hedge. They like an open and level surface, places cropped by sheep, the
sward by the roadside, fields of clover, where the flower is not deep
under grass.




II



It is the patient humble-bee that goes down into the forest of the
mowing-grass. If entangled, the humble-bee climbs up a sorrel stem and
takes wing, without any sign of annoyance. His broad back with tawny bar
buoyantly glides over the golden buttercups. He hums to himself as he
goes, so happy is he. He knows no skep, no cunning work in glass receives
his labour, no artificial saccharine aids him when the beams of the sun
are cold, there is no step to his house that he may alight in comfort;
the way is not made clear for him that he may start straight for the
flowers, nor are any sown for him. He has no shelter if the storm
descends suddenly; he has no dome of twisted straw well thatched and
tiled to retreat to. The butcher-bird, with a beak like a crooked iron
nail, drives him to the ground, and leaves him pierced with a thorn; but
no hail of shot revenges his tortures. The grass stiffens at nightfall
(in autumn), and he must creep where he may, if possibly he may escape
the frost. No one cares for the humble-bee. But down to the flowering
nettle in the mossy-sided ditch, up into the tall elm, winding in and out
and round the branched buttercups, along the banks of the brook, far
inside the deepest wood, away he wanders and despises nothing. His nest
is under the rough grasses and the mosses of the mound; a mere tunnel