waving masses of yellow.
Moreover, when you sit still outdoors, the life of things comes to you;
when you are moving yourself, it evades you. Down among the weeds where
I sat, the sun was hot, but the breeze was cool, and it brought to me,
now the scent of wild grapes from an old stone wall, now the spicy
fragrance of little yellow apples on a gnarled old tree in the fence
corner, now the sharp tang of the goldenrod itself. The air was full of
the hum of bees, and soon I began to distinguish their different
tones--the deep, rich drone of the bumblebees, the higher singsong of
the honeybees, the snarl of the yellow-jacket, the jerky, nasal twang of
the black-and-white hornet. They began to come close around me; two
bumblebees hung on a frond of goldenrod so close to my face that I could
see the pollen dust on their fur. Crickets and grasshoppers chirped and
trilled beside me. All the little creatures seemed to have accepted
me--all but one black-and-white hornet, who left his proper pursuits,
whatever they may have been, to investigate me. He buzzed all around me
in an insistent, ill-bred way that was annoying. He examined my neck
and hair with unnecessary thoroughness, flew away, returned to begin all
over again, flew away and returned once more; but at last even he gave
up the matter and went off about his business.

Butterflies came fluttering past me:--big, rust-colored ones pointed in
black; pale russet and silver ones; dancing little yellow ones; big
black ones with blue-green spots, rather shabby and languid, as at the
end of a gay season. Darning-needles darted back and forth, with their
javelin-like flight, or mounted high by sudden steps, or lighted near
me, with that absolute rigidity that is the positive negation of
movement. A flying grasshopper creeping along through the tangle at my
feet rose and hung flutteringly over one spot, for no apparent reason,
and then, for no better reason, dropped suddenly and was still. A big
cicada with green head and rustling wings worked his way clumsily among
a pile of last year's goldenrod stalks, freed himself, and whirred away
with the harsh, strident buzz that dominates every other sound while it
lasts, and when it ceases makes the world seem wonderfully quiet.

Our bee had gone and come twice before Jonathan returned. "Hasn't she
brought anybody yet? Well, here goes!" He took a slender stem of
goldenrod, smeared it with honey, and gently lodged a drop on the bee's
ba