“What’s that? who buzzes about me?” cried a large thick bee, hurrying towards them with an angry hum. Stickasting had been the plague of the hive ever since she had had wings. She was especially the torment of the unfortunate drones, who, not having been gifted with stings like the workers, had no means of defence to protect them from their bullying foe. When a larva, her impatient disposition was not known. She had spun her silken web like any peaceable insect, then lain quiet and asleep as a pupa or nymph. But no sooner did the young bee awake to life, than, using her new powers with hearty good-will, she ate her way through the web at such a quick rate, that the old bees who looked in pronounced at once that she was likely to be a most active worker. Nor were they disappointed, as far as work was concerned; no one was ready to fly faster or further, no one worked harder at building the cells; but it was soon discovered that her activity and quickness were not the only qualities for which she was remarkable. If ever bee had a bad temper, that bee was Stickasting. Quarrelling, bullying, attacking, fighting, she was as bad as a wasp in the hive. No one would ever have trusted larvæ to her care. Sipsyrup might neglect or complain of her charge, but Stickasting would have been positively cruel. Her companionship was shunned, as must be expected by all of her character, whether they be boys or bees; and she seldom exchanged a hum, except of defiance, with any creature in the hive.
Sipsyrup, the moment that she perceived Stickasting coming towards her, flew off in alarm, leaving poor Silverwing to bear the brunt of the attack.
“Who buzzes about me?” repeated Stickasting fiercely, flying very close up to the little nurse-bee.
“Indeed, I never named you,” replied Silverwing timidly, shrinking back as close as she could to the comb.
“If you were not talking against me yourself, you were listening to and encouraging one who did. Who dare say that I am waspish?” continued Stickasting, quivering her wings with anger till they were almost invisible. “It is this gossip and slander that make the hive too hot to hold us. I once thought better of you, Silverwing, as a quiet good-natured sort of a bee, but I now see that you are just like the rest, and as silly as you are ugly.”
This was a very provoking speech—it was intended to be so; but Silverwing was not a creature ready to take offence; whatever she felt, she returned no answer—an example which I would strongly recommend to all in her position, whether standing on six feet or on two.
But Stickasting was resolved to pick a quarrel if possible, especially with one whom she considered less strong than herself; for she was not one of those generous beings who scorn to take advantage of the weakness of another. Stickasting much resembled the class of rude, coarse-minded boys, who find a pleasure in teasing children and annoying little girls, and like to show their power over those who dare not oppose it.
“I owe you a grudge, Silverwing, for your conduct to me yesterday. When I was toiling and working at the cells like a slave, not having time to go out for refreshment, I saw you fly past me two or three times, and not a drop of honey did you offer me.”
“I was carrying pollen for my little larvæ,” gently replied Silverwing. “It is not my office to supply the builders, though I am sure that I should do so with pleasure; but the baby-bees are placed under my charge, and you know what care they need till they begin to spin.”
“Yes, idle, hungry, troublesome creatures that they are! Have they not set about their spinning yet? I’ll make them stir themselves,”—and Stickasting made a movement towards the nursery-cells.