“Tell me more about this Master,” I begged, for I was now growing vastly interested in his activities and in those of the Little One, and even the dog which once I tried to sting, because he came so close to our hive.
“Some say he is good—some say that he is bad. I only know him as the chopper of weeds about our home and as my rescuer. Many times since the day he saved me have I heard him shooting bee-hawks. Indeed, I had heard the little thunder of his gun before that day, but I did not understand its meaning. They say, too, that he takes away our honey—and he did take some of ours once—and frightens us nearly to death with the prospect of starvation. And they fall upon him and sting him, trying to drive him away. But all this is useless, they report, since he comes armed with fire and smoke.
“Others tell of him that in the dark, cold days, if provisions run low, he brings honey and closes the door against blizzards. But I know nothing of this. I have not lived through a winter and I fear I shall never know what it means.”
Thus I became infinitely interested in the Master who passed from day to day about the yard. But I was confused in mind about him. Somehow I instinctively feared him and I always found myself ready to attack him, as I explained to Crip.
“There would be no use in that,” answered he. “Should you sting him, you would achieve nothing. Instead, you would lose your life.”
“How is that?” I cried, for I did not till then know I had a life—at least I had never thought of it.
“You can sting once, but unless you escape with your stinger, which is rare, your life is sacrificed.”
I seemed to know this and answered him nothing.
“Is it not a strange fatality,” he continued, “that we should be given stingers with which to defend ourselves and our homes, and yet, when we make use of them, we lose our lives! Still, we are always ready to strike, with no thought of death.”
“What is death?” I asked of Crip.