I am led sometimes to doubt whether the poetical parson, Dr. Watts, knew as much as he might have done about entomology, or as much as he ought about botany, when he exclaimed, "How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour. And gather honey all the day From every opening flower.'"

My good neighbors, the observant Mr. Bumbles and the somewhat sceptical Bodgers, coincide with me, and say "the learned D.D., was mistaken about 'every opening flower.' 'Stramonium!' whispers Bumbles. 'Aconitum!' mutters Bodgers. Rank poisons, both of them, which bees never touch."

Alas ! how often does the apiaryphobist dip his pen in the viscid secretions found in the honeycomb and write sweet effusions about "The ambrosial hive," etc. While the nectar is on his lips he becomes wonderfully loquacious, and with a zeal worthy a better cause discourses much about the merits of his beloved bee pets. But "the gay deceiver" says not a word about " the dirks beneath their doublets." " Smooth in speech; persuasive;" beware of the honey-mouthed man, and, like "the deceits of the world, the flesh and the devil," shun him. Remember, too, that in the cup we daily drink most of us find as much wormwood and gall as sugar and honey.

'"Twas in the pleasant month of May, When bees from flower to flower did hum," and flit through the blooming fields and gardens of "Merrie England," as they are wont to do. It was there the writer was sadly bee-deviled, some years ago. Then, and there, I had charge of a "lordly place," where good gardening was well carried out and duly appreciated. The noble proprietor and his gentle lady, living in luxury and ease, lacked but one additional pleasure to make them the happiest of earthly mortals. Satiated with every indulgence wealth or power could command, and sighing for novelties unknown, the new delight, the bliss untasted, the crowning joy, so eagerly sought for, was at last discovered - to be an apiary. Unhappy delusion ! But no matter; their hearts were set upon keeping bees. So, to complete the sum-total of terrestrial enjoyments, began the horrid business.

Both "my Lord and my Lady " evinced anequal enthusiasm for every branch of natural history, as the various and curious denizens about the park amply testified. But hitherto they had not experienced the delights of bee-keeping. So it was decided they would, and they did so.

Books on the subject were consulted, such as "Baxter on Bees," (I only wish the bees had been on Baxter) "The Apiarian's Guide," (a treacherous guide he proved) "The History and Management of Bees," etc. In fact, all that could be learned from bee maniacs about the bee business was eagerly sought for. Inquiries were made of old Bellows, the village blacksmith, and Mr. Whop-straw, the thatcher, who were supposed to "know a thing or two " about bees. The wiseacres both declared "it would be the best thing his lordship could possibly do." Their wisdom no one could gainsay. The sages' pronunciamento settled all doubts (but my own) and convinced everybody (but the writer).

A rustic structure was soon in progress, and when completed and stocked with a number of hives, was known as the bee-house or apiary; a misnomer for " Inferno," as the sequel will show.

For a time all went on well; the bees seemed to flourish and so did I. As a bee purveyor I flattered myself that I succeeded admirably. Almost everything in the vegetable kingdom, from buckwheat to borage, was cultivated for their special use and pleasure. The first flowers, if not the first fruits of the season were for them. If they could but find an opening into any hothouse or other glass structure where beautiful exotics were blooming, fuchsias especially, they seemed to delight in entering and destroying them. Whether it was from wanting honey or from wanton wickedness I cannot say. But it seemed more like malicious mischief, from the wilful way they beat, buzzed and banged about the flowers than anything else.

Summer and autumn passed by, and at length frost and snow put an end to their revels outside, and the shrill wintry winds blew gusty and chill.

Then the two bee oracles, Messrs. Whopstraw and Bellows, conjointly advised that they, the bees, should receive a daily allowance of sugar and old ale during the winter months. They assured me "it would warm the blood in their little hearts and would cause them to love me more than anything else; and would, moreover, be the making of them by springtime." The two savants had considerately put me in possession of a talisman that would protect me from every bane and evil that might lurk in the hearts of bees. Following their advice (I will vouch for it), no bacchanalians feasted or fared better than they.

They must have had a jolly time of it. I have often wondered since if it was possible for little bees to get drunk and kick up a fuss, or play the fool, after the manner of big bipeds. I am inclined to think so, and can only attribute some of their strange vagaries to alcoholic excitement or delirium tremens.

The rigors of the winter season passed by and gentle spring was ushered in, with March winds and April showers. May, smiling May, had come again and was lovingly opening the sweetest flowers, and all nature seemed blithe and gay. All hands in the gardens and grounds were busy, as the slanting rays of the morning sun shone through the apiary and warmed and wakened the little workers within.

Fain would I conceal what follows and " tell it not in Gath." But a duty I owe to my fellow-creatures urges me to dispel all apiarian dissimulations I can and burst the bee bubble. The old and fraudulent "South Sea bubble" was not more fallacious than the modern bee fanciers' delusions.

While directing some operations in the rosary, between the aviary and apiary, and adjacent to the mansion, I heard the dulcet notes of a lady fair, accompanied by a harp, sing softly the song "When the bee sips her sweets from the lip of a flower." Fascinated with the seraphic melody of the enchantress I paused, and while listening to the voice of the charmer observed at my feet a struggle between three belligerent bees. The combat seemed unequal, two to one. As a lover of fair play my sympathies went to the weakest side as they always do, and dire was the consequence.

With good intent, be it said, I separated them and thought no more about it. Two of them flew straight to the hive, and the other took wing in an opposite direction. Soon after, in the neighborhood of the hives, was heard a strange buzzing and a noisy commotion within. There was mischief brewing. Presently a score or more flew in my face, singing "Business, business, mind your own business," and viciously stung me. Like skirmishers in the front, they were closely followed by an army of some thousands of infuriated foes, who spitefully charged upon me from all sides, like a legion of devils. Maddened with the venom of their poisoned weapons, I fought the noxious tormentors off as best I could, and yelling with pain made off for home as fast as I could run. Although I had but a short distance to go, I could scarcely see my way in at the door. If "our soldiers swore terribly in Flanders," perhaps they were justified. And if at any time justifiable swearing is admissible, I think it is when ten thousand fiendish bees assail us, and there seems to be no other way of overcoming their atrocious and diabolical designs. I am not an adept in the art of war, and to a knowledge of military science I lay no claim.

I confess to knowing more about plowshares and pruning-hooks than swords and spears.

The infernal furies drove me as near to the dividing line of the valley and shadow of death as I have ever been before or since. No professional bruiser's eyes were more effectually bunged up than mine. Neither were the features of anything living so shockingly deformed or frightfully distorted. Talk about "the human face divine," my own neither looked human nor divine. For the time being I was a marked man, if not "a man of mark." And was, moreover, distinguished by being the only one of the kind in the universe. Certainly, no homogeneous being bore any resemblance to me. My friends failed to recognize me, and even my dog, the hitherto faithful "Toby," disowned me.

If Job had been my name, I, perchance, might have borne the affliction patiently and felt thankful under the circumstances. But no Jewish virtues possessed me then. My name was William, an Anglo-Saxon, and I suffered accordingly. The combined medical skill of Doctors Drastic, Bolus and Bleedem, coupled with a sound constitution, saved me; and a merciful Providence has spared me to make known the perils of bee-keeping. Having accomplished the pious duty assigned me of informing my fellow-creatures of the evil that befel me (as a warning to others), when " Pandora's box " was opened and a legion of bee-devils flew out and encompassed me round about - must conclude.

As my mission is now ended, and it only remains for me to say that whenever I see "the little busy bee," it reminds me of Hamlet's words, "He poisons him i' the garden."

Bee - An insect that makes honey and wax, says Worcester.

Bee - An insect that makes me flee away, says W. T. Harding.