“Aren’t you afraid of being stung?”
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“Not at all. I’ve lost lots of bees with chills. These covers I put on at night to keep out the dampness, but I take ’em off when the sun shines.”
Now that the covers had been removed, the children could see that the top of each hive was made of wooden slats. Mr. Wasson pried up one of these slats to show the well-filled honeycomb attached to it.
“Tut, tut! there’s a little mould here,” he said, passing his finger along the cells without heeding the bees flying about them.
Molly drew back.
“Aren’t you afraid of being stung, Mr. Wasson?”
“Afraid, miss? Oh, no! my bees and I are good friends.”
“Weren’t you ever stung, Mr. Wasson?” asked Kirke uneasily, as a bee whizzed about his ear.
“Wasn’t I ever stung, sir?”—Mr. Wasson put back the comb with an odd grimace,—“well, young man, accidents will happen. There are five hundred of these stands, and I go over them three times every spring.”