The Child waited patiently until his new friend had filled his little basket with bread, made of the yellow flower-dust, and then joyfully obeyed the busy little workman's signal, and followed him into the wood.
As they went, the bee chatted in a grave and pleasant way about his relations and acquaintances,—about his cousin the carpenter who carved her nest in wood, and lined it with rose leaves; and his cousin the mason, who built her little dwelling with many chambers, of grains of sand cemented together and plastered over. He had also many wonderful stories about that part of their race who lived in cities and villages, each city with its queen and royal family, its busy labourers, confectioners, bakers, builders, nurses of the royal children, and body-guard of the queen. And they were constantly meeting friends and acquaintances, with whom the bee would stop and buzz a little politics, or discuss the last news from court.
The Child was greatly delighted with all he heard of this busy happy people; and when at length the bee stopped at his native village, he gladly accepted the invitation of the hospitable little negro inhabitants, who thronged around him, to share their mid-day meal. For here also he was no stranger,—every creature welcomed him, and was eager to render loving homage to their little king.
Thus the hours passed swiftly on. Squirrels darted up the trees, and there sat waving their long bushy tails, cracking nuts between their paws, and peeping at the Child with their quick twinkling eyes. Field-mice crept out of their holes in the mossy banks, and gazed on him with their grave whiskered faces; tiny ants bustled to and fro, too busy to attend to anything but housing their winter stores; butterflies in their rich brocades, and insects with lustrous wings, fluttered joyously around him; whilst all the flowers laid their crowns at his feet in their silent love. But more than all, the Child delighted in the birds. They perched around him, hidden among the leafy branches, and poured forth their happy songs; they hopped about on the grass close to him, turning their pretty heads from side to side, and looking up at him with their bright eyes full of trust.
At length, as he was rambling among the thick trees, feeling his way through the long grass, his hand unexpectedly rested on something soft and downy, from which issued a low plaintive chirp. Instantly he drew back, and held aside the grass to see what it could be. There, couching among the thick stems, he descried a little bird sitting patiently on her nest, spreading her wings over her brood. She looked up timidly in his face, but did not stir.
"Were you not afraid I might hurt you?" said the Child. "Why do you sit still?"
"If I flew away, who would take care of my little ones?" said the mother.
Then the Child's heart comprehended something of what is meant by a mother's love, and he stooped down and tenderly stroked the soft head and breast of the mother-bird; but the tears gathered in his eyes as he looked at her, and a strange feeling of loneliness and want crept over him.
It was too late for him to return to his little cave that evening, so he gathered some dry leaves, and laid himself down by the side of the mother-bird and her brood.
As he lay there, the birds were finishing their evening song, and all around arose a flood of soft melody, filling the air, and wandering in and out among the trees, and ferns, and flowers. Sometimes it seemed to the Child as if the beautiful music were forming itself into a Name; but he listened and listened until he fell asleep, and still the Song was without words.