WINGS AND STINGS.
It is now time that I should draw my tale to a close; but as my reader
may like to know what became of the little people, with wings and
without wings, that we have followed through this story, I shall give a
few more pages to an account of their fate.
The first sunbeam which shone the next morning upon the hive, glittered
on Silverwing, as with joyous speed she hastened back to her home.
She continued there her busy and her happy life, finding sweetness
everywhere, honey in each flower, and cheering the less joyous
existence of Sipsyrup, whose wing never quite recovered its power. As
the injured bee was unable to fly out with the next swarm, her friend
remained behind to bear her company: they passed the summer days in
active employ and the winter in plenty and repose.
[Illustration: SILVERWING AND SIPSYRUP.]
I have a less pleasing account to give of Waxywill, who was certainly
a most wayward bee. She chose to go out honey-seeking one day, when
required for work in the hive; she resolved, contrary to orders, to
visit the dwelling of a humble-bee, and because she knew that her
cousins of that race live underground, against the warnings of her
companions she entered a little hole in a bank, and found herself
in the midst of a nest of wasps! Her melancholy fate may easily be
imagined; she died beneath the stings of her enemies.
But, perhaps, you are more desirous to hear what befell our heroes and
heroines of the human race.
Let my reader then fancy himself again beneath the little porch which
adorns the front of Mrs. Wingfield’s cottage. It is now later in
the year, the finest flowers in the garden have faded, one or two
sunflowers and a few dahlias look gay still; but the fresh feel of the
morning air, the white tinge on the grass, and the heavy dew which has
strung Spinaway’s web with numberless tiny beads, show that the autumn
is now advanced. Beneath the porch sits Minnie, busy as usual with her
work, before the hour for going to school. Tom is near her, engaged in
stringing together little egg-shells, collected in the spring; pretty
enough in themselves, but won at the expense of much misery to the
poor birds whose nests he had robbed.
Who approaches from the opposite side of the lane, bearing a baby
carefully wrapped up in her arms? You will scarcely recognize poor
Polly, once so fond of finery and folly. How much nicer she looks in
her present quiet dress, with her gentle subdued look and kindly air.
Then the baby did live? Yes, he did live; a poor sickly delicate child.
But oh, the tenderness with which he has been watched by Polly, who
now seems to think that she can never do enough for her brothers! She
appears to have thrown away her vanity with her diamond-brooch; or
rather, she has thoroughly learned the painful lesson taught through
that terrible evening and night. The resolutions that she then made
she has not forgotten, the prayers which she then uttered were from
the heart,--and there is not in the whole village to be found a more
sober, modest, quietly-dressed girl, always placing her duties before
her pleasures, than the once vain, selfish Polly Bright.
She now drew near, carrying the baby, with little Johnny trotting after
her, his cheeks just as rosy, and his figure as round, as before his
adventure in the woods. It had left on his mind a great affection for
Minnie, who had always been a favourite with the child; and he now ran
up to his friend with an apple in his hand, as round and as rosy as
himself.
“Minnie Wings,” said the little boy, holding it up to her lips, “Minnie
Wings, you take bite.”
Minnie smilingly accepted the proffered kindness of the child, after
stooping down to kiss his rosy face.
“Come here, you little rogue,” said Tom, in a tone half surly and
half good-humoured; “tell me why you call her Minnie Wings instead of
Wingfield?”
“’Cause,” said Johnny, with dimpling cheeks, “she fly to help me.”
“So did I,” observed Tom; “so I suppose that I am ‘Wings’ too.”
Johnny fixed his round eyes full upon his neighbour, and slowly
retreating backwards, as if rather afraid, replied, “No; you Tommy
Stings.”
Tommy would have been angry at the speech, if he could have helped
laughing at it; but the manner and look of the child, half resolute,
half frightened, were so irresistibly comic, that Tommy Stings put the
best face upon the matter, and appeared good-humoured for once in his
life. He was certainly in a mood more amiable than usual, having that
morning been engaged to go as an errand-boy in a neighbouring town,
where, under the eye of a strict master, we may hope that his conduct
may improve, and that he may cease to deserve the title bestowed upon
him by little Johnny.
“I have come to give you good news, dear Minnie,” said Polly, after
joining in the laugh which her little brother had occasioned; “we have
had a letter from the Crimea, and my dear father is well.”
“I am so glad of that!” cried Minnie, who was ever ready to rejoice
with the rejoicing.
“And you looked so bright when I first saw you,” said Polly, “that I
suspect that you have some good news of your own to give me in return.”
“You are quite right; I have famous news, dear Polly. The squire’s lady
was here late last evening; you know how kind she is. She wants to
place her baby’s foster-brother in some cottage near her, and, to my
joy, has fixed upon ours!”
“And will she pay well?”
“Oh, more than we could have ventured to hope. We really shall now be
quite comfortable. My mother is so much pleased; I do not think that I
have seen her so well or so cheerful ever since our great troubles last
year. How good God has been to us!” added the little girl, her eyes
glistening with bright tears of gratitude and pleasure; “He has always
raised up friends for us in our need.”
“Yes, Minnie, and you, who are a friend to all who require one, are
never likely to be in want of a friend.”
“I shall so enjoy having a dear little child to look after; I am sure
that it will be a pleasure rather than a trouble.”
“It is easy to guess,” said Polly, with a good-natured smile, “why the
lady chose your cottage for the home of the baby.”
Johnny, after two or three vain attempts, had succeeded in clambering
up the bench on which Minnie was seated. She now felt his little arms
pressed round her neck, as he drew her down towards him to whisper
close in her ear, “Everybody happy with my Minnie Wings.”
* * * * *
And now, nothing remains but that A. L. O. E. should bid her young
readers farewell. If they have liked her little book, let them
remember that her story is but as the comb, which may be pleasant to
the eye, but that its moral is the honey which is treasured within.
However young, however weak, dear children, you may be, know that the
youngest, the weakest, have some power here to give either pleasure
or pain. A generous spirit shrinks from inflicting suffering on the
smallest insect or the feeblest worm; and I trust that no reader of my
little tale will hesitate which part to take for his own, or leave it
doubtful whether he ought to be classed under the title of WINGS OR
STINGS.
[Illustration: ·FINIS·]
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Naturalists doubt whether the violet-bee is a native of Britain. It
is known that one species of carpenter-bee is to be found in England,
but the one described above probably belongs to foreign lands.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.