The pond, too, was overshadowed by trees so there were no sunbeams to warm her. “Ah,” thought she, “if I can manage to drag myself up into the sunshine and rest and be well warmed, I shall soon be better.”
Well, the bank was safely reached at last! but Buz, all through her life, never forgot what a business it was climbing up the side. The long grasses yielded to her weight, and bent almost straight down, as if on purpose to make it as up-hill work for her as possible. And even when she reached the top it took her a weary while to get across the patch of dark shadow and out into the glad sunlight beyond; but she managed to arrive there at last, and crawling on the top of a stone which had been well warmed by the sun’s rays, she rested for a long time.
At last she recovered sufficiently to make her way, by a succession of short flights, back to the hive. After the first of these flights she felt so dreadfully weak that she almost doubted being able to accomplish the journey, and began to despond.
“If I ever do get home,” she said to herself, “I will tell Hum all about it, and how right she was to take advice.”
Now, whether it was the exercise that did her good, or that the sun’s rays became hotter that afternoon, cannot be known, but this is certain, that Buz felt better after every flight. When she reached the end of the clover field, she sipped a little honey, cleaned herself with her feet, stretched her wings, and, with the sun glistening brightly on her, looked quite fine again. Her last flight brought her to the top of the kitchen-garden wall. After resting here, she opened her wings and flew gaily to the hive, which she entered just as if nothing had happened.
THE STORY WITHOUT AN END
Translated by Sarah Austin from the German of A. Carove