“Look! the bees—the honey bees! They’re washing themselves in the water. First I thought they were drinking. But no!... They’re washing. It’s so funny.”
When she looked up, Adam thrilled at sight of her eyes. If they had always been beautiful in shape and color, what were they now, with youth returned, and a light of the birth of wonder and joy in life? Youth had won over tragedy. Nature hid deep at the heart of all creation. The moment also had a birth for Adam—an exquisite birth of the first really happy moment of his long desert years.
“Let me see,” he said, and he lowered his ponderous length and stretched it beside her on the grassy bank. “Genie, you’re right about the bees being funny, but wrong about what they’re doing. They are diluting their honey. Well, I’m not sure, but I think bees on the desert dilute their honey with water. Watch!... Maybe they drink at the same time. But you see—some of them have their heads turned away from the water, as if they meant to back down.... Bees are hard to understand.”
“By the great horn spoon!” ejaculated Genie, and then she laughed.
Adam echoed her laugh. He could have shouted or sung to the skies. Never before, indeed, had he heard Genie use such an expression, but the content of it was precious to him. It revealed hitherto unsuspected depths in her, as the interest in bees hinted of an undeveloped love of nature.
“Genie, do you care about bees, birds, flowers—what they do—how they live and grow?”
“Love them,” she answered, simply.
“You do! Ah, that’s fine! So do I. Why, Genie, I’ve lived so long on the desert, so many years! What would I have done without love of everything that flies and crawls and grows?”
“You’re not old,” she said.
“It’s good you think that. We’ll be great pards now.... Look, Genie! Look at that humming bird! There, he darts over the water. Well! What’s he doing?”