Amidst the troubles of our human friends we must not quite forget those of our little winged ones. The frightened hungry bees, confined in their small prison, passed the long hours in most uncomfortable plight.
“What a bitter thing it is,” cried Violetta, sinking exhausted after a last effort to gnaw through the unyielding crockery, “to think of all the joy and happiness left in the world, from which we are shut out for ever. To-morrow the lark will be rising on high, the butterfly flitting over the daisied meadow, your comrades feasting in the dewy flowers, all Nature one hum of life!”
“I am glad that they can enjoy still, there is some comfort in that,” said Silverwing.
“That is a feeling which I cannot understand,” observed Violetta. “It is strange that the very same thought should give pain to me and pleasure to you!”
Violetta had had no great experience of life, or she would have known that such is often the case. Living by herself as a solitary insect, she had never heard one of the mottoes of Bee-land: From the blossom of a comrade’s success one draws the poison of envy, another the honey of delight.
The village church-clock had struck the hour of nine; it was seldom that its sound could be heard in the cottage of Mrs. Wingfield, but now the place was so still that the breeze bore it distinctly to her listening ear. Weary, she lay on her bed, unwilling to sleep till her children should return. The rain was beginning to fall without; the heavy clouds bending towards earth, made the night much darker than is usual in summer. Presently a sound was heard at the door.
“Minnie, is that you?” cried the mother.
“It is Polly,” answered a mournful voice, as the little girl entered the cottage.
“Is the baby worse?” asked Mrs. Wingfield.
“I hope not; but mother is in such a state about Johnny. If it were not for baby, she would be wandering all night in the rain. I come to ask if you could kindly give her a little hartshorn—I know that that is what you take when you are poorly.”