Evening Republican, Volume 22, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 January 1919 — BUMBLE BEE BUSY WORKER [ARTICLE]

BUMBLE BEE BUSY WORKER

Only Severe Cold Weather Induces Inv sect to Take a Rest From Its Labors. ' / If one were.boto a idea of life success would be 40 acres of-red clover waist high, in full June Moons and fragrance all the year .through and forever. What one bumble bee coufil do 40 acres of clover no bee nor mortal ever knew I but the bee. if human wise, would want all that and more. - . ' ’ • Invade “his flowery honey farm at the height of the season, and he puts out no restraining hand. There is no padlock on his gate. The whole field is a-hum with polyglot plunderers coming from everywhere to carry away the very goods that are gold to the bumble bee. But he puts up no defense. He makes no vicious counter-' offensive, as the yellow-jacket mi gh t. If you search for him here you find him diligently prospecting with his honey pump humming a barytone solo as he works, loads of pollen strapped tohi.qrunning board, his tonneau bulging with joy fodder. He is having the time-of his life. When the 40 acres of red clover is a wilderness of dry stubble under a scorching July sun, and his millions in clover are swept away by the hand of the strong, this bumble bee will not be found hanging by a spiderweb to a fence-row fireweed, a bankrupt suicide. /Not he. In this fence corner left by the mower, clad in his velvet suit of black and yellow, even now he is working over the dump of a goldenrod nilne. and gold is shining from his pants pockets. Moreover, he has a fair swig left in his honey jug, and he is still humming his song of high June. As the season goeg down the steep slope toward chilly weather, the bumble bee does not dig his reluctant heels into the sod, lag sullenly bask and turn a regretful eye over his shoulder, with his heart in the lost red clover. He takes the small sweets of poverty as he did the rich sea of June honey. From a. June millionaire’s estate he has fallen to the fortune of an autumn tramp, taking a handout from a belated weed and begging a night’s lodging in the last bloom of a wayside hollyhock. But he still retains his well-brushed suit, his good deep barytone and his memories of June.