The heat of the hive had
risen with the June honey-flow, and though the farmers worked,
until their wings ached, to keep people cool, everybody suffered.
A young bee crawled up the greasy trampled alighting-board.
"Excuse me," she began, "but it's my first honey-flight. Could
you kindly tell me if this is my--"
"--own hive?" the Guard snapped. "Yes! Buzz in, and be
foul-brooded to you! Next!"
"Shame!" cried half a dozen old workers with worn wings and
nerves, and there was a scuffle and a hum.
The little grey Wax-moth, pressed close in a crack in the
alighting-board, had waited this chance all day. She scuttled in
like a ghost, and, knowing the senior bees would turn her out at
once, dodged into a brood-frame, where youngsters who had not yet
seen the winds blow or the flowers nod discussed life. Here she
was safe, for young bees will tolerate any sort of stranger.
Behind her came the bee who had been slanged by the Guard.
"What is the world like, Melissa?" said a companion. "Cruel! I
brought in a full load of first-class stuff, and the Guard told
me to go and be foul-brooded!" She sat down in the cool draught
across the combs.
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