“No, not foolish, but—”
“Too fond of good living, and too lazy to like trouble in procuring it. Well, I daresay that you are right, Silverwing; I believe that, as you say, there may be danger.”
“Then why not come away?” persisted the bee.
“Because the taste is so good,” said her companion, bending over the rim—the next moment she was struggling in the syrup!
Ah, Honeyball, weak, foolish insect! In vain do you struggle, in vain do you buzz, in vain your grieved friend flutters against the glass,—you have sacrificed yourself for a little indulgence, like thousands who look at the tempting glass, know their danger, yet will not abstain!
As Silverwing on the outside of the bottle was uttering her hum of pity and regret, suddenly a handkerchief was thrown over her, and the loud, rough voice of Tom was heard.
“Rather a paltry beginning to my collection, a wretched hive-bee! But I caught it so cleverly, without its being crushed, or spoiled by the syrup; and I will keep it till I get that stuff which Ben told me of, which kills insects without hurting their beauty!”
Poor unhappy Silverwing! she was indeed in a terrible position. She had not even power to use her sting in self-defence, for to plunge it into the handkerchief would have been useless indeed; and she felt all that a bee might be expected to feel, in the power of its most cruel foe. Tom carried her into the cottage, and carefully unclosing the handkerchief, after he had mounted upon a chair to reach the shelf easily, he shook his poor prisoner into his own mug, and tied some paper firmly over the top.
Silverwing flew round and round, buzzing in terror; she only hurt her wings against the sides. Then she crawled over the paper which formed the ceiling of her prison; but no hole for escape could she find. It was clear that she was now shut out from all hope, condemned perhaps to some lingering death. While her companions were flying about, busy and happy, she was to pine, a lonely prisoner, here. At first her feelings were those of despair; then, quietly, though sadly, she made up her mind to submit to her cruel fate. She no longer fluttered about restlessly, but settling at the bottom of the mug, in patience awaited the return of her tormentor.
Hours passed before Tom came back. There had been other voices in the cottage, but no one had touched the place of Silverwing’s imprisonment. Mrs. Wingfield had been called out hastily by her neighbour Mrs. Bright, on the discovery of the illness of the baby; and as Minnie had not then returned from school, the cottage was left quite empty. Presently there was a rapid step, then the sound of some one jumping up on the chair. Silverwing felt the mug moved, then the paper raised; she was ready to make a last effort to escape through the opening; but her little tyrant took good care to give no time for that; he only shook in another victim, and then shut down the paper quickly, and placed a book on the top.