THE BEES.
[[Listen]]
THE BEES.
O, mother dear, pray tell me where
The bees in winter stay?
The flow'rs are gone they fed upon,
So sweet in summer's day.
My child, they live within the hive,
And have enough to eat:
Amid the storm they're clean and warm,
Their food is honey sweet.
Say, mother dear, how came it there?
Did father feed them so?
I see no way in winter's day
That honey has to grow.
No, no, my child, in summer mild,
The bees laid up their store
Of honey drops in little cups,
'Til they would want no more.
In cups you said—how are they made?
Are they as large as ours?
O no, they're all made nice and small
Of wax, found in the flow'rs.
Our summer's day to work and play,
Is now in mercy giv'n,
And we must strive long as we live
To lay up stores in HEAV'N.
