“But you haven’t any baby,” objected Mrs. Horntail. “Your egg doesn’t hatch as soon as it is laid, I know that.”
“What of it? The egg will be a baby sometime, and the baby will be hungry. He will not be a vegetarian either. He will want meat. Juicy spiders are what he prefers, and he likes them fresh. Now if I should kill them they would be anything but fresh when he is ready to eat them, so I merely sting them until they are quite paralyzed, then I put them in the room with my egg and seal it up. I build a number of cells with an egg and spiders in each, but I am not a jug builder. I have no time to fool after such silly affairs as you sometimes see on twigs and bushes.”
“She isn’t artistic enough, she had better say,” remarked the little jug builder. “My nests are wonderfully pretty. I have heard many people say so. I am very careful to give them a delicate shape. I line them with silk too, but I will not tell you how I make this silk. Even the wise men have not discovered our secret.”
“Disagreeable creature!” remarked Mrs. Horntail; “but then what can you expect from a wasp of any kind? Now who _is_ making that dreadful noise? I shall certainly be a wreck before I get away from this place. People who buzz in such a fashion ought certainly to be turned out. But there, what’s the use of asking? I might know it could only be——”
“Sir Bumble Bee at your service.” And a big fellow dressed all in black and gold buzzed up before the angry Mrs. Horntail.
Gaily we fly, my fellows and I, Seeking the honey our hives to supply.
“I am an American,” he went on, in a voice which all could hear. “A native of this great and glorious country, and I have a right to buzz, or make any noise I please. Those little bees who make honeycomb are foreigners—immigrants. Useful citizens, I will grant, but still immigrants. Now, _my_ ancestors were here when Columbus discovered America. Do you know that my name is Bombus, spelt with a big ‘B’? Now, to show you how useful we bumble bees are, I shall tell you a story. Once upon a time—are you all listening?”
“I am,” answered Ruth, quickly. “Please go on.”
“Well, once upon a time there was no red clover in Australia, and the farmers of that country decided to take American seed there and plant it. The first year the crop grew finely. There were plenty of flowers, but no seeds. Of course that was bad, they needed seed for the next year’s sowing. Well, once more they brought seed from America, and once more the crop grew finely, but not a seed came from it. Then the people began to think, and after a while they found out the trouble. They hadn’t the American bumble bee and they had to have him, for, my friends, we, only, of all the bees, can fertilize the red clover blossom, for only we have tongues long enough to reach its nectar cups and the cell where its precious pollen is hidden. You may not think our tongue so long, because it is rolled up when we are not using it, but look!” And he unrolled a long brown tongue, which, in a moment, seemed gone again.