"We'll put the expedition right down on the fall programme," she said, smilingly. Then turning to Mr. Clifford, she continued: "You spoke in praise of Italian bees. What kind are they? and how many kinds are there?"
"Really only two distinct kinds—our native brownish-black bees, and the
Italians imported by Mr. S. B. Parsons and others about fifteen years ago.
There is a cross or hybrid between these two kinds that are said to be so
ill-natured that it is unsafe to go anywhere near their hives."
"Burt," said Webb, "you must remember reading in Virgil of the 'golden bees.'"
"Yes, indistinctly; but none of them ever got in my bonnet or made much impression. I don't like bees, nor do they like me. They respect only the deliberation of profound gravity and wisdom. Father has these qualities by the right of years, and Webb by nature, and their very presence soothes the irascible insects; but when I go among them they fairly bristle with stings. Give me a horse, and the more spirited the better."
"Oh, no, Burt; can't give you any," said Leonard, with his humorous twinkle. "I'll sell you one, though, cheap."
"Yes, that vicious, uncouth brute that you bought because so cheap. I told you that you were 'sold' at the same time with the horse."
"I admit it," was the rueful reply. "If he ever balks again as he did to-day, I shall be tempted to shoot him."
"Oh, dear!" said Amy, a little petulantly, "I'd rather hear about Italian bees than balky horses. Has my swarm of bees any connection with those that Virgil wrote about, Webb?"
"They may be direct descendants," he replied.
"Then call them May-bees," laughed Burt.