Back to the field of battle I hastened.
“Tell me,” I cried in distress, for Crip was lying quite still on the
floor, “what is the matter?”
“Ah, I fear I am done for at last.”
Grieved by his words, I rushed up to him, saluting him, pressing my
tongue to his lips, praying for his life. I felt him all over, and at
last came to a little moist spot on his body, and realized that he had
lost his last basket-leg. I wiped his eyes, and came close to him to warm
him a bit, for he seemed cold and almost lifeless.
“Go your way,” he murmured, dejectedly. “Leave me quite alone. My work
is done; I shall pass. Remember me sometimes when you cleave the air and
salute the sun and our mysterious Master.”
By this time I was overcome with sorrow. My poor dear friend, the very
personification of wisdom, seemed passing out of my life.
“No—don’t—please—don’t talk so mournfully!” I cried. “You will get well.
Do! I so want you to stay with me.”
At this he seemed to stir a little and, with an effort, raised himself on
his remaining legs.
“I cannot walk, you see. I cannot be sure of holding my weight on the
combs, even if I am not bleeding to death.”
I was so shocked that it had not occurred to me to stanch his wound; but
instantly I fell to it most vigorously.
“That will help,” he said. “Do you think I have done well with my life?”
Crip asked. “Do you think I have helped our people?”
I answered that he had been wonderful—that he had worked faithfully for
two houses, and all for the betterment of our race—the Bee.
“You really think me deserving? Then I am happy.”
He seemed suddenly to take on new life, and began to flap his wings for
joy.
After a little pause he again flapped his wings violently. I did not
understand.
“I still can fly!” he exclaimed. “I can fly! Go now, finish your work,”
he commanded. “Perhaps I shall yet be able to labor for a little; but I
want to be as much as possible with you. Go now.”
I went at his word, but when I came to the place of the débris, no scrap
remained. My fellow-workers, alarmed at the news of the worms, had
fallen upon it and borne it all away.
Almost without thinking, I moved slowly toward the door of the hive, for
the afternoon was sultry and there now seemed nothing to do. Indeed, when
I reached the outside the bees were heaped on the board, and they clung
in great masses to the front of the hive.
“What idlers!” thought I. But I quickly realized that there was nothing
in the fields to gather, and further, I knew that our hive was well
stored with bread and honey against any possible contingency.
I made my way through the crowd, and presently I, too, was seized with
the fever of sleep, and, taking my place among a group that clung to the
uppermost front of the hive, I soon fell asleep.
How long I slept I know not, but when again I roused myself a summer moon
was streaming above us, big and gloriously bright. The little dots of
stars that glinted through were almost lost in the sea of light. I could
hear the night hymn of the hive clearly, just as long ago I heard it for
the first time. It was the low, murmured music of a thousand voices.
This hymn of the night was like the throbbing of a muffled Æolian harp.
Mingling with its harmonies rose the dull whirring of many wings set to
the task of driving the sweet night air into the heart of the hive, to
render it tolerable for the little ones dreaming in their cells against a
day of awakening, and for our precious Queen-Mother, brooding through her
watches without end.
Late in the night the air grew chilly, and one by one we drifted inside.
I had been one of the first, for I bethought me of Crip, whom I had left
disconsolate and battered from his fight with the worm. Returning to our
old haunt, he was nowhere to be found. Then I went to the spot of the
combat and there he was, more or less chilled and still sore from the
loss of his leg.
“I thought you had forgotten me,” was his greeting.
“I forget you? Not while I live. I was outside in the night.”
“And the south wind blew? And there were stars?” he asked. “I want to
look upon them once more. Help me, for I can only crawl now. My body can
scarcely be carried by those four little legs, all that I have left. I
don’t know how soon I shall be done for, and then—and then—”
He struggled pitifully in order to reach the front. Try as I might, I
could be of no assistance to him. But by dint of perseverance he finally
gained the threshold and gazed into the night. The moon had drifted far
toward the west, and already the morning star shone with transcendent
brilliancy. The south wind breathed ever so softly through the chaparral,
as it made its way to some hidden goal; and near the borders of the lake
a coyote, in staccato treble, gave warning that the dawn was near.
Crip said nothing, nor did I. How useless are words when there is perfect
understanding. He came close to me, however, and put his face as near
mine as he might, as though he wished to look into the very depths of my
eyes.
“It is well,” he said. “I know.”
Then he turned and dragged himself into the hive. I followed closely. How
sad it was to see so great a soul chained in so broken a body. I stayed
by him, cheering him and encouraging him, until the bugle of the morning
sounded.
“Now you must go,” he commanded. “You have your work to do. Mine is
nearly finished.”
I took a turn in the fields, but there was nothing to report, save
the discovery that the white brush was ready to bloom, and that the
sage-brush and the broomweed promised honey.
Again, for a number of days there was little to do. Toward the noon hour
the September sun blazed with midsummer intensity and the winds were
stifling. This meant that a deal of water was consumed. I was assigned
to help. So, back and forth to the lake I went, ever returning with my
sac filled to bursting. The young bees clamored for water, and it was a
delight to see them scramble for a drink. Again, the front of the hive
was packed with bees idling their day away, if, indeed, it can be said
that they were idle when there was nothing to be done.
Another night passed as before and still another day. Then the news
resounded over the hive that the white brush was opening and that honey
was in the field! There was only the meagerest supply the first day,
but hungry tongues searched out the white tiny bell-shaped flowers. The
next day the flow was heavier, and the third day we began to carry such
quantities that the colony began “to develop a sort of delirium. Every
nook and cranny was being filled, when a strange sound echoed over the
hive.
“What does this mean?” I queried of Buzz-Buzz.
“I don’t know. Let’s find Crip. He can tell us.”
[Illustration: CHAPTER THIRTEEN