When we had returned to our cell we halted, and for a season remained
quiet. Indeed, we slept a tiny bit, as much as ever a bee can sleep at
a stretch, and then we fell into meditation. Among other things, I was
wondering what the Queen-Mother was doing when she popped her long, thin
body into each cell as she made her rounds. I could not understand and so
I called on Crip to explain.
“Why, laying eggs!” he said, right sharply, as though annoyed at my
ignorance.
“Well, what are eggs?” for I was still no wiser.
“Come with me,” he said, and off we went across the combs.
He did not stop until he reached the very spot where we had seen the
Queen. The odor of her was still strong thereabouts, but she had gone.
“Now look, stupid!” Crip said. “At the bottom of each of the cells in
this section of comb is an egg.”
I looked down into one and, sure enough, a small, thin, yellowish-white
egg was stuck squarely in the center of it. I looked into several other
cells, and each had its one egg.
I shall never forget the story which he went on to unfold. The wonderful
cycle from egg to larva, from larva to bee, he explained in fascinating
detail. I saw at once that he was a real sage, that his knowledge was
boundless, and then to crown it he told me that even the Queen-Mother
herself had sprung from an ordinary egg, having been converted through
miracle into a queen ruling over this empire. Simply by feeding and
tending them differently—only the bees in their wisdom know how—the
egg which might develop into a worker or a drone, passing through a
metamorphosis, can be made to break from the dark cover of the cell the
personification of life eternal, as exemplified in the body and the life
of the Queen.
I could not quite understand all these things, but I felt sure Crip was
telling the truth; and indeed I began to look up to him with increasing
admiration and wonder on account of the worlds of things he knew.
We were silent awhile. There rose again for me the night hymn of the
hive. It penetrated me as not before; it had a new significance, a new
message—I had been visited with a revelation. The sight I had gained of
the Queen-Mother woke new and tremulous emotions within me—there was a
new meaning in life.
Crip stirred rather sharply, breaking my train of thought.
“What’s the matter?” I queried.
“I’m tired holding on. We must get another place to rest. You see, with
only five legs the load of my body grows heavy.”
With that we moved up the comb to the top of it, and there he spread
himself out with a little hum of content. And just then I developed a
curiosity to know how he had lost his leg.
“You miss your leg, but do you suffer pain on account of it? And how did
it happen?”
“That’s a short story. I was coming home late one day, well laden with
honey, when, without warning, one of those terrible black bee-hawks
darted for me and clutched me, sailing away to the nearest bush. He had
quickly rolled me up with his powerful legs and almost by the time he
lit he was ready to kill me with one thrust of his proboscis. Of course
I had struggled, but when one of those fellows gets his claws on you
it’s good-by. I had about ceased to struggle when suddenly there came a
tremendous shock, and the next moment I was rolling on the ground and
shaking myself free from the mutilated hawk. He had been torn to pieces
by some mysterious force, and my leg, my bread-basket leg, was gone.
At that moment the Master approached me; in his hands he held a long
black thing which I had seen emit fire on other occasions, and somehow
I suspected at once he had saved me. The little boy came hurriedly up,
stooped over me and helped release me, and in a moment I was circling
round to get my bearings. The little boy and the Master—and even the
dog—watched my movements with an expression of satisfaction on their
faces. I flew straightway home and was thankful still to be alive.”
“Tell me more about this Master,” I begged, for I was now growing vastly
interested in his activities and in those of the Little One, and even the
dog which once I tried to sting, because he came so close to our hive.
“Some say he is good—some say that he is bad. I only know him as the
chopper of weeds about our home and as my rescuer. Many times since the
day he saved me have I heard him shooting bee-hawks. Indeed, I had heard
the little thunder of his gun before that day, but I did not understand
its meaning. They say, too, that he takes away our honey—and he did take
some of ours once—and frightens us nearly to death with the prospect of
starvation. And they fall upon him and sting him, trying to drive him
away. But all this is useless, they report, since he comes armed with
fire and smoke.
“Others tell of him that in the dark, cold days, if provisions run low,
he brings honey and closes the door against blizzards. But I know nothing
of this. I have not lived through a winter and I fear I shall never know
what it means.”
Thus I became infinitely interested in the Master who passed from day
to day about the yard. But I was confused in mind about him. Somehow I
instinctively feared him and I always found myself ready to attack him,
as I explained to Crip.
“There would be no use in that,” answered he. “Should you sting him, you
would achieve nothing. Instead, you would lose your life.”
“How is that?” I cried, for I did not till then know I had a life—at
least I had never thought of it.
“You can sting once, but unless you escape with your stinger, which is
rare, your life is sacrificed.”