I knew, for I had kissed him lightly as he sat on
the window-frame. I had seen him brushing first one side and then the
other side of his head, with an action so exactly that of my father
brushing his whiskers on Sunday morning, that I thought the bee might be
trimming his; not knowing that he was sweeping the flower-dust off his
antennae with his legs, and putting it into his waistcoat pocket to make
bee bread of.
It was the liberty I took in kissing him that made him not sit still
any more, and hindered me from examining his cheeks for myself. He began
to dance all over the window, humming his own tune, and before he got
tired of dancing he found a chink open at the top sash, and sailed away
like a spot of plush upon the air.
I had thus no opportunity of becoming intimate with him, but he was the
cause of a more lasting friendship--my friendship with Isaac Irvine, the
bee-keeper. For when I asked that silly question, my mother said, "Not
that I ever saw, love;" and my father said, "If he wants to know about
bees, he should go to old Isaac. He'll tell him plenty of queer stories
about them."
The first time I saw the bee-keeper was in church, on Catechism Sunday,
in circumstances which led to my disgracing myself in a manner that must
have been very annoying to my mother, who had taken infinite pains in
teaching us.
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