T is now time that I should draw my tale to a close; but as my reader may like to know what became of the little people, with wings and without wings, that we have followed through this story, I shall give a few more pages to an account of their fate.
The first sunbeam which shone the next morning upon the hive, glittered on Silverwing, as with joyous speed she hastened back to her home. She continued there her busy and her happy life, finding sweetness everywhere, honey in each flower, and cheering the less joyous existence of Sipsyrup,[152] whose wing never quite recovered its power. As the injured bee was unable to fly out with the next swarm, her friend remained behind to bear her company: they passed the summer days in active employ and the winter in plenty and repose.
 
SILVERWING AND SIPSYRUP.
I have a less pleasing account to give of Waxywill, who was certainly a most wayward bee. She chose to go out honey-seeking one day, when required for work in the hive; she resolved, contrary to orders, to visit the dwelling of a humble-bee, and because she knew that her cousins of that race live underground, against the warnings of[153] her companions she entered a little hole in a bank, and found herself in the midst of a nest of wasps! Her melancholy fate may easily be imagined; she died beneath the stings of her enemies.
But, perhaps, you are more desirous to hear what befell our heroes and heroines of the human race.
Let my reader then fancy himself again beneath the little porch which adorns the front of Mrs. Wingfield’s cottage. It is now later in the year, the finest flowers in the garden have faded, one or two sunflowers and a few dahlias look gay still; but the fresh feel of the morning air, the white tinge on the grass, and the heavy dew which has strung Spinaway’s web with numberless tiny beads, show that the autumn is now advanced. Beneath the porch sits Minnie, busy as usual with her work, before the hour for going to school. Tom is near her, engaged in stringing together little egg-shells, collected in the spring; pretty enough[154] in themselves, but won at the expense of much misery to the poor birds whose nests he had robbed.
Who approaches from the opposite side of the lane, bearing a baby carefully wrapped up in her arms? You will scarcely recognize poor Polly, once so fond of finery and folly. How much nicer she looks in her present quiet dress, with her gentle subdued look and kindly air.
Then the baby did live? Yes, he did live; a poor sickly delicate child. But oh, the tenderness with which he has been watched by Polly, who now seems to think that she can never do enough for her brothers! She appears to have thrown away her vanity with her diamond-brooch; or rather, she has thoroughly learned the painful lesson taught through that terrible evening and night. The resolutions that she then made she has not forgotten, the prayers which she then uttered were from the heart,—and there is not in the whole village to be found a more[155] sober, modest, quietly-dressed girl, always placing her duties before her pleasures, than the once vain, selfish Polly Bright.
She now drew near, carrying the baby, with little Johnny trotting after her, his cheeks just as rosy, and his figure as round, as before his adventure in the woods. It had left on his mind a great affection for Minnie, who had always been a favourite with the child; and he now ran up to his friend with an apple in his hand, as round and as rosy as himself.
“Minnie Wings,” said the little boy, holding it up to her lips, “Minnie Wings, you take bite.”
Minnie smilingly accepted the proffered kindness of the child, after stooping down to kiss his rosy face.
“Co............