The Busy Bees

Why do the little busy bees

So dearly love their queen,

And wait upon and pay respect,

With watchful care and mien?







Because the queen lays all the eggs,

And mothers all the young,

While every father-bee that's hatched

Is nothing but a drone.



The working bees might all be queens,

If cared for and we l-fed

When they are in the larvae state,

But they're half-starved instead,--



While those intended for young queens

Are fattened overmuch,

And nursed and petted every hour,

That they full growth may reach.



For every different kind of egg

That makes the different bees,

A different kind of cell is made,

The queen directing these.



For drones or males, six-sided cells,

Quite neat, and smooth, and nice;

For working-bees a smaller cell,

Uncouth, and rough, and coarse;







While those for queens are large and free,

And fashioned fine with care,

And lined with softest, silken shreds

So daintily they fare.



The queen-bee lays the worker-eggs,

A dozen days, I ween,

And then the drones as many more,

Then workers, then the queen.



Eggs, two or three, and sometimes four

Are laid in worker-cell;

While drones and queens have each but one,

As oft is proven well.



The bluish eggs so close and warm,

Hatch out with three days passed;

When larvae, white, as little worms,

Are watched and fed and nursed.



These larvae, when some six days old,

Close in their cells are shut,

And there at once begin to weave

A silken web about.



They turn and twist till all around

Themselves 'tis woven quite,

And then they rest for twenty days,--

'Tis such a pretty sight.



The small cocoons of working-bees,

The larger ones of drones,

The large and plump and perfect ones

Of all the coming queens.







In twenty days they now burst forth,

Equipped from tip to toe,

The working-bees and drones, I mean,

For queens come forth more slow.



The queen cocoons ope from behind,

And I will tell you why,

'Tis that the reigning queen may sting

The others till they die.



If mother queen leads off a swarm,

A young queen they release,

And she may take another swarm,

And leave the hive in peace.



Another queen is then let out,

Perhaps a third and fourth,

As many as can raise a swarm,

To follow them, not loath;







But when no more can swarm and go,

Because not bees enough,

As I have said, the reigning queen

Stings all the rest to death.



For in each hive and everywhere,

One queen alone will reign,

And any interloper meets

With sure and sharp disdain.



Of workers, some are strong to fly,

While some are weak and small,

Unfitted quite, for load or flight,

Or outside work at all.



These last complete the larvae-cells,

And nurse and feed the young;

They mix the bee-bread, cleanse the hive,

And care for every drone.



All bees have stings except the drones,

And these, when Autumn nears,

Are stung to death with furious wrath,

As by the book appears.







And now I hope you children all,

Will use your wondrous power

To "gather honey all the day,

From every opening flower."











BBB R YYY

B U YY



[Footnote: Bees are wises; Be you wise.]