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Chapter 5 The Mother Hive –? If the stock had not been old and overcrowded, the Wax-moth would never have entered; but where bees are too thick on the comb there must be sickness or parasites. 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 MBT shoes clearance, "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. "If you’d only heard," said the Wax-moth silkily, "the insolence of the Guard’s tone when she cursed our sister. It aroused the Entire Community." She laid an egg. She had stolen in for that purpose. "There was a bit of a fuss on the Gate," Melissa chuckled. "You were there, Miss?" She did not know how to address the slim stranger. "Don’t call me 'Miss.’ I’m a sister to all in affliction — just a working-sister. My heart bled for you beneath your burden." The Wax-moth caressed Melissa with her soft feelers and laid another egg. "You mustn’t lay here," cried Melissa. "You aren’t a Queen." "My dear child, I give you my most solemn word of honour those aren’t eggs. Those are my principles, and I am ready to die for them cheap MBT Shoes." She raised her voice a little above the rustle and tramp round her. "If you’d like to kill me, pray do." "Don’t be unkind, Melissa," said a young bee, impressed by the chaste folds of the Wax-moth’s wing, which hid her ceaseless egg-dropping. "I haven’t done anything," Melissa answered. "She’s doing it all." "Ah, don’t let your conscience reproach you later, but when you’ve killed me, write me, at least, as one that loved her fellow-worker." Laying at every sob, the Wax-moth backed into a crowd of young bees, and left Melissa bewildered and annoyed. So she lifted up her little voice in the darkness and cried, "Stores!" till a gang of cell-fillers hailed her, and she left her load with them. "I’m afraid I foul-brooded you just now," said a voice over her shoulder. "I’d been on the Gate for three hours, and one would foul-brood the Queen herself after that. No offence meant." "None taken," Melissa answered cheerily. "I shall be on Guard myself, some day. What’s next to do?" "There’s a rumour of Death’s Head Moths about. Send a gang of youngsters to the Gate, and tell them to narrow it in with a couple of stout scrap-wax pillars. It’ll make the Hive hot, but we can’t have Death’s Headers in the middle of our honey-flow." "My Only Wings! I should think not!" Melissa had all a sound bee’s hereditary hatred against the big, squeaking, feathery Thief of the Hives. "Tumble out!" she called across the youngsters’ quarters. "All you who aren’t feeding babies, show a leg. Scrap-wax pillars for the Ga-ate!" She chanted the order at length. "That’s nonsense," a downy, day-old bee answered. "In the first place, I never heard of a Death’s Header coming into a hive. People don’t do such things. In the second, building pillars to keep ’em out is purely a Cypriote trick MBT, unworthy of British bees. In the third, if you trust a Death’s Head, he will trust you. Pillar-building shows lack of confidence. Our dear sister in grey says so." "Yes. Pillars are unEnglish and provocative, and a waste of wax that is needed for higher and more practical ends," said the Wax-moth from an empty store-cell. "The safety of the Hive is the highest thing I’ve ever heard of. You mustn’t teach us to refuse work," Melissa began. "You misunderstand me, as usual, love. Work’s the essence of life; but to expend precious unreturning vitality and real labour against imaginary danger, that is heartbreakingly absurd! If I can only teach a — a little toleration — a little ordinary kindness here toward that absurd old bogey you call the Death’s Header, I shan’t have lived in vain." "She hasn’t lived in vain, the darling!" cried twenty bees together. "You should see her saintly life, Melissa! She just devotes herself to spreading her principles, and — and — she looks lovely!" An old, baldish bee came up the comb. "Pillar-workers for the Gate! Get out and chew scraps. Buzz off!" she said. The Wax-moth slipped aside. The young bees trooped down the frame, whispering. "What’s the matter with ’em?" said the oldster. "Why do they call each other 'ducky’ and 'darling’? Must be the weather." She sniffed suspiciously. "Horrid stuffy smell here. Like stale quilts. Not Wax-moth, I hope, Melissa?" "Not to my knowledge," said Melissa, who, of course, only knew the Wax-moth as a lady with principles MBT sale, and had never thought to report her presence. She had always imagined Wax-moths to be like blood-red dragon-flies. "You had better fan out this corner for a little," said the old bee and passed on. Melissa dropped her head at once, took firm hold with her fore-feet, and fanned obediently at the regulation stroke three hundred beats to the second. Fanning tries a bee’s temper, because she must always keep in the same place where she never seems to be doing any good, and, all the while, she is wearing out her only wings. When a bee cannot fly, a bee must not live; and a bee knows it. The Wax-moth crept forth, and caressed Melissa again.
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