Suddenly one of the bees, with the pollen baskets on its thighs filled to overflowing, dropped down on to the knitted afghan that covered the baby's body below the arms. It staggered about a moment, buzzed its wings violently without being able to fly, and then resignedly stood still with legs outspread and wings occasionally gently vibrating. The baby's eyes, soon tired of staring up into the too bright sky, turned their attention to her wriggling thumbs, and, a moment after, discovered the tired bee. She put out one hand suddenly toward it.
"Excuse me," said the bee, "but I wouldn't touch me if I were you."
"Why?" asked the baby, "shall I hurt you?"
"No, but I should have to hurt you," answered the bee gently.
"You? You little thing hurt me? That's rather absurd, isn't it?"
"Much littler things than I can hurt much bigger things than you," said the bee, sententiously. "But, really, don't you know what I am, and what I can do?"
"No, pardon me for my stupid ignorance, but I do not. I seem to have seen a picture in one of my father's books that resembles you; but it was labelled Apis mellifica, and that told me very little."
"Oh! yes, that was me," proudly replied the bee. "That is what I am called in books. But outdoors here my name is Bee, Honeybee."
"Thank you, Bee. And my name is Baby. I also have another name; in fact several other names. But I rather prefer Baby. It relieves me of much responsibility, and gives me certain powers that my other names fail to carry with them. May I ask if you read much?"
"I do not read at all," answered the bee, "I do not need to," it added. "I know all that I need to know when I am born."