There the whirl of gay revelrie,
Butterflies waltzing mad with glee,
Honey-bees, powdered in dust of gold,
Chassezing around like gay knights of old,
Clad in silken doublet and hose;
Lookout, lookout, if you tread on their toes."
Suddenly Polly broke away, pulled up an iron-weed growing on the
road-side, and fell to whipping a large purple thistle. Her thirst grew;
she left the thistle and fell to whipping the rank grass. Then was heard
an angry buzz, as the assaulted bees swarmed out of their defenses and
literally stormed her.
They settled all over her. Head, face, bare feet and legs were attacked
all at once. They stung her terribly. The death of their comrade was
summarily avenged. She rent the air with her cries, and backed toward Mam'
Sarah, fighting them off as she went from different parts of her body.
Mam' Sarah covered up her retreat as well as she could, saying:
"I natchel hate ter see fo'ks in trubble, but I ain' er bit sorry fur you.
I never seed ennybody fo' that wuz allers on the war-paf. Them bees haden'
dun nuffin' ter you. They is prezak lak humans. Ef you let 'em erlone you
won't hear from 'em; but fite 'em en they'll fite you back, erver time.
Pages:
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46