GOOD MRS. BEE
“GETTING tired?” asked Billy as Mary Frances finished planting the last
of her radish seeds.
“Not so very,” answered Mary Frances, “but I would like to take a
little rest,” sitting down on the garden bench. “Doesn’t everything
look lovely—the beds all laid out, and neat as biscuits in a baking
pan!”
“It is some garden, believe me!” agreed Billy, wiping his brow. “I
guess I’ll stop for a few minutes, too,” throwing himself down at the
foot of the tree.
“Oh, Billy, you oughtn’t to lie there on the ground,” chided Mary
Frances; “you’ll take your death of cold.”
“Ha! Ha!” roared Billy, getting up. “Yes, Grandmother, certainly, your
darling grandchild understands your kind admonition and obeys,” taking
a seat beside Mary Frances, who made room for him.
“Oh, Billy, don’t tease,” she begged. “Please don’t! I’ve enjoyed my
Garden Lessons so much, and you’ve been so kind——”
“Say, Mary Frances, if you want me to go away, just keep on praising
me, will you,” interrupted Billy.
“All right,” said Mary Frances, “I’ll stop, but I’ve gone over and over
in my mind the lesson about the seed babies. It all seems so wonderful
to me. Do you know, Billy, I’ve often wondered how the little seed
babies are made. Where does their mother get them?”
“Well,” began Billy, “I guess I can explain.”
“Oh,” shrieked Mary Frances suddenly. “Oh, Billy, excuse me, please,
but that bee nearly dashed in my face.”
“It’s not after you, Mary Frances,” laughed Billy. “That’s good Mrs.
Bee looking for honey. And she’ll have hard work to find it to-day, I’m
thinking. Still, I saw a few very early blossoms out on the shrubs at
the end of the garden.”
“I saw them, too, Billy. Isn’t it lovely that we have such beautiful
things to enjoy.”
“That’s what Mrs. Bee thinks, too,” said Billy; “and in fact, the
flowers are made beautiful, not for us especially, but to attract the
bees and moths and butterflies.”
“But I can’t imagine why,” said Mary Frances; “the bees only steal
honey from them.”
“Only steal honey!” exclaimed Billy. “But then, I used to think so
myself, Mary Frances, until about a year ago, when I learned better.
You see, the bees do every bit as much for the flowers as the flowers
do for the bees.”
“Oh, do they? That’s wonderful, Billy. Please tell me about it?”
“If you’ll move over far enough on this bench to let me be
comfortable,” growled Billy.
“Oh, certainly, certainly; excuse me.” Mary Frances almost fell off the
end. “Oh, say, Billy, let’s go over under the trees and I’ll swing in
the hammock, and you can take the bench.”
“All right,” said Billy, following Mary Frances.
“Now,” suggested Mary Frances, settling herself in the hammock, “I know
you feel just like telling me the whole story.”
“All right,” agreed Billy, “and I have a surprise for you—I just
caught that honey bee you saw. Here, in my cap.”
“Oh, let’s see it, Billy,” Mary Frances put out her hand.
“Take care!” warned Billy. “I guess you forget how a bee stings. Go get
a large-mouth bottle and I’ll slip it in.”
Billy gently slipped the bee into the large bottle Mary Frances brought.
“Notice, Mary Frances, how furry its little body is.”
“Why, it’s covered with yellow!” exclaimed Mary Frances. “I thought
bees were rather dark in color.”
“Yes,” said Billy, “yes, this bee is quite dark in color; the yellow
you see is pollen powder.”
“Oh, off the anther bead!” exclaimed Mary Frances. “It’s off the anther
bead of some flower!”
“Guessed right that time,” said Billy. “That’s what it is, all right. I
wish I could tell you the whole story of the bee and of fertilization
the way Miss Gardener told us in class.”
“Won’t you try to remember, Billy; won’t you try?” begged Mary Frances.