“I love bees, because they make honey; but I do not love them sometimes,
because they sting me, and that I do not like, though I like their
honey. I have felt a sting from a honey bee, and I never want to have
one again, for I know how it feels. It smarts well, indeed it does. A
bee is like a little girl, because it does good when it wants to, and
when it does not it will sting you. Now, scholars, I will just tell you
not to ’flict a bee, if you don’t want it to sting you. It is like a
girl, for if you ’flict her, she will be unkind to you, and you must not
’flict her. This is all I have to write about the bee.”--C.
The Journal as a welcome visitor arrives while we are engaged writing
this communication; and the pages tell of great and precious treasures.
As time passes on we hope to be able to write of more bountiful
harvests. We have in anticipation the simon pure Italian Bee, to take
the place of our blacks and hybrids; and extended fields of Alsike
clover, instead of the antiquated red. In that day of bounty and beauty,
we shall hope to write temptingly to our worthy editor.
Respectfully,