"Thank your kindness," returned the short-lived insect, "my life has been already lengthened through your means, but you cannot renovate my nature; may yours be extended."
"As long as it can be useful," said the Bee, interrupting him, "but to you I owe all that I have gathered this summer," added he; "for had it not been for your friendly and compassionate encouragement when first we met, I should have sunk a victim to the consciousness of deserved destruction; say not, therefore, that you have been of no use in the world."
"I will not," returned the Butterfly, faintly fluttering his wings, as if with his last breath he was desirous of rejoicing it had been in his power to do good.
From this time the poor Butterfly was still more sensible of the weakness of his frame, and flying towards the place his friend had pointed out, he entered, never to quit it more, "self-buried 'ere he died," for in the morning when the Bee visited the spot he was deaf to his voice, and his pitying friend had to lament the sudden change in one he had so very lately seen frisking about in all the gaiety of health and spirits.
"Poor fly," said he, "thou hast been faithful to me, and has even forgot thy wonted pleasures to afford me assistance; I will not leave thee to the devouring jaws of thy fellow insects, at least thy little body shall be preserved from being so destroyed," and with this resolution he spent one whole day in gathering wax, and stopping up the crevice which contained the remains of his friend—all the return he could now make for his former kindness. After having given this last proof of affection, he returned to the hive, and there in the busy labors of the Commonwealth soon forgot the shock which the unexpected death of his airy companion had occasioned.
During that winter they were suffered to remain unmolested, and as the ensuing summer approached, (according to the plan he had formed so long ago,) he proposed their taking a farther flight, and seeking a refuge in some solitary wood; "I have seen more of mankind than you have, my friends," said he, "and have observed both their customs and manners; believe me, they are inconsistent fickle creatures; their conduct towards one another shows that they are not to be trusted; much more, then, have we reason to be afraid of them. You very well know it is in our power to live without their assistance; what is it which they procure us but just an empty shell for our habitation? for this they expect our stock of honey, and to obtain it scruple not to take our lives! We have already seen, in the destruction of one or two of our neighbouring hives, the fate which awaits us; but could I persuade all of my species to wing their flight beyond their reach, they might be taught a little more humanity, and would perhaps spare our lives, if we were again in their power. Content to share with us what our labours have produced, they might then leave us to die when our exhausted nature fails, and for their own sakes also would not cut us off in the prime of life, and while we have health and strength to add to the stock, which would be as much for their benefit as our own."
This speech had the desired effect; the whole community seemed roused by it, and entering into his scheme, on the appointed day not a Bee was left behind, but altogether mounting the air they winged their flight far beyond its usual extent, nor could all the clattering of pots and kettles make them settle, till clear of the noise and out of the sight of man they found an habitation for themselves, and under the covert of a thick wood passed the remainder of their days in peaceful industry.
THE END.
W. Lewis, Printer, Paternoster-row, London.