One day, when we were camping in Virginia, some of us got leave to go into the woods for chestnuts, which grew there in great abundance. We were busy picking up the nuts, when we heard a scrambling in the bushes. We thought it was a dog.

"Was it a dog?" asks Eddie.

"No, it was not a dog."

"Was it a cat?"

"No, it was not a cat."

"O papa! was it a bear?"

"No, it was not a bear."

"Do tell me what it was!"

"Well, let me go on with my story, and you shall hear."

It was a fox. How he did run when he saw us! We ran after him, and chased him into a pile of rails, in one corner of the camp.

You see, the soldiers had torn down all the fences, and piled them up for fire-wood. The fox ran right in among the rails; and, the more he tried to get out, the more he couldn't.

"A fox, a fox!" we shouted; hearing which, all the men, like so many boys, rushed up, and made themselves into a circle around the wood-pile, so that poor foxy was completely hemmed in.

Then a few of us went to work, and removed the rails one by one, until at last he was clear, and we could all see him. With a bound, he tried to get away; but the men kept their legs very close together, and he was a prisoner. We got one of the tent-ropes and tried to tie him.

Such a time as we had! One man got bitten; but after a while foxy was caught. Then what did the cunning little thing do but make believe he was dead! Foxes are very cunning: they can play dead at any time.

He lay on the ground quite still, while he was tied, and the rope was made fast to a tree. When we all stepped back, he tried again to get away. The rope held him fast; but he bit so nearly through it, that we feared we should lose him, after all.

So off rushed one of the boys, and borrowed a chain from one of the wagons at headquarters. With this Master Fox was made quite secure.

We tried to tame him; for, being away from all little children, we were glad of any thing to pet. But it was of no use; for, even when foxes are taken very young, they cannot be tamed. They do not attach themselves to men, as dogs and some other animals do. He would not play with us at all; but we enjoyed watching him, as we had not many amusements.

One day we had to go off on a march, and left our little fox tied to a tree. When we came back, he was gone. We never knew how he got away; but we were not very sorry, for he was not happy with us. It was much better for him to be in the woods with his own friends. If he was smart enough to stay there, he may be living now; but he must be a pretty old fox by this time.

Here papa stopped; and his little boy drew a long breath, as though very glad that the little fox got into the woods again.

Mary Myrtle.

DIXIE

Dixie, this little dog of mine, Had legs like a spider, black and fine, A nimble tail, and a body slim, And ears that would almost cover him. If you whispered to him of "birds" or "rats," Of "cows" or "squirrels" or "pigs" or "cats," He was all a-tremble with hope and fun, Ready to hunt or fight or run. But Dixie is older now; he shows A gray mustache on his once black nose: Slower his legs to frolic and leap; And he needs a nice soft place to sleep. But he has such brown and gentle eyes, Has love so human, and ways so wise, Has tastes so dainty,—the wilful elf!— That he rules all things to suit himself. Only Flora has any fear If he speaks too loud, or comes too near; Yet she told me bravely the other night She could pat the end that didn't bite.

Clara Doty Bates.

ABOUT BEES

LOUDLY weeping, I ran to my father from the garden, a bee having stung me in the hand. He drew out the sting, washed my swollen hand in cool water, told me about those wonderful creatures the bees, and promised to take me to visit a gentleman who kept many hives of them.

So, the first fine day, we walked to a neighboring village, and found the bee-master, as he was called, very glad to show us his little pets. He first led us to a hive made wholly of glass, so that we might watch the bees at their labors.

He told us there were three kinds of bees; and in the picture you may see how they look, both when flying and when at rest. Those marked A are queen-bees; B are the male bees, or drones; and C the working-bees.

The most important bee in the hive is naturally the queen. She is longer and sleeker than the others, and has a crooked sting, of which, however, she seldom makes use. Similar in form, but smaller, are the working-bees, whose sting is straight. The male bee, or drone, is thicker than the others, and stingless.

"What has the queen to do in the hive?" I asked. The old gentleman replied, "She is the mother-bee, lays all the eggs, and is so diligent that she often lays twelve hundred in a day, having a separate cell for each egg. That is her only work; for she leaves the whole care of her children to the industrious working-bees, who have various labors to perform. Some of them build cells of wax; others bring in honey on the dust of flowers, called pollen; yet others feed and take care of the young; and a small number act as body-guard to the queen."

The bee-master next took us to a strange-looking old hive, and asked us what it was like. I said, "The trunk of a tree." He told me I was right, and that the wild bees still dwell in hollow trees.

He then showed us various kinds of hives, and, last of all, a glass globe, in which the bees had built a beautiful white comb in the form of a star, and filled it with honey. This he was to send as a wedding-present to a bride.

He said, "The bees can make of any egg, either a queen or a working bee, according to the food and treatment they give it. The queen requires but sixteen days in which to come to maturity; while the workers require twenty, and the drones twenty-four. When several queens appear at the same time, they fight until one gains the victory."

Honey is the nectar of flowers, which they collect with their tongues, place in their honey-bags, and deposit in cells built for the purpose, which, when filled, they cover with wax.

Bee-bread is made of the dust of flowers, with which the bee gets covered in collecting honey. This it brushes off, kneads into two little masses, which are placed in a sort of basket on the joint of the leg, where a fringe of hairs acts as a cover.

Wax is a secretion from honey, which oozes out between the rings which form the body, and is then worked with the mouth until it is fit for the construction of the comb. Bees also make a gummy substance for varnishing their cells, which they procure from the buds of trees.

When we took leave of the kind old gentleman, he gave me in a basket a nice honeycomb to take to my mother; and since that my father has bought me a hive of bees. Every summer I plant flowers in my garden for them, that they may not have far to go for their honey.

Bertha.

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The Nursery, June 1873, Vol. XIII.

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PAPA'S STORY

DIXIE

ABOUT BEES

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