaunted, he got me by the wing in
such a way that I could not shake him, and the next thing I knew he was
about to sting me. Other bees were rushing pell-mell over us. I felt the
tiniest prick of his stinger, and then with a supreme effort I escaped
his clutches. I rushed away from the spot and soon came upon a batch
of honey over which it appeared ten thousand bees were quarreling and
fighting. Without thinking, I fell into the scrimmage and by some chance
finally landed on a half-filled cell, and into it I plunged.

Here my troubles began afresh. Hundreds of bees piled on top of me and
all but drowned me in the honey I was intent on possessing. For a minute
my head was buried in it and I began to strangle. But by a mighty effort
I escaped.

It was almost as difficult to get out of the hive as it was in; and on
my return journey a hungry, malevolent bee intercepted me and demanded
that I divide my load with him. On my refusing he seized me by a wing
and jerked me so violently that I thought he had all but torn it off.
I fought him from the start, but, he being a stalwart and I heavily
laden, he thrashed me almost into a lifeless state. To add to my terrible
mischance, another freebooter, more vicious than the first, joined
against me, and the two of them overcame me quickly and robbed me of my
load. They left me half senseless and I was only too glad to escape with
my life.

I flew as straight as an arrow to my home, feeling outraged and
exhausted. After all, I was not powerful—not important. I was
crestfallen; but I did not even have to think of the direction or the
location of my house, and you may be assured I was glad to return to it,
if only to make sure that I was alive and knew the road. At the same time
I was still under the impression that I had some honey in my sac. Nobody
had taught me how to unload it, but I went forward to a cell. Imagine
how downcast I was to find that not an atom of honey had been left me!
I was infuriated; so resolved at once to try again. Hurriedly I went
to the place for another load, but found the bees had nearly all gone.
Once inside, I discovered that not a drop of honey remained, hence the
reason for their leaving. I was wandering about when a poor crippled bee
approached. Could this be one of the rascals that robbed me and who had
suffered a worse fate?

“Won’t you have pity on me and let me go home with you?” he said,
sorrowfully. “I’m all alone in the world.”

His tone and request cut me deeply; he was clearly no robber, for I saw
that he was broken-hearted and had but five legs—one of his basket-legs
was missing. And how wretched he looked!

“Have you no home?” I asked, with compassion.

“This was my home, but you and ten thousand like you have destroyed it.
There wasn’t much left of it, though, when our Queen-Mother died.”

I felt guilty as a thief caught red-handed. Remorse was at my throat.

“Yes,” I said, “you may go home with me. But tell me about your
Queen-Mother. What became of her?”

Then he began a fascinating story which kept me rooted to the place,
desolate as it was.

“Well, it was this way: One sunny afternoon, a long time ago, our
Queen-Mother went for a flight into the outer world, a thing she did but
rarely—and never returned. Have you ever lived in a house without a
Queen-Mother? You do not understand, then, what a terrible thing that is.”

He stopped short and would say no more.

“Please go on!” I urged.

“Some day I’ll tell you all of it. It is a long story, but for us the
end was in sight. In the large economy of the universe our efforts were
futile. Better for us and for the great Life of the Bee that the honey
we had gathered should be conserved by strange colonies, and that our
short lives should be yielded up or dedicated to strengthening them, than
that it should be left rich booty to web-worms and mice. So it came to
pass, you and others found out our condition and sought our stores, as it
has been written you should. We fought at first, half-heartedly—as one
without friends or kinsmen or home will fight. You saw the end of the
battle. It is over. And now will you let me go home with you? You see
I have but five legs, but I can still work and help do the things that
remain to be done.”

So absorbing had been his story, I quite forgot myself, and while I
answered, “I’m so sorry for you, and want you to come,” my thoughts were
far away.

The things he had told me out of his life and out of the life of the
colony had gone deep in my breast. Turning from him, I looked around and,
lo! the hive was silent as death. Not a thing of life remained except
this poor, miserable, orphaned bee. Death had come, and now stood guard
over the portal of the little home where once a beautiful spirit had
brooded, and where some of the laws we may not understand had come to
fulfilment....

“Come with me,” I said, in a whisper.

He followed, limping but uncomplaining.

On the bottom-board we saw a number of dead bees which I had not noticed
on going in, I had been in such haste.

“So many of my brothers are dead,” he murmured, “why should I want
to live? Because I am needed? You think I am needed? You think I am
commanded by the high powers to give my energies and my intelligence to
the problems that confront us? Perhaps that is true, and I shall bide by
the call and give my life to my new family.”

We came at length to the entrance; I noticed that he turned and looked in
a dazed way at the things about him. It was a sad farewell. His little
brothers had gone. His tribe had perished. He should see his home never
again.

Then I rose on my wings and he followed me ever so closely. A new chapter
in our lives had opened.



[Illustration: CHAPTER SIX

CRIP]


Scarcely were we risen in the air when I discovered the Master walking
near my home. I seemed to know instinctively that he was our Master.
Towering into the air and walking with such majestic tread, he filled me
with wonder and admiration. Nor was I less interested in the Little One
that ran at his heels. Stories there were of these two, eddying about
the hive—of their kindness and also their malevolence. How mighty they
appeared! I had seen them but once before. That picture was still vivid.

We were not long in reaching home. Without ceremony I lit on the
board and instantly my friend was beside me. At the same moment a
guard accosted him and seized him, recognizing him as an intruder. I
interfered, but almost unavailingly, for the guard was about to sting
him. The two of us escaped this guard only to be attacked by another,
which we beat off, and hurriedly entered the hive. I was almost certain
that yet others would question the stranger, and sure enough, we had
barely got inside before another guard summarily attacked him. Poor
fellow, with only five legs and tired from the combats of the day, he
could make but a poor fight. Again I rescued him, and again we raced into
the interior. And now, happily, our troubles were over. Without thinking,
I made straight for my cell, with “Crip,” as I began to call him, at my
heels.

He seemed to realize that he was a stranger and that he owed his life to
me, for he clung to me as closely as possible. He seemed to know, too,
that the ground whereon I stood was sacred to me. He did not speak for a
time, nor did I. We simply hung limp on the comb, and rested. He broke
the silence:

“You have a wonderful colony, I can see. I hope I shall grow into it as
though it were my own. Indeed, in a sense it is my own, for all bees are
sprung from the same source, and the life of the bee is kept alive by us,
each in his own cell. I know now that I shall grow into it. Listen to
that voice! How long it is since I heard a Queen-Mother sing!”

I roused myself, somewhat confused. “Queen-Mother!” I stammered.

“Yes. Won’t you take me to her?”

I hardly knew how to answer; I had never seen her myself, although I knew
from Crip’s story and from some unknown source that there was somewhere a
reigning spirit. But my life had been so brief and I had already learned
so many things, I said, as lightly as I might, “Let us go.”

He seemed to know the way to her. He hobbled along as best he might on
his five legs. He was now no longer suspected as an intruder, and we
marched without interruption. Presently we climbed through a hole in a
comb and came face to face with our Queen-Mother.

I stopped, dazed, overcome by her serenity. The grace and magnificent
proportions of her body and the fire of her eyes held me entranced. I
shall not live long enough fitly to describe my emotions. There she was,
queenly and wonderful, and yet simple as any one of us. She approached us
and appeared to nod, as if to say, “I salute you, my children.” Then she
went on with her labors.

I turned to Crip. He was speechless.

Immediately we started back to our cell, for it was henceforth to be his
also.

“It is strange,” he said. “I do not understand it. Life and death are in
her keeping, and yet she knows it not. You and I don’t count for much.
We pass like the leaves, but life everlasting lingers in her body—the
very spirit of things ranges through her. But I am content with my
insignificant place, to live my life, doing my duty from day to day.”

I did not answer him. We fell silent as we made our way across the combs.

“Suppose we take a turn in the woods,” he suddenly suggested, wheeling
about and heading for the door. “I have new bearings to get and you have
new lands to explore.”

“I supposed you knew this country,” I ventured.

“I do, but the way to this new home of mine must be learned.”

Out into the air we hurried, but he flew back and forth many times before
our door. He wanted to make sure that he knew it; then, flying round and
round in ever wider circles, we mounted with ecstasy into the higher
reaches. Lake Espantoso, with its border of great oaks, lay below us like
a bar of silver; and the Master’s house stood like a sentinel beside the
white hives which, row on row, spread beneath us in the sun.

“That prominent knoll,” said Crip, “is a thing to remember, if you are
returning late and flying low. And remember, too, that in that window of
the Master’s house a lantern burns. This may sometimes be a guide. But,
mark you, never fly into it, though you may be tempted. Better still,
get in before it is too dark. Just there by that row of hives is a tree
to remember. It is a glory in the spring with its yellow flowers, until
the cutting ants get it. They clip off the leaves and blossoms. But it
is an excellent land-mark, nevertheless. And there’s the Master,” went
on Crip, “and the Little One, and that horrid dog. That little boy sits
by for hours while the great one labors with some of us. The horrid dog
sleeps—I’d like to sting him. Things will go wrong—the Master sets them
to rights. He seems to know everything; and yet, when he took away some
of our honey, in spite of our having vast stores of it, we fought him.
The little he took harmed us not at all, and I suppose we fight him
because our brothers have done so for centuries. But I talk too much.”

After a rather long flight, and much interesting converse, we reached our
door again. Crip’s experience with the guard was still fresh in his mind,
for he clung closely to me for protection. But the guard this time passed
him without a word. He had acquired the scent and the note of the hive,
and henceforth his life and all the energies of his body would be merged
with that of the colony.



[Illustration: CHAPTER SEVEN

Crip, the Wise]


When we had returned to our cell we halted, and for a season remained
quiet. Indeed, we slept a tiny bit, as much as ever a bee can sleep at
a stretch, and then we fell into meditation. Among other things, I was
wondering what the Queen-Mother was doing when she popped her long, thin
body into each cell as she made her rounds. I could not understand and so
I called on Crip to explain.

“Why, laying eggs!” he said, right sharply, as though annoyed at my
ignorance.

“Well, what are eggs?” for I was still no wiser.

“Come with me,” he said, and off we went across the combs.

He did not stop until he reached the very spot where we had seen the
Queen. The odor of her was still strong thereabouts, but she had gone.

“Now look, stupid!” Crip said. “At the bottom of each of the cells in
this section of comb is an egg.”

I looked down into one and, sure enough, a small, thin, yellowish-white
egg was stuck squarely in the center of it. I looked into several other
cells, and each had its one egg.

I shall never forget the story which he went on to unfold. The wonderful
cycle from egg to larva, from larva to bee, he explained in fascinating
detail. I saw at once that he was a real sage, that his knowledge was
boundless, and then to crown it he told me that even the Queen-Mother
herself had sprung from an ordinary egg, having been converted through
miracle into a queen ruling over this empire. Simply by feeding and
tending them differently—only the bees in their wisdom know how—the
egg which might develop into a worker or a drone, passing through a
metamorphosis, can be made to break from the dark cover of the cell the
personification of life eternal, as exemplified in the body and the life
of the Queen.

I could not quite understand all these things, but I felt sure Crip was
telling the truth; and indeed I began to look up to him with increasing
admiration and wonder on account of the worlds of things he knew.

We were silent awhile. There rose again for me the night hymn of the
hive. It penetrated me as not before; it had a new significance, a new
message—I had been visited with a revelation. The sight I had gained of
the Queen-Mother woke new and tremulous emotions within me—there was a
new meaning in life.

Crip stirred rather sharply, breaking my train of thought.

“What’s the matter?” I queried.

“I’m tired holding on. We must get another place to rest. You see, with
only five legs the load of my body grows heavy.”

With that we moved up the comb to the top of it, and there he spread
himself out with a little hum of content. And just then I developed a
curiosity to know how he had lost his leg.

“You miss your leg, but do you suffer pain on account of it? And how did
it happen?”

“That’s a short story. I was coming home late one day, well laden with
honey, when, without warning, one of those terrible black bee-hawks
darted for me and clutched me, sailing away to the nearest bush. He had
quickly rolled me up with his powerful legs and almost by the time he
lit he was ready to kill me with one thrust of his proboscis. Of course
I had struggled, but when one of those fellows gets his claws on you
it’s good-by. I had about ceased to struggle when suddenly there came a
tremendous shock, and the next moment I was rolling on the ground and
shaking myself free from the mutilated hawk. He had been torn to pieces
by some mysterious force, and my leg, my bread-basket leg, was gone.
At that moment the Master approached me; in his hands he held a long
black thing which I had seen emit fire on other occasions, and somehow
I suspected at once he had saved me. The little boy came hurriedly up,
stooped over me and helped release me, and in a moment I was circling
round to get my bearings. The little boy and the Master—and even the
dog—watched my movements with an expression of satisfaction on their
faces. I flew straightway home and was thankful still to be alive.”

“Tell me more about this Master,” I begged, for I was now growing vastly
interested in his activities and in those of the Little One, and even the
dog which once I tried to sting, because he came so close to our hive.

“Some say he is good—some say that he is bad. I only know him as the
chopper of weeds about our home and as my rescuer. Many times since the
day he saved me have I heard him shooting bee-hawks. Indeed, I had heard
the little thunder of his gun before that day, but I did not understand
its meaning. They say, too, that he takes away our honey—and he did take
some of ours once—and frightens us nearly to death with the prospect of
starvation. And they fall upon him and sting him, trying to drive him
away. But all this is useless, they report, since he comes armed with
fire and smoke.

“Others tell of him that in the dark, cold days, if provisions run low,
he brings honey and closes the door against blizzards. But I know nothing
of this. I have not lived through a winter and I fear I shall never know
what it means.”

Thus I became infinitely interested in the Master who passed from day
to day about the yard. But I was confused in mind about him. Somehow I
instinctively feared him and I always found myself ready to attack him,
as I explained to Crip.

“There would be no use in that,” answered he. “Should you sting him, you
would achieve nothing. Instead, you would lose your life.”

“How is that?” I cried, for I did not till then know I had a life—at
least I had never thought of it.

“You can sting once, but unless you escape with your stinger, which is
rare, your life is sacrificed.”

I seemed to know this and answered him nothing.

“Is it not a strange fatality,” he continued, “that we should be given
stingers with which to defend ourselves and our homes, and yet, when
we make use of them, we lose our lives! Still, we are always ready to
strike, with no thought of death.”

“What is death?” I asked of Crip.

“I don’t know, except that once when the bee-hawk caught me I felt myself
going away. It grew dark and I heard the hum of wings that were strange
and wonderful. Somehow you go to sleep and forget.”

“I have thought of death,” he went on. “I am old and battered, my days
are as the falling flowers when the frost is upon them, and the frost
soon will fall.”

I waited awhile in silence, but he spoke no more. Soon he lay in that
buzzing hive, asleep, and I was not long in following him to where the
golden honey dripped in the garden of dreams.



[Illustration: CHAPTER EIGHT

A Gleaner of Honey]


We awakened about the same time and began to stir about. The first thing
that happened was a new experience—the wax-pickers fell upon me and raked
and scraped me for the tiny bits of wax which now, on account of my
voracious appetite, had begun to grow in each of the rings marking the
under sections of my body. They were so rude that at first I was inclined
to resent their interference, which seemed to be mere meddling. But when
I looked at Crip and saw two busy wax-pickers fumbling over him, I began
to understand that this was part of a routine, and so I stood still until
they had finished.

“They won’t bother with me much longer,” said Crip, sadly. “You see, when
one becomes old the wax grows thinly—so the pickers give over. But you!
They’ll get you. I have noticed that you are rather greedy about eating
honey. This means you’ll get fat and produce lots of wax.”

“Tell me about wax and comb,” I begged of him.

“Comb, my child, is made of wax; this is comb on which you are standing.
It is everywhere about you. The cups that hold our honey and our bread
are made of it. The cell in which you were born is of wax; and, besides,
it is used to stop the holes in our house. Of course there are different
kinds of comb, depending on the use to which it is put. Why, these sheets
of comb with their six-sided cells are wonderful in their economy, in
their plan and symmetry. The cell we build is perfect. No other structure
would serve our purposes, combining such strength and capacity. The cell
is indispensable to the life of the bee!—otherwise he could not exist. So
don’t let me see you make ready to fight the next time the wax-pickers
approach, and they’ll soon be after you again.”

I answered nothing. I was wondering in what far age we had learned to
build the six-sided cell, and in what tiny brain it had been conceived.
They fit so perfectly, I stood quite still marveling at the harmony of
it all and wondering how many things there remained for me to learn. At
every turn I had been confronted with something new. And was it to be so
to the end? What could the end be, of which Crip frequently spoke?

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Two months—glorious with flowers, but ending in disaster.”

“What disaster?”

“Well, you saw the close of it—the death of our colony.”

“Yes, I remember,” I said. But he was so wise I could scarcely believe
that he was but two months old, for he seemed so tattered of wing and
battered of body!

Without thinking what we were about, we drew near the door. Groups of
workers were banked about the entrance, waiting impatiently to be away at
the first streaks of dawn. Presently a note like a bugle-call sounded,
and immediately the face of things was changed. By twos and threes and
fours the workers took wing and scurried into the fields.

A dull gray light lay on the world; the air was damp and moved lazily
out of the east; the dew had fallen thick on the flowers and now began
to twinkle from myriad angles. Crip and I had left the hive at the same
instant, but once on the wing I forgot all about him and flew like mad
this way and that until I caught a whiff of fragrance from an unexplored
meadow, and thither I hastened. Strange and thrilling sensation! I had
not until now felt the joy of dipping into the flowers and searching out
their honey-pots. It was a field of late sunflowers, and all of them
had their faces toward the east, eager to look upon the sun. Joyfully
they waved in the breeze and beckoned to one another as if to say: “Good
morning. How glorious is the sun, our king!” In spite of the dew on their
faces, some of them already were wearing the brand of the hot summer,
which had all but gone and left them beseeching of autumn her tender
graces.

“I am old and frayed,” I heard one say, “and these mornings chill me, but
my work is done. The heart and soul of me are here; I shall not pass; I
shall endure; my seed shall spring up to brighten the world.”

“But I am young,” a tender blossom said, “and I shall be cut off. The
frost will slay me and I shall have rattled down to dust ere my soul has
developed its immortal parts.”

At the moment I was taking honey from its lips, and I felt a quivering as
if its heart fluttered.

“Dear little flower,” I said, “you are living your life; you cannot die;
you will be swallowed up in the universal spirit of things. Your face
has spread a glamour of gold in the world; your honey has nourished a
thousand winged things; your scented breath has floated far and has
carried blessings into silent places. Memory of you will linger; it
will be preserved by the things you have fed, by the things you have
gladdened. And, too, I promise that I shall remember you!”

“How can you remember me,” the flower asked, “when you, too, are doomed?”

“What!” I cried. “Doomed! Why, I am young, I am swift, I am beautiful, I
am glorious!”

“Yes, and so am I. But we pass.”

“You are wise for so young a flower,” spoke up the elder blossom. “Both
of you are of the heavens; both have your lives before you in this tiny
garden, ere you return to the golden fields that spread out toward the
sun. You are immortal.”

Just then I saw one of the petals blow away from the face of the elder
flower. It fluttered and fluttered and finally fell to the earth.
Scarcely had it struck the ground when something with a long, thin body
and active legs seized it and began struggling to draw it through the
grass, intent on some mysterious purpose. I was quite absorbed, and from
my post of vantage on the breast of the floweret I followed the movements
of the thing that tugged at the petal. I had never seen this thing before
and I was wishing for Crip, when, behold! he appeared.

“What are you doing?” he cried at me. “How many loads have you gathered?
What are you staring at?”

He had submerged me with questions. I answered none of them. I had,
indeed, forgotten my work momentarily, so absorbed had I been in the talk
of the flowers.

“Have you a load? Let’s go,” cried he.

I was ready, truly, but I could not refrain from asking him about this
strange animal that pulled the leaf so sedulously through the grass.

“An ant!” Crip answered, rather glumly.

“Do you see what he is about?”

“Yes he is gathering his winter stores. A time comes when he must go
indoors and he must have food even as you and I. Come now, let’s be off.”

I looked down at the ant struggling with his burden and then at the
disheveled flower, casting a last glance at the tender face which had
yielded up honey to me, wondering at the strangeness of it all.

“Come on,” cried Crip, rising on wing.

I did not speak, but followed him. I flew at his heels until he began
to fag a bit and then I came up alongside, careful, however, not to
outdistance him. I soon saw that he had a heavier load than I, and I
felt ashamed, but I knew this had come through my having wasted a few
minutes, and I resolved then and there that the next time I should be
first.

Another thing I noticed, we were flying very low, so near the earth we
almost brushed the tops of the bushes. I asked Crip the reason.

“The wind,” he answered, in better humor than could have been expected.
“Don’t you feel that heavy head current? If you should go up it would
be a hard fight home with these loads. You see, there are currents and
currents,” he went on, “and you must use your wits. Take the current that
blows your way. Profit by whatever nature bestows.”

Almost at once I saw the yard with its white hives, like dots, and
the Master with the Little One and the dog that seemed always with
them. The next moment Crip and I were dropping down to our hive. I was
overjoyed when I fell upon the alighting-board, and could not restrain my
exuberance of feeling. So I bowed my head humbly as best I might with the
load I carried, uttering a hymn of thanksgiving—the very hymn, Crip told
me, that every worker for a million years had uttered on returning to his
hive with his first load of honey. I cannot explain, but some mysterious
force seized me, compelling me to bow my head and to sing. I should
have done it had it cost my life. Such is the law of the hive, just as
there is the law of the jungle. I did not know why I was so happy, but
something bubbled over in me, and the very intoxication of it finally
sent me running madly to deposit my load in a waiting cell, and once more
to take wing for the field of the flowers of the sun.



[Illustration: CHAPTER NINE

A STORM]


On my way back the first rays of light caught the topmost branches of the
trees and gilded the flying clouds in the east. Far in the west, black
and forbidding masses of cloud were gathering, and the wind, I observed,
had shifted its course. Again I had lost Crip, and I was regretful,
for there were questions which only he could answer. But I flew all
the faster for being alone, and soon found the very place and the very
flowers I had visited before. Speedily I took my load, but I could not
fail to return to the flowers I had come to love. Other petals from the
elder had fluttered away, due either to the eager foraging of bees or to
the gusty impatience of the wind. The younger had opened wider her heart
to the sun.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, sweetly. “All that I have I yield
up to you gladly. This is my end. Oh, how glorious is life! How splendid
to be able to give of one’s store so that life shall go on eternally!”

“Yes, eternally,” echoed the elder blossom. “Even I, in dying, leave my
seed behind to follow the summer suns through numberless ages; and I
breathe into the world an imperishable fragrance. It shall be wafted to
the utmost bounds; it shall gladden the hearts of the lowliest. Though it
be scattered by the winds, it shall not cease to exist.”

By this time I had filled my honey-sac, and, after flying three times
around these two well-beloved blossoms, I made for home. I was depressed
by the talk which I had heard. I could not wholly comprehend it, and I
wanted to consult Crip.

I was not long reaching our hive, for the wind seemed to get under me
and literally to blow me on. I deposited my treasure, hurried out again,
and once more headed for the sunflower-field, where I quickly gathered a
load. Then straight for home. It was difficult flying now, because the
wind was in my face. I rose higher, following Crip’s advice, but still it
blew and almost beat me back. The black clouds which I remembered having
seen in the west seemed almost over me, and suddenly terrific noises
crashed around. It grew dark and great flashes of fire tore the heavens
apart and blinded me.

This terrified me. I knew not its meaning, but instinctively I fled
homeward. But my progress was slow, and I had not gone far when again the
whole world seemed to tremble, shaken through and through by the most
violent rumblings conceivable. It grew so dark I almost stopped in my
flight, not sure of my way. At this moment of hesitation something struck
me squarely in the back, almost knocking me down. It had been a great
drop of water, and almost immediately others began to pelt me. Soaking
wet and tossed by the gale, I was forced to alight. As I dropped downward
I saw nothing but black shadows, and presently I was dashed into a great
tree. I seized a branch that offered shelter, which proved to be none too
well protected against the blast that now drove the rain in solid sheets.
I was cold, and clambered around to the under side of the limb, and
there, feeling none too secure, I grudgingly deposited some of my honey
in a crevice. By lightening my load I was better able to keep my balance;
but so gusty was the blast that it whipped the rain all over me, and I
was unable to find a spot that was dry. I began to climb from one branch
to another in the hope of reaching a safer haven, but, alas! none was to
be found.

Worse things, too, were awaiting me. I was crying for Crip when the
branch to which I clung suddenly snapped. Down and down it fell while I
clung to it. I was too cold and wet to try to take wing, and presently
the branch crashed into a swirling stream of water. At first I was
entirely submerged. It seemed an interminable time that I stayed under
the water; but presently I came to the surface and caught my breath. Cold
as I was, I still clung with all the tenacity of my being to the floating
branch that was hurried onward by the raging torrent. I was beginning to
feel a little more comfortable when over went the branch again in the
seething water, and again I seemed to go down to immeasurable depths.
This time I felt my legs giving way in the rush of the waters. My head
swam and I strangled, but just as it seemed all over with me the branch
again came to the surface. I caught my breath, shifted slightly my
footing, and hurriedly emptied my honey-sac. This gave me more confidence
in spite of the numbness that had nearly overcome me from the cold and
water. There I sat shaking, awaiting the next turn of the branch, which
now seemed merely to be bobbing up and down in the waters. The wind was
still whistling through the trees, the rain was falling in torrents, and
the thunder rumbled in unabated violence.

How long I clung to the branch in desperation I do not know. But after a
time the rain ceased, the wind fell to a whimper among the bushes, and
the darkness broke along the horizon. It began to grow a little brighter.
Imagine my joy, therefore, to find that my perch was now quite clear of
the flood waters, the branch safely nestling in the top of a bush. In a
short space it grew warmer, and I took courage; I began to dry myself and
to preen my wings. The light gained, and before long, after trying out
my strength, I found that I could again mount into the air, and with one
wide sweep I made for home.



[Illustration: CHAPTER TEN

The Aftermath]


I flew with all my speed, and I was almost overcome with joy when I saw
my house. I noticed, too, as I approached, the Master bending over a
neighboring hive, and I wondered what was the matter. But on alighting I
was too happy to inquire about anything. I rushed inside and sang a song
of thanksgiving at my deliverance.

Then I bolted straight for my cell to find my beloved Crip. He welcomed
me with joy.

“Well,” said he, “I feared you were lost. You ought to have come home
before the storm broke. But I’m happy you escaped. The next time you see
great piles of cloud, make haste homeward. Your life is too precious to
lose through stupidity.”

He came close and gave me a kiss, drawing his tongue across my mouth.
The taste of honey excited me, and immediately I dropped into a cell
and helped myself. I still felt stiff and cold from my experiences, and
complained to Crip.

“It might have been worse,” he said, when I had told him all that
had befallen me. “If you live long enough you will have some real
adventures,” he concluded.

I was inclined to resent his comment, for I felt that I should never
again pass through such a storm and survive.

“Do you know what a real storm is, Crip?” I asked, with offended pride.
But he ignored my query.

“Listen,” he said, suddenly. “Do you hear that alarm?”

A note I had heard before suddenly ran through the hive. I could not at
first remember the occasion, but instantly both Crip and I were off.
By the time we were out I remembered what the sound meant. It was the
robber-call. There was honey at hand—pure honey for the taking, and off
we went.

It was just where the Master stood. He had righted a hive which had
blown down in the storm, and was endeavoring to place a net over it, but
already thousands of bees were swarming about.

“It is too late,” Crip said to me, as we lit on the bottom-board and
hurried into the hive. “They are dead. I see it all. The rains undermined
the foundations and the hive toppled over into the ditch. The storm
waters crept up and up, submerging it.”

A little honey remained in the old combs, and we were soon busy with its
salvage. We helped ourselves to one load only, for when we returned the
Master had covered over the hive with his net. We flew about the place
for a while, hoping to find some tiny hole through which we might creep;
but none could be found. The net was covered with scrambling bees.

“Did all the bees drown?” I asked.

“Probably,” he answered.

“Here’s one on the ground that seems to be alive.”

We both lit beside the little fellow struggling to dry himself. We
approached and licked him all over, and when he could fly Crip begged him
to come home with us, since his own colony had ceased to exist.

Right gladly he followed us; but when we had reached the entrance he
seemed to realize the seriousness of daring to enter a strange hive.
He drew back, but we urged him, standing one on either side. Almost
immediately, however, a guard scented him and flew at him. Crip headed
him off, but another quickly attacked from the same quarter. He caught
the stranger, and it was all I could do to save him. When we finally
freed him of the advance guards, we said to the stranger, “Run for your
life!”

We three rushed like mad into the hive and escaped further interference,
and never again was he questioned as to his identity.

He marched with us straight up to our cell, and thenceforward he claimed
it for his own.

“What shall we call him?” I asked of Crip, when we had left him to
recover and were once more on our way to the fields.

“Let’s see. Suppose we call him Buzz-Buzz.”

“Excellent!” I cried.

So, Buzz-Buzz it was, then and ever after.

Crip and I reached the entrance and looked about us. Mountainous black
clouds still frowned, and in the distance thunder rumbled. It was much
brighter, but still the sun was hid and a haze of mist hung about the
world as far as eye could see.

“We cannot safely go yet,” cried Crip. “The storm might break again.
Besides, there is no honey in the fields; it has been washed away by
the rains. It will be several hours before a trace can be found; even a
day or two will pass ere some of the flowers fill their cups. The rain
destroys the flow of honey for a time, and too much rain will cut off the
crop entirely.”

While we were talking Buzz-Buzz approached. “Well,” he said, “you ran
away and left me, but I warn you that when there are things to do you
will find me close to you.”

Presently we all rose on our wings, for the rain seemed to have spent
itself and the wind in the catclaw tree had fallen to a whisper. The
three of us flew, for a while keeping closely in touch, but I was
determined to guide, and had set my mind on seeing my sunflower-field.
I feared, and, as it proved, rightly, that the floods had swept them
away. On reaching the spot where the beautiful flowers had grown, we
found it a quagmire full of broken stalks. Nothing was there to remind of
the fragrant and glorious garden which only this day had displayed its
choicest blossoms to gladden the earth. And now all had vanished.

I said not a word, but Crip seemed to divine the reason which inspired
my flying round and round about the spot where I had gathered my first
load of honey and where I had heard the fascinating speech of the flowers
of the sun. He circled about with me, while Buzz-Buzz, puzzled at our
actions, sailed in wider curves. He did not lose sight of us, however,
and presently joined us again.

“What’s all this about?” he queried.

“Why, only to-day this spot was wonderful with flowers. Look at it now!”
I had spoken.

“That is nothing extraordinary,” observed Crip. “It is only a chapter out
of any life you choose. They had achieved all the things for which they
were sent into the world. They were ready to go.”

It was hard for me to think that the tender little blossom which had
given me honey had filled its full scope of existence. It seemed fit for
days of service. What a pity that it was not permitted to radiate its
beauty in a world all too barren!

We said very little more, but made for home. This must have been
instinctive, for suddenly we found the darkness descending upon us like a
flood.



[Illustration: CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Fight with the Web Worms]


We reached home quickly and were making our way along the combs, when I
was accosted by a pretentious bee.

“It’s your turn to nurse. Come with me. This shall be your section. These
little ones are to be fed to-night.”

“Well, with what shall I feed them?” I asked, impulsively, somewhat
irritated to think that I, a honey-gatherer, should be set at such a task.

In answer to my question I got only a look; but I shall not forget it—it
was withering. I felt ashamed of myself; and I resolved never again to
question an assignment of duty.

Immediately I set about my task. Without thinking, I peeped into two or
three cells and found that the bees allotted to me were but four days
old. Miraculous as it may seem, while I knew nothing about preparing food
for the young, I fell to it with zest. Taking a supply of honey from one
cell, I sought one stored with pollen; and there, without ceremony, I
began to mix honey and bread, making a thin paste to which I had to add
ever so little water. Then I placed the least bit of it in each of the
cells of my section. The tiny worm-like bees began to wriggle, so I knew
at once that I had succeeded in my task.

Several days now rolled away in comparative idleness. The great storm
had completely washed out the supplies of honey, leaving the flowers
draggled and broken. We busied ourselves with chores about the hive and
with flights into the fields, ever on the scout for sweets. For my part,
I was set to filling up a hole in the uppermost corner of the hive. At
the moment it was serving as a ventilator. A little stream of air was
constantly flowing out of it; but the cold weather was on its way and the
time had come to stop the hole. With winter once fallen, it would be too
late.

“The mesquite-trees are full of gum,” said the dear old fellow who set me
to my task. “Hurry and bring home a good supply. I hear you are a capital
hand at this sort of thing.”

So I went swiftly forth, and soon I found a crystal drop of gum on a
mesquite-tree. I bit off scraps of it quite easily, and soon had my
basket-legs filled with the gum; and it required only a moment to return
and pack it in the hole in the hive.

“You’re a clever fellow,” said the old director. “But I see bits of gum
have fallen on the bottom-board and already there are accumulations which
afford excellent hiding-places for web-worms. Go and clean them out, if
you please.”

I went promptly, and sure enough, chips from my patching and from many
others and scraps of comb had gathered in the corner, and I found myself
facing a considerable undertaking. Time after time I seized scraps in my
mandibles and flew away with them, dropping them outside.

I was far from the end of my labors when suddenly the ugliest thing I had
ever seen burst out on me. It was a long, white-brown worm, which I had
uncovered in the débris. It wriggled away as though aware of danger.

I was standing by, irresolute, when I heard a call, from I knew not what
source.

“Why don’t you seize him, coward!”

I was not a coward, but I could not make up my mind what to do. But
the little rascal that had scolded me knew, and fell upon the monster
manfully.

Over and over the worm turned, writhing like a beast in torment, and
suddenly it twisted itself quite out of the clutches of its enemy and
made for a cell in the nearest comb.

Up to this point I had taken no hand in the fight, but now I joined in
the pursuit. In the mean time the worm had escaped and was trying to hide
in a cell.

We stopped for a moment, the two of us, peering at him, wondering what
next to do. At least I was wondering, when my mentor spoke out sharply.

“You’re a poor excuse for a bee! If you had helped we should have done
for him by this time. We have still a chance to save ourselves. Now,
when I dive in upon him, he will probably rush out, throwing me from the
combs. Then you must do your work. Hold him until I come, and between us
we can manage him.”

“Shall I sting him?” I asked.

“No, you idiot! It’s not so desperate as that. You ought to know that
only in a great emergency should a bee sacrifice his life. Now mind you;
here I go!”

With that he lurched forward, and instantly back he came, the worm
plunging along with him. I also seized the intruder, and the three of
us dropped to the floor. Round and round we were thrown until I thought
I was about to be beaten to death, but I had made up my mind to die
rather than have fresh slurs cast upon my courage. I am doubtful whether
we could have won the battle if two other active bees had not come to
our assistance. The four of us soon had the breath out of the worm’s
wriggling body, and then we dragged him to the front of the hive. After
vain efforts to fly away with him in the burial fashion of our people, we
found the best we could do was to drop him to the ground from the edge of
our board.

I was quite out of breath, and stood panting on the spot, when, lo! from
the clouds dropped Crip.

“What’s the matter?” he inquired.

“Nothing much. We’ve just captured a great worm—one of our enemies. There
he lies on the ground.”

Crip walked to the edge of the board and looked down. “Why, he isn’t
dead.”

I looked, and, sure enough, he seemed to be alive. But on closer
inspection I saw that a multitude of small black creatures had taken
possession of the body.

“He is dead for certain,” I said. “Some bugs have seized him for prey.”

Crip looked again. “Why, those are black army ants,” he exclaimed; “one
of the worst enemies a bee can meet. Sometimes, when they are hungry,
they rush into the hive and help themselves. It is most difficult to deal
with them. They nab you by the leg, when they do not sting you, and you
cannot free yourself from their deadly grip.”

I looked at Crip in silence. Was there no end to perils?

“Let us hope they’ll travel on,” he added. “There’s plenty of food abroad
for them. But tell me, where did you find that worm?”

“Back in the far corner. Come with me. I was cleaning out the débris when
I came upon him.”

“Well, did you finish your task?”

I had quite forgotten it. I had been so absorbed in the fight that the
original undertaking had gone out of mind.

“Then come on. I’ll help you.”

With that Crip led off, limpingly. I followed by his side, amazed at his
speed.

Soon we came to the place. Each of us seized a bit of the débris, and
away we went to deposit it far from the entrance to our home.

“I see where your worm came from,” Crip observed. “There’s a hole in
the board, and he found it, then crept in stealthily and hid in this
little heap of rubbish. I’m a bad guesser, or we’ll find another here any
minute.”

And sure enough. Crip seized a piece of comb, and, upon dragging it away,
out sprang another worm, even more forbidding than the other.

Crip was the first to spy him, and, valiant warrior that he was, seized
him instantly. I attacked him, also, with all my might. But the worm, a
full-grown one, and twice as big as both of us, simply flung us about
and thrashed us unmercifully. He quite knocked me to bits; but I never
relaxed my hold, nor did Crip. It was a poor showing that we were making,
when several guards rushed to our assistance. The fight was soon over and
the monster lay still.

“He’s dead,” said one of the new-comers. “Out with him.”

We all fell to, dragging him along. It took the combined energies of four
of us to move his huge form.

At last we arrived at the edge of our alighting-board, and down we
dropped him to the tender mercies of the black ants, who immediately
swarmed over him. One could almost imagine that they thanked us for the
delicacy we had tossed them. I wondered what the ants thought of us, if
they thought at all. I had become particularly interested in those big
red ones that ran along the tiny trail skirting our home.

I was looking down at the worm, covered with the little black ants, when,
in a final paroxysm, he flounced violently, scattering the little army
that beset him. But once again they fell upon him, and presently they
had cut him entirely to pieces, carrying away every scrap for a feast.

In the economy of things, these worms had grown and fattened on the
refuse of our hive, and now they had become food in their turn for a host
of tiny creatures which roamed the earth below, all this seemingly in
accordance with some unknown law.

I stood there watching them for some time, until the last ant made off,
following with unerring aim the trail of his fellows. Soon they were
lost to sight. It seemed to me that this last one disappeared under a
log where the Master often sat. I wondered what relation there might
be between them, if in some mysterious way they worked together, for I
remembered that Crip had told me that not only the Master, but even the
ants, sometimes raided our hives, taking our honey. I turned to ask him
to explain, but he was not to be seen among the bees swarming upon the
board. I must find him.



[Illustration: CHAPTER TWELVE

The Wounding of Crip]


Back to the field of battle I hastened.

“Tell me,” I cried in distress, for Crip was lying quite still on the
floor, “what is the matter?”

“Ah, I fear I am done for at last.”

Grieved by his words, I rushed up to him, saluting him, pressing my
tongue to his lips, praying for his life. I felt him all over, and at
last came to a little moist spot on his body, and realized that he had
lost his last basket-leg. I wiped his eyes, and came close to him to warm
him a bit, for he seemed cold and almost lifeless.

“Go your way,” he murmured, dejectedly. “Leave me quite alone. My work
is done; I shall pass. Remember me sometimes when you cleave the air and
salute the sun and our mysterious Master.”

By this time I was overcome with sorrow. My poor dear friend, the very
personification of wisdom, seemed passing out of my life.

“No—don’t—please—don’t talk so mournfully!” I cried. “You will get well.
Do! I so want you to stay with me.”

At this he seemed to stir a little and, with an effort, raised himself on
his remaining legs.

“I cannot walk, you see. I cannot be sure of holding my weight on the
combs, even if I am not bleeding to death.”

I was so shocked that it had not occurred to me to stanch his wound; but
instantly I fell to it most vigorously.

“That will help,” he said. “Do you think I have done well with my life?”
Crip asked. “Do you think I have helped our people?”

I answered that he had been wonderful—that he had worked faithfully for
two houses, and all for the betterment of our race—the Bee.

“You really think me deserving? Then I am happy.”

He seemed suddenly to take on new life, and began to flap his wings for
joy.

After a little pause he again flapped his wings violently. I did not
understand.

“I still can fly!” he exclaimed. “I can fly! Go now, finish your work,”
he commanded. “Perhaps I shall yet be able to labor for a little; but I
want to be as much as possible with you. Go now.”

I went at his word, but when I came to the place of the débris, no scrap
remained. My fellow-workers, alarmed at the news of the worms, had
fallen upon it and borne it all away.

Almost without thinking, I moved slowly toward the door of the hive, for
the afternoon was sultry and there now seemed nothing to do. Indeed, when
I reached the outside the bees were heaped on the board, and they clung
in great masses to the front of the hive.

“What idlers!” thought I. But I quickly realized that there was nothing
in the fields to gather, and further, I knew that our hive was well
stored with bread and honey against any possible contingency.

I made my way through the crowd, and presently I, too, was seized with
the fever of sleep, and, taking my place among a group that clung to the
uppermost front of the hive, I soon fell asleep.

How long I slept I know not, but when again I roused myself a summer moon
was streaming above us, big and gloriously bright. The little dots of
stars that glinted through were almost lost in the sea of light. I could
hear the night hymn of the hive clearly, just as long ago I heard it for
the first time. It was the low, murmured music of a thousand voices.
This hymn of the night was like the throbbing of a muffled Æolian harp.
Mingling with its harmonies rose the dull whirring of many wings set to
the task of driving the sweet night air into the heart of the hive, to
render it tolerable for the little ones dreaming in their cells against a
day of awakening, and for our precious Queen-Mother, brooding through her
watches without end.

Late in the night the air grew chilly, and one by one we drifted inside.
I had been one of the first, for I bethought me of Crip, whom I had left
disconsolate and battered from his fight with the worm. Returning to our
old haunt, he was nowhere to be found. Then I went to the spot of the
combat and there he was, more or less chilled and still sore from the
loss of his leg.

“I thought you had forgotten me,” was his greeting.

“I forget you? Not while I live. I was outside in the night.”

“And the south wind blew? And there were stars?” he asked. “I want to
look upon them once more. Help me, for I can only crawl now. My body can
scarcely be carried by those four little legs, all that I have left. I
don’t know how soon I shall be done for, and then—and then—”

He struggled pitifully in order to reach the front. Try as I might, I
could be of no assistance to him. But by dint of perseverance he finally
gained the threshold and gazed into the night. The moon had drifted far
toward the west, and already the morning star shone with transcendent
brilliancy. The south wind breathed ever so softly through the chaparral,
as it made its way to some hidden goal; and near the borders of the lake
a coyote, in staccato treble, gave warning that the dawn was near.

Crip said nothing, nor did I. How useless are words when there is perfect
understanding. He came close to me, however, and put his face as near
mine as he might, as though he wished to look into the very depths of my
eyes.

“It is well,” he said. “I know.”

Then he turned and dragged himself into the hive. I followed closely. How
sad it was to see so great a soul chained in so broken a body. I stayed
by him, cheering him and encouraging him, until the bugle of the morning
sounded.

“Now you must go,” he commanded. “You have your work to do. Mine is
nearly finished.”

I took a turn in the fields, but there was nothing to report, save
the discovery that the white brush was ready to bloom, and that the
sage-brush and the broomweed promised honey.

Again, for a number of days there was little to do. Toward the noon hour
the September sun blazed with midsummer intensity and the winds were
stifling. This meant that a deal of water was consumed. I was assigned
to help. So, back and forth to the lake I went, ever returning with my
sac filled to bursting. The young bees clamored for water, and it was a
delight to see them scramble for a drink. Again, the front of the hive
was packed with bees idling their day away, if, indeed, it can be said
that they were idle when there was nothing to be done.

Another night passed as before and still another day. Then the news
resounded over the hive that the white brush was opening and that honey
was in the field! There was only the meagerest supply the first day,
but hungry tongues searched out the white tiny bell-shaped flowers. The
next day the flow was heavier, and the third day we began to carry such
quantities that the colony began “to develop a sort of delirium. Every
nook and cranny was being filled, when a strange sound echoed over the
hive.

“What does this mean?” I queried of Buzz-Buzz.

“I don’t know. Let’s find Crip. He can tell us.”



[Illustration: CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Swarming Fever]


We found him at once. “What does this mean?” I cried.

“It means,” said he, “that, late as the season is, the swarming fever has
seized the colony.”

“Why?” we cried.

“Well, we have so much honey and there is so much in the field and the
colony so strong, it can easily spare a force of pioneers to begin a new
colony. Here is the working out of destiny controlling the very life of
the bee.”

Crip spoke enthusiastically, and both Buzz-Buzz and I were fascinated by
his story.

The first thing I knew I, also, was seized with the enthusiasm.
Queen-cells had been started—half a dozen at least. I laid hold and
helped draw out the comb to build up a huge cell, where, in the
mysterious processes of time, a Queen would appear!

Almost against her wishes, the Queen-Mother deposited eggs in the various
cells and began, under mild protest, to expand her brood-chamber in
anticipation of the promised exodus of her children. While she did not
fear that enough would go to imperil the existence of her own colony,
she doubted the wisdom of the enterprise. She discouraged in every way
possible the ardor of the workers who continued to bring in honey until
there was no longer space to store it. Indeed, they crowded the Queen so
that she was driven to despair. The very space she had set aside for her
brood-chamber for the winter was encroached upon and heaped with bread
and honey, but for the nonce there was no stopping them.

Crip said: “You are crazy; it is too late in the season to swarm; it
means extinction.”

But one replied: “It is the law! There is a chance for the swarm to
survive, and the chance must be taken; particularly when the parent
colony shows its ability to survive.”

“Truly said,” added Crip. “I merely wanted to find whether you knew what
the higher law compels.”

But where would the swarm begin a home? This question now began to be
asked. It seemed that nobody thought of the great Master who sat for
hours under the mesquite-tree. Would he not provide a house?

The next day Buzz-Buzz came to me, greatly excited. “You and I and
others are to go into the woods and search for a home for the swarm!”

That was the order. It was enough—we went.

We seemed to know that the only place to look for a home was among the
great oaks that bordered the lake, and thither we betook ourselves. We
flew from tree to tree, exploring every hole we could find in the hope of
discovering a hollow big enough to house a swarm. Three days we spent in
vain. On the fourth we found one, and with great joy we returned home and
reported. Immediately a hundred bees or more were assigned to prepare the
hollow tree for a habitation. Buzz-Buzz and I led the way back, and all
hands fell to cleaning out the cobwebs and the débris of decayed wood.
Several days were spent in this undertaking, and finally the word was
passed that the new home was ready.

But things were not ready with the parent colony. No Queen had emerged
from her cell. From hour to hour the bees marched by impatiently, waiting
for the “click-click” of her mandibles and for sight of them piercing the
wax door to the cell. And there was much speculation as to which of the
half-dozen possible Queens would first emerge. Finally, one day, at high
noon, the rumor ran over the hive that a Queen had been born, and the
excitement became intense. “A Queen! A Queen!”

Crip and I forced our way through the crush to the spot where the Queen
was surrounded by a joyous multitude. He, finally, on account of his
lameness, was compelled to abandon his efforts to pay his homage to the
new-born mother. But I, nothing daunted, persisted, and presently came
near enough to feel her presence. I, too, sang fervently, for a new hope
had risen. Soon in the vast forest of the world a new colony would be
planted to aid in carrying on the eternal work of the bee.

At another corner of the hive I heard a different sound. It was the wail
of a Queen that was being destroyed. I hurried toward her, but somehow
felt no pity for her. A great cluster of bees completely enveloped her;
this was the mode of taking the royal life. All the remaining cells with
their occupants had been cut down, and soon there remained in all the
hive but the one mother and the one daughter. I came upon the destroyed
cells, torn and empty, and could not help mourning the death of the royal
creatures they had housed. Perhaps there had been but minutes between the
births of the Queens, but those minutes had been fatal to the last.

Preparations went steadily on for the day of the exodus. The new Queen
took her first flight successfully; and then came the mating! Only
a few drones had been permitted to escape the massacre of a month
earlier—tolerated on the chance of a lost or a dead Queen—borne with
against a belated mating.

“How wonderful,” Crip observed, “that these things should be provided
for—and how close are life and death!”

It was a hot afternoon when the time came for the nuptial flight, and it
lacked the wild glamour of an earlier one that I had witnessed. On the
first occasion there were literally thousands of drones that went up
toward the heavens in search of the one radiant thing in the world. And
they had all returned save one immortal, who had found and won the Queen,
only to lose his life! Compared with the first flight, this last seemed
commonplace. I should have foregone the opportunity of witnessing the
thin procession, bound on the momentous journey of uniting two lives, so
that the thread of existence might not be cut short for the bee.

I groped about impatiently, awaiting news of the bridal party. It was
not long delayed, for soon there were sounds of rejoicing throughout the
hive; and now the last preparations had been ended and the day was at
hand for the great adventure.

Round and round the hive went the signal that on the morrow the swarm
should go forth to its home in the woods. Quietly and with no bickerings,
the tallies were laid—this one should go, this one should stay—there was
in no case dispute or contest. Each bee accepted the issue with all the
grace of a fatalist. I was one of them.

Really, I was greatly disappointed not to have been chosen to go, for
I had been one of the pioneers and had helped find and prepare the new
home in the live-oak by the clear waters of the beautiful lake. It was a
bitter disappointment, but I uttered no word of complaint. When I came up
with Crip I found he, too, had been left behind.

“Why shouldn’t we have been chosen to go?” I asked, somewhat downcast.

“I am too old—too useless,” Crip answered. “You are young and brave
enough, but battles are to be fought here as well as yonder. And some of
the strong and gallant had need to remain.”

Something in Crip’s look and tone struck me. Was I too old to go? Had
that been the reason? I had heard a cry over the hive that only young
bees should go, for there would be small hope of raising much of a brood
in the new colony through the winter. If it could build comb enough and
gather sufficient honey to feed itself, it would be fortunate.

So, I was not young enough. Until then I had not thought of my age; it
seemed to me that I was still as active as on the day I flew into the sky.

As for Crip, “too useless” seemed a cruel phrase. For who could say what
was the worth of his stores of knowledge? But I could see that he moved
more feebly from day to day.

“Only the strong are to be chosen—the fit? Crip, that bears hard on us.”

“Not a bit of it,” he replied, cheerily. “Take courage; that is the way
of things in the world of the bee.”

Then he added that it would be a hard battle to build a home in the short
space of time allotted and to store food enough to last through the
winter. It meant a fight, for already the glimmerings of the fall were
upon us! Pale shadows of color began to stain the leaves, and the flowers
turned their faces more wistfully each day to the sun. Still, the bees
would go. There was no denying the operation of the law, which commanded
that the chance be taken. The whole law of survival was involved—and
there was none to deny it.

So, all night long murmurings and vague discontents and forebodings and
anticipations ran through the hive. Those marked so mysteriously to go
realized that their lives were at stake and likely to be lost. Yet each
one in the hive would have gone. It was not until late that I learned
that our own mother, my mother, the mother of the hive, was to go away,
leaving her daughter to preside over the destinies of the old. Here, too,
Crip was wont to philosophize.

“You see, our mother is not young,” he began. “If she should perish in
the stress of the winter and the new colony be lost, it would be less
grievous than the loss of this new, vigorous Queen. Besides, our mother
has had experience. She has lived over one winter. She knows how much of
a brood to rear to maintain the strength of the colony—or whether she
dare rear any at all—bearing in mind the while that there must be a fine
adjustment between the mouths to be fed and the total of supplies. She
knows well how to keep this account. Last winter, I am told, our stores
ran low, so low, in fact, that many of our brothers sacrificed their
lives in order to conserve the supplies so as to bring the Queen-Mother
with a few attendants through the long, bitter winter. Not a young bee
was reared until the first flowers had come riotously trampling on the
skirts of the frost. So, you see, _they_ know best. _She_ will lead the
swarm, and perhaps, if the season is late, and the frost slow to come,
they can build their combs and store sufficient honey to bring them
through. Perhaps even spring may come to their rescue, blossoming early.
A late, backward spring, however, might end them, even if they had
escaped the fury of the winter.”

There seemed no end to Crip’s knowledge. Lying there on the comb, he
looked pathetically helpless, and there was a quaver in his voice. I
could see that he was reflecting—that age had dropped upon him heavily on
account of his wounds. Then, stoic that he was, I knew that some morning
I should search in vain for trace of him. Once a bee becomes useless, he
said, there is but one thing for him to do. I knew that Crip was already
contemplating the end. Bitterness for a moment welled up in me at the
thought that so much wisdom should be lost—and so soon. That was the
edict. But, after all, was the wisdom really lost?

Our talk was broken at length by the call of the morning. The first pale
gleams of light filtered through the entrance of the hive. Already there
were murmurings and presently the faint note of the swarm.

Two hours passed—three hours—and now the trumpet sounded for the flight.
Each of the chosen rushed to the nearest cell and filled his sac to
its utmost capacity. Some early-returning foragers, laden with pollen,
heard the signal and made ready to go, carrying with them their loads.
Stores must be taken along to last until comb was built and new supplies
gathered from the fields. Rations for three or four days were thus
provided. When all was ready the trumpet sounded again and the march
began. In the fore went the scouts who were to lead the way to the new
home. Then, following after, came the chosen ones in a mighty multitude,
and lastly the Queen.

Out into the air they flew, then round and round, each one singing the
Song of the Swarm, which could be heard afar off. Round and round in a
dizzy circle they flew, but in an ever-widening whirl. The scouts, I
could hear from my point of vantage at the door, were becoming impatient.
The Queen had been delayed, and until word of her presence among them was
spoken, they could only circle about. Or else, failing that word, they
could and would return to the hive. But at the height of their impatience
the glad word came, “The Queen is here!”

Then they delayed no longer, but started in a whirlwind flight toward the
lake and to their new home, uttering, as they drew away, that marvelously
wild and moving song which pulsed with the tremors of life and death.



[Illustration: CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Perils]


Crip and I were sober and silent.

From the alighting-board we watched them draw away and disappear, and
were on the eve of turning into the hive, when up came the Master
breathlessly. He stopped and gazed at the retreating cloud, knowing too
well what had happened. He knew, too, by their actions, that a home had
been prepared for their reception. He seemed surprised to think that the
bees should swarm so late in the season, and not a little chagrined to
think they could have done it under his eyes. His curiosity at once led
him to find whence the swarm had come, and he walked straight to our
hive. A few excited bees were still flying back and forth, but Crip and
I, like the condemned, stood stolidly and wondered.

His lips moved, but he said no word; he turned on his heels and went away.

Shortly, however, he returned, the little Shadow with him. They were
talking of the swarming, for he pointed the way the bees had gone. In his
hand he held that horrid smoking thing, and Crip and I both knew what
that meant. He would open our house. I resented this, for I remembered
the smoke in my eyes when he took the top off our hive and lifted out
frame after frame, taking away from us part of our honey. I remembered,
too, how I longed to sting him, but how all my efforts were unavailing,
for he had hidden himself under a screen. And yet I really did not want
to sting him. Just why I flew at him I could not understand.

“He is angry with us now,” said Crip. “He knows we are insane. He
probably will take away our honey and leave us to starve, as we merit. We
have proven our short-sightedness and have lost our right to survive.”

“No, he will not do that,” I replied.

On the instant I seemed no longer to distrust him; I remembered his
kindness to me on a day when, overladen, a gust of wind had felled me to
the earth. He had placed me on a twig, where, after disgorging part of my
load, and washing my body and my wings, I again made way to my home.

But it was certain that we should know his intentions shortly, for, on
coming close, he sent a puff of smoke into the entrance that choked and
blinded both Crip and me and the guards, and sent us scurrying into the
hive. Then, passing the smoker to the Little Master, he carefully lifted
off the top and the upper section of our hive, and began an inspection
of the brood-chamber. He seemed to be right happy at discovering that
the queen-cells had been destroyed, which carried the assurance to his
mind that no further swarming was in contemplation; but when his eyes
fell upon the new Queen-Mother, they widely distended and a smile of joy
lighted his face.

“Wonderful creature,” he murmured.

The little Shadow cried: “Let me see. Isn’t she a beauty!”

By this time the smoke had cleared away and my disposition had changed. I
said to Crip that we ought to attack them. But he answered that it would
be folly now—that only evil would result. Further parleying was cut short
by a blast of smoke shot at us by the Little Master, who apparently had
discerned outward signs of the rebellion, for my body was poised and I
suppose I must have been emitting the note of anger. The smoke sent us
all flying into a remote corner of the hive.

Then the Master replaced the section of hive he had removed, and began
to lift frame after frame, uttering little exclamations, as though he
had not suspected that we had gathered such quantities of honey in so
short and late a season. It was easy for him now to understand why we had
developed the swarming fever, although it evidently appeared to him a
foolish adventure.

“He has been dreaming in his rose-garden,” commented Crip, when the
Master had nearly finished his examination. “That is the reason he has
neglected us of late. He did not know there had been a great flow of
honey.”

We were talking among ourselves, when up came Buzz-Buzz, angry from the
smoke in his eyes.

“A fine lot this fellow,” he growled.

“You don’t like him?” I asked.

He just looked at us. He was too irritated to speak.

“He’ll get over it,” mused Crip.

We were still holding converse when again the top came off and one by
one the Master lifted out our combs and robbed them of their honey. They
were battered and broken and empty when he restored them to us. We were
all infuriated, and for a while flew madly about him and about the Little
Master—the dog kept at a respectful distance—straining every effort to
drive them away. But the Little One only smoked us the more, while the
Master went on with his work. He was careful to kill no bee, brushing
off every one of them before taking away the combs of honey, and while
returning them.

Quickly it was all over. When he had gone we at once took stock and found
that he had left us quite enough to carry us through the winter, barring
accident. But almost before the appraisal had been made a catastrophe
was upon us. The honey from a broken comb had flooded the bottom-board,
and began to pour out through the entrance onto the ground, and robber
bees were shortly upon it. We summoned all our guards for our protection,
but the robbers in thousands came, and in spite of our resistance they
forced their way into the hive and began to plunder at random. Poor old
Crip even mixed in the mêlée, fighting like a veteran, while I, beaten
and trampled, finally lay senseless on the floor.

We should have been lost but for the thoughtfulness of the Master, who,
returning to see that all was well, found us besieged and overrun. He
quietly closed the entrance to our hive, and thus left us to clear it
of the marauders within doors, which we did promptly, although at heavy
cost in the lives of our brothers. An hour later he returned and opened
ever so slightly our door. Although a few robbers still lingered and
endeavored to force an entrance, they were easily beaten off. In the mean
time we carefully cleaned up the spilled honey which had nearly been our
undoing—and the battle was over.

The night came and we cleared our house of the dead. Scattered
indiscriminately they lay—friend and foe—many score of them. Among them
I found the veteran who had been kind to me, with the mark of a lance in
his breast. Certain it was that he had died fighting bravely. I had found
his body, and I determined to keep it by me through the night, and on
the morrow I meant to give a fitting burial. I remembered a high knoll
overlooking the lake and the country round about, and there I said he
should be laid to rest. I told Crip of my purpose, and he applauded me,
and together we watched over him. More than once we almost had to fight
to prevent the cleaners from taking his body away.

On the morrow, in the early dawn, I dragged him forth and, taking him in
my mandibles, flew away with him, dropping him on the knoll. The poor old
veteran! Somehow I had gained the notion that one day he would awake, and
from that vantage-point find himself nearer the stars.

We now began another chapter in the life of our colony. We were left with
none too much honey, and, besides, our numbers had been greatly depleted
by the exodus and by the assault of the robbers. Our Queen-Mother
immediately organized her followers and sent us all scouring the fields
for additional foods. Thanks to the late season, there still remained an
abundant harvest. Soon we had replenished our supplies to a point where
we could rest comfortably, and our good mother set about rearing just
enough brood to have us weather the winter safely. But we never stopped
work. Day after day we gathered bread and honey.

“We cannot have too much,” said Crip. “You see, since you have not gone
through a winter you have much to learn. It is no simple business.
Frightful northers sweep down upon us and chill us and kill us. Sometimes
it grows so cold the young bees are frozen in their cells. They must then
be removed, or else sickness and disease will follow. Sometimes, too, if
stores run low and our numbers fall below a certain point, we ourselves
can no longer keep warm. That means death for us all.”

“But we have plenty of stores,” I replied. “We have nothing to fear.”

“There are always fears. An animal running wild may topple over your
house; a bad man may slip in and steal your supplies; a moth may enter
and lay eggs producing destructive worms; a bear may chance to find you
and with his great paws rend the hive asunder!”

“Stop!” I cried. “If there are yet other dangers, I do not wish to know
them.”

“But it is well to know. There are diseases to combat, such as dysentery,
paralysis, and foul brood—”

“Oh, stop!” I begged him.

Was life really such a hazard? so perilous a journey? And all for what?
Toward what misty goal?

It was a glorious day in October. The Indian summer had come, flooding
all the hills and vales with its magical sheets of amethyst, while a
drowsy wind from the south bore on its breath the odor of autumn. Now
and then that indefinable note, presaging the advent of winter—a note
which is neither a requiem nor a dirge—could be heard like a faint flute
in the branches of the trees. The sun shone big and round and still
with a suggestion of summer. Scattered clouds went drifting lazily by,
wonderfully emphasizing the turquoise blue of the sky.

“Is it going to rain?” I asked of Crip, who was dragging himself along on
the alighting-board, ready for a new excursion into the woods.

“No,” he mumbled.

It had been weeks since my experience in the flood, but ever after that
when a cloud was in the sky I bethought me of rain. But I had now come to
know that rains were something more than clouds.

Crip and I had been laboring to fill adjoining cells. We had already
gathered many loads of honey that day. “I’m tired,” he said, right
plaintively. “I can’t do as much as I could once.”

“Why don’t you rest?” I begged of him.

“Rest! What word is that? Did ever a bee rest when there was work to do?”

With that he hobbled a little farther on his four legs, his poor old body
half carried and half dragged. But his wings were still powerful and
lifted him instantly into the all-absorbing space.

This time I took an entirely different direction from any I had thus far
traveled. On and on I flew, mile after mile, until presently I scented
something and went for it. It proved to be a field of June corn, in silk
and tassel—and, oh, what quantities of pollen! I gathered a little and
hastened back to report. Almost at once a string of my brothers were
flying to and fro, laden with bread.

We had now stored up a great surplus of food, and the Queen-Mother
broadened her brood areas. She deemed it wise to enlarge her family;
first, because she had a premonition that a wild winter would soon break
upon us, and, for the further reason, that half the battle was to be
strong in numbers in the spring, when the honey-fountains opened.

When I returned with my last load, well toward sunset, I found Crip
waiting at our rendezvous, my ancient cell.

“You have done well to-day,” he said, “and I wanted to tell you so. Five
miles is a long journey to go for a load, but it was worth it. I, too,
made one trip—but have pity on me—only when I got there did I remember
that I had no basket-legs; hence I was forced to return empty-handed. It
is too much for me to bear. I am old and useless.”

I could not stand to hear him depreciate himself in such fashion, and
remonstrated with him.

“Well, it’s too true,” he persisted. “Some day you will understand.”



[Illustration: CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A Midnight Adventure]


I did not answer Crip, for at the moment I was notified that I should
take my turn at guard duty, and I went at once to report.

It was now fast growing dark, and the last workers were dropping on the
alighting-board and groping their way into the hive. It was the duty of
guards to inspect all who entered, and to keep out bugs and ants and
intruders. More than a score of guards, I among them, kept a continuous
patrol before the entrance; and all went well until far into the night.

The Master with his little Shadow had passed among us as if to bid us
good night, and had gone. The moon was now rising, and a mocking-bird in
a neighboring tree had been rendering melodies without number. There was
no sound in all the world save the mocking-bird’s song that ebbed and
flowed in ever wilder cadence. High above his perch he would soar into
the moonlight, and as he dropped again—his little gray body looking like
a bit of mist—he would almost burst his throat with rapturous song. Often
had I heard him sing, but never had he so completely abandoned himself to
the sheer frenzy of it—and at such an hour!

“He’s making the best of it, for soon the winter will come and his songs
will cease,” observed a guard.

“But what glorious singing!” added another.

While we were talking a guard suddenly gave an alarm. He had either
scented or seen an enemy; but doubt was immediately removed, for the raw
smell of an animal was borne in to us. We paused and prepared for an
attack. Our wings were buzzing at intervals and our stings were ready to
strike. And none too soon, for in a moment more a monstrous animal stuck
his nose into the entrance of our hive. Instantly we all flew at him,
some landing in his face and some on his body. But only those that struck
his face succeeded in stinging him, for the hair was too long on his body.

I was unfortunate enough to have been one of those landing on his back,
and immediately found myself so entangled in his hair that I could
neither sting him nor free myself. I struggled in vain, and my efforts
were rendered more difficult on account of the mad capers he cut in
escaping from the spot. The moment we flew at him and stung him about
the head, he turned somersaults and cried like a cat in torment, while
he fled madly. So wildly did he fly that he banged squarely into a
neighboring hive and nearly upset it. Then he collided with weeds and
brush and cacti—in fact, I now suspect he could see nothing. Certainly he
cared not what lay in his road.

I can think of it calmly, now that I am safely back, but while I rode
unwillingly upon his back I thought each instant would be my last. After
vainly trying to reach his body in order to sting him, I gave over
and endeavored to free myself. What with the buzzing of many pairs of
wings in his ears, and the pain from the stings, he fled like the wind.
Presently, however, he stopped suddenly and tried to reach me with his
claws. Then he did his best to crush me with his teeth, snarling and
whining betimes. He did crush some of my brother guards; but I was just
back of his ears, and he could not reach me. However, I may add I almost
wished he had, for his breath was horrible. I never could abide the
breath of any living thing.

Soon he gave over and set out running again at top speed. I had abandoned
myself for lost, when a bush scraped me out of my entanglement and I fell
half dead to the ground. But the would-be robber never stopped, for I
could hear the brush rattling in his wake. He still fled incontinently,
as though he feared another attack, as though his very life depended on
his rate of speed.

I lay there for a moment, scarcely able to move. But what could I do? The
moon was still bright, but bright as it was, the way back home was dark.
Instinctively, I turned to a friendly bush and made my way to the topmost
branch, and there I planted myself for the rest of the night.

The wind was blowing lustily. I did not like the threshing back and forth
of the branches in the gloom, with the chance of being knocked off at
any moment. I could not think calmly of crawling on the ground, for Crip
had told me this was a thing to be avoided at all hazards. Scorpions and
beetles and toads and snakes made the night perilous. So I clung to the
branch with all my might. Now and again a pause in the wind would allow
me to look up at the stars through the screen of leaves—and how dear
and wonderful they were! Long ago I had thought how beautiful it must
be up there in the blue space, fretted with tiny lights no bigger than
the candle burning in the window of the Master’s house. And even then,
as I turned, I could see his lamp, and I almost started to fly toward
it. There was a fascination in its beams which I could scarcely resist.
Always, when on guard duty, at any hour of the night, I had been able
to see his light and to hear the bark of his dog. He seemed never to
sleep—or if he slept the lamp and the dog kept watch over him.

The blustering wind finally had compassion on me and ceased altogether.
There came a silence that was more than silence. I felt it oppressive.
Then, as if a pause had been made for them, the crickets and katydids
began a frightful chattering, which was punctuated betimes by the far
hooting of an owl. The air grew chilly, and I began to feel cold and
stiff, and held none too securely to my bush. It was a fortunate thing, I
thought, that the wind had died away.

How tired I was! This had been one of the hardest days of my life. As I
reflected on it, it seemed very long ago that it began; and I heartily
wished for the dawn. I must have drowsed awhile, for when again I looked
about me a mellow light brooded on the horizon and a great star beamed
above it. Soon wide streams of gold flowed across the pale-blue sky,
quenching the fires of the stars. Then, as if in compensation for their
loss, fleecy Gulf clouds caught the early rays of the sun and filled the
world with showers of rainbow lights.

Presently I could see well enough to rise on my wings, and in spite of
the chill in the air, up I went until I got my bearings. A strange fit
seized me. “Fly to the sun!” I heard in my ears; and off I went. Up and
up I flew—higher and higher—until below me I could scarcely see the white
houses of the apiary where I lived and the white house of the Master. But
under me the waters of Lake Espantoso glimmered like a mirror, and in the
dark fringe of trees that bordered it I remembered a swarm of my little
brothers had taken refuge, and I wondered how they fared. Far as I could
see stretched the undulating hills over which I had flown in search of
treasure—hills now clad in their robes of autumn. A fragrance reached me
at this great height, which came from I knew not where.

I had wheeled about and started home, when I caught sight of the Master
wandering dreamily in his garden. Then immediately I knew that the
fragrance came from his beautiful roses. Many a time had I flown over
the place, marveling at the flowers. Indeed, I had gathered honey from
the honeysuckle that climbed on the walls of his house and from the
crêpe-myrtle hard by. But the roses—ah, the roses! I loved to drop into
their hearts and to breathe the sweet breath of their lives. So again,
without thinking, I flew down and down until I reached the garden and
sank into a rose to rest. I felt tired, ever so tired. When I emerged
there was the Master fondling a rose; I circled slowly past him and
around him. He saw me at once, and a tender look came into his eyes.
Reluctantly I left him caressing his roses, and flew rapidly home.



[Illustration: CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TIDINGS OF WOE]


It was still so early that a chill enveloped the world and the workers
awaited the sun. I rushed to where I knew I should find Crip, and
breathlessly began the narrative of my adventure.

“I know just about what happened,” he ventured, when he had expressed his
joy at seeing me, for he knew that I had been on duty and that a number
of the guards had been lost. “I wept not a little for you. Yes, it was a
racoon,” he repeated. “You will remember I told you about them. They are
crazy over honey.”

He was deeply interested in the account of my mad and unwilling ride.

Then I told him of my visit to the garden, and of the Master. He made no
reply, but presently asked:

“What do you know of the Master?”

“Little—very little.”

“Do you know that lately I’ve been wondering whether I have been fair
to him? Once I was perfectly sure that he was an enemy to be fought on
all occasions, that he made use of us only for selfish ends. Now I am
beginning to think I was wrong. While he has taken our honey, he has
always left us enough. Last winter, I am told, he actually brought a lot
of honey and gave it to the colonies that had none. Besides, before we
came in contact with men, we lived in caves and hollow trees, exposed to
all manner of enemies. It is different now.”

We were still busy talking when the signal for work rang through the
hive, and both Crip and I made our way to the front. And, as many times
before, we rose from the board together and flew at once to the field
of broomweed. Side by side we ranged, visiting many of the tiny yellow
flowers ere we were laden. Everything was now painfully dry, and it was
all too evident that the honey flow was over. Try as hard as we might,
we gathered only a few loads a day. And Crip remarked how short the days
were and how far into the south the sun had drifted. Then, besides, we
were obliged to leave off earlier, on account of the cold.

“The leaves are all turning red and brown and yellow,” said Crip, as we
flew homeward. “This is the melancholy time I’ve heard about. Even the
wind seems sad and loiters around bush and tree as though he feared his
caressing touch might hasten the down-dropping of the stricken leaves.
Happy, I’m sad, too.”

I could only answer him that I of all bees was one of the most unhappy.
And at the moment I was stricken with a feeling of homesickness, as
though I, too, were bound on a journey toward the setting sun, or as
though an unmeasured catastrophe impended.

As we neared home we saw the Master and his little Shadow seated by our
hive, and near them, sprawling on the ground, the faithful dog. The
Master was watching the incoming bees. Well he knew by the burdens they
bore the condition of the fields.

“The workers are coming home very light,” remarked the Shadow. “Just a
little bread.”

“The season is ended,” murmured the Master. “Soon they will go indoors
and rest through the cold. We must come presently and take off the empty
uppers, so as to concentrate the heat of the cluster. In that way they
will conserve their stores. The cluster, you know, son, is formed by the
bees covering over the brood and hanging on to one another so as to keep
themselves and the young bees warm.”

Crip and I deposited our loads and then returned to the alighting-board,
but the speakers had gone. We could hear the Master singing in his
garden; and from a mesquite-tree hard by a mocking-bird answered him. All
too soon he ceased; and the bird, after trilling a few wild refrains,
as though to coax him to return, dropped into silence. For a time not a
sound was heard, then the bird broke out again in a most plaintive song.
He seemed to summon his phrases from the depths of despair.

Twilight had now quite engulfed the world. Crip, who had been for a time
very still, began to stir restlessly.

“Happy, that is my passing song. How could the bird have known that this
very night I shall cleave the air for the last time? Yes, I mean it.
Please don’t interrupt me. The year has gone—I have done my work. I am a
cripple, and my wings are tattered. I shall be a burden, eating the food
that may be needed ere the harvest again is ripe. My time has come—and I
must go into the dark. This is the law. Why should not bees fly away and
never return? How much grander to pass away on the wing, hushed to sleep
by the stars. How poor a thing it is to cling to the combs until death
shall drag one down to the earth, there to embarrass one’s brothers.

“My work is done. My body is wrecked, and the golden call echoing from
eternity is in my ears. I must go. You, Happy, have much to do ere your
time shall come. But you will face life bravely.

“How can I thank you enough for having saved my life? Do you think I have
done well? Have I worked faithfully? Hero, you say? No, not a hero; but
I have tried to do the things that came to my hand; and that is all that
one can do. That sums up the true meaning of life—service and duty done.

“Hear the bird! What a song for the night! Ah, but what music I shall
hear soon when I fly out across the spaces of light! I am ready. I love
you. Farewell—farewell.”

Crip had turned about for the last time, and was ready to go, when a
heartrending cry woke the innermost caverns of the hive. He staggered a
little, for he knew its meaning. I stood puzzled and amazed.

“What is it?” I begged of him.

“The worst of news—our Queen is dead!” he echoed.

“Let us go to her at once.”

In we went, and while I was shaken by the news which I did not fully
comprehend, I was sobered and silent. I should probably have had no
thought of death at all had I known what lay before us, the midnight ways
we were to tread.



[Illustration: CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Death of the Queen]


As we hurried in search of her, on all sides there was wailing:
“Ai—ai—ai! Woe—woe—woe! Our Queen is dead!”

A spirit of dread and disaster filled the place and shook us mightily.
Crip said never a word.

“I remember you told me once you had lost your Queen-Mother—that was the
time I found you in the hive that we robbed. You were going to tell me
about it.”

“Yes; but now it is too late—it is terrible. You do not understand—”

At length we came to where she lay asleep on the bottom-board of the
house she had graced for so short a space. Around her surged her
children, weeping for the queenly dead.

“She had been ill but a few days,” one said.

“She has not been well since the robbery,” added another.

“She was hurt in the fight,” put in a third.

“But she did not complain,” answered another.

Crip and I now in our turn came into the presence of the Queen lying
prone on the floor, her wings draped about her. There were present
none of the trappings of the dead, nor anything to show that she was
not asleep, so peacefully she lay there. I came presently face to face
with her, and once I had looked into her eyes I saw that the vision had
vanished, that the spirit had gone.

I turned away sick at heart, wailing I know not what black hymn of
despair. Crip, too, I had lost, and I feared he had gone on his long
journey. I seemed to sink into a bottomless abyss.

Soon I had partially recovered my composure. The commotion which
had swept the colony slowly subsided, although there still ran an
undercurrent of anxiety. What should we do? That part of the intelligence
of the bee which has to grapple with such emergencies had been active on
the instant.

“The Queen is dead—long live the Queen,” was the low, reverential chorus.

“Three Queens have been ordained,” ran the cry.

Without knowing why, I hurried to the place which had been chosen for the
wax-cell palaces—and there was Crip! He appeared to be the leader, and I
was overjoyed to see him.

“You’ve found something more to do,” I said to him. “I’m so glad.”

“You see, I’m one of the oldest—”

“Don’t look so dejected,” Crip volunteered to those about him.
“Hurry—hurry! Soon we shall have another Queen to reign over us.”

And now magic began to intervene—or miracle. Three cells with three tiny
larvæ, two days old, were selected, and over these the great cell-palaces
were erected. But more mysterious was the feeding of these tiny things,
which under normal conditions would emerge workers. Think, then, of the
transformation which will produce a Queen! Thanks to a secret buried in
the heart of the bee, the worker, it is supposed, is converted, through
feeding, into a Queen. Crip told me all this in his cheerful way; and he
assumed so much importance in looking after the destinies of the three
royal personages, that once or twice I was irritated at his conduct.

“Why three Queens?” I inquired, one day. “We need only one.”

“To make sure that _one_ will survive. The bee takes no chance where it
can be avoided.”

The embryonic Queens grew rapidly, and in due season the doors of the
palaces were sealed, not to be broken until her ladyship herself should
choose to bite her way to the light.

The days were now being counted, even the hours, against the time when
She would appear! Once more a little life was manifest in the hive.
Workers went scouring the country for forage, and every bee found
something to do, so happy were they in anticipation of the coming event.

The Master, too, had shown much interest in us. On one of the early days
of our trouble, in passing, he had discovered our condition.

“They have lost their Queen,” he said to the little Shadow. “You can
tell that by their movements. Everything is now in confusion. Let us
see whether they have eggs or young larvæ available for the making of a
Queen.”

With that he opened our hive and found the queen-cells.

“Here are cells already,” he commented, a gleam of satisfaction on his
grave face.

“Let me see!” cried the Shadow, poking a little, curious face around a
corner of the hive.

The Master knew at a glance the age of the Queens, for the cells had
not been sealed; he knew that on such a day one would come forth amid
the acclaim of a colony which had languished between hope and fear—life
and death. So now, from day to day, with his little Shadow, he passed,
pausing in front of the hive long enough to discover whether the great
event had occurred.

It was on a day golden with a sun steeped in the waning glory of an
Indian summer that the Queen emerged and took her throne. Crip and I had
gone to the lake for a load of water, and we should probably not have
missed the event had we not, out of curiosity, returned by the hollow
tree which our brothers of the swarm had occupied. We flew up to the very
entrance; the workers were filing past in a great stream, humming a note
of content.

“They will survive,” I said to Crip. “The season has been a late one, and
they must have gathered ample stores.”

We were in jubilant mood, on account of this discovery, which chimed in
perfectly with conditions at home, for even before we alighted the sound
of rejoicing reached us.

“A Queen has been born! A Queen! A Queen!”

We found a throng mad with rejoicings. Crip and I edged our way in, eager
to pay our homage, thrilling at the thought that a new lease of life for
the colony had been vouchsafed. We reached the place of the palace-cells,
only to find them in ruins. Excited bees were razing the last buttresses,
while echoing from all sides were: “A new mother has come! A Queen!”
Presently two beautiful Queens were led to execution, for one had been
crowned—and one only might rule the hive.

Order was restored, and things went normally until the nuptial day. In
the life of the colony there is no equally vital event. Destiny waits on
the mating of the Queen.

On a wonderfully fine, warm day, at the noon hour, she made ready for
flight. Already in the air could be heard the roar of the drones,
that groped about in search of the queenly presence. And now from the
alighting-board she rose into the crystal blue. Crip and I, for no
reason, followed, not near enough, however, to encroach on the sacred
precincts. Higher and higher she climbed, now pursued by some scores of
drones. Round and round in mazy flight they whirled until the heavens
seemed dizzy, and the ultimate moment had arrived, when a yellow flash
crossed the sky and fluttered in their midst—a bee-bird.

“Fly for your life!” a drone cried. “Fly—fly!”

A moment later it was all over, and a silent doomed procession dropped
earthward—the Queen was missing—the bee-bird had caught her.

The news spread instantly. I had been among the first to make report of
it.

“We shall all die together now,” said Crip, in dejection. “It is only
a matter of days. We have no eggs, no larvæ, and may not rear another
mother. Alas—alas!”



[Illustration: CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Crip and the Imposter]


On the earlier occasion of the loss of the Queen there had been a brief
spasm of despair; but it had yielded, for the possibility of rearing
another rose uppermost. Now that possibility had vanished. There was
absolutely no hope. Death stalked abroad, and one by one, the eldest
first, the bees would go to their doom. There were no young bees to take
their places, nothing but dust and darkness.

Several days passed, when one morning a great cry rang through the hive
that eggs had been found and that queen-cells had been started. It was a
strange and pathetic mystery, for we knew that we had no Queen, and yet
exulted over the finding of eggs.

Still hoping beyond hope, we tried to create a Queen from the eggs—all in
vain. The eggs we now found deposited freely—one, two, or half-a-dozen
in a cell—were the eggs of an impostor, a would-be Queen, called a
fertile worker.

Strangely enough, too, we began to work in a half-hearted way, gathering
honey, feeding the brood of the impostor, and yet we knew or seemed to
know that there would emerge but worthless drones. Hope still lingered in
our hearts, but daily it grew more faint until despair overcame us.

One morning Crip and I were brooding over our affairs when we saw the
Master and his Shadow approaching. They stopped near us.

“Something has happened,” said the Master; “something is wrong. We do not
need the smoker. Here, son, lend me a hand!”

“A fertile worker—an impostor!” he exclaimed, on lifting up a frame from
the brood-chamber. “See those eggs dropped haphazard! A Queen never does
that.”

“Why, there are six in one cell!” cried the Shadow.

“Run, son, and bring me that Italian Queen in the new cage.”

In a few minutes the cry of a Queen rang through the hive. Crip and I
flew toward it, and presently paused beside the trap which contained a
most beautiful Queen. But she was not _our_ Queen, and now a riot was
started. “Kill her—kill her!” broke on all sides. While Crip and I took
no part, we entered no protest—we stood almost alone.

Over the cage, biting and clawing, a mob of bees, incited partly by
the impostor, endeavored to reach the royal personage. They meant to
kill her; first, because she was not of our tribe; secondly, because
the impostor had come to own an ascendency over the colony. It was a
strange fate, as Crip explained, that we should cling to an impostor and
die rather than bring an alien to reign over us. But Crip and I were
thinking, and so were many of our little brothers. Crip, on occasion, now
gave her food through the wire screen; while I found it convenient to
hang about the place. In the mean time the impostor spread her vile brood
over the hive, and kept up her conspiracy against the Queen the Master
had given us.

Several days passed, and the Master, returning, found what he thought
a reconciliation. He opened the cage and out walked the most beautiful
Queen I had ever seen, except my own Queen-Mother. Instantly, however, a
troop of hostile bees, evidently led by the impostor, fell upon her, and
in a moment she was in the center of a “ball” and being slowly crushed to
death.

The Master was watching, however, and quickly rescued her and restored
her to the cage.

“They are not ready to receive her, son,” he said. “In fact, unless we
can destroy the fertile worker, that horrid impostor, we may not succeed.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Crip, to me that night as we stood by the cage
and listened to the regal call of the Queen, “that I shall fight the
first bee that comes near her.”

“And so shall I.”

Crip had just given her some honey, and was standing near her on the
screen when an ugly bee, unusually large, came up and caught hold of one
of her legs which had protruded through the meshes of the cage. He laid
hold of it and pulled it with all his might, and the Queen began to cry
with pain, when Crip rushed to the rescue.

A terrific battle ensued. I tried to help, and did seize the vicious
bee by one wing, only to be kicked off. But Crip had grappled him in
his vise-like mandibles, and I saw it was a battle to the death. Over
and over they whirled, finally to fall to the bottom of the hive—still
fighting. I followed as fast as I might, and when I reached where they
lay they had ceased to struggle—both were dead.

A lance wound in his heart had finished my beloved friend.

“Crip—Crip!” I cried aloud; but got no answer. One little foot moved a
few times, then was still.

Almost simultaneously an alarm sounded. The impostor had disappeared.

I shook with an unrestrained emotion. “We are saved,” I thought.

“Where is our Queen? The Queen is gone!” they called.

A wild rush of bees set the hive in pandemonium. Finally one began to
cry: “Here she is—she is dead.”

“Dead—dead!” rose loud over the place.

They were wailing over the lifeless body of the impostor, while I stood
broken-hearted beside my Crip, who, at the sacrifice of his life, had
redeemed that of the colony.



[Illustration: CHAPTER NINETEEN

FAREWELL]


Two days later the Master came and opened the door of the cage, and the
new Queen he had brought walked boldly out on the combs, to be wildly
acclaimed, “Mother!” The hostility which had been displayed toward her
had totally disappeared, and in its place had come affection. The death
of the impostor had wrought a profound revolution, and everywhere my poor
Crip was proclaimed a hero.

Within the space of an hour every egg and every young bee which the
impostor had left was dragged out and cast to the ants; and almost at
once the new Queen began to deposit eggs of her kind, and the hymn of
rejoicing that welled up in that hive of many calamities cannot well be
imagined. I think that I more than any other was moved to the bottom of
my being.

It is not possible for me to express the loneliness which came over me
at thought of Crip’s death. We had been such dear companions, and he had
been so kind and wise.

When another day had dawned and the sun had sufficiently warmed the air,
I went into the fields with the rest, but I seemed to wander as in a
dream. All the while the desire possessed me to fly farther and farther
away. Had I, too, lived out my period of usefulness? But Crip said that I
had not, and I acted in this faith.

On my next excursion into the fields I felt a tremor in the air such as
I remembered from another time, when the storm had broken. Black clouds,
too, loomed on the horizon and little snake-like flames crawled in and
out among them. This time I was not so eager to secure a load, and made
off with all possible speed. Scarcely had I reached home when the rain
began to fall in sheets and the thunder rattled frightfully. In a little
while it was over; the sky was clear, but a dreadful wind from the north
blew like a hurricane and it grew cold. By the next day it was so cold
that we formed a cluster about the brood in order to keep it warm. We,
too, were cold, and not a bee ventured from the hive.

Three days passed ere it was warm enough for us to look outside; and when
I saw the world again, truly I was shocked. Everything was black and bare.

“The frost has fallen, not a flower remains alive,” mournfully exclaimed
one of the nurses.

This was surely the winter of which I had heard so much. Happily, the
Master came to our assistance by closing the door of our house, leaving
but the smallest hole for our passage. This helped greatly in the matter
of our keeping warm when the northers swooped upon us.

The season now alternated between moderately warm days and biting weeks
of cold. On all days fit for flight, we sailed into the air for exercise
and for the care of our bodies.

Close, close to one another we packed during the cold days and nights,
and in this way generated enough heat to keep the hive warm and
habitable. Life was monotonous. We were limited in our activities to
caring for the brood and to policing the hive. There was little enough
to do on the latter score, save on warm days. Then we searched out every
nook and corner to see that the moth had not entered, for she was the
mother of the web-worms, and I, for one, had the utmost respect for them.
Sometimes harmless beetles were found, and, much as we hated to send them
into the cold, we felt it must be done. Sometimes they went peacefully,
but often enough we were compelled to drag them bodily forth—and
occasionally we were forced to destroy them.

And so the days ran on. As for me, I employed them in meditation. What
could be more conducive to reflection than the long, dark hours of quiet
that reign in a winter-bound hive? Slowly, ever so slowly, I neared the
end of my task.

And now I have come to the end. There remains only to tell what these
last days held for me. Already the winter has gone and I am ready. Even
as poor Buzz-Buzz, I feel that my labors are done. I am old and worn and
need to make way for the young life which is already singing about me.
The Queen-Mother, aware of conditions, has been scattering her brood over
wide spaces, and already young bees, flapping their wings frantically,
are stumbling over the combs, and hundreds more of them soon will be
waiting for the signal to go into the fields. Eagerly will they try their
first wings and eagerly will they gather from the flowers the pollen and
honey that unfailingly come with the spring.

Even as I—even as a hundred thousand generations before me—will
they marvel at the mysteries that surround them, but, undaunted and
undismayed, they will fly into the face of the sun or struggle in the
teeth of the hurricane! It is youth that knows no danger, that brooks no
defeat, that pursues, that conquers. It is youth that constructs, that
hopes, that achieves—youth that charges the heavens with glory!

Crip was right. Now age has torn my wings and rendered my body nearly
useless. While I am still alive, I am among the dying—but, dying, I shall
live again.

February has come and already the grass is green and the yellow
catclaw-buds are bursting. The great tree that stands hard by is a-bloom.
The alarm has been sounded, and out into the world the bees fly by tens
and hundreds. I, too, cannot resist the call and rise into the air,
driving toward a place I well remember. Sheltered from the north wind and
exposed to the sun, a little slope lies dotted with daisies. In its midst
a catclaw-tree sways like a golden ball in the breeze, and about it hum
a score of bees. I, too, gather my load and wend my way homeward, but at
heart I am weary. I had imagined that I alone knew of this particular
spot. Alas! there are no secrets.

Flying out again, I took another course—one which led me over the
Master’s cottage. There he was in his garden, pondering his roses. Round
him I circled twice, thrice, until, perceiving me, he followed me with
his eyes until I passed from his vision.

Then on I went to the place of the sunflowers, but where once had been
beautiful blossoms the green grass waved in triumph.

It seemed to me that a never-ending night followed this excursion. I
rested little or none; back and forth I raced from end to end of the
hive, and from the entrance to my cell, which I had not forgotten.
I passed and re-passed the Queen-Mother at her tasks, touching her
reverently as one might touch the garment of a saint.

At length the gray light broke along the horizon and gleams of color
pierced the low-lying clouds. My time had come. I felt the call, and
there was no denying the command.

For a moment I seemed in a maze. Round and round I turned, like a child
lost in the wilderness, then made straight for the entrance, where
already a few of the hardier and younger workers were assembled, waiting
for the light. How restless they seemed; how they longed to be off in the
world; how alluring the unattained; how fascinating the great adventure
of life!

       *       *       *       *       *

As best I might, I have told my story, and here it must end. I have
striven; I have dreamed; and as far as ever it comes to God’s creatures,
I have been—HAPPY. Farewell!

[Illustration: THE END]



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