University of Virginia Library

THE BEE—A FABLE.

DELIVERED BY A LITTLE MISS NINE YEARS OLD.

Ladies and Gentlemen, will you allow
A very little girl, who scarce knows how
To make her curtsey in a proper way,
To tell a story which she heard one day?
It chanc'd once on a time, no matter when,
For all strange things they tell us happen'd then;
A little Bee on a sun shiny day,
Crept from the hive, among the flow'rs to play.
A wise old lab'rer of the hive espied
His sportive gambols, and thus gravely cried,
“To work as well as play should be your pride.
Come learn of me, for wisdom is a treasure,
And you shall mingle profit with your pleasure.
Observe this bed of clustring flow'rs, behold
Their velvet leaves all powder'd o'er with gold,
And see, within the cups of crimson hue,
The precious drops of rich nectarious dew.
This golden dust, this precious dew collect,
Now in the early morning, nor neglect
To bear it to the hive, a valued store,
Against the time when chilling torrents roar,
And Boreas howls, and rains and snows decend,
And bees must on their hoarded stores depend.”
Now this young Bee was a good little creature,
Had much good sense, industry, and good nature;
She sipp'd the dew, scraped off the golden dust,
That turned to liquid sweets, and in a crust
Composed of this, the ambrosial treasure clos'd;
But as she work'd, a drone who had repos'd
For many a morning in a lily's bell,
Addressed her thus; “Poor thing 'tis mighty well,
That you have strength and spirits thus to labour,
I vow you are a valuable neighbour;
To labour thus from morn to eve for others;
For trust me little slave I and my brothers,
When we have spent the summer sweetly here,
All winter will regale on your good cheer.
For I'm too delicate, too blythe, too gay,
To waste in toil my summer hours away;
I was not form'd for labour, I was made
To rest on thyme beds in the myrtle shade;
I do protest, were I obliged to bear
That yellow dust away, and take such care,
That not a grain is lost; that I should die,
Fainting beneath the fervor of the sky.
But you were formed for toil and care by nature,
And are a mighty good industrious creature.”
“Winter draws nigh,” replies the little Bee,
“And who is wisest we shall quickly see,
My friend, who warn'd me to beware in season,
Or yours, who left you in dispite of reason
To bathe in dew, flit over beds of flowers,
Heedless of coming cold, or wintry showers.”
When winter came, the little Bee was well,
Secure and warm, within her waxen cell.
The drones half starv'd, came shiv'ring to the door,
And forc'd an entrance, they could do no more;
The lab'rers rose, the encroaching tribe drove forth,
To brave the horrors of the frigid north;
Shrink in the rigor of a wintry sky,
Lament their idleness, to starve and die.
While the good little Bee, next coming May,
Hail'd the returning sun, alert and gay,
Led forth an infant swarm in health and ease,
A bright example unto future bees.
My story 's ended; but methinks you say,
Is there no moral, little girl, I pray?
Yes, there 's a moral, hear it if you please,
This is the hive, and we 're the little bees;
Our governess is the adviser sage,
Who fits us for the world's delusive stage,
By pointing out the weeds among the flowers,
By teaching us to use our mental powers;
To shun the former, and with nicest care,
Cull from the latter all that 's sweet and fair,
Extract their honey, keep their colour bright
To deck the chaplet for a winter's night.
Have we succeeded? judge, you will not wrong us.
I trust we have no idle drones among us;
Or is there one or two, how great their shame,
Whilst here, we're striving for the meed of fame,
And catch with transports of exulting joy,
The approbating glance from every eye;
To feel they cannot hope to share our pleasure,
To know they slighted wisdom's offered treasure,
To feel that those kind friends, who dearest love them,
Will blush and pity, while they can't approve them
Oh dear, I would not for the richest gem,
That India can produce, feel just like them
Nor lose the joy we hope to feel this day,
To hear our friends and patronesses say,
All is done right and well; and truly these
Dear children, are a hive of thriving bees.
And should you thus approve, you'll make of me,
A very proud, and happy little Bee.