the little Scout went down the east side, carefully inspecting every hive of bees, and returned with the report that the water pans were all right, the queens were all laying eggs, the workers were all busy, the drones were droning, like the disagreeable, mussy things they were. There was not any foul brood, and there were no robbers at work.
“Just common, honest bees,” said the small person, “working hard to gather up all the honey they can find in the flower gardens where the Sierra Madres smash The small party insisted on leading Jamie into the through the Santa Monicas right into the sea.”
The small party insisted on leading Jamie into the house and showing him the library of bee books. All the volumes that could be read with profit to find out how to take care of the bees were pointed out, and then a light finger ran over volumes on a shelf by themselves with the comment: “Now these are the funny ones.”
A small blue volume which opened of itself was selected and from it an amused voice read, “There are several kinds of bees, the best are small, round and va-ri-e-gated.’ Can you beat it?” asked the youngster.
Jamie, glancing over the little Scout’s shoulder, caught “Aristotle” on the title page and had perhaps his hundredth shock for the afternoon. After the volume was closed and set back on the shelf, the child turned toward him: “And Pliny says that when bees cross the Mediterranean in migration they each one get a little pebble and carry it with their feet to make them heavy enough that the wind won’t blow them away!” And a laugh that was
