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and in due time, say in early June, the young appear. These are neuters, neither male nor female, but workers. These proceed to build other cells and fill them with honey, relieving the queen of all care but the laying of the eggs. This first honey is very delicious, being clear and white, like the clover-honey in the hive, but of a different flavor. Ordinarily, the quantity found in a single nest is very small, scarcely more than a large tablespoonful. One summer, when a boy, by making it a point, I collected quite a boxful in the comb, making, when pressed out, about a pint of clear honey, and representing the labor of two or three dozen swarms.


Near midsummer the males are hatched; these are the stingless, white-faced bees of the boys. Their sole function is to impregnate the female for the next The nest is not abandoned till the latter part of August, though the honey is gone long before that time. The bees then come out on the warm days, and dart and hover and pursue cach other about the entrance of the nest, making a loud, humming noise. It is at such times that the queen-bee appears, and is pursued by the males.

Through September the bumble-bees lead a roving, homeless life, wallowing languidly in thistle-blows, and usually passing the night and weathering a severe storm on the lee-side of one, till they finally die from cold and exposure. The royal scion, in the meantime, has stowed herself away, no one knows where.

Emerson's bumble-bee was a philosopher, as all bumble-bees are, and wore yellow breeches, which all bumble-bees do not. There are, indeed, said to be several dozen varieties or species in the United States, but, ordinarily, one notices not more than half a dozen varieties. Besides the "yellow-breeched," which is the most common, there is the white-breeched, the black-breeched, and the red-breeched, with modifications of each. The red-breeched is a small bee, and quite rare, yet I remember one season when they were abundant. They live in large communities, and usually

nest in the ground, going two feet or more into the bank, following a mousehole, and appropriating the nest at the end of it. I have exhumed them, and found a mass of comb, filled with honey, grubs, and young bees, nearly as large as a man's double-fist.

Then there is a small light-colored bee, about the same size, that frequently nests in barns, building in vacant mortices, or in the space above the tenon of a brace where the mice have made their beds. One sees the bees going in and out through the cracks. Rap on the beam or brace, and they set up a loud buzzing.

Then there is a very rich, aristocraticlooking bumble-bee, with broad, glossy wings, new yellow waistcoat and new velvety breeches, always looking fresh and clean and distinguished-a bee that one readily discriminates. I have never found its nest.

The more common yellow-breeched bees love the mice-nests in old meadowbottoms, where they are turned up and plundered by the hay-makers, the boys especially delighting in the sport and the honey. Sometimes, however, they pay dearly for the fun; for a bee in the bonnet is nothing to a bee in the trowsers-leg. A bumble-bee can sting as many times as a flea can bite. The honey-bee stings but once, and dies, leaving his weapon in the flesh; but his larger relative deals stab after stab, and the helpless youth into whose trowsers-leg he has found a lodgment, dances a lively step for a few moments.

The bumble-bee's usual mode of attack, however, is to fly directly for the face and neck; and he gets beneath the clothing of the pedal extremities only when his wings are disabled, and the enemy stands unsuspectingly about.

The most ferocious of the bumblebee tribe, and the terror of the boys, is the large white, or very light-yellow, species. It is quick to anger and slow to relent. Indeed, it pursues the molester with the pertinacity of a bulldog or a colporter. A spectator of the operation of hay-making and haygathering may have seen a mower pause

in his swath, duck his head once or twice, beat the air about his ears with his rifle; then duck again, lower than before, and drop his tool and go slinking away, warding off, with his arm or a switch of grass, some invisible enemy. Or the boy, tossing the hay behind the mowers, may be observed to break ranks, and, whipping his head and ears wildly with handfuls of hay, retreat in disorder. Presently he pauses, and listens; then goes at it again, more vigorously than before. This wolf of a bumblebee will thus dog him half across the field. Knock him down, and, if not seriously injured, he at once gets up and comes straight for you, and will not let you go till he is disabled out and out.

A still more lively and spirited little comedy, however, is enacted in the hayfield, when a hornet's nest is run into or lain bare by the mowers. There is a retreat then of all hands in hot haste. The movements of a hornet are so much quicker than those of a bumble-bee, their aim so much more sure, and their numbers so much greater, that beating them off is of little avail. A precipitate retreat, and, if pursued, a prostrating of yourself upon the ground, your face buried in the hay, is the only safe course. After the bees have settled back into their paper-house, a wisp of straw (if you must dispose of them), lighted with a match, and suddenly placed at the entrance, will make short work of them.

The yellow-jackets are much more common than their congeners, the black. Scarcely a season passes that the various farm occupations do not disclose numerous nests of the former, on the ✦ ground, in the fence, filling the end of a hollow log, fastened to a bush, or pendant from the peak of the barn; but rare and memorable is the finding the nest of the black hornet. In Maryland, I have found them building on a blackberry-bush within a few inches of the ground; but in the more northern States, so far as I have observed, they always build in the woods a large coneshaped nest, suspended from some high

branch, and, of all bee-kind, are the ugliest customers to deal with.

The notion among the boys, that if you throw a stone at the nest, a single bee will follow its path back and strike the thrower unerringly in the face, is scarcely an exaggeration. It certainly is not safe to stand very near and throw stones at them. The avenging hornet comes almost with the speed of a bullet; and if you do not stagger from the gross weight of the blow, you certainly do from its lightning-like suddenness, and the sharp pain that accompanies it.

Shall I ever forget the huge nest, large as a peck-measure, that some sharp-eyed traveller discovered a few rods from the highway in a piece of woods, and not far from the paternal farmhouse, and with what fear and trembling we youngsters used to peep at it from beneath the underbrush? No stones were ever thrown at that nest by us, though our fingers fairly burned, at times, to give them a shot; and in the Fall, after the leaves had fallen, there hung the object of our terror, empty and forlorn, its frail walls destined to be appropriated ere long by some sportsman for gun-wadding.

Many more nests of this kind are begun than are ever finished, some mishap terminating the career of the founder before any offspring could be had. One sees these little balloon-shaped beginnings stuck around in various places, varying in size from an inch to two inches in diameter.

It is curious to note the growth of a hornet's nest. It seems to increase in size as naturally as a squash or pumpkin, and about as fast, and apparently in the same manner, from within, out. It is seldom that one sees more than two or three hornets at one time crawling about on the outside of the nest, and these have the air of surveyors, rather than of builders; the expansion seems to be from within. So it is, and from without also. And this is the peculiarity of the hornet as an architect: he is constantly tearing down his house and building it larger, to accommodate his increasing family. The vital

part of the nest is within, and consists of one or more tiers of comb full of cells, in which the young are hatched and developed. The visible, inverted, cone-shaped nest is merely the tent that shelters this process. As fast as new cells are added, the inner walls or linings of the tent are torn away to make more room, and the whole structure recased from without, thus every external wall becoming, in its turn, the internal, or the lining, with three or four partitions, arranged about the eighth of an inch apart, between it and the open air.

As the hornet was the first inventor of paper, so the little "sweat-bee," that comes about the laborer in the field, alighting on his sweaty hands and arms, and showing his light buff-colored belly at every move, is undoubtedly the holder of the original patent on

shears. See how quickly he clips out a round piece from the rose-leaf, himself the hand and handle to his own tool, and, rolling it up and embracing it with his legs, flies away with it to his cell, which is some little round cavity an inch or two deep, in a rail, or post, or stump; and which, after being lined with these bits of green leaves, is filled with a yellow, salve-like substance, that no doubt contains the egg of the bee, then nicely capped or headed with more circular bits of leaves, sealed up, and left to its fate.

The wasps proper may fairly claim a part of my attention (and they usually receive it when I meet with their nests), but, on the present occasion, I extend to them the courtesy which I would thankfully receive from them in turn, by respectfully giving them the go-by.



EIRENE sat by the window, filling a basket with cakes and sandwiches, which Sister Goodlove had given to her and Tilda to carry to camp-meeting the next morning. How she had counted the days, and longed for the coming of this camp-meeting morning! If she had analyzed her emotions (which she never did), she would have discovered that she had scarcely thought of the camp-meeting at all as a religious service. Having never attended one, she might have fancied that it would be pleasant to hear people pray and sing in the open air-only she did not think of the people at all. She longed for her old friends, the woods, the air, the summer sky. From babyhood these had been her closest companions, and this was the first year of her life that had shut her away from them all. From this low seat, where she sat now, she had watched the sunset scarlets glinting through the trees of Mr. Mallane's garden. Above the window, in the shop


where she stood at work, spread a narrow slip of sky; and, looking up, she had sometimes seen the peaceful clouds come sailing down the valley, and this was all that she had known of the summer. Often, in the languid evenings, she had dropped her book and turned a wistful face away from Tilda Stade's scrutinizing gaze and wearying voice, and, looking beyond the trees out to the serene West, a soft desire had stirred in her heart for something sweeter and better than she had ever known-she knew not what. We, who know her well, know that it was the first mysterious stir of the soul of the girl-woman, dimly yearning for companionship, for sympathy, for tenderness, such as had never entered her barren life in Busyville. The summer should have given some holiday to seventeen; it had given none to her. But going to the woods for a single day, she thought, would be a good deal better than nothing. Thus, light of heart, at five o'clock the next morning, she ascended, with Tilda, inte

the vehicle of Brother Goodlove, which was to carry his brethren and sisters to the camp-ground for twenty-five cents a person. It was a high, springless wagon, with boards laid across for seats, and, this morning, was crowded with passengers. A number of sisters bore witness to its being a very uncomfortable equipage, by sundry little groans concerning their aching backs. Eirene, sitting at one end, where the boughs of the bending trees brushed her as she passed, thought of nothing but the pleasures of the ride. The road ran by sequestered farms and through the woods, all the way. The young light shimmered through the leaves above and around them; the air was full of soft sounds and of pleasant smells; of the fragrance of resinous branches and juicy ferns crushed beneath the wagon-wheels. Eirene took it in at every pore, and grew as glad as the birds singing over her head. After a two hours' drive, they entered a new road cut through the woods, and a distinct murmur of human voices reached their ears; and then what seemed to Eirene to be an extraordinary sight for such a place, greeted her eyes. Under the trees, all along the roadside, booths had been erected of green boughs, and under them men and women seemed to be driving an astonishing trade in small-beer, gingerbread, candies and doughnuts, and other harmless commodities. New-comers were constantly arriving. Wagonloads of the sisters and brethren of the church; young men and their "girls," in buggies, arrayed in their best, nearly all of whom stopped at the stalls to regale themselves with ginger-pop, peanuts, and other innocent refreshments. At last, through the shifting leaves, Eirene caught glimpses of white tents, forming a semicircle under the foresttrees, surrounding an amphitheatre of rude seats facing a rude pulpit canopied by the boughs of beeches and elms. Their wagon stopped outside of this inclosure. Tilda Stade, hurriedly alighting, assisted Eirene to do the same, informing her, at the same time, that this was the "blessed camp-ground, and

yonder was the very spot where she received the blessing of sanctificationwhere Jesus spoke perfect peace to her soul." Taking Eirene's hand, she led her toward a large tent bearing the name of "Busyville" above the door. They were now fairly on the campground, and Eirene beheld what was to her a most unwonted and picturesque sight. Tiny fires, made from dried boughs, were crackling in the rear of every tent; and on these, kettles were boiling and meats were frying. Extempore tables, set under the trees, were spread with white cloths, garnished with flowers, and loaded with viands. Pretty young sisters in white sun-bonnets, white aprons, and gay frocks, superintended these tables; while matrons in close "shakers and demure dresses hovered about the fires, guarding the meats and watching the tea-pots and coffee-pots, lest their delicious liquids should run too low to supply the numerous hungry people waiting for breakfast. The air was full of the most varied sounds. Birds twittered in the trees. Girls chattered and laughed with each other, and flirted in a halfsubdued, half-pious way, with the young brethren, whose plates they piled and whose cups they filled; while the women by the fires talked in low, mysterious tones to each other, as women will. From manifold tents issued the sounds of morning devotions. Old hymns and old tunes of every conceivable rhythm and metre met in mid-air in inextricable confusion. In one tent could be heard the sobs of a sore soul wailing over its sins, amid a Babel of prayers rising to heaven in its behalf; from another came a solitary voice, fervent and sonorous, going up to God in early thanksgiving; while from every direction came choruses of voices shouting, "Bless the Lord!" "Glory to God!" The whole scene bore witness to what it was-a great religious picnic, in which material pleasure and human happiness blended very largely with spiritual experience. The appearance of Tilda Stade on the camp-ground was a signal for rejoicing to the more zealous Christians, for it

was a sure promise of increased zeal in the prayer-meetings. As they gathered around to welcome her, Eirene was left standing alone for a moment; and, looking about her, saw, for the first time, an individual who had seen her from the first moment of her appearance. It was good Brother Viner, standing at the head of the table, evidently just concluding his breakfast. He looked red in the face, and uncomfortable, as if the sisters were overfeeding him that warm morning. He was literally besieged by women, young and old, each one producing, from her particular basket or from her particular fire, some viand, hot or cold, setting it before her minister, with the exclamation, "Oh, Brother Viner, do taste this; I made it on purpose for you!" "Oh, Brother Viner, where's your appetite gone to? You must eat your breakfast!" Brother Viner did not like to appear ungrateful, and thus kept on tasting each dish set before him. It was a sight to behold them-the dishes of pork and beans, cold ham, succotash, omelets, doughnuts, crullers, pies, preserves, pickles, all heaped up before the unfortunate minister. Brother Viner had an excellent appetite, and, at first, attacked this conflicting mass of food with all the zest of a young and vigorous stomach; but even he was no proof against the ignorant kindness of women -a kindness that has caused more sour stomachs and sour theology than the most powerful imagination ever conceived. Brother Viner looked up from the mass on his plate, and beheld Eirene looking toward him with wondering eyes. He recognized her at once as the innocent-looking little sinner who had caused the prayer-meeting at Sister Mallane's. Here she was on the campground-the place of all others for her conversion, the most appropriate in which to reclaim her from the error of her ways; and what an interesting subject! Brother Viner could not help seeing this. He was a young man, and, like any other young man, could not help feeling a more spontaneous interest in a lovely girl than in an ugly one.

But Brother Viner was also an intelligent man, and perfectly conscious of the relative fitness of things. How could he labor with her concerning her soul? How could he appeal to her, with pathetic tones and tears, to forsake her sins and give her soul to her Saviour? How could she regard him solely as a spiritual teacher, now that she had seen him there, devouring, with such gusto, such quantities of food? Not but what he thought that he had a perfect right to his breakfast-as good a right to enjoy it as any other manbut not to such a breakfast. In his over-fed condition, there was something incongruous in passing directly from the feast to the prayer-meeting, to pray for a girl who, in her white frock and innocent face, "looked like a lily out with nature." At least thus poetically thought Brother Viner, notwithstanding Mrs. Mallane's account of her wickedness still remained in his memory. "Why didn't I sit down under a tree, and make my breakfast from a bowl of bread and milk, in true pastoral fashion?" he asked himself in tones of self-disgust, his eyes still fixed upon the white dress and sun-bonnet.

At this time Eirene's attention was called away from the young minister by a rustic young convert, who, in his new-born spiritual joy, was oblivious of breakfast and of all human want. Spying Eirene standing alone, he immediately came to the conclusion that she was "a sinner," and not "a sister;" therefore, a proper subject for missionary zeal. He walked up to her, and, without a single preliminary, asked, "Do you love the Lord?"

Eirene, startled by the abrupt question, saw before her a lank, long-haired youth, the exact counterpart of Moses Loplolly. Had that young man of peddling propensities concluded to study for the Christian ministry?

"Do you love the Lord?" was the solemn question again propounded to the wondering girl.

"I hope I do," was the timid answer. "You hope you do!" [In a tone of deep disgust.] "You hope you do!

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