"It is very good of you," I replied. "But can't you use it?"
"No," he said. "None of the magazines would print a story sent in by a bee; but even if they would you could have it, because we owe you some return."
"What for, pray?" I cried.
"Your baby's kisses," he said, simply. "We've made eight dollars out of him this year."
I looked at him for a moment, and then, as he buzzed back to the window, I called out,
"Don't be in a hurry."
"I must," he said. "It's getting late."
"Well, come again," I said, "and tell me some more."
"Oh, you can count on that," he answered, as he flew out of the window with a joyous buzz. "I'll be back before you know it."
And with that he was gone; and when next morning I told his story to my children, they all liked it so much that I have put it down to tell you, for possibly the bees made eight or ten dollars out of you when you were a baby, and you are as much entitled to the return as I am.