But, as they were for the most part early risers, it was the one thorn in the wild bouquet to Una, whose fête this was, that she could not have a perfect representation of her garden flower clock—to find a flower whose awaking corresponded to each number upon the sundial she had to turn to garden aristocrats.
But when early pond lily, late evening primrose blended together in the dance, the final dance of breeze-blown wild flowers, going through the pretty pantomime of falling asleep—nodding—heads upon each other’s shoulders, the thorn was sheathed.
“Oh! hasn’t it been a success? As long as I live I shall love to think of this—my sixteenth birthday.” Una clung adoringly to the Guardian, a lovely Morning Glory, tender, dreamy, her eyes going down among the spectators to single out faces of little children, mountain children to whom even a moving picture display was a rare treat. “They’re all on tiptoe for the ice cream now,” she said, feeling little pulses in her throat at the pleasure she was giving. “But—what’s that?”
Was there a bee in the bouquet—the wild flower bouquet? Had every honeybee that visited the real flowers upon the mountain that day, in return for sweets acquired, stored up in the blossoms its hum, to be reproduced this evening?
From behind the scenes stole a murmur, faint at first, swelling, surging, until the air was full of it—that elfin hum.
“Oh-h! where is it coming from—now?” Una stiffened distractedly, shivering—blanching.
“Patience—just for a moment, darling!” said the Guardian—and put an arm round her.
“The—the Murmuration, by heck!” the old farmer was exclaiming: “Is it a bee-hive, a wild bees’ nest, anywheres near?” He started up, staring everywhere in the gloaming. “No-o, ba gosh! ’tain’t any bee swarm—bee tree—it’s too sweet. Sweet as honey from St. Peter’s garden!”
In the gloaming he looked half-wild.
“Sit down—you fool!” His wife caught him by the coat-tails; her prim muslin mouth was all pleats and puckers, as if she could tell the source of the honeyed hum, if she would—and that it did hail from St. Peter’s garden—wasn’t earthly.