May-month--month of swarming, singing, mating birds--the bumble-bee
month--month of the flowering lilac-(and then my own birth-month.) As
I jot this paragraph, I am out just after sunrise, and down towards the
creek. The lights, perfumes, melodies--the blue birds, grass birds
and robins, in every direction--the noisy, vocal, natural concert. For
undertones, a neighboring wood-pecker tapping his tree, and the distant
clarion of chanticleer. Then the fresh-earth smells--the colors, the
delicate drabs and thin blues of the perspective. The bright green of
the grass has receiv'd an added tinge from the last two days' mildness
and moisture. How the sun silently mounts in the broad clear sky, on
his day's journey! How the warm beams bathe all, and come streaming
kissingly and almost hot on my face.
A while since the croaking of the pond-frogs and the first white of
the dog-wood blossoms. Now the golden dandelions in endless profusion,
spotting the ground everywhere. The white cherry and pear-blows--the
wild violets, with their blue eyes looking up and saluting my feet, as
I saunter the wood-edge--the rosy blush of budding apple-trees--the
light-clear emerald hue of the wheat-fields--the darker green of the
rye--a warm elasticity pervading the air--the cedar-bushes profusely
deck'd with their little brown apples--the summer fully awakening--the
convocation of black birds, garrulous flocks of them, gathering on some
tree, and making the hour and place noisy as I sit near.
_Later._--Nature marches in procession, in sections, like the corps of
an army. All have done much for me, and still do. But for the last two
days it has been the great wild bee, the humble-bee, or "bumble," as the
children call him. As I walk, or hobble, from the farm-house down to the
creek, I traverse the before-mention'd lane, fenced by old rails, with
many splits, splinters, breaks, holes, &c., the choice habitat of those
crooning, hairy insects. Up and down and by and between these rails,
they swarm and dart and fly in countless myriads. As I wend slowly
along, I am often accompanied with a moving cloud of them. They play a
leading part in my morning, midday or sunset rambles, and often dominate
the landscape in a way I never before thought of--fill the long lane,
not by scores or hundreds only, but by thousands. Large and vivacious
and swift, with wonderful momentum and a loud swelling, perpetual hum,
varied now and then by something almost like a shriek, they dart to and
fro, in rapid flashes, chasing each other, and (little things as they
are,) conveying to me a new and pronounc'd sense of strength, beauty,
vitality and movement. Are they in their mating season? or what is the
meaning of this plenitude, swiftness, eagerness, display? As I walk'd, I
thought I was follow'd by a particular swarm, but upon observation I saw
that it was a rapid succession of changing swarms, one after another.
As I write, I am seated under a big wild-cherry tree--the warm day
temper'd by partial clouds and a fresh breeze, neither too heavy nor
light--and here I sit long and long, envelop'd in the deep musical
drone of these bees, flitting, balancing, darting to and fro about me
by hundreds--big fellows with light yellow jackets, great glistening
swelling bodies, stumpy heads and gauzy wings--humming their perpetual
rich mellow boom. (Is there not a hint in it for a musical composition,
of which it should be the back-ground? some bumble-bee symphony?) How
it all nourishes, lulls me, in the way most needed; the open air, the
rye-fields, the apple orchards. The last two days have been faultless
in sun, breeze, temperature and everything; never two more perfect days,
and I have enjoy'd them wonderfully. My health is somewhat better, and
my spirit at peace. (Yet the anniversary of the saddest loss and sorrow
of my life is close at hand.)
Another jotting, another perfect day: forenoon, from 7 to 9, two
hours envelop'd in sound of bumble-bees and bird-music. Down in the
apple-trees and in a neighboring cedar were three or four russet-back'd
thrushes, each singing his best, and roulading in ways I never heard
surpass'd. Two hours I abandon myself to hearing them, and indolently
absorbing the scene. Almost every bird I notice has a special time in
the year--sometimes limited to a few days--when it sings its best; and
now is the period of these russet-backs. Meanwhile, up and down the
lane, the darting, droning, musical bumble-bees. A great swarm again for
my entourage as I return home, moving along with me as before.
As I write this, two or three weeks later, I am sitting near the brook
under a tulip tree, 70 feet high, thick with the fresh verdure of its
young maturity--a beautiful object--every branch, every leaf perfect.
From top to bottom, seeking the sweet juice in the blossoms, it swarms
with myriads of these wild bees, whose loud and steady humming makes an
undertone to the whole, and to my mood and the hour. All of which I
will bring to a close by extracting the following verses from Henry A.
Beers's little volume:
As I lay yonder in tall grass
A drunken bumble-bee went past
Delirious with honey toddy.
The golden sash about his body
Scarce kept it in his swollen belly
Distent with honeysuckle jelly.
Rose liquor and the sweet-pea wine
Had fill' d his soul with song divine;
Deep had he drunk the warm night through,
His hairy thighs were wet with dew.
Full many an antic he had play'd
While the world went round through sleep and shade.
Oft had he lit with thirsty lip
Some flower-cup's nectar'd sweets to sip,
When on smooth petals he would slip,
Or over tangled stamens trip,
And headlong in the pollen roll'd,
Crawl out quite dusted o'er with gold;
Or else his heavy feet would stumble
Against some bud, and down he'd tumble
Amongst the grass; there lie and grumble
In low, soft bass--poor maudlin bumble!