Part 4

Several days now rolled away in comparative idleness. The great storm had completely washed out the supplies of honey, leaving the flowers draggled and broken. We busied ourselves with chores about the hive and with flights into the fields, ever on the scout for sweets. For my part, I was set to filling up a hole in the uppermost corner of the hive. At the moment it was serving as a ventilator. A little stream of air was constantly flowing out of it; but the cold weather was on its way and the time had come to stop the hole. With winter once fallen, it would be too late.

“The mesquite-trees are full of gum,” said the dear old fellow who set me to my task. “Hurry and bring home a good supply. I hear you are a capital hand at this sort of thing.”

So I went swiftly forth, and soon I found a crystal drop of gum on a mesquite-tree. I bit off scraps of it quite easily, and soon had my basket-legs filled with the gum; and it required only a moment to return and pack it in the hole in the hive.

“You’re a clever fellow,” said the old director. “But I see bits of gum have fallen on the bottom-board and already there are accumulations which afford excellent hiding-places for web-worms. Go and clean them out, if you please.”

I went promptly, and sure enough, chips from my patching and from many others and scraps of comb had gathered in the corner, and I found myself facing a considerable undertaking. Time after time I seized scraps in my mandibles and flew away with them, dropping them outside.

I was far from the end of my labors when suddenly the ugliest thing I had ever seen burst out on me. It was a long, white-brown worm, which I had uncovered in the débris. It wriggled away as though aware of danger.

I was standing by, irresolute, when I heard a call, from I knew not what source.

“Why don’t you seize him, coward!”

I was not a coward, but I could not make up my mind what to do. But the little rascal that had scolded me knew, and fell upon the monster manfully.

Over and over the worm turned, writhing like a beast in torment, and suddenly it twisted itself quite out of the clutches of its enemy and made for a cell in the nearest comb.

Up to this point I had taken no hand in the fight, but now I joined in the pursuit. In the mean time the worm had escaped and was trying to hide in a cell.

We stopped for a moment, the two of us, peering at him, wondering what next to do. At least I was wondering, when my mentor spoke out sharply.

“You’re a poor excuse for a bee! If you had helped we should have done for him by this time. We have still a chance to save ourselves. Now, when I dive in upon him, he will probably rush out, throwing me from the combs. Then you must do your work. Hold him until I come, and between us we can manage him.”

“Shall I sting him?” I asked.

“No, you idiot! It’s not so desperate as that. You ought to know that only in a great emergency should a bee sacrifice his life. Now mind you; here I go!”

With that he lurched forward, and instantly back he came, the worm plunging along with him. I also seized the intruder, and the three of us dropped to the floor. Round and round we were thrown until I thought I was about to be beaten to death, but I had made up my mind to die rather than have fresh slurs cast upon my courage. I am doubtful whether we could have won the battle if two other active bees had not come to our assistance. The four of us soon had the breath out of the worm’s wriggling body, and then we dragged him to the front of the hive. After vain efforts to fly away with him in the burial fashion of our people, we found the best we could do was to drop him to the ground from the edge of our board.

I was quite out of breath, and stood panting on the spot, when, lo! from the clouds dropped Crip.

“What’s the matter?” he inquired.

“Nothing much. We’ve just captured a great worm—one of our enemies. There he lies on the ground.”

Crip walked to the edge of the board and looked down. “Why, he isn’t dead.”

I looked, and, sure enough, he seemed to be alive. But on closer inspection I saw that a multitude of small black creatures had taken possession of the body.

“He is dead for certain,” I said. “Some bugs have seized him for prey.”

Crip looked again. “Why, those are black army ants,” he exclaimed; “one of the worst enemies a bee can meet. Sometimes, when they are hungry, they rush into the hive and help themselves. It is most difficult to deal with them. They nab you by the leg, when they do not sting you, and you cannot free yourself from their deadly grip.”

I looked at Crip in silence. Was there no end to perils?

“Let us hope they’ll travel on,” he added. “There’s plenty of food abroad for them. But tell me, where did you find that worm?”

“Back in the far corner. Come with me. I was cleaning out the débris when I came upon him.”

“Well, did you finish your task?”

I had quite forgotten it. I had been so absorbed in the fight that the original undertaking had gone out of mind.

“Then come on. I’ll help you.”

With that Crip led off, limpingly. I followed by his side, amazed at his speed.

Soon we came to the place. Each of us seized a bit of the débris, and away we went to deposit it far from the entrance to our home.

“I see where your worm came from,” Crip observed. “There’s a hole in the board, and he found it, then crept in stealthily and hid in this little heap of rubbish. I’m a bad guesser, or we’ll find another here any minute.”

And sure enough. Crip seized a piece of comb, and, upon dragging it away, out sprang another worm, even more forbidding than the other.

Crip was the first to spy him, and, valiant warrior that he was, seized him instantly. I attacked him, also, with all my might. But the worm, a full-grown one, and twice as big as both of us, simply flung us about and thrashed us unmercifully. He quite knocked me to bits; but I never relaxed my hold, nor did Crip. It was a poor showing that we were making, when several guards rushed to our assistance. The fight was soon over and the monster lay still.

“He’s dead,” said one of the new-comers. “Out with him.”

We all fell to, dragging him along. It took the combined energies of four of us to move his huge form.

At last we arrived at the edge of our alighting-board, and down we dropped him to the tender mercies of the black ants, who immediately swarmed over him. One could almost imagine that they thanked us for the delicacy we had tossed them. I wondered what the ants thought of us, if they thought at all. I had become particularly interested in those big red ones that ran along the tiny trail skirting our home.

I was looking down at the worm, covered with the little black ants, when, in a final paroxysm, he flounced violently, scattering the little army that beset him. But once again they fell upon him, and presently they had cut him entirely to pieces, carrying away every scrap for a feast.

In the economy of things, these worms had grown and fattened on the refuse of our hive, and now they had become food in their turn for a host of tiny creatures which roamed the earth below, all this seemingly in accordance with some unknown law.

I stood there watching them for some time, until the last ant made off, following with unerring aim the trail of his fellows. Soon they were lost to sight. It seemed to me that this last one disappeared under a log where the Master often sat. I wondered what relation there might be between them, if in some mysterious way they worked together, for I remembered that Crip had told me that not only the Master, but even the ants, sometimes raided our hives, taking our honey. I turned to ask him to explain, but he was not to be seen among the bees swarming upon the board. I must find him.

Back to the field of battle I hastened.

“Tell me,” I cried in distress, for Crip was lying quite still on the floor, “what is the matter?”

“Ah, I fear I am done for at last.”

Grieved by his words, I rushed up to him, saluting him, pressing my tongue to his lips, praying for his life. I felt him all over, and at last came to a little moist spot on his body, and realized that he had lost his last basket-leg. I wiped his eyes, and came close to him to warm him a bit, for he seemed cold and almost lifeless.

“Go your way,” he murmured, dejectedly. “Leave me quite alone. My work is done; I shall pass. Remember me sometimes when you cleave the air and salute the sun and our mysterious Master.”

By this time I was overcome with sorrow. My poor dear friend, the very personification of wisdom, seemed passing out of my life.

“No—don’t—please—don’t talk so mournfully!” I cried. “You will get well. Do! I so want you to stay with me.”

At this he seemed to stir a little and, with an effort, raised himself on his remaining legs.

“I cannot walk, you see. I cannot be sure of holding my weight on the combs, even if I am not bleeding to death.”

I was so shocked that it had not occurred to me to stanch his wound; but instantly I fell to it most vigorously.

“That will help,” he said. “Do you think I have done well with my life?” Crip asked. “Do you think I have helped our people?”

I answered that he had been wonderful—that he had worked faithfully for two houses, and all for the betterment of our race—the Bee.

“You really think me deserving? Then I am happy.”

He seemed suddenly to take on new life, and began to flap his wings for joy.

After a little pause he again flapped his wings violently. I did not understand.

“I still can fly!” he exclaimed. “I can fly! Go now, finish your work,” he commanded. “Perhaps I shall yet be able to labor for a little; but I want to be as much as possible with you. Go now.”

I went at his word, but when I came to the place of the débris, no scrap remained. My fellow-workers, alarmed at the news of the worms, had fallen upon it and borne it all away.

Almost without thinking, I moved slowly toward the door of the hive, for the afternoon was sultry and there now seemed nothing to do. Indeed, when I reached the outside the bees were heaped on the board, and they clung in great masses to the front of the hive.

“What idlers!” thought I. But I quickly realized that there was nothing in the fields to gather, and further, I knew that our hive was well stored with bread and honey against any possible contingency.

I made my way through the crowd, and presently I, too, was seized with the fever of sleep, and, taking my place among a group that clung to the uppermost front of the hive, I soon fell asleep.

How long I slept I know not, but when again I roused myself a summer moon was streaming above us, big and gloriously bright. The little dots of stars that glinted through were almost lost in the sea of light. I could hear the night hymn of the hive clearly, just as long ago I heard it for the first time. It was the low, murmured music of a thousand voices. This hymn of the night was like the throbbing of a muffled Æolian harp. Mingling with its harmonies rose the dull whirring of many wings set to the task of driving the sweet night air into the heart of the hive, to render it tolerable for the little ones dreaming in their cells against a day of awakening, and for our precious Queen-Mother, brooding through her watches without end.

Late in the night the air grew chilly, and one by one we drifted inside. I had been one of the first, for I bethought me of Crip, whom I had left disconsolate and battered from his fight with the worm. Returning to our old haunt, he was nowhere to be found. Then I went to the spot of the combat and there he was, more or less chilled and still sore from the loss of his leg.

“I thought you had forgotten me,” was his greeting.

“I forget you? Not while I live. I was outside in the night.”

“And the south wind blew? And there were stars?” he asked. “I want to look upon them once more. Help me, for I can only crawl now. My body can scarcely be carried by those four little legs, all that I have left. I don’t know how soon I shall be done for, and then—and then—”

He struggled pitifully in order to reach the front. Try as I might, I could be of no assistance to him. But by dint of perseverance he finally gained the threshold and gazed into the night. The moon had drifted far toward the west, and already the morning star shone with transcendent brilliancy. The south wind breathed ever so softly through the chaparral, as it made its way to some hidden goal; and near the borders of the lake a coyote, in staccato treble, gave warning that the dawn was near.

Crip said nothing, nor did I. How useless are words when there is perfect understanding. He came close to me, however, and put his face as near mine as he might, as though he wished to look into the very depths of my eyes.

“It is well,” he said. “I know.”

Then he turned and dragged himself into the hive. I followed closely. How sad it was to see so great a soul chained in so broken a body. I stayed by him, cheering him and encouraging him, until the bugle of the morning sounded.

“Now you must go,” he commanded. “You have your work to do. Mine is nearly finished.”

I took a turn in the fields, but there was nothing to report, save the discovery that the white brush was ready to bloom, and that the sage-brush and the broomweed promised honey.

Again, for a number of days there was little to do. Toward the noon hour the September sun blazed with midsummer intensity and the winds were stifling. This meant that a deal of water was consumed. I was assigned to help. So, back and forth to the lake I went, ever returning with my sac filled to bursting. The young bees clamored for water, and it was a delight to see them scramble for a drink. Again, the front of the hive was packed with bees idling their day away, if, indeed, it can be said that they were idle when there was nothing to be done.

Another night passed as before and still another day. Then the news resounded over the hive that the white brush was opening and that honey was in the field! There was only the meagerest supply the first day, but hungry tongues searched out the white tiny bell-shaped flowers. The next day the flow was heavier, and the third day we began to carry such quantities that the colony began “to develop a sort of delirium. Every nook and cranny was being filled, when a strange sound echoed over the hive.

“What does this mean?” I queried of Buzz-Buzz.

“I don’t know. Let’s find Crip. He can tell us.”

We found him at once. “What does this mean?” I cried.

“It means,” said he, “that, late as the season is, the swarming fever has seized the colony.”

“Why?” we cried.

“Well, we have so much honey and there is so much in the field and the colony so strong, it can easily spare a force of pioneers to begin a new colony. Here is the working out of destiny controlling the very life of the bee.”

Crip spoke enthusiastically, and both Buzz-Buzz and I were fascinated by his story.

The first thing I knew I, also, was seized with the enthusiasm. Queen-cells had been started—half a dozen at least. I laid hold and helped draw out the comb to build up a huge cell, where, in the mysterious processes of time, a Queen would appear!

Almost against her wishes, the Queen-Mother deposited eggs in the various cells and began, under mild protest, to expand her brood-chamber in anticipation of the promised exodus of her children. While she did not fear that enough would go to imperil the existence of her own colony, she doubted the wisdom of the enterprise. She discouraged in every way possible the ardor of the workers who continued to bring in honey until there was no longer space to store it. Indeed, they crowded the Queen so that she was driven to despair. The very space she had set aside for her brood-chamber for the winter was encroached upon and heaped with bread and honey, but for the nonce there was no stopping them.

Crip said: “You are crazy; it is too late in the season to swarm; it means extinction.”

But one replied: “It is the law! There is a chance for the swarm to survive, and the chance must be taken; particularly when the parent colony shows its ability to survive.”

“Truly said,” added Crip. “I merely wanted to find whether you knew what the higher law compels.”

But where would the swarm begin a home? This question now began to be asked. It seemed that nobody thought of the great Master who sat for hours under the mesquite-tree. Would he not provide a house?

The next day Buzz-Buzz came to me, greatly excited. “You and I and others are to go into the woods and search for a home for the swarm!”

That was the order. It was enough—we went.

We seemed to know that the only place to look for a home was among the great oaks that bordered the lake, and thither we betook ourselves. We flew from tree to tree, exploring every hole we could find in the hope of discovering a hollow big enough to house a swarm. Three days we spent in vain. On the fourth we found one, and with great joy we returned home and reported. Immediately a hundred bees or more were assigned to prepare the hollow tree for a habitation. Buzz-Buzz and I led the way back, and all hands fell to cleaning out the cobwebs and the débris of decayed wood. Several days were spent in this undertaking, and finally the word was passed that the new home was ready.

But things were not ready with the parent colony. No Queen had emerged from her cell. From hour to hour the bees marched by impatiently, waiting for the “click-click” of her mandibles and for sight of them piercing the wax door to the cell. And there was much speculation as to which of the half-dozen possible Queens would first emerge. Finally, one day, at high noon, the rumor ran over the hive that a Queen had been born, and the excitement became intense. “A Queen! A Queen!”

Crip and I forced our way through the crush to the spot where the Queen was surrounded by a joyous multitude. He, finally, on account of his lameness, was compelled to abandon his efforts to pay his homage to the new-born mother. But I, nothing daunted, persisted, and presently came near enough to feel her presence. I, too, sang fervently, for a new hope had risen. Soon in the vast forest of the world a new colony would be planted to aid in carrying on the eternal work of the bee.

At another corner of the hive I heard a different sound. It was the wail of a Queen that was being destroyed. I hurried toward her, but somehow felt no pity for her. A great cluster of bees completely enveloped her; this was the mode of taking the royal life. All the remaining cells with their occupants had been cut down, and soon there remained in all the hive but the one mother and the one daughter. I came upon the destroyed cells, torn and empty, and could not help mourning the death of the royal creatures they had housed. Perhaps there had been but minutes between the births of the Queens, but those minutes had been fatal to the last.

Preparations went steadily on for the day of the exodus. The new Queen took her first flight successfully; and then came the mating! Only a few drones had been permitted to escape the massacre of a month earlier—tolerated on the chance of a lost or a dead Queen—borne with against a belated mating.

“How wonderful,” Crip observed, “that these things should be provided for—and how close are life and death!”

It was a hot afternoon when the time came for the nuptial flight, and it lacked the wild glamour of an earlier one that I had witnessed. On the first occasion there were literally thousands of drones that went up toward the heavens in search of the one radiant thing in the world. And they had all returned save one immortal, who had found and won the Queen, only to lose his life! Compared with the first flight, this last seemed commonplace. I should have foregone the opportunity of witnessing the thin procession, bound on the momentous journey of uniting two lives, so that the thread of existence might not be cut short for the bee.

I groped about impatiently, awaiting news of the bridal party. It was not long delayed, for soon there were sounds of rejoicing throughout the hive; and now the last preparations had been ended and the day was at hand for the great adventure.

Round and round the hive went the signal that on the morrow the swarm should go forth to its home in the woods. Quietly and with no bickerings, the tallies were laid—this one should go, this one should stay—there was in no case dispute or contest. Each bee accepted the issue with all the grace of a fatalist. I was one of them.

Really, I was greatly disappointed not to have been chosen to go, for I had been one of the pioneers and had helped find and prepare the new home in the live-oak by the clear waters of the beautiful lake. It was a bitter disappointment, but I uttered no word of complaint. When I came up with Crip I found he, too, had been left behind.

“Why shouldn’t we have been chosen to go?” I asked, somewhat downcast.

“I am too old—too useless,” Crip answered. “You are young and brave enough, but battles are to be fought here as well as yonder. And some of the strong and gallant had need to remain.”

Something in Crip’s look and tone struck me. Was I too old to go? Had that been the reason? I had heard a cry over the hive that only young bees should go, for there would be small hope of raising much of a brood in the new colony through the winter. If it could build comb enough and gather sufficient honey to feed itself, it would be fortunate.

So, I was not young enough. Until then I had not thought of my age; it seemed to me that I was still as active as on the day I flew into the sky.

As for Crip, “too useless” seemed a cruel phrase. For who could say what was the worth of his stores of knowledge? But I could see that he moved more feebly from day to day.

“Only the strong are to be chosen—the fit? Crip, that bears hard on us.”

“Not a bit of it,” he replied, cheerily. “Take courage; that is the way of things in the world of the bee.”

Then he added that it would be a hard battle to build a home in the short space of time allotted and to store food enough to last through the winter. It meant a fight, for already the glimmerings of the fall were upon us! Pale shadows of color began to stain the leaves, and the flowers turned their faces more wistfully each day to the sun. Still, the bees would go. There was no denying the operation of the law, which commanded that the chance be taken. The whole law of survival was involved—and there was none to deny it.

So, all night long murmurings and vague discontents and forebodings and anticipations ran through the hive. Those marked so mysteriously to go realized that their lives were at stake and likely to be lost. Yet each one in the hive would have gone. It was not until late that I learned that our own mother, my mother, the mother of the hive, was to go away, leaving her daughter to preside over the destinies of the old. Here, too, Crip was wont to philosophize.