HE sun set, the rooks in the squire’s park had gone to roost, the bats flew round the ivy-covered tower of the village church. The hive was becoming quiet and still, the bees hanging in clusters prepared to go to sleep; but Stickasting had never returned. Silverwing listened in vain for the well-known sound of her angry hum, and wondered what could have delayed her companion. But never again was the poor bee to fly back to the hive, never again to labour at the waxen cells; and, alas! how little was her presence missed—still less was it regretted. [81]The next morning was warm, bright, and sunny, the bees were early on the wing. The larv? were beginning to spin their webs, and therefore no longer required food; so Silverwing was free to range over the fields, and gather honey for the hive. So tempting was the day, that even Honeyball shook her lazy wings and crept to the door; there stood for a few moments, jostled by her more active fellow-servants, and finally flew off in quest of food.
How delightful was the air!—how fragrant the breeze! The buttercups spread their carpet of gold, and the daisies their mantle of silver over the meadows, all glittering with the drops of bright dew. Honeyball soon found a flower to her taste, and never thought of quitting it till she had exhausted all its honied store. She had a dim idea that it was her duty to help to fill the cells, but poor Honeyball was too apt to prefer pleasure to duty.
“I should like to have nothing to do,”[82] she murmured, little thinking that a listener was near.
“Like to have nothing to do! Is it from a hive-bee that I hear such words?—from one whose labour is itself all play?”
Honeyball turned to view the speaker, and beheld on a sign-post near her the most beautiful bee that she had ever seen. Her body was larger than that of a hive-bee, and her wings were of a lovely violet colour, like the softest tint of the rainbow.[A]
Honeyball felt a little confused by the address, and a little ashamed of her own speech; but as all bees consider each other as cousins, felt it best to put on a frank, easy air.
“Why, certainly, flying about upon a morning like this, and making elegant extracts from flowers, is pleasant enough for a time. But may I ask, lady-bee,” continued[83] Honeyball, “if you think as lightly of working in wax?”
“Working in wax!” half contemptuously replied Violetta; “a soft thing which you can bend and twist any way, and knead into any shape that you choose. Come and look at my home here, and then ask yourself if you have any reason to complain of your work.”
Honeyball looked forward with her two honey-combed eyes, and upwards and backwards with her three others, but not the shadow of a hive could she perceive anywhere. “May I venture to ask where you live?” said she at last.
“This way,” cried Violetta, waving her feeler, and pointing to a little round hole in the post, which Honeyball had not noticed before. It looked gloomy, and dark, and strange to the bee; but Violetta, who took some pride in her mansion, requested Honeyball to step in.
“You cannot doubt my honour,” said she,[84] observing that the hive-worker hesitated, “or be suspicious of a cousin?”
Honeyball assured her that she had never dreamed of such a thing, and entered the hole in the p............