instinct,--call it what the scientists please,--are there behind that
action of the bee, thrusting his head just where those nectar-guides
are placed? Is the bee more sentient than the flower? Or, is the
flower which provided the nectar and placed the nectar-guides just at
the right place on the bright blossoms, as special allurements for the
senses of the bee, the more to be admired for its intelligence? One by
one the bee opens the flowers, which were so fresh and beautiful at
sunrise. When he goes to his nest in the grass at evening, they will
all have been drained of their nectar, and the petals will be wilted
by the sun. But they have achieved their object, the ovules have been
fertilized. Tomorrow morning there will be many bright, new blossoms,
their nectar crying to the bees, like the voice in Omar Khayyam's
tavern to those outside the door:

_"When all the temple is prepared within,
Why lags the drowsy worshiper outside?"_

Now there comes sidling, gliding along the barbed wire fence, the
Baltimore oriole, always a charming fellow because of his flaming
plumage, which has won for him the name of the golden robin
and firebird. He walks along the wire fence in a gliding,
one-leg-at-a-time fashion, as he often does on the twig of a tree. His
head is down, he is on the lookout for caterpillars. Now he reaches
the tick-trefoil, and nips out some stamens from its purple blossoms,
which he eats with relish.

* * * * *

The work of the year will soon be done. Most of the trees have
completed the growth for the year and nothing remains but to complete