PRISONS AND PRISONERS.
We will now return to our little friend, Honeyball, whom we left flying
from the curious dwelling of the carpenter-bee. We will follow her as
she lazily proceeded along the lane in which were situated the cottages
of Mrs. Wingfield and Mrs. Bright, the sweet flowers in the garden of
the former rendering it a favourite resort for bees. This was not long
after noon, and therefore a few hours before all the troubles related
in the last chapter had occurred, while Polly and her two little
charges were yet safe in their own comfortable cottage.
Honeyball looked at Spinaway busily mending her net, torn by the
adventure of Sipsyrup, and laughed as she thought of the folly of her
companion. Honeyball was not vain enough to be enticed by sugared
words; her dangers arose from quite another source--her greediness and
great self-indulgence. Her eye was now attracted by a little bottle
hung up by the porch, not far from the rosebush; it had been placed
there by Tom to catch wasps. Perhaps he had hoped to entrap some
others of the winged tribes, for he had just taken a fancy to make a
collection of insects, and woe unto any small creature that might fall
into his merciless hands!
Honeyball alighted on the bottle, then fluttered to the top, allured by
the sugary scent. The brim was sticky; she unsheathed her long bright
tongue, tasted, approved, and then sipped again. At this moment she
heard a buzz near her, and looking up with her back eyes, perceived her
friend Silverwing.
“Do come from that huge, bright, hard cell,” cried the bee; “I am sure
that it never was formed by any of our tribe, and I do not believe that
it holds honey.”
“It holds something very good, and in such abundance too,” replied
Honeyball; “a thousand honeysuckles would not contain so much!”
“There is danger, I am certain that there is danger,” cried Silverwing.
“What if it should have been placed there on purpose to catch us?”
“You think me as foolish as Sipsyrup!”
“No, not foolish, but--”
“Too fond of good living, and too lazy to like trouble in procuring it.
Well, I daresay that you are right, Silverwing; I believe that, as you
say, there may be danger.”
“Then why not come away?” persisted the bee.
“Because the taste is so good,” said her companion, bending over the
rim--the next moment she was struggling in the syrup!
Ah, Honeyball, weak, foolish insect! In vain do you struggle, in
vain do you buzz, in vain your grieved friend flutters against the
glass,--you have sacrificed yourself for a little indulgence, like
thousands who look at the tempting glass, know their danger, yet will
not abstain!
As Silverwing on the outside of the bottle was uttering her hum of pity
and regret, suddenly a handkerchief was thrown over her, and the loud,
rough voice of Tom was heard.
“Rather a paltry beginning to my collection, a wretched hive-bee! But
I caught it so cleverly, without its being crushed, or spoiled by the
syrup; and I will keep it till I get that stuff which Ben told me of,
which kills insects without hurting their beauty!”
Poor unhappy Silverwing! she was indeed in a terrible position. She
had not even power to use her sting in self-defence, for to plunge it
into the handkerchief would have been useless indeed; and she felt
all that a bee might be expected to feel, in the power of its most
cruel foe. Tom carried her into the cottage, and carefully unclosing
the handkerchief, after he had mounted upon a chair to reach the shelf
easily, he shook his poor prisoner into his own mug, and tied some
paper firmly over the top.
Silverwing flew round and round, buzzing in terror; she only hurt her
wings against the sides. Then she crawled over the paper which formed
the ceiling of her prison; but no hole for escape could she find. It
was clear that she was now shut out from all hope, condemned perhaps
to some lingering death. While her companions were flying about, busy
and happy, she was to pine, a lonely prisoner, here. At first her
feelings were those of despair; then, quietly, though sadly, she made
up her mind to submit to her cruel fate. She no longer fluttered about
restlessly, but settling at the bottom of the mug, in patience awaited
the return of her tormentor.
Hours passed before Tom came back. There had been other voices in the
cottage, but no one had touched the place of Silverwing’s imprisonment.
Mrs. Wingfield had been called out hastily by her neighbour Mrs.
Bright, on the discovery of the illness of the baby; and as Minnie
had not then returned from school, the cottage was left quite empty.
Presently there was a rapid step, then the sound of some one jumping up
on the chair. Silverwing felt the mug moved, then the paper raised; she
was ready to make a last effort to escape through the opening; but her
little tyrant took good care to give no time for that; he only shook in
another victim, and then shut down the paper quickly, and placed a book
on the top.
Silverwing paid no attention to what was passing in the cottage round
her, though I may as well remind the reader of what passed in the
last chapter,--how Tom had scarcely got down from the chair before
his mother came in and ordered him to go off for the doctor, as Mrs.
Bright’s baby was very ill indeed; how Tom hesitated, and said that he
would go by the fields, and then was sent off direct by his mother in
much displeasure. To all this, as I said, Silverwing paid no attention;
her little world was contained in the mug, and all her interest was
aroused by her fellow-prisoner. Poor Violetta, with her fine purple
wings, was the prey of the collector of insects! He had not cared to
explore her curious home, to learn her customs and ways, or admire her
instinct; he only wished to have the dead body of an insect that he
thought curious, and had no scruple about destroying it to gratify this
wish.
Violetta was not so patient as poor Silverwing had been. She dashed
herself against the mug in passionate distress; she would listen to
no words of comfort! Then she vainly tried to exercise her wonderful
powers of gnawing. From a wooden box she perhaps might have worked
her way to freedom, but the hard slippery crockery resisted her utmost
efforts; her poor little teeth could not even make an impression!
Exhausted at last, she remained quite still, and Silverwing, forgetful
of her own distress, began to attempt to soothe her companion.
Thus they remained till the evening without food, almost without hope.
Mrs. Wingfield had gone to attempt to comfort her neighbour, nearly
wild at the loss of her Johnny; and now Minnie and Tom both entered the
cottage together. Their conversation had no interest for the bees, in
their mug; but as it is possible that it may have some for my reader, I
shall proceed to give some account of it in the following chapter.
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