head. She bruises and
tears the brilliant gauze of her wings, and beats her down to the dust,
where she falls stupefied and inanimate.

"The bee then enters into her nest, and deposits and prepares her
provisions; but still agitated with her combat and her victory, she sets
out again through the air. I follow her with my eyes for a long time,
and at last she disappears.

"The poor Chrysis is not, however, dead: she gets up again, shakes
herself, flutters, and attempts to fly; but her lacerated wings will no
longer support her. What can she do to escape the fury of her enemy? It
is not her business to fly away; her business is to deposit her egg in
the bee's nest, and to secure future provision for her offspring,--but
the bee came back too soon. She ascends, climbing painfully: at times
her strength seems to fail her; she is forced to stop, but at last she
arrives,--she enters,--she is in! This time the interest is for her.
Then she was only beautiful, now she is very unfortunate. I am aware
that a long plea might be made for the other. I should not like to be
appointed judge between them. Ah! she is out again,--she flies away!
But, oh, how happy she is to have succeeded! Now I begin to feel for the
bee. The poor bee continues to bring provisions for its young, which,
nevertheless, will die of hunger."

Nor is the Chrysis her only tormentor, it may be remarked; there are
some frivolous little vagabonds of her own kind that never think of
building for themselves, but always appropriate the homes of others in
this style, and they are known as cuckoo-bees.

It is no wonder that the happy bee of the community, escaping all such
trial, makes blithe murmur to itself over its luscious labor. Perhaps
all artisans would sing as cheerfully, were their task as sweet; it can
be no such severe duty to fill one's basket with the bountiful store at
hand, when one has just banqueted on the very dew of the morning. There
are a few secondary products of Nature on which words cannot be wasted.
It is pleasant to recall the poetical charms of wine, its tints, its
aromas, and its sparkles; yet, with all that fire and fragrance, it
seems but poor, thin stuff, when poured out beside the heavy flow of
honey with sunbeams dissolved in every plash. The Hungarian huntsman may
praise his ropy Cotnar, fine ladies sip cordial Rosolio and Levantine
sirups, the fancy warm over African Constantia; but every peasant has
honey in his garden, and they b