CHAPTER VII.
_About the Bees._
In the preceding chapter we have told how Jack became interested about the bees: in this, we have promised to relate some of those curious things which his aunt Piper told him,――respecting the manners and customs of these ingenious and wonderful insects.
The bees, being domesticated by mankind, have been carefully studied by many learned and curious persons; but M. Huber, a Swiss gentleman, has done more than any other man to make us acquainted with them. And yet Huber was blind! His wife assisted him in his observations; and thus, by making use of her eyes, he was able to pursue his studies with great success. Is it not interesting to think of this blind philosopher, who, while all was darkness and night to him, was yet able to amuse himself, and prepare a book which should continue long to please and enlighten mankind?
There are three different kinds of bees in every hive. First, the laboring bees, which make up the far greatest number, and are thought to be neither male nor female, but merely born for the purposes of labor and continuing the breed by supplying the young with provision while yet in their helpless state.
The second sort are the drones; they are of a darker color, longer, and more thick by one third than the former; they are supposed to be the males; and there are not above a hundred of them in a hive of seven or eight thousand bees. The third sort is much larger than either of the former, and there is never but one permitted to live in a swarm. These are called queen bees, and lay all the eggs from which the whole swarm is hatched in a season.
In examining the structure of the common working bee, the first thing that attracts our attention is the trunk which serves to extract the honey from flowers. It is not formed like that of other flies, in the form of a tube by which the honey is to be sucked up; but like a broom to sweep, or a tongue to lick it away. The animal is furnished also with teeth, which serve it in making wax. This substance is gathered from flowers, like honey; it consists of that dust or farina, which contributes to the fruitfulness of plants, and is moulded into wax by the little animal at leisure.
Every bee, when it leaves the hive to collect its precious store, enters into the cups of the flower, particularly such as seem charged with the greatest quantities of this yellow farina. As the animal’s body is covered with hair, it rolls itself within the flower, and soon becomes quite covered with the dust, which it soon after brushes off with its two hind legs, and kneads into two little balls.
In the thighs of the hind legs there are two cavities, edged with hair, and into these, as into a basket, the animal sticks the rolls or pellets which it has collected. Thus employed, the bee flies from flower to flower, increasing its store and adding to its stock of wax, until the ball upon the thigh becomes as big as a grain of pepper; by this time, having got a sufficient load, it returns, making the best of its way to the hive.
The lower part of the body or belly of the bee is divided into six rings, which sometimes shorten the body by slipping one over the other. It contains within it, besides the intestines, the honey-bag, the venom-bag, and the sting. The honey-bag is as transparent as crystal, containing the honey that the bee has brushed from the flowers; of which the greater part is carried to the hive, and poured into the cells of the honey-comb, while the remainder serves for the bee’s own nourishment; for, during the summer, it never touches what has been laid up for winter.
The sting, which serves to defend this little animal from its enemies, is composed of three parts; the sheath, and two darts which are extremely small and penetrating. Both the darts have several small points or barbs, like those of a fish-hook, which render the sting more painful, and make the darts rankle in the wound. Still, however, this instrument would be a very slight defence, did not the bee poison the wound. The sheath, which has a sharp point, makes the first impression, which is followed by that of the darts, and then the venomous liquor is poured in.
The sheath, with the barbs, sometimes sticks so fast in the wound, that the animal is obliged to leave it behind; in consequence of which, the bee soon after dies, and the wound is considerably inflamed. It might at first appear well for mankind, if the bee were without its sting; but upon recollection it will be found that the little animal would then have too many rivals in sharing its labors. A hundred other lazy animals, fond of honey, and hating labor, would intrude upon the sweets of the hive; and the treasure would be carried off for want of armed guardians to protect it. As the bee lays up a most delicious store, it was obviously necessary that it should have some extraordinary defence, and so the sting was provided. Is it not easy to see wisdom in this provision of nature?
The most interesting point of view in which we can regard bees, is not as separate individuals, but as societies or communities. In this light, they indeed astonish us. It being necessary that their hives should be tight, the first thing is to stop up all the crevices, which they do with a kind of resinous gum, which resists the weather.
They then proceed to form their cells, which we call honey-comb. These are built in hexagons, or six-sided figures; and mathematicians tell us that this form is the very best, as it unites the greatest strength with the greatest capacity. The philosophers found out this fact by deep study――but who told the little bees of it? They never went to college to learn mathematics. How then should they always build their cells in hexagons?
This was one of the questions put by Jack to his aunt Piper, and she answered it as follows. Bees are provided with wonderful knowledge, which we call instinct. It is born with them, and as soon as they go to work, they proceed according to this instinct. This is a part of their nature, and it is given to them by God who made them. He knows everything――he knows that a hexagon is the best form for the bees to build their cells in, and so he furnished them with an instinct, which leads them to follow this method of building. Is it not interesting to see the Almighty God thus displaying his knowledge and skill, for the benefit of even the little bees?
I have more to tell you on this subject, but I must defer it for another chapter.
[Illustration]
The Race.
Here are two boys running a race. They seem to be striving to see which can run the swiftest; which can outstrip the other.
It is pleasant to run a race, if one is young and has a good pair of legs. I should make a bad business of it,――old and decrepit as I am,――and having a timber toe beside. Still, I can well recollect how I used to delight in trying my speed with my youthful companions, when I was a boy.
I remember very well, that, when I was young, there was a boy at school by the name of Rufus, and it chanced that he and myself were rivals in almost everything. We were always striving to see which should run the swiftest; which should hop the farthest; which should excel in writing, arithmetic, &c.
Now all this was very well, except one thing. Our rivalry at last went so far, that we desired victory more than anything else. We did not wish so much to do things well, as to triumph over our competitors. Nor was this all: we began at length to dislike each other, and a very bad feeling was therefore begotten by our strife, in our bosoms.
This was certainly wrong, and young people as well as old people should be careful never to indulge in any strife which leads to hatred. We should love all around us, for love is the chief source of happiness. Anything which interferes with this is wrong.
[Illustration]
The Swing.
Here are children indulging themselves in swinging. ’Tis a very pleasant amusement, and is as near to flying as anything we can do. What a thrill passes through the heart, half pleasant and half painful, when we go up, up, up――and then down, down, down!
In the western country, the children do not have to make swings of ropes, for they are provided by nature. The grape vines climb up the trees, often to the height of twenty feet, and then afford good swings for the children. If you ever visit Kentucky, or Ohio, or Missouri, or any of those great states in the west, you will probably see children amusing themselves in grape vine swings.
A Strange Bird.
Not long since, a man in Connecticut shot an eagle of the largest kind. The creature fell to the ground, and being only wounded, the man carried him home, alive.
He now gave him to another man, who took good care of the wounded bird, and pretty soon he got quite well. The eagle became attached to the place where he was thus taken care of, and though he was permitted to go at large, and often flew away to a considerable distance, he would always come back again.
He used to take his station in the door-yard, in front of the house: if any well-dressed person came through this yard, to the house, the eagle would sit still and make no objections; but if a ragged person came into the yard, he would fly at him, seize his clothes with one claw, and hold on to the grass with the other, and thus make him a prisoner.
Often was the proprietor of the house called upon to release persons that had been thus seized by the eagle. It is a curious fact that the bird never attacked ragged people going to the house the back way: it was only when they attempted to enter through the front door, that he assailed them. What renders this story very curious is, that the bird had never been trained to act in this manner.
This eagle had some other curious habits. He did not go out every day to get a breakfast, dinner and supper: his custom was, about once a week, to make a hearty meal, and that was sufficient for six days. His most common food was the king-bird, of which he would sometimes catch ten in the course of a few hours――and these would suffice for his weekly repast.
This bird at last made such havoc with the poultry of the neighbors, that the proprietor was obliged to kill him.
It seems that the aversion of this eagle to ragged people, was not altogether singular; for a person who writes to the editor of the New York American, says that he once knew a Baltimore Oriole, that would always manifest the greatest anger if a shabby person came into the room. This bird also disliked colored people, and if he could get at them, he would fly in their faces, and peck at them very spitefully――while he did no such thing to white people.
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The following letter has been some time in hand. Will our little friend, the writer, forgive us for not inserting it sooner? Our correspondents must remember that we have many things to attend to, and if some of their favors seem to be overlooked, we hope they will not scold.
MY DEAR MR. MERRY:
I have been long wanting to write to you, so many of your subscribers have been writing to you. I could not write to you sooner, because I did not know my letter would go by the mail.
Many of the stories in the Museum are quite interesting. I have often tried to read your history of your own life, through. I should have begun when your Museum first came out, but it happened that I did not. “Philip Brusque” I began too, but, as my brother was going up the river in a steamboat, he wanted to take the number, so that I had to leave off reading it.
In your number before the last I liked the “Two Friends.” Many of the children like “The Siberian Sable-hunter,” but I do not fancy it much, as there are so many hard names in it.
I am one of your little black-eyed subscribers: my brother Benjamin is one of your blue-eyed subscribers. He does not read as many of your Museums as I do, for he is away from home a great part of the time, and when he gets home he hardly ever thinks of reading them. I am always glad when I hear that your Museum is come, and yet, the last time, they kept it from me for a day and a night. Was not that very hard?
My little sister, Lydia, is yet too young to read, and does not even know her A, B, C; but I know them well enough. I like your plain, simple stories best. I believe my brother likes the ones that are not simple. In your number, a great while ago, is a song by the name of “Jack Frost,” which I like very much, and many other pieces of your poetry. “Discontented Betty” I like too. I have been hurrying off with my lessons, so that I could write to you; but, pray, do not think that I write this myself, for I do not even know how to make a letter. My sister writes for me.
I am in constant fear that we shall have to give up your Museum, but I hope we shall not. I thought that I would have to send my letter by the man that brought the Museum, but my father told me that I need not, but that I should send it by the mail. I hope your Museum will not end very soon, but will keep on a long while. I have found out three of your names, Parley, Merry and Goodrich. I want to see you very much. My sister Mary is collecting autographs, and has got one of yours, which I think to be quite a decent hand for such an old man. I hope this letter will reach you safely. I wonder if the one my brother William wrote to you, a long time ago, ever reached you.
I have read some of your other books, as we have got some others. I consider myself a very poor reader, if others do not. I had a beautiful book given to me on New Year’s day, by the name of “Flower People.” But I cannot think of anything more to say, and so, Mr. Merry, good-bye. E. O. B.
P.S. I have thought of one other thing to say, Mr. Merry, and it is that I wish you would answer this letter.
MERRY’S MUSEUM.
Vol. VI. SEPTEMBER, 1843. No. 3.
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September.
We have now reached the ninth month in the year――the first month of autumn――SEPTEMBER――the pleasantest month of all the twelve. It is true the leaves of the trees are beginning to turn yellow; many of the birds are departing for more southern climes; the evenings are getting chilly; the summer flowers are gone; and all around there is an air of soberness, almost of sadness. Yet there is something in all this, that makes the heart content, tranquil and happy.
The earth is now abounding with fruit. The peaches, the plums, the pears, the apples, the grapes, are ripe, and seem to invite us to taste them. How pleasant it is to be in the country now! Say, my little friends, is not September the finest of all the months?
Jumping Rabbit’s Story.