WINGS AND STINGS.
[Illustration: COMING TO THE RESCUE
_page 48_]
[Illustration]
WINGS AND STINGS.
A Tale for the Young.
BY
A. L. O. E.,
AUTHOR OF “THE SILVER CASKET,” “THE ROBBERS’ CAVE,”
ETC. ETC.
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!
WATTS.
LONDON:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
1879.
Preface.
What is the use of a preface? Most of my young readers will regard it
as they would a stile in front of a field in which they were going to
enjoy haymaking; as something which they hastily scramble over, eager
to get to what is beyond. Such being the case, I think it best to make
my preface as short, my stile as small as possible, not being offended
if some of my friends should skip over it at one bound. To the more
sober readers I would say, If you look for some fun in the little field
which you are going to enter, remember that in haymaking there is
profit as well as amusement; in turning over thoughts in our minds,
as in turning over newly-mown grass, we may “make hay while the sun
shines,” which will serve us when cloudier days arise.
A. L. O. E.
[Illustration]
Contents.
I. THE BIG HIVE AND THE LITTLE ONE, 9
II. SOME ACCOUNT OF A WATERFALL, 26
III. A FLATTERING INVITATION, 36
IV. HOME LESSONS AND HOME TRIALS, 46
V. CONVERSATION IN THE HIVE, 59
VI. A STINGING REPROOF, 69
VII. A WONDERFUL BORE, 80
VIII. A CHASE, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES, 88
IX. PRISONS AND PRISONERS, 109
X. A CONFESSION, 117
XI. A SUDDEN FALL, 131
XII. AN UNPLEASANT JOURNEY, 140
XIII. WINGS AND STINGS, 151
[Illustration]
WINGS AND STINGS.
CHAPTER I.
THE BIG HIVE AND THE LITTLE ONE.
“Had you not better go on a little faster with your work, Polly?” said
Minnie Wingfield, glancing up for a minute from her own, over which her
little fingers had been busily moving, and from which she now for the
first time raised her eyes.
“I wish that there were no such thing as work!” exclaimed Polly, from
her favourite seat by the school-room window, through which she had
been watching the bees thronging in and out of their hive, some flying
away to seek honied treasure, some returning laden with it to their
home.
“I think that work makes one enjoy play more,” replied Minnie, her
soft voice scarcely heard amidst the confusion of sounds which filled
the school-room; for there was a spelling-class answering questions at
the moment, and the hum of voices from the boys’ school-room, which
adjoined that of the girls, added not a little to the noise.
The house might itself be regarded as a hive, its rosy-cheeked scholars
as a little swarm of bees, and knowledge as the honey of which they
were in search, drawn, not from flowers, but from the leaves of certain
dog’s-eared books, which had few charms for the eyes of Polly Bright.
“I never have any play,” said the little girl peevishly. “As soon
as school is over, and I should like a little fun, there is Johnny
to be looked after, and the baby to be carried. I hate the care of
children--mother knows that I do--and I think that baby is always
crying on purpose to tease me.”
[Illustration: THE BIG HIVE.]
“Yet it must be pleasant to think that you are helping your mother and
doing your duty.”
Polly uttered a little grunting sound, which did not seem like
consent, and ran her needle two or three times into her seam, always
drawing it back instead of pushing it through, which every one knows is
not the way to get on with work.
“Why, even these little bees,” Minnie continued, “have a sort of duty
of their own; and how steadily they set about it!”
“Pretty easy duty,--playing amongst flowers and feasting upon honey!”
“Oh but--”
“Minnie Wingfield, no talking allowed in school!” cried the teacher
from the top of the room, turning towards the corner near the window.
“Polly Bright, you are always the last in your class.”
This time the lazy fingers did draw the needle through, but a cross,
ill-tempered look was on the face of the little girl; while her
companion, Minnie, colouring at the reproof, only worked faster than
before.
We will leave them seated on their bench, with their sewing in their
hands, and passing through the little window, as only authors and
their readers can do, cross the narrow garden, with its small rows of
cabbages and onions, bordered by a line of stunted gooseberry bushes,
and mixing with the busy inhabitants of the hive, glide through the
tiny opening around which they cluster, and enter the palace of the
bees. Now I have a suspicion that though my young readers may be
well acquainted with honey-comb and honey, and have even had hives
on a bench in their own gardens, they never in their lives have been
inside one, and are totally ignorant of the language of bees. For your
benefit, therefore, I intend to translate a little of the buzzing
chit-chat of the winged nation; and, begging you to consider yourself
as little as possible, conduct you at once to the palace of Queen
Farina.
A very curious and beautiful palace it is; the Crystal Palace itself
is not more perfect in its way. Look at the long lines of cells,
framed with the nicest care, row above row, built of pure white wax,
varnished with gum, and filled with provisions for the winter. Yonder
are the nurseries for the infant bees; these larger apartments are
for the royal race; that, largest of all, is the state-chamber of
the queen. How strait are the passages--just wide enough to let two
travellers pass without jostling! And as for the inhabitants of this
singular palace, or rather, I should say, this populous city, though
for a moment you may think them all hurrying and bustling about in
utter confusion, I assure you that they are governed by the strictest
order--each knows her own business, her own proper place. I am afraid
that before you are well acquainted with your small companions, you may
find some difficulty in knowing one from another, as each bee looks as
much like her neighbour as a pin does to a pin. I am not speaking, of
course, of her majesty the queen, distinguished, as she is, from all
her subjects by the dignified length of her figure and the shortness
of her wings; but you certainly would not discover, unless I told you,
that the little creature hanging from the upper comb is considered
a beauty in Bee-land. You must at once fancy your eyes powerful
microscopes, till a daisy is enlarged to the size of a table, and the
thread of a spider to a piece of stout whip-cord; for not till then can
you find out the smallest reason why Sipsyrup should be vain of her
beauty. Yet why should she not pride herself on her slender shape or
her fine down? Vanity may seem absurd in a bee, but surely it is yet
more so in any reasonable creature, to whom sense has been given to
know the trifling worth of mere outside looks; and I fear that I may
have amongst my young readers some no wiser than little Sipsyrup.
She is not buzzing eagerly about like her companions, who are now
working in various parties; some raising the white walls of the cells;
some carrying away small cuttings of wax, not to be thrown away, but
used in some other place, for bees are very careful and thrifty;
some putting a fine brown polish on the combs, made of a gum gathered
from the buds of the wild poplar; some bringing in provisions for the
little workmen, who are too busy to go in search of it themselves.
No; Sipsyrup seems in her hive as little satisfied as Polly in her
school-room, as she hangs quivering her wings with an impatient
movement, very unworthy of a sensible bee.
“A fine morning this!” buzzed an industrious young insect, making
bee-bread with all her might. I may here remark that the subject of the
weather is much studied in hives, and that their inhabitants show a
knowledge of it that might put to shame some of the learned amongst us.
I am not aware that they ever make use of barometers, but it is said
that they manage seldom to be caught in a shower, and take care to keep
at home when there is thunder.
“A fine morning, indeed,” replied Sipsyrup. “Yes; the sunshine looks
tempting enough, to be sure; no doubt the flowers are all full of
honey, and the hills covered with thyme; but of what use is this to
a poor nurse-bee like me, scarcely allowed to snatch a hasty sip for
myself, but obliged to look after these wretched little larvæ” (that is
the name given to young baby-bees), “and carry home tasteless pollen to
make bread for them, when I might be enjoying myself in the sunshine?”
“We once were larvæ ourselves,” meekly observed Silverwing.
“Yes, and not very long ago,” replied Sipsyrup rather pertly, glancing
at the whitish down that showed her own youth; for it was but three
days since she had quitted her own nursery, which may account for her
being so silly a young bee.
“And but for the kindness of those who supplied our wants when we were
poor helpless little creatures, we should never have lived to have
wings,” continued her companion.
“Don’t remind me of that time,” buzzed Sipsyrup, who could not bear
to think of herself as a tiny, feeble worm. “Anything more weary and
tiresome than the life that I led, shut up all alone in that horrid
cell, spinning my own coverlet from morning till night, I am sure that
I cannot imagine. Ah, speaking of that spinning, if you had only seen
what I did yesterday.”
“What was that?” inquired Silverwing.
“As I flew past a sunny bank, facing the south, I noticed a small hole,
at the entrance of which I saw one of our cousins, the poppy-bees. Her
dress, you must know, is different from ours” (Sipsyrup always thought
something of dress). “It is black, studded on the head and back with
reddish-gray hairs, and her wings are edged with gray. Wishing to
notice a little more closely her curious attire, I stopped and wished
her good-day. Very politely she invited me into her parlour, and I
entered the hole in the bank.”
“A dull, gloomy place to live in, I should fear.”
“Dull! gloomy!” exclaimed Sipsyrup, quivering her feelers at the
recollection; “why, the cell of our queen is a dungeon compared to it.
The hole grew wider as we went further in, till it appeared quite roomy
and large, and all round it was hung with the most splendid covering,
formed of the leaves of the poppy, of a dazzling scarlet, delightful to
behold. Since I saw it, I have been scarcely able to bear the look of
this old hive, with its thousands of cells, one just like another, and
all of the same white hue.”
“Had the poppy-bee a queen?” inquired Silverwing.
“No; she is queen, and worker, and everything herself; she has no one
to command her, no one to obey; no waspish companion like Stickasting
there.”
“What’s that? who buzzes about me?” cried a large thick bee, hurrying
towards them with an angry hum. Stickasting had been the plague of
the hive ever since she had had wings. She was especially the torment
of the unfortunate drones, who, not having been gifted with stings
like the workers, had no means of defence to protect them from their
bullying foe. When a larva, her impatient disposition was not known.
She had spun her silken web like any peaceable insect, then lain quiet
and asleep as a pupa or nymph. But no sooner did the young bee awake
to life, than, using her new powers with hearty good-will, she ate her
way through the web at such a quick rate, that the old bees who looked
in pronounced at once that she was likely to be a most active worker.
Nor were they disappointed, as far as work was concerned; no one was
ready to fly faster or further, no one worked harder at building the
cells; but it was soon discovered that her activity and quickness were
not the only qualities for which she was remarkable. If ever bee had a
bad temper, that bee was Stickasting. Quarrelling, bullying, attacking,
fighting, she was as bad as a wasp in the hive. No one would ever
have trusted larvæ to her care. Sipsyrup might neglect or complain
of her charge, but Stickasting would have been positively cruel. Her
companionship was shunned, as must be expected by all of her character,
whether they be boys or bees; and she seldom exchanged a hum, except of
defiance, with any creature in the hive.
Sipsyrup, the moment that she perceived Stickasting coming towards her,
flew off in alarm, leaving poor Silverwing to bear the brunt of the
attack.
“Who buzzes about me?” repeated Stickasting fiercely, flying very close
up to the little nurse-bee.
“Indeed, I never named you,” replied Silverwing timidly, shrinking back
as close as she could to the comb.
“If you were not talking against me yourself, you were listening to and
encouraging one who did. Who dare say that I am waspish?” continued
Stickasting, quivering her wings with anger till they were almost
invisible. “It is this gossip and slander that make the hive too hot
to hold us. I once thought better of you, Silverwing, as a quiet
good-natured sort of a bee, but I now see that you are just like the
rest, and as silly as you are ugly.”
This was a very provoking speech--it was intended to be so; but
Silverwing was not a creature ready to take offence; whatever she felt,
she returned no answer--an example which I would strongly recommend to
all in her position, whether standing on six feet or on two.
But Stickasting was resolved to pick a quarrel if possible, especially
with one whom she considered less strong than herself; for she was
not one of those generous beings who scorn to take advantage of the
weakness of another. Stickasting much resembled the class of rude,
coarse-minded boys, who find a pleasure in teasing children and
annoying little girls, and like to show their power over those who dare
not oppose it.
“I owe you a grudge, Silverwing, for your conduct to me yesterday. When
I was toiling and working at the cells like a slave, not having time to
go out for refreshment, I saw you fly past me two or three times, and
not a drop of honey did you offer me.”
“I was carrying pollen for my little larvæ,” gently replied Silverwing.
“It is not my office to supply the builders, though I am sure that
I should do so with pleasure; but the baby-bees are placed under my
charge, and you know what care they need till they begin to spin.”
“Yes, idle, hungry, troublesome creatures that they are! Have they not
set about their spinning yet? I’ll make them stir themselves,”--and
Stickasting made a movement towards the nursery-cells.
“The larvæ do not like to be disturbed!” cried Silverwing, anxious for
her charges, and placing herself between them and the intruder.
“Like! I daresay not,--but who cares what they like! Get out of the
way; I’ll prick them up a little!”
“You shall not come near them!” hummed the little nurse, resolutely
keeping her place.
“I say that I shall,--who shall hinder me? Get out of my way, or I’ll
let you feel my sting.”
Silverwing trembled, but she did not stir, for she was a faithful
little bee. As the hen is ready to defend her chickens from the hawk,
and even the timid wren will fight for her brood, so this feeble insect
would have given up her life rather than have forsaken the little ones
confided to her care.
But she was not left alone to struggle with her assailant. Two of her
winged companions came to the rescue; and Stickasting, who had no wish
to encounter such odds, and was fonder, perhaps, of bullying than of
fighting, no sooner saw Waxywill and Honeyball on the wing, than with
an angry hum she hurried out of the hive.
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