“Well, I doubt,” said Carraways, smiling down upon the hive, “I doubt, if Queen Dido—yes, I think it was Dido—carried with her more useful colonists; and I take it, say what they will, few so innocent.” Bessy looked inquiringly.—“I don’t think you know much of Queen Dido, my dear; and to say the truth, my school knowledge with the lady was at the best a nodding acquaintance. But, if you can only preserve them!” and the old gentleman folded his hands thoughtfully.
“Oh, I have no fear of that. I am certain, dear father—I feel so sure of it—they will arrive with us all safe and well. And then”—
“And then, my love,”—said the old man—“you will not have lived in vain. No, my child, you will have done your share in the great human work—have obeyed the behest that lays it as a solemn task on all to share with all the good that, for some wise end, was only meted to a few. Only land the bees safe; let the swarm be but well upon the wing; let them once set to work, making honey—the new manna in the wilderness—where honey was never made before,—why do this, Bessy, and you are greater than any of the men Queens, that ever lived—greater than any of the topping masculine ladies out of place in petticoats. Catherine and Christina and such folks—humph! very great no doubt,—but their memory is not exactly kept in honey. And Queen Elizabeth—yes, an extraordinary virgin—but what a small stinging insect in a stomacher—how useless to the world is Queen Elizabeth against Queen Bee!”
“I am sure they will live,” repeated Bessy; “and ’twill be such nice employment, during the voyage, to take care of them. And then, in a little time when they swarm and swarm”—
“Why, then, my dear—yes, I see it all”—and the old man, with a thoughtful smile, and as though dallying with a fancy, continued—“I see it all, and can prophesy. In some hundred years or so, when men think it the true glory to build up, not to destroy; when work, not slaughter, is the noble thing; when, in a word, the eagles of war shall be scouted as carrion fowl, and the bees of the garden shall be the honoured type of human wisdom,—why, then, Bessy—then, my child—that is some hundred years to come—in the city that will then flourish, I predict that the people will raise a statue to the memory of the woman, who gave to the Antipodes the household glory of the honey bee.”
“Oh, father!” cried Bessy.
“If the bees prosper, why you and Basil shall in the new country take a bee for your crest; by the way, not at all bad emigrant heraldry,” laughed the old man. “Let me see; a bee or on a thistle proper. And the motto, ‘Honey from suffering!’ A good Christian legend,” said Carraways. “And then, in a hundred years, as I predict, a statue”—
“A statue!” and Bessy laughed.
“Well,” said the father with a gentle seriousness, “I’m getting old, Bessy. But I feel ’tis good—very good—to gain hope for the world, even as we gain years. It makes the sweeter sunset for our human day.”
And now anticipating awhile, we have only to say that at the proper season the hive was tenderly conveyed on board the Halcyon, there to await the cares of its coming mistress.