_Later._--Nature marches in procession, in sections, like the corps of
an army. All have done much for me, and still do. But for the last two
days it has been the great wild bee, the humble-bee, or "bumble," as
the children call him. As I walk, or hobble, from the farm-house down
to the creek, I traverse the before-mention'd lane, fenced by old
rails, with many splits, splinters, breaks, holes, &c., the choice
habitat of those crooning, hairy insects. Up and down and by and
between these rails, they swarm and dart and fly in countless myriads.
As I wend slowly along, I am often accompanied with a moving cloud
of them. They play a leading part in my morning, midday or sunset
rambles, and often dominate the landscape in a way I never before
thought of--fill the long lane, not by scores or hundreds only, but by
thousands. Large and vivacious and swift, with wonderful momentum
and a loud swelling, perpetual hum, varied now and then by something
almost like a shriek, they dart to and fro, in rapid flashes, chasing
each other, and (little things as they are,) conveying to me a new and
pronounc'd sense of strength, beauty, vitality and movement. Are they
in their mating season? or what is the meaning of this plenitude,
swiftness, eagerness, display? As I walk'd, I thought I was follow'd
by a particular swarm, but upon observation I saw that it was a rapid
succession of changing swarms, one after another.
As I write, I am seated under a big wild-cherry tree--the warm day
temper'd by partial clouds and a fresh breeze, neither too heavy nor
light--and here I sit long and long, envelop'd in the deep musical
drone of these bees, flitting, balancing, darting to and fro about me
by hundreds--big fellows with light yellow jackets, great glistening
swelling bodies, stumpy heads and gauzy wings--humming their
perpetual rich mellow boom.
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