“You’re afraid!” buzzed the bee, coming near her. “You’re afraid I’ll sting you!” She laughed. “We never sting unless we think we need to take care of ourselves or our lovely children.”
“Oh,” apologized Miss Gardener, “I—that is, I—I’m ready, Mrs. Bee.”
“All right, then,” buzzed the bee, flying nearer. “Are you certain you’re not afraid?”
“I’m not,” declared Miss Gardener; but she said a little shiver went down her spine.
“Very well,” buzzed the bee, coming straight at her and hitting her between the eyes.
Miss Gardener tried to scream; before she could do so she had the queerest sensation. Before she could think whether the bee had stung or not, she began to sink down, down, down, down, down, down, until she was just the size of the bee.
“You’ve wondered so long,” said the bee, “about what a beehive was like inside, I am going to take you on a visit to ours. But we must hurry, or I shall not get my duty to the hive people done. Besides, you cannot enter without some pollen or nectar; so here, stop and get a bit.”
“How can I?” began Miss Gardener.
“Fly over to that rose I was on,” said the bee. Miss Gardener flew and gathered some pollen, and, together, Mrs. Honey Bee and she winged their way over to the hive.