lines a bee to its nest, by
alluring one to a bait of honey within a circle of wet white paint,
watching the subsequent flight, letting off another, similarly secured,
at right angles to that, and looking for the nest at the intersection of
the two white lines. Nor is the hunter their only depredator. At the
Cape of Good Hope there lives a bird known as the Honey-Guide, that
enters into alliance with man, sounds its shrill note, and, fluttering
from spray to spray, leads the way to the sweet resort: it would be
sacrilege, if the Hottentot did not leave a portion of the honey to the
informer. There, too, is the rattel, a little beast that at sunset
shelters its eyes with a paw, for clearer view, spots a bee, and follows
it: often these two make fellowship together, the one for the honey, the
bird for the brood. But these are not the terrors of a temperate clime;
the hives can despatch a field-mouse unassisted; the master who cannot
rid them of the wax-moth they will desert without regrets; sounding the
slogan for aid, no two bees will hesitate to grapple with the bold
butchering wasp that invades them; the humble-bee, making her
underground nest, the poppy-bee, fitting her splendid scarlet tapestry,
however many each may have, recks of few enemies beyond the rain and
storm. What should any one of them all remember about the tomtit that
comes and taps outside and snaps each resident up as it appears
inquiring at the gate? of the little feathered monster that tears bees
to pieces, making shreds of heads and wings for his mere amusement? To
them a briefer memory makes brief life blessed. The happy murmurer of
our morning knows of little but peace and security, he does not even
dream that _savans_ infuriate themselves about him, he buzzes from
flower to flower, daringly puts aside the curtain of sacred shrines and
makes himself luxurious hermitage in the snowy depths of the lilies,
lets the south wind swing him a moment on the golden cradle of kingcups,
pursues his pleasures in the purple recesses of the hyacinth, or,
gliding into a labyrinth of petals, between the silken linings of
perfumed chambers, the tinted sunlight softly sifting through, revels
with the gracious nymphs that wait there, that hail him, caress him, and
give him their confidence all under the rose; he goes his way, and his
music spurns the trail of melancholy that never fails to follow the most
delicious warble that ever trilled from throat of bobolink or