'Get some mortar, get some mortar and finish making the warehouse. It
will only take you a few moments; and you will have a cupboard of the
right depth.'

The Bee thinks differently: she was storing her cell and she must go
on storing, come what may. Never will she bring herself to lay aside
the pollen-brush for the trowel; never will she suspend the foraging
which is occupying her at this moment to begin the work of
construction which is not yet due. She will rather go in search of a
strange cell, in the desired condition, and slip in there to deposit
her honey, at the risk of meeting with a warm reception from the irate
owner. She goes off, in fact, to try her luck. I wish her success,
being myself the cause of this desperate act. My curiosity has turned
an honest worker into a robber.

Things may take a still more serious turn, so invincible, so imperious
is the desire to have the booty stored in a safe place without delay.
The uncompleted cell which the Bee refuses to accept instead of her
own finished warehouse, half-filled with honey, is often, as I said,
accompanied by other cells, not long closed, each containing its Bee-
bread and its egg. In this case, I have sometimes, though not always,
witnessed the following: when once the Bee realises the shortcomings
of the unfinished nest, she begins to gnaw the clay lid closing one of
the adjoining cells. She softens a part of the mortar cover with
saliva and patiently, atom by atom, digs through the hard wall. It is
very slow work. A good half-hour elapses before the tiny cavity is
large enough to admit a pin's head. I wait longer still. Then I lose
patience; and, fully convinced that the Bee is trying to open the
store-room, I decide to help her to shorten the work. The upper part
of the cell comes away with it, leaving the edges badly broken. In my