CHAP. VIII.[ToC]
THE BUMBLE-BEES' NEST.
All the boys and girls who live in the country, and probably a large share of those who live in the city, know the bumble-bee. We had a little different name for him in our neighborhood. Bumble-bee was, however, the only name the family was known by, in Willow Lane, and I think it quite possible that such a corruption, (if it is a corruption, and the wise ones tell us it is, though I should like to see them beat the notion into the head of any one of the hundred children who went to our school,) is very common in New England.
The nests of these insects, you may not be aware, are made in the ground. These nests are frequently found in meadows, about the time the grass is mowed; and it not unfrequently happens that the mower disturbs one of these nests with his scythe, in which case, the first information the poor man obtains of the existence of the nest is from a score or two of the bumble-bees themselves—(we'll call them bumble-bees, for the sake of peace, though I must confess I feel a great partiality for the name by which I knew the rogues when I used to be familiar with their nests)—the bumble-bees themselves, who fly into his face, before he has time to retreat, and sting him until they get tired of the sport.
In these nests, there is usually more or less honey. Sometimes there is half a pint, or more. This honey is very palatable; and it is not an uncommon thing for children to brave the danger of being stung by the bees, for the sake of capturing a nest and getting possession of its treasures. For myself, I never was ambitious of getting renown by such means as besieging a bumble-bee's nest.
I'll tell you what I did perform, though, once on a time, which was closely connected with the race of insects I am speaking of. It is a common tradition among country boys, that white-faced bumble-bees never sting, and that you can take them in your hands with perfect safety. This tradition may have truth at the bottom of it, or it may not. I cannot tell, and I shall not stop to debate the question now. It is certain that there is an insect, very much resembling the bumble-bee, and of about the same size, who, nevertheless, is a very different fellow. This is the chap that bores holes into dry wood, as nicely as you can bore with a gimlet, on which account he is sometimes called the borer. This insect does not sting. No thanks to him, though, for not stinging. He has no instrument to sting with. For aught I know, he may have ever so good a will to sting; but he has no power to do so, any more than a grasshopper or a butterfly.
Well, I wanted to show some of the boys, one day, how smart I was. I had an idea that I could teach them something, and at the same time get the credit for a little bit of bravery.