Schnurrdiburr / Buzz a Buzz
Date: 1871-12-31T15:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children’s Picture Books; Poetry; Humour; Bee-keeping
Description: This is a story in comical pictures and rhyme, in which the bees are humanized. The human characters find themselves in many strange and silly, and sometimes scary, situations. I’ll sing of Johnny Dull: his pig, Made by his bees exceeding big; And of his daughter fair Christine, Of her lover Dicky Dean, And of his nephew rogue Eugene— Of honey-robbers I will tell, And bears, and bull-frogs, ghosts as well. Wilhelm Busch spent part of his childhood with his uncle, George Klein, who was a clergyman and an experienced beekeeper, and incorporated numerous natural history facts in this story.
Publisher: MobileRead
Rights: Public domain worldwide

About

Schnurrdiburr
ODER, DIE BIENEN

WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY
WILHELM BUSCH
(1832–1908)

Buzz a Buzz
OR, THE BEES

ENGLISH TRANSLATION 1
BY HEZEKIAH WATSON
(NO DATA FOUND)

ENGLISH TRANSLATION 2
BY WILLIAM C. COTTON
(1813–1879)

This is a story in comical pictures and rhyme, in which the bees are humanized. The human characters find themselves in many strange and silly, and sometimes scary, situations.

I’ll sing of Johnny Dull: his pig,
Made by his bees exceeding big;
And of his daughter fair Christine,
Of her lover Dicky Dean,
And of his nephew rogue Eugene—
Of honey-robbers I will tell,
And bears, and bull-frogs, ghosts as well.

Wilhelm Busch spent part of his childhood with his uncle, George Klein, who was a clergyman and an experienced beekeeper, and incorporated numerous natural history facts in this story.

Heinrich Christian Wilhelm Busch (15 April 1832 – 9 January 1908) was a German humorist, poet, illustrator, and painter. He published comic illustrated cautionary tales from 1859, achieving his most notable works in the 1870s. He is perhaps best remembered for Max und Moritz (1865). That book details seven pranks by two very naughty boys, who have become iconic characters in German-speaking countries, and who were the inspiration for the long-running American comic strip The Katzenjammer Kids.

This ebook was created by E.C.M. for MobileRead.com, May 2021, and may be freely distributed for non-commercial purposes.

The original German book, text and illustrations by Wilhelm Busch (1832–1908), was first published in 1872. English translation by William Cotton (1813–1879) first published 1872. English translation by Hezekiah Watkins first published 1873.

This book is assumed to be in the public domain worldwide.

Auftakt

O Muse! reiche mir den Stift, den Faber

In Nürnberg fabrizieren muß!

Noch einmal sattle mir den harten Traber,

Den alten Stecken-Pegasus!

Nu jüh! – So reiten wir zu Imker Drallen

Und zu Christinen, welche schön,

Und zu Herrn Knörrje, dem sie sehr gefallen,

Und dessen Neffen, dem Eugen!

Erstes Kapitel

Sei mir gegrüßt, du lieber Mai,

Mit Laub und Blüten mancherlei!

Seid mir gegrüßt, ihr lieben Bienen,

Vom Morgensonnenstrahl beschienen!

Wie fliegt ihr munter ein und aus

In Imker Dralle’s Bienenhaus

Und seid zu dieser Morgenzeit

So früh schon voller Tätigkeit.

Für Diebe ist hier nichts zu machen,

Denn vor dem Tore stehn die Wachen.

Und all die wackern Handwerksleute

Die hauen, messen stillvergnügt,

Bis daß die Seite sich zur Seite

Schön sechsgeeckt zusammenfügt.

Schau! Bienenlieschen in der Frühe

Bringt Staub und Kehricht vor die Tür;

Ja! Reinlichkeit macht viele Mühe,

Doch später macht sie auch Pläsier.

Wie zärtlich sorgt die Tante Linchen

Für’s liebe kleine Wickelkind!

»Hol Wasser!« ruft sie, »liebes Minchen,

Und koch den Brei, und mach geschwind!«

Auch sieht die Zofen man, die guten,

Schon emsig hin- und wiedergehn;

Denn Ihre Majestät geruhten

Höchstselbst soeben aufzustehn.

Und nur die alten Brummeldrohnen,

Gefräßig, dick und faul und dumm,

Die ganz umsonst im Hause wohnen,

Faulenzen noch im Bett herum.

»Hum!« brummelt so ein alter Brummer,

»Was, Dunner! ist es schon so spät!?

He, Trine! lauf einmal herummer

Und bring uns Honigbrot und Met!«—

»Geduld!« ruft sie, »ihr alten Schlecker!«

Und fliegt zu Krokus, dem Bienenbäcker.—

»Hier diese Kringel, frisch und süße«,

So lispelt Krokus, »nimm sie hin;

Doch höre, sei so gut und grüße

Aurikelchen, die Kellnerin!«

Hier steht Aurikel in der Schenke

Und zapft den Gästen das Getränke.

Als sie den Brief gelesen hat,

Da schrieb sie auf ein Rosenblatt:

Schnell fliegt das Bienchen von Aurikel

Zu Krokus mit dem Herzartikel.—

Jetzt heim! – Denn schon mit Zorngebrumme

Rumort und knurrt die Drohnenbrut:

»Du dumme Trine! her die Mumme!

Wenn man nicht alles selber tut!«

Zweites Kapitel

Hans Dralle hat ein Schwein gar nett,

Nur ist’s nicht fett.

Es schnuppert keck in allen Ecken

Und schabt sich an den Bienenstöcken.

Die Bienen kommen schnell herfür

Und sausen auf das Borstentier.

U, ik! U, ik! – so hat’s geschrien.—

Hans Dralle denkt: »Wat hat dat Swien?!«

Wie staunt Hans Dralle, als er’s da

Schön abgerundet stehen sah!—

Der Schweinekäufer geht vorüber:

»Was wollt Ihr für das Schwein, mein Lieber?«

»So’n twintig Daler, heb ick dacht!«

»Hier sind sie, fertig, abgemacht!«

Hans Dralle denkt sich still und froh:

»Wat schert et meck! Hei woll dat jo!«

Er stellt sich flugs vor seine Bienen

Und pfeift ein altes Lied von ihnen:

Fliege, liebe Biene, fliege

Über Berg und Tal

Auf die Blumen hin und wiege

Dich im Sonnenstrahl!

Kehre wieder, kehre wieder,

Wenn die Kelche zu;

Leg’ die süße Bürde nieder

Und geh auch zur Ruh’!

Ei, ei! Was soll denn dieses geben?!

Zwei Bienen schon mit Wanderstäben?!

Hans Dralle schaut ins Immenloch:

Wat Deuker! Hüte swarmt se noch!

Die Luft ist klar, die Luft ist warm;

Hans Dralle wartet auf den Schwarm.

Ihm wird so dumm und immer dummer;

Hans Dralle sinkt in sanften Schlummer.

Tüt, tüt! Sim, sim! so tönt es leise

Im Bienenstocke her und hin;

Es sammelt sich das Volk im Kreise,

Denn also spricht die Königin:

»Auf, Kinder! schnürt die Bündel zu!

Er schnarcht, der alte Staatsfilou!—

Nennt sich gar noch Bienenvater!

Ein schöner Vater! Sagt, was tat er?

Und wozu taugt er?

Aus seinem Stinkehaken raucht er!—

Ist ein Gequalm und ein Geblase,

Ewig hat man den Dampf in der Nase!—

Da hält man sich nun im Sommer knapp,

Schleppt und quält und rackert sich ab;

Denkt sich was zurückzulegen,

In alten Tagen den Leib zu pflegen…

Ja wohl!

Kaum sind Kisten und Kasten voll,

Trägt uns der Schelm den Schwefel ins Haus

Und räuchert und bläst uns das Leben aus.—

Kurzum! er ist ein Schwerenöter!

Ein Honigdieb und Bienentöter!—

Drum auf und folgt der Königin!!«

Schnurrdiburr! da geht er hin!

Drittes Kapitel

Zuweilen brauchet die Familie

Als Suppenkraut die Petersilie.—

Und da nun grad Christine Dralle

Heut’ morgen auch in diesem Falle,

So sieht man sie mit Wohlgefallen

In ihres Vaters Garten wallen.—

Herrn Knörrjes Garten liegt daneben;

Und ach! sie denkt an Knörrje eben.

Zu Anfang schätzt sie ihn als Lehrer,

Dann aber immer mehr und mehrer;

Und also schlich die süße Pein

Sich peu à peu ins Herz hinein.—

Die Liebe – meistens schmerzlich heiter—

Vergißt gar leicht die Suppenkräuter;

Sie liebt vielmehr die Blumenkelche,

Und auch Christine pflückt sich welche.

Aurikel – Krokus – diese Guten

Sind so vereint, eh’ sie’s vermuten.

Christine aber läßt sich nieder

Unterm Flieder.—

Herrn Knörrjes Neffe, der Eugen,

Hat dies mit Freuden angesehn;

Denn dieser Knab’ von vierzehn Jahren,

So jung er ist und unerfahren,

Fühlt doch, obschon noch unbewußt,

Ein süßes Ahnen in der Brust.—

Behutsam schleichend, auf der Lauer,

Drückt er sich an die Gartenmauer;

Dann plötzlich macht er einen Satz,

Und – pitsch! – Christine kriegt ’n Schmatz.

Und – schwapp! – da tönt’s im tiefen Baß:

»Ha, Ungetüm, was ist denn das?!!«—

Herr Knörrje schlägt mit seinem Stabe,

Und tief gekränkt entflieht der Knabe.

Herr Knörrje aber faßt ans Kinn

Christinen, seiner Nachbarin.

Er hebt es leise in die Höh’—

Ach ja! und sie errötete!—

»Hier diese Blumen, darf ich’s wagen?«

Christine wagt nicht nein zu sagen.

Jetzt faßt er sanft ihr um das Mieder,

Ach ja! und sie errötet wieder.

Und jetzt, da gibt er gar zum Schluß

Dem guten Mädchen einen Kuß.

»Ade! und also so um zehn

Beim Bienenhaus! Auf Wiedersehn!«

Eugen, der horcht, bemerkt mit Schmerzen

Das Einverständnis dieser Herzen.—

Nun steht er da und schreit und lärmt:

»He! Nachbar, he! der Imme schwärmt!«

Viertes Kapitel

Hans Dralle, der noch immer schlief,

Als ihn Eugen so heftig rief,

Erwacht aus seinem sanften Traum—

Da hängt der Schwarm im Apfelbaum!—

Schnell Kappe her und Korb und Leiter,

Sonst fliegt er noch am Ende weiter!

Gar wohl vermummt, doch ohne Bangen

Hat er den Schwarm bereits gefangen;

Hoch oben steht er kühn und grade,

Da sticht’s ihn in die linke Wade.

Au jau! – die erste Sprosse bricht,

Denn viel zu groß ist das Gewicht;

Und – kracks! – ist er herabgeschossen

Durch alle sieben Leitersprossen.

Die Bienen aber mit Gebraus

Sausen ums Haus.

Zwei Knaben sitzen an der Pfütze

Und spritzen mit der Wasserspritze.

Die Bienen kümmern sich nicht drum,

Sie sausen weiter mit Gebrumm.

Den Besen schwingt die alte Grete,

Der Kirmesanton bläst Trompete.

Ernst, Fritz und Wilhelm pfeifen, schrein;

Der Schwarm läßt sich darauf nicht ein.

Jetzt ist er oben am Kamin,

Der Schornsteinfeger sieht ihn ziehn.

Jetzt geht er übers Kirchendach;

Krach! – schießt der Förster hinten nach.

Jetzt hinkt Hans Dralle auch daher;

Und jetzo sieht man gar nichts mehr.—

»Mi ärgert man« – denkt er – »datt dat

Min Nawer Knörrje seihen hat.«

Fünftes Kapitel

So machet dem Apisticus

Die Schwärmerei gar viel Verdruß;

Und ganz besonders hat sie Drallen

Seit der Geschichte sehr mißfallen.—

Doch solcherlei Verdrüsse pflegen

Die Denkungskräfte anzuregen.—

»Platz mot’r sin!« – so denkt er weise

Und macht zwo große Strohgehäuse.—

»Recht guten Morgen auch, mein Lieber!«

Ruft Knörrje da zu ihm herüber.

»So fleißig?! Nun, wie geht es Ihnen?

Und dann, wie geht’s den lieben Bienen?«

»Ja ja, de Minsche mot sick plagen!«

»Mein Freund, das müssen Sie nicht sagen!

Die Immen sind ja ein Vergnügen,

Wie sie so umeinander fliegen;

Und standen auch in großem Ruhme

Bereits im grauen Heidentume.

So zum Exempel hielt Virgil,

Der ein Poet, von ihnen viel;

Denn als die römischen Legionen,

Die ja bekanntlich nichts verschonen,

Am Ende auch bei ihm erschienen,

Wer half ihm da, wie seine Bienen?«

Friedlich lächelt Virgil, umsäuselt von sumsenden Bienen;

Aber die runzlichte Schar bärtiger Krieger entfleucht!

»Wenn man de Schwarmeri nich wör!«

Sagt Dralle – »Datt is dat Malör!«

»Mein lieber Freund, das ist zum Lachen;

Ableger, Nachbar, müßt Ihr machen;

So habt Ihr, ehe man’s gedacht,

Aus einem Stocke zwei gemacht;

Ableger, Freund, das heißt Methode!!«

»Adje! Dat is de nie Mode!!«

Sechstes Kapitel

Eugen, der nach dem Mittagessen

Im schattenkühlen Wald gesessen,

Sieht hier mit herzlichem Vergnügen

Aus einem Baume Bienen fliegen.—

Aha, das müssen wir versuchen,

Da drinnen gibt es Honigkuchen!—

Schnell steigt der Eugen auf den Baum,

Von oben in den hohlen Raum.

Nur Vorsicht, immer leise! – Schrapp!—

Da rutscht er auf den Grund hinab.

Da sitzt er nun im Baume fest,

Die Beine stehn im Immennest,

Und leider haben auch nach oben

Die Hosenschläuche sich verschoben,

So daß auf seine bloßen Waden

Die Bienen ihren Zorn entladen.—

Ein alter, rupp’ger Tanzebär,

Der durchgebrannt, kommt auch daher.

»Da muß ich wohl von oben kommen!«

Denkt er – und ist hinaufgeklommen.

Ach! – wie erschrak der Jüngling da,

Als er das Tier von hinten sah.

Uhuu! – mit schrecklichem Geheul

Faßt er des Bären Hinterteil.

Dem Bären fährt es durch die Glieder,

Der Schreck treibt ihn nach oben wieder.

Er reißt den Knaben aus den Ritzen,

Doch beide Stiefel bleiben sitzen.

Grad’ ist Hans Dralle hergekommen

Und auch auf diesen Baum geklommen.

Habuh! – was war das für ein Graus—

Grad’ krabbelt da der Bär heraus.

Und alle drei kopfüber purzeln

Hernieder auf des Baumes Wurzeln.

Und grad kommt Förster Stakelmann

Und legt die lange Flinte an.

Fürwahr! er hätte ihn getroffen,

Wär’ nur der Bär nicht fortgeloffen.

Jetzt, eins zwei drei, geht man dabei

Und sägt den Honigbaum entzwei.

Und denkt nicht dran, daß man durchbohre

Des Jünglings beide Stiefelrohre.

Hans Dralle aber trägt Verlangen,

Das Bienenvolk sich einzufangen.

»Nu sühst du woll! Nu heb ick deck!«

Schnurr! geht der Schwarm von unten weg.

Siebentes Kapitel

Der Knabe Eugen, der indessen

Aufs Honigessen ganz versessen,

Gedenkt denselben ganz verstohlen

Aus Dralle’s Körben sich zu holen.

O jemine! ein ganzes Korps

Von Bienen rückt auf einmal vor,

Und pudelrauh ist der Eugen

Vom Kopf herab bis zu den Zeh’n.

Zum Glück ist Wasser in der Näh’—

Perdums! kopfüber in den See!

Sieh da! er taucht schon wieder auf

Und eilt nach Haus in schnellem Lauf.

Dem guten Knaben ist recht übel,

Drum schnell mit ihm zu Dokter Siebel.

Der Dokter Siebel horcht am Magen:

»Da murkst ja einer, möcht’ ich sagen!

Und judizier’ ich, daß der Knabe

Ein Ungetier im Leibe habe;

Als welches wir sogleich mit Listen

Gewissermaßen fangen müßten!

Schau, schau! da ist der Bösewicht!

Allez! – der Schönste bist du nicht!«

Schnell huckt der Frosch zum nahen Teich

Und nimmt ein kühles Bad sogleich.

Er rüttelt sich, er schüttelt sich:

»Quarks dreckeckeck! da danke ich!«—

Achtes Kapitel

Man sollte denken, daß nach allen

Verdrüssen, welche vorgefallen,

Am Ende dieser gute Knabe

Vor Süßigkeiten Abscheu habe!

Ach nein! – Schon spekuliert der Tropf

Auf Vater Dralle’s Honigtopf,

Der, wie er weiß, auf einem Brett

Dicht über dessen Bette steht.—

Als heut nun Dralle lag und schlief,

So gegen zehn recht fest und tief,

Da ist’s ihm so, als ob was rauscht.—

Hans Dralle spitzt das Ohr und lauscht.

Ha! schleicht nicht dort aus jener Tür

Ein greulich Phänomen herfür??!!

In seinen Augen kann man’s lesen:

Dies ist fürwahr kein menschlich Wesen!!

Ein Quadruped ist hier zu schauen,

Ein Flügeltier mit Schweif und Klauen.

Hans Dralle steht das Haar nach oben,

Die Zipfelhaube wird gehoben.

Schon kommt’s mit fürchterlichen Sprüngen,

Den Bienenvater zu verschlingen.

Und dumpf ertönt’s wie Geisterstimmen:

»Hans Dralle, kiek na dinen Immen!«

Es hebt sich auf die Hintertatzen,

Man hört es an den Wänden kratzen.

Gottlob! jetzt kehrt es wieder um!

Hans Dralle ist vor Schrecken stumm.

Ihm hängt der Schweiß an jedem Haar,

Bis das Phantom verschwunden war.

Bald drauf sitzt der Eugen zu Haus

Und schleckt den Topf voll Honig aus.

Neuntes Kapitel

Die Blumen, die Christine pflückte,

Womit sie Knörrje hochbeglückte,

Sie hängen auf dem Fensterbord

Und sind verdorrt.

Herr Knörrje nimmt und legt sie nieder

Und preßt sie in sein Buch der Lieder,

Wo diese treuen Seelen nun

Auf ewig beieinander ruhn.

Vom Kirchenturme tönt es zehn,

Für Knörrje ist es Zeit zum Gehn.

Er eilt aus seiner stillen Klause

Zum Rendezvous beim Bienenhause,

Wo schon Christine harrend weilt

Und ihrem Freund entgegeneilt.—

Doch horch! was hör’ ich dort sich regen?!

Es ist ein Dieb auf bösen Wegen.—

Der Bienenraub ist sein Gewerbe;

Nur schnell hier in die großen Körbe!!

»Ja«, spricht der Dieb, »da ist’s am besten,

Ich nehme gleich den allergrößten!«

Er packt sich richtig Knörrjen auf

Und eilt davon im Dauerlauf.

»Hoho!« – schreit Knörrje – »wart, du Tropf!«

Und stülpt den Korb ihm übern Kopf.

Vergebens sucht er sich zu sträuben,

Er muß im Korbe sitzen bleiben.—

Doch ach! was muß Christine schaun?!

Der Zottelbär steigt übern Zaun,

Riecht in den Korb, und mit Geblase

Steckt er durchs Spundloch seine Nase.

Hier diesen Pflock, nur flink, nur flink!

Quer durch des Bären Nasenring!

Ja, brülle nur!

Die Nase geht nicht mehr retour!

– So wär’ nun alles wohlgelungen;

Die Liebenden stehn fest umschlungen.

Da naht Hans Dralle. – Die Geschichte

Sieht er mit staunendem Gesichte.

Er steht und staunt und wundert sich:

»Ne Kinders, düt verstah eck nich!«

Doch Knörrje, der das Wort genommen,

Erzählt, wie alles so gekommen.

»No ja!« – spricht Dralle – »Minetwegen!«

Und gibt dem Paare seinen Segen.—

Schon stehn umher voll Schreckensfreude

Des Dorfes wackre Biederleute.

Der Förster will den Bären schießen,

Wenn sie ihn nur zufrieden ließen.

Die Wache naht. – Sie trägt sofort

Den Dieb an einen stillen Ort.

Und auch der Bärenführer kommt

Und nimmt den Bären, welcher brommt.

Der Anton stößt in die Trompete,

Und »Vivat!« schreit die alte Grete;

Und »Vivat!« schreien sie nun alle,

»Vivat, es lebe unser Dralle!!«—

Zehntes Kapitel

Die Nacht ist warm, die Menschen träumen,

Und leise flüstert’s in den Bäumen,

Und leise schleicht der Mondenschein

In Dralle’s Garten sich herein.

Von seinem Dämmerlicht beschienen,

In Gras und Blüten, summen Bienen.

Die feiern heut bei des Mai’s Beginn

Das Hochzeitsfest der Königin.

Schon sitzen im hohen Rosensaal

Die Königin und der Prinzgemahl.

Sie winkt – da schießet mit Getos

Der Bombardör den Böller los.

Zing, zing, traromm! – und auf der Stelle

Ertönen die Klänge der Hofkapelle.

Die Fliege blus Trompette,

Der Mück Klarinette,

Die Hummel die Trummel,

Der Heuschreck die Geigen;

Das gab fürwahr einen lustigen Reigen.—

Schau! Holzbock der Lange

Ist eifrig im Gange

Mit Bienenlieschen

Auf zierlichen Füßchen.—

Und da der Kleine

Mit Minchen, dem Bienchen,

Rührt auch die Beine.—

Und seht mir nur das nette Trinchen!

Da macht ja wohl Herr Schröter

Den angenehmen Schwerenöter!

Im Apfelbaum sitzt auch der Mond

Und hat dem Feste beigewohnt.—

Nun waren da auch zwei Maienkäfer,

Recht nette Bübchen,

Doch blöde Schäfer;

Die rauchen und trinken im Nebenstübchen,

Bis daß sie im nassen Grase liegen

Und können nicht mehr nach Hause fliegen.

Der Wächter Schuhu findet sie.

Er spricht: »Aha, das sind ja die!!—

Schon wieder mal!!«—

Und bringt sie in sein Wachtlokal.

Der Mond, der auch nicht recht mehr munter,

Hüllt sich in Wolken und geht unter.

Prologue

A pencil, Muse! of finest grade

From Nuremberg, by Faber made!

Once more put saddle on my stout

Steed Pegasus – and trot him out!

Hoop-la! – For Dralle and his bees,

And for his daughter, fair Christine

For Docet, whom the maid doth please,

And for his nephew, Young Eugene!

Chapter I

I greet thee, lovely month of May,

With leaves and thousand flowerets gay!

Thee too I greet, O lovely bee,

Bathed in the morning sunlight’s sea!

How blithesome thou dost flit about

Hans Dralle’s bee-house, in and out,

And though the sun scarce risen is,

Thou’rt deep immersed in business.

There’s nothing here for thieving hands,

For at the door the watchman stands.

And all the sturdy, dexterous men

They hack and cut and measure on,

Till nicely side fits side – and then

Behold a perfect hexagon.

See! Bridget Bee at break of day,

Sweeping the dust and dirt away:

True! cleanliness requires some trouble,

But then the pleasure’s more than double.

How tenderly old Auntie dear

Takes care of little baby-bee!

“Minnie!” she cries, “some water here,

And cook the porridge speedily.”

The sen-ant maidens make ado,

And fly about and wait with zest

On her Imperial Highness, who

Is just this moment up and dressed.

And lazy, grumbling drones alone,

The greedy, fat, foul, stupid things,

Hang ’round the house – of use to none,

Or lie abed with folded wings.

“Heigh, ho!” these worthless grumblers sing—

“What! Thunder! has it grown so late?

Here, Bridget! come; be quick and bring

Us mead and honey-bread, and plate!”

“Patience! Old Epicures!“she cries;

Then to the baker, Crocus, flies.

“See here! these doughnuts, fresh and sweet,”

Lisps Crocus, “Take them, precious pearl!

But listen! stop for me and greet

Auricula, the waiter-girl!”

The Damsel of the Period,

Here stands – to guests dispensing tod.

But when his lovesick billet-doux

Auricula had read quite through,

Upon a rose-leaf, wet with dew,

She wrote as you or I would do

Swift-winged, the bee doth then depart

With balm for Crocus’ aching heart—

Then homeward speeds – E’en now you hear

The Drones are kicking up a row;

“You stupid Biddie! hand that beer!

One must do everything, I vow.”

Chapter II

A nice clean pig Hans Dralle’s got,

But fat ’tis not.

Snuffing about in every nook,

To scratching Hans’s hives it took.

The bees come quickly from their shrine,

And buzz about the bristling swine.

The pig sets up a doleful cryin’

Hans Dralle thinks: “Vat’s got dat schwein?”

Hans Dralle stands amazed, to see

His pig plumped out so wondrously!—

A sausage-dealer, happening near,

Says, “How you sells dat hog, my dear?”

“’Bout zwanzig thaler, so I tought!”

“Well, here they are, all counted out!”

Hans Dralle chuckles with delight;

“Vat’s dat to me! Dat ish all right!”

He folds his arms contentedly,

And hums a ditty of the bee:

Fly, my pretty bee, now hie thee!

Over hill and dale;

Search the blossoms bright and ply thee

Ere the sunlight fail.

Come again then, hither hasting

When the petals close;

Store thy sweets for winter tasting,

Then go seek repose!

Halloo! what mean they by these tricks?!

Two bees out-doors with walking-sticks?!

He views his hive with much alarm:

“Vas, Teufel! bee’s she gwine to schwarm?”

The air is clear, the air is warm;

Hans Dralle’s waiting for the swarm.

It grows so dull – yet duller grows;

Hans Dralle drops off in a doze.

Toot, Toot! The trumpets gently sound

And all within the bee-hive reach;

Its little inmates gather round,

And then the Queen gets off a speech:

“Come, children! pack your traps up now!

This old curmudgeon snores, I vow!

Declares he’s Father of the bee!

A pretty father! What does he?

Of what account?

To puff his pipe ’s the whole amount!

A chimney and a bellows, too,

He is, who stuffs our noses – whew!

In summer we must save our breath

And wear and tear ourselves to death;

In hopes we may increase our store

And drive off famine from our door …

And then!—

Scarce have we packed each cranny, when

He fills the house with gases rank,

And the poor bee must walk the plank.

In short, an old ‘skinflint’ is he!

Who, stealing honey – kills the bee!

So take your traps, and follow me!!”

Helter-skelter there they go!

Chapter III

A housewife sometimes needs a group

Of parsley plants to season soup.

Now in precisely such event,

This very day Christina went—

As you can see – with pleasure too,

Her father’s garden rambling through.

Herr Docet’s garden lies near by;

Ah! she has Docet in her eye.

Was sweet on him at first as tutor,

Then more and more he grew to suit ’er,

Until the arrow – peu à peu—

Has pierced her poor heart through and through.

Now Cupid – ofttimes dealing harshly

Cares naught for cabbage-plants nor parsley;

But bets his pile on pinks and posies;

So “Tina” plucks these, and some roses.

Before one fairly knows about it,

Auricula – no one will doubt it

By some sweet sort of hocus-pocus

Has twined her arms around young crocus.

And so Christina dear reclines

Beneath the vines.

Now Docet’s nephew, young Eugene,

Has had his eye upon this scene;

For this mere stripling of fourteen,

Tho’ still so young and e’er so green,

Has yet within his bosom felt

The fires that warm, and sometimes melt.

With caution by the wall he glides,

And comes to where Christina hides.

Then straight upon the wall he goes

And – pitsch! – she’s kissed before she knows.

And – schwapp! – a voice in deep bass tone;

“Ha, monster! what’s this going on?!!”

And with his stick Herr Docet plies

Our hero, till in pain he flies.

He fondles her upon the chin.

You see yourself – he rubs it in—

His hand creeps higher and still higher

Oh, yes! And she grows red as fire!

“May I dare touch these flowers below

Christina dare not answer “No!”

His arm around her waist he throws,

And redder still the maiden grows.

Then – fitting climax to his bliss

He gives the precious girl a kiss.—

“Adieu! we soon shall meet again:

Say at the bee-house, Love, at ten!”

In pain, with listening ear Eugene

The union of these hearts has seen.

He mounts the wall with cry alarming;

“Ho! neighbor, ho! your bees are swarming!”

Chapter IV

Hans Dralle – still in slumber bound—

At young Eugene’s unearthly sound,

Awoke from pleasant dreams to see

His swarm hang from an apple-tree!—

Quick! ladder, cap and basket, here!

Before the bees all disappear!

Now fearless – muffled safe from harm

He mounts the ladder – traps the swarm;

And stands erect on topmost rung,

When suddenly his calf is stung;

And with the weight, so heavy grown,

The top breaks through and lets him down.

And – zip! he shoots through every round,

And tumbles headlong to the ground.

The Bees, however, buzzing drive

About the hive.

Beside the pool sit urchins two,

Essaying what squirt-guns will do.

Yet little this disturbs the bees,

Who buzz away, quite at their ease.

Her broom aloft doth Peggy swing,

And Tony makes his trumpet ring.

Fred, Ernst and Will all fife and cry

The swarm is not disturbed thereby.

Now o’er the house it sails along;

The sweep observes the moving throng.

Now o’er the church the swarm soars high;

The hunter fires into the sky.

And now Hans Dralle limpeth near

When all at once they disappear.

“Dat feels me very bad” – thinks he,

“Dat neighbor Docet see de bee.”

Chapter V

Thus swarming, for Apisticus,

Kicks up a most infernal muss;

Especially – from all we know—

Our Hans has just now found it so.

Yet such annoyances effect

A quick’ning of the intellect.

“Dey muss haf room!” – so he contrives

To make with straw a pair of hives.

“Good morning, neighbor! right fine day!”

Docet calls out across the way:

“So busy?! now, how’re you today?

The bees, too, neighbor, how are they?”

“Ya, ya, der man haf a hard way!”

“Come, neighbor, that you shouldn’t say!

The bee is ever a delight,

As round about he wings his flight;

Of great renown, too, is the bee

In heathendom, especially.

– Witness Virgilius, if you please,

A Roman poet – great on bees;

For when the famous Roman Legion,

Which, as you know, sacked every region,,

At length came down on his Penates,

Who shielded Virgil, like his bees?”

‘Peacefully smiles Virgilius, compassed by sweet buzzing honey-bees;

Broken, the bearded brave warmen take flight in the wildest confusion!’

“If mine bees wouldn’t sometimes schwarm!

Says Dralle – “Ya, ya, dere’s de harm!”

“Why, that’s a trifle, my dear man;

Plant off-shoots, neighbor, that’s your plan:

And thus you’ll have, whene’er ’tis done,

Two branches, where there’s now but one.

Off-shoots – my friend – organization!!”

“Adjew! Dat is an innovation!!”

Chapter VI

Eugene, his dinner done, hath found

A shaded seat upon the ground,

And joyous, notes with inward glee

Bees flying from a hollow tree.

Aha! that needs investigation:

There’s honey there, beyond negation!

Eugene is up the tree apace;

Thence down within the hollow space.

A little care, now, and he’s got ’em!

Schrapp! down he tumbles to the bottom.

Now he’s a fixture in the tree,

Where hath its nest the honey-bee.

And, what is worse, his leather pants

Get caught – as you may see, perchance;

So that, upon his naked calf,

The bees are pouring out their wrath.

An old and shabby dancing bear,

With nose burnt through, comes also there.

“The only way’s to climb the tree!”

Concludes the bear – so up climbs he.

Ah! how the youngster quakes with fear,

At catching sight of Bruin’s rear.

Shrill cries ring out his horrid story:

He clutches a posteriori.

The shock frights Bruin – hide and hair—

And drives him to the upper air.

He draws Eugene out “in toto:”

The boots remain “in status quo.”

Just then Hans Dralle reached the place,

And he, too, climbed the tree apace.

Ugh! hear his loud affrighted shout!

He meets the bear just crawling out.

Head first, all tumble, as you see,

Down to the bottom of the tree;

And then the moustached musketeer

His glittering weapon brings to bear.

True as you live! he would have hit ’im,

Had Bruin stayed and only let ’im.

Now – in a trice – they come again

And saw the honey-tree in twain.

And little think, this work pursuing,

The youngster’s boots they are undoing.

Hans Dralle wishes, as one sees,

With crafty skill, to trap the bees.

“Look sharp! I gets you now! i-yi!”

Whirr! out from under off they fly.

Chapter VII

The boy Eugene – who by-the-by,

Has feasts of honey in his eye—

Likes stolen sweets – the little loafer—

And Dralle’s hives he means to go for.

Oh, jiminy! an army corps

Of bees rush from the open door,

And rough as poodle Eugene grows

From crown of head to his ten toes.

Now happily there’s water near,

Perdums! head first they disappear!

And see! at once his ducking done,

He hastens homeward on a run.

Poor boy! he’s very sick and feeble;

So take him quick to Doctor Siebel.

The Doctor auscultates his bowel;

“I rather think I hear a grow-l!

Some foreign body, I should say,

Has gone the epigastric way;

This we must seek to extricate

By operations delicate!”

Look! there’s the villain – on my word!”

“Begone! you’re not a handsome bird!

The frog, his courage well-nigh spent,

Regains his native element;

Rubs back and sides, and feelingly

Ejaculates: “No more for me!

Chapter VIII

Now, one would think, that after all

The mishaps that this lad befall,

At length he’d heartily detest

Sweet things – although the very best!

Oh no! – Just now the dunce has got

His eye on Dralle’s honey-pot,

Which, as he knows, stands on a shelf

Just o’er the couch of Hans himself.

As Dralle lay asleep that day,

The clock struck ten in boisterous way;

Hans seemed some rustling noise to hear,

And, quick as thought, pricked up his ear;

Ha! through the door comes creeping on

A direful, dread phenomenon??!!

And one can read in Dralle’s eye

That ’tis no human entity!!

Behold a winged quadruped,

With talons, tail, and horrid head.

Hans Dralle’s hair stands from his head,

And lifts his night-cap out of bed.

The monster springs from off its knees

To seize the patron of the bees.

And cries with voice, as from the tomb,

“Hans – the avenging bees have come!”

It rears its awful form withal

One hears it scratching on the wall.

Thank Heaven! ’tis turning now from sight!

Hans Dralle’s almost dumb from fright.

Cold sweat drips down from every hair

So long as that dread monster’s there.

But shortly, safe at home, Eugene

Sits down and licks the sweet jar clean.

Chapter IX

The flowers Christina plucked apart,

Wherewith to gladden Docet’s heart,

Are hanging from his window bar

And faded are.

But Docet takes them up ere long

To press them in his Book of Song—

Where, faithful souls, forever blest,

They, wrapt in sweet embrace, shall rest.

From belfry sounds the hour of ten;

’Tis time that Docet start again.

He bids his humble cell adieu

And hies him to the rendezvous

Where, torn with waiting and alarms,

The lovely dove flies to his arms.

But hush! what stir is this I hear?!

Some ill-designing rogue is near.

Bee-robbing ’tis by which he thrives;

Quick! Come, get in the largest hives!!

“Yes,” says the thief, “my heaviest haul

Would be the biggest hive of all!”

He shoulders Docet, and elate,

Starts off upon a ‘forty’ gait.

“Zounds! what a fool!” Herr Docet said,

And clapped the bee-hive o’er his head.

Vain are the rogue’s attempts at flight—

The hive and Docet hold him tight.

But ’Tina’s fate seems worst of all!

The shaggy bear surmounts the wall,

Smells in the hive, and snuffs about,

And through the hole protrudes his snout.

Quick now! a stick! and there it goes!

Right through the ring in Bruin’s nose!

Yes, roar and roar!

Your nose will leave that hole no more!

So things are working to a charm;

Behold the lovers, arm in arm!

Dralle draws near – and with surprise

Beholds the scene before his eyes.

He stands and stares in wondering way;

“Nein, Kinders, dat I nix verstay!’

Then Docet undertakes to show

How things have happened, so and so.

“All right!“says Dralle – then, addressing

The pair, he gives each one his blessing.

Wild with delight, then gather round

The worthy people of the town.

The forester – sworn foe to Bruin

Is bent upon the creature’s ruin.

Police arrive. – Forthwith they trot

The thief off to a quiet spot.

And off in haste his keeper goes,

With Bruin – growling – by the nose.

And Tony with his trumpet blows

And “Hip hurrah!” aunt Peggy crows;

And “Hip hurrah!” shout all quite jolly,

“Hurrah! for our old friend, Hans Dralle!!”

Chapter X

The night is warm and men are dreaming,

The zephyr through the boughs is streaming;

And round-faced, jovial moon, the while

Doth down on Dralle’s garden smile.

Robed in his sheen, thro’ twilight’s hours,

The bees are humming on the flowers,

And celebrate this first of May,

Their Queen’s right royal wedding-day.

Already high in rosy Court

Sit Royal Queen and Prince Consort.

She nods – and, loud enough to stun,

The Cannoneer fires off his gun.

Ring, ting! tarum! – and right away

The Royal Band begins to play.

The house-fly – it played the trumpet,

Musquito, too, played piccolo,

The drone, with his hum, was beating base drum,

The grasshoppers fiddle

A high-diddle-diddle;

And who ever knew such a right jolly crew?

See! spindle-shanked Saw-buck!

What unparalleled luck!

He’s dancing a measure

With Lib-bee, his treasure—

Of wardrobe so neat

And such wee bits of feet.

And little Short-shins

With tiny bee, Minnie,

Is shaking his pins.

And only look at spruce Katrina!

For whom gruff beetle is in quest—

A lusty lad, in satin vest!

The moon sits in an apple-tree

And keeps the fete right merrily.

June-bugs were there – not decked in rubies—

Right jolly coves,

Though bashful boobies;

Who smoke and drink in neighboring groves,

Till from excesses of the glass

They lie stretched out upon the grass.

The watch-owl maketh them a visit,

And saith: “Aha, ’tis you then, is it?

A new carouse!!”

And walks them to the station-house.

At last the moon, too, nods his head,

Wraps up in clouds, and goes to bed.

Prelude

Hail Muse etc.! Bring me Peggy,

My antient steed, now somewhat leggy;

Not him who on Parnassus green

Erst fed, and drank of Hippocrene;

But such, as to supply the trade,

At Nuremburg by scores are made.—

I mount him, and will now indite

A Bee-book for my own delight,

I’ll sing of Johnny Dull: his pig,

Made by his bees exceeding big;

And of his daughter fair Christine,

Of her queer lover Dicky Dean,

And of his nephew rogue Eugene—

Of honey-robbers I will tell,

And bears, and bull-frogs, ghosts as well—

All which my readers may discover

Who con this true tale ten times over—

Or make ten other Bee Friends buy it;

For three and six I can supply it.

Fytte I

Bee Life

All hail! thou lovely month of May,

With parti-colored flowers gay!

And hail to you, my darling Bees;

Much wealth you gain on days like these.

From morn to eve a humming sound

About the bee-house circles round.

The sentinels, in armor bright,

Keep watch and ward throughout the night;

And drive away, constrained by oath.

The mice, and toads, and Death’s head moth.

At early dawn ’tis quite a treat

To see them work, they are so neat;

Some clean their house with brooms and mops,

And others empty out the slops.

The architects, by rule and line,

Their future cells with skill define;

The ever toiling workers these—

Meanwhile the Queen, she takes her ease;

Sole mother of the winged nation.

Her only work is propagation.

The egg she lays; the nurses hatch

That egg, and in the cradle watch.

The babe to swaddle, and prepare

The pap-boat, is their constant care.

All day, in regal state, the Queen

Encircled by her court is seen;

Their backs they never rudely turn:

Good manners they by instinct learn.

And when night comes she goes to bed,

And on the pillow lays her head;

Whilst by her side her faithful drone

Profoundly snores, for they are one.

They send for letters ere they rise;

For just at ten they ope their eyes.

The post office is in a flower,

Which opens at a certain hour:

Miss Crocus keeps it, fresh and fair;

The tresses of her flowing hair

They glitter like the purest gold;

And by her saffron cakes are sold.

Near is the pothouse where both grog

Is served to Bumble-Bees, and prog;

And when the Bumble-Bees get groggy,

Their intellect, like men’s, is foggy.

On rose leaves they their letters write,

Here’s one they either wrote or might.

“Great Queen, we hope you’ll swarm to day;

For ’tis a lovely first of May.”

The messenger this letter takes,

And eke a store of saffron cakes.

The Drones they neither work, nor can

Do aught but sleep on a divan;

And smoke their pipes through all the day;

Chibouks these love, and those of clay.

Such is their life – who would not be

A happy little worker Bee;

A Queen’s too high for me – a Drone,

Such laziness I let alone.

Fytte II

The Pig

Now Johnny Dull had once a pig—

’Twas far from fat, its bones were big.

To scratch his hide with all his might

Was this poor piggie’s sole delight.

Once on a time it so fell out

He in the garden roamed about:

He chanced to have an itching mood;

The bee house quite convenient stood

His hide he scratched; the bees rushed out,

And stung him well from tail to snout—

Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! poor piggie cried,

Feeling these daggers pierce his hide.

John Dull, who heard the awful clatter,

Said, “Bless the pig! why – what’s the matter?”

He came – he saw – his porker, that

Was erst all lean, was now all fat.

It chanced a pig-jobber that way

Was passing by; he stopped to say

“How much friend Dull for that fat pig?”

“Just ten pounds ten, for he is big”—

“Done” – “done again” – the bargain’s struck

John Dull he found himself in luck,

And blest his bees, and in their praise

He chanted forth these jocund lays:

Fly forth, dear Bees, ’tis morn, fly forth

To South, to North, to West, to East;

And cull from every fragrant flower

A honeyed feast.

Fly Home, dear Bees, ’tis Eve, fly home!

From North, from South, from East, from West;

Store in your cells your luscious spoil.

And sweetly rest.

The air is clear the day is warm,

John Dull sits watching for a swarm;

“What’s this?” he thought; “while I’ve been talking

My bees are all prepared for walking,

Staves in their hands, and on his back

Each carries his provision pack.”

He strains his sight into the hole;

“They’ll swarm to day – upon my soul.”

His brain swims round, his eyes feel heavy.

He sees no more the increasing levee.

His nose, as down and down it drops,

His half used pipe of ’bacca stops.—

Buzz, buzz! – Hum, hum! a joyful sound.

Echoes the teeming hiye around.

All gather at the trumpet’s clang

To hear their noble Queen’s harangue.—

“Up children up, to swarm prepare

The honey thief sits stinking there.

And we who love the scent of roses

Have stale tobacco in our noses.

We toil, we sweat from early May

To lay up for a rainy day.

Our cells we fill, and at the Pall

He sulphurs us, and takes it all.

So let us one and all deride

This honey thief, this Bee-i-cide.

Up children, up! to swarm prepare

Whilst Master Dull sits snoring there.

A devil he, upon my troth:

Buzz! buzz! Hum! Hum! The swarm is off!”

Fytte III

The Rivals

“Nothing like soup,” is still the cry

In each well ordered family;

So on Christine the duty fell

To cull the herbs they love so well;

And every morn, the charming maid

Within her father’s garden strayed,

Parsley to pluck, wherewith to make

The soup, which they at noon should take.

Her father’s garden marched, I ween,

With that of Mr. Richard Dean;

A schoolmaster by trade was he,

And she esteemed him – maidenly.

But by degrees, within her soul

A softer, tenderer passion stole;

Love – full of joy and full of sorrow.

Sunshine to day, and storm tomorrow.

Love may forget a parsley bed,

And dream of golden flowers instead.

And so the maiden stooped to cull a

Crocus, and an auricula.

These flowers, together-bound, she placed

Just half a foot above her waist.

Then sat her down beneath the shade,

And thought about him – happy maid.

Now Mr. Dull a nephew had,

A most audacious, awkward lad;

Some fifteen summers he had seen

And still was very, very green.

Christine he eyed, and with desire

He felt his little soul on fire.

With cat-like pace behind the wall

He crept (he was not near as tall.)

Leapt up, and from the affrighted Miss

Ravished the much desired kiss.

“Stop little monster”, and a whack

Descended on his upturned back—

(The place I cannot more define

Within the limits of a line)—

Side, I should add, but wherefore tell

What every schoolboy knows so well.

Dick Dean so roundly plied the stick

That rogue Eugene skedaddled quick.

Then Richard raised the fainting maid,

And many a tender thing he said ;

Her chin he chucked, his arm he placed

About her little taper waist;

Her flowers admired, and begged them too:

Christine, she knew not what to do;

But blushed assent; the flowers he took,

And thanked her with an ardent look.

“Sweets are repaid by sweets I wiss,”

He said, and he too had a kiss.

“Adieu and – au revoir – tonight

Pray let us meet, my heart’s delight,

Behind your father’s Bee-house, when

The Church-clock shall have sounded ten.”

Eugene, still smarting with the cane

His heart on fire, with jealous pain,

O’erheard the place of assignation,

And crept out from his hidden station;

Rushed to the Bee-house, found John Dull

Asleep, and snoring like a bull.

“Wake, Uncle, wake” in startling tone

He shouted, “for your swarm is gone.”

Fytte IV

The Swarm

John Dull, awakened from his slumber,

Observed his stock’s diminished number;

His apple trees he searched, and found

The swarm some ten feet from the ground;

Got his bee dress, his hive, and ladder;

No Bee master was ever gladder.

Mounted, and without any trip

Got all the bees within the skip

“Well done, I have them;” as he spoke

The ladder’s topmost rung it broke,

Crack! Crack! and, as I hope to thrive,

The same befell the other five;

The bees rush forth and quit the hive!

John on his knees, and free from harm

Marked well the disappearing swarm.

Two boys were making pies of dirt

Close by, and playing with a squirt;

They squirted at the bees to stop ’em.

Squirted in vain; they could not drop ’em.

Old Sally met them with her mop,

And Sammy trumpeted, stop! atop!

And Dick and Bob and Bill they screeched,

But not a sound these flyers reached—

A Sweep upon the chimney top

Showered soot upon them, and cried “Stop!”

When they had cleared the church’s roof,

Sam Button put his gun to proof;

John Dull came panting up behind

And could no other stopper find;

He stamped and swore and scratched his head,

“A pretty dance I have been led,

Confound the bees; I’ve got a warming

Some way I’ll find to stop their swarming;

A hive I’ll build as big as two,

Sold by Mancubrian P.tt.gr.w.”

Fytte V

The Patent Monster Hive

Adverse events reveal the real man,

So Horace wrote, refute this truth who can.

And John Dull to its full completion wrought

The inspiration of his sudden thought.

“Room for the swarm!” This is great Nature’s law,

And so he built two monstrous hives of straw.—

“Good morning neighbor” from across the fence

Cried out Dick Dean. “May I without offense

Ask what you’re making.” “Why these blessed bees,

I find them creatures plaguey hard to please.”

“Plaguey! don’t say so – they’re a real pleasure,

I love to watch them when I have the leisure;

Besides, each scholar knows in antient days,

How Maro sung his little darlings praise.

And when the Roman legions brought alarm

To every inmate of his Mantuan farm,—

‘Smiling he stood, amidst his winged host;

The mailed warriors fled and left him at his post.’”

“All this I know – Beekeeping would he charming,

If there was never such a thing as swarming.”

“But grubs my friend! your bees are sure to breed,

Swarms come from grubs, as corn crops come from seed.

Grubs you must have; and when your swarming’s done,

Two hives you’ll find, where erst you had but one.”

“Bother the grubs; I know a better way,”

“My patent monster hives, they are the things to pay.”

Fytte VI

The Bear

Eugene would often take his lunch,

Of dry black bread a monstrous hunch,

Into a wood – ere he got through it

He wished he’d some nice honey to it

When all at once it chanced a bee

He saw creep up a hollow tree;

Another came, then two, and three.

“Hurrah! there’s honey here for me,”

Eugene exclaimed, “No more I’ll eat

This nasty bread, but have a treat.”—

“Honey for ever!” up he clomb

To the tree’s fork – the honey comb

He saw below him in the beech

Hollowed by age, beyond his reach—

His hold he missed and sad to tell

Down midst the honey combs he fell;

Into the cakes his boots went crush,

As though it were mere muddy slush.

Honey he found but every schoolboy knows

He cannot eat his sweetmeats with his toes.

Another Bee Hunter that way

One Mister Bruin chanced to stray;

A dancing Bear by trade was he,

But fond of honey – certainly!

“If I smell right here’s honey comb;”

He said, or thought; then upwards clomb.

Eugene below, half dead with fear,

Saw the bear’s hinders drawing near,

With both hands gripped him tight and had a

Mount upwards by this living ladder;

Sure never little lad was gladder.

Meanwhile John Dull, a-spying round,

The self same honey tree had found;

Up to the fork himself he reared

When Bruin’s ugly mug appeared.

Augh, back he fell through utter fright;

Close to his tail did Bruin alight;

And by Bruin’s heels Bruin’s parasite.

Bruin seized John Dull with either claw,

Just as himself was seized before;

John pulling out his hunting knife

Cut off his tail to save his life;

Sam Dutton here did intervene,

“To shoot that grizzly bear I mean!”

But Bruin was nowhere to be seen.

Early next morn came sawyers two,

And sawed the Honey tree right through;

There stuck the hoots of young Eugene;

He drew them out, and licked them clean;

Such blacking ne’er before was seen!

While John Dull, from the luscious store,

Filled twenty honey pots or more.

Fytte VII

The Frog

“The appetite with eating grows”—

This truth my little story shows.

For many a day the rogue Eugene

To John Dull’s bee-hives creeps unseen;

Smokes them, – Puff! – Puff! – then boldly takes

The much desired honey cakes.

When lo! one day the angry swarm

Out on him rushed – the day was warm;

They covered him from top to toe,

Behind, before, above, below,

They buzzed, they crawled, they stung him – Oh!

Eugene half stifled, for his nose

And mouth were covered like his clothes,

Rushed to the nearest water-pit.

And took a header into it;

Rose through the Bee-besprinkled foam.

And ran, all dripping, to his home.

Felt quite unwell! The doctor came

And to his illness gave a name.

“By aid of careful auscultation,”

And thinking on his late natation,

“I think, I think that I deskiver,

A frog within this dear boy’s liver.”

“I’ll get him up.” A bee he took,

Impaled it on a fishing-hook;

Played it within his open jaws,

A bite! and up the frog he draws;

Frog to the open window took,

And cut the line close by the hook;

Frog to the pool, rejoicing, hopped;

And plump into the water dropped.

Then chanted his Batrachian lay

Quite in th’ Artistophanic way;

“Brekekekek, coax, coax.

Coax, coax, Brekekekek.”

Fytte VIII

The Ghost

Forbidden fruit is sweet they say;

And so it’s gathered every day;

And should this fruit be sweet before,

Forbid it, and ’tis ten times more.

Eugene oft coveted the pot

Of honey that John Dull had got

Placed on the shelf above his head,

For safety, when he went to bed;

John slept, John snored; then ope’d his eyes

And stared about him with surprise.

“What’s this I see come crawling on?

Sure, ’tis a strange phenomenon.”

A winged beast, with tail, and claws

On his four feet, which end in paws.

With stealthy pace on on it crawled,

John turned upon his face, and bawled.

John’s hair as this strange beast drew near

His night cap raised for very fear.

On its hind legs itself it reared,

As it its squalling master neared,

Nearer still nearer – till he got

The much desired honey pot.

Turns tail and runs; whilst Johnnie sits

Bolt up, divested of his wits.

A pearly drop on every hair

Hangs pendant, not from heat, but fear.

Eugene his garret sought, and there

Ate honey, like his friend the bear,

The pot he emptied mighty soon,

Using his paws instead of spoon.

Fytte IX

The Honey Thief

The flowers which Christine culled at morn

At eve were withered, and forlorn.

These withered flowers Dick sadly took,

And placed them in his music book;

Then put the book upon the table,

And pressed, the best that he was able.

The pressed flowers took a wondrous shape,

Which seemed the human form to ape;

And in these specimens,

Christine is imaged, and her Dicky Dean.

Ten sounded from the old church tower—

Before the last stroke of the hour,

Close by the bee-house Richard Dean,

His last new coat on, might be seen;

Christine, arrayed in all her charms,

Was there, and rushed into his arms.

“Hist! what’s that sound?” alack! alack!

A thief, with crotchet at his back—

A Honey thief – ill may he thrive.

Each crept into a monster hive.

The thief peered round; “This will I take—

This big one will my fortune make.”

Then hoisted Dicky, hive and all,

Upon his back so lean, so tall—

“Halt,” shouted Dicky, and the head

Of his strange monture bonneted;

Held him down tight, and with a stick

Passed ’twixt his legs, secured him quick.

And Christine, what must she have felt

While Bruin round about her smelt?

Out of the hive she softly stole;

In crept the bear and through the hole

At the hive’s top he poked his nose;

Christine her ready courage shows,

She through his nose ring passed a stick,

Which from the ground she happed to pick.

Poor Bruin rolled upon his back,

And grunted out alas! alack!

So after all these strange alarms,

Again Dick rushed into her arms.

John Dull by chance came strolling by,

His hives upset first met his eye;

He saw they both were tenanted—

Amazed he looked, then scratched his head;

Peered all around, espied Christine

And her own true love Dicky Dean;

Behind the bee house they were placed.

And Dicky’s arm was round her waist.

“Come here” he cried “you little chit,

I understand it not a bit.”—

Upon their knees they both fell down,

And the whole mystery made known.

The father heard them all declare,

Then gave his blessing to the pair. “Bless you my Christine: Dick I bless

With stores of wedded happiness.”

Then came the dramatis personae;

The tall, the short, the fat, the bony.

Sam Dutton thought to get a shot,

Now Bruin could no longer trot.

But Sally interposed her mop,

And to his shooting put a stop.

The night watch came, and ’twixt them bore

The skewer’d thief to the prison door.

And came the bear leader as well,

And took poor Bruin to his cell.

Sam with his trumpet blew a rally,

And Hip, Hurrah! cried ancient Sally.

Long live both empty hives and full,

Long live Dick Dean and Johnny Dull.

Fytte X

The Queen Bee’s Fete

The night is warm, and many a nose

Upturned, is snoring in repose;

Whilst every tree and every flower

Rejoices in that witching hour.

And o’er John Dull his garden beds,

The moon his gentle influence sheds.

’Tis May the first, the Queen bee’s fete!

And she, in all her regal state.

Beneath her fairy hall of roses

With her beloved drone reposes.

She nods a sign; the bombardier

Awakes the echoes far and near,

Whilst tinkle, tinkle, clang! clang! bang!

The Court musicians’ strain out-rang.

The fly he blows the shrill trompette,

The gnat the softer clarionette;

The grasshopper, a fiddler he—

The drummer is the bumble bee.—

The Willow-beetle, such a swell,

With young Sabina waltzes well;

Liz too and Kitty have their swains,

Who one and all are taking pains

To make themselves agreeable,

Each to his own peculiar belle.

The Stag-Beetle, that beau precise,

Regales his partner with an ice,

The Moon, upon the Apple Tree,

Surveys, well pleased, the revelry.

Two cockchafers soon quit the dance;

They cannot bear the piercing glance

Of their fair partners – see them set

Within a private cabinet.

They smoke, they sing, they drink until

Their little polished paunch they fill.

Their homes they cannot find – alas!

They tumble backward on the grass.

“To whit – To whoo” policeman Owl,

The wisest of all feathered fowl,

Hoots out; “why here’s a precious go,

Drunk and incapable, ho! ho!”

“So come along, I know you well;”—

He said, and drove them to his cell.

Were they discharged? No, never more,

That cell it was an abattoir.

The owl supped on the elder Brother,

And for his breakfast ate the other.

So you, who think a dance divine,

Mind – never take excess of wine.

The Evening star went flicker – flick

Over the bedroom candlestick;

And round its silver radiance shed

To light the sleepy moon to bed.

I’ve done – I doff my riding gear,

And order Pegasus – HIS BEER.

Explanatory

I must say a few words in explanation of the somewhat novel form which my new “Bee-Book” has taken, and which, doubtless, will be a surprise to the many Bee-Friends who are waiting with exemplary patience for the second edition of my original “Bee-Book,” soon about to appear after an interval of thirty years from the publication of the first edition.

I happened last year to be at the Cologne Station waiting for the train, and employed my spare time in looking over the book stall for something to read on my way to Aix-la-Chapelle. The stall was covered with books about the late War. I had returned from a visit to the Battle Fields of 1870, and was sick of the subject. I wanted something of a more peaceful nature, and I was turning away, without making a purchase, when a book met my eye entitled Schnurrdiburr. What that might mean I knew not, but the second title, oder die Bienen, was intelligible, and had attraction enough for me. I opened it, and saw it was profusely illustrated with very comical cuts. I paid my Thaler and carried away my prize.

The cuts are reproduced in the book which my readers have in their hands. The verses were written up to the pictures rather than translated from the German text; for alas! my German is very limited; enough for traveling purposes, but hardly enough to enable me to read a BeeBook either serious or comical.

RIDENTEM DICERE VERUM QUID VETAT?
“What prevents me from speaking truth with a smile?”
(Horace)

There is much truth lying hid under these comical stories; still more in the illustrations; and the notes which I have appended may be found useful even by serious Bee-Masters.

I promise my readers that they shall have the second edition of “My Bee Book” as perfect as I can make it, and with as little delay as possible.

I trust it may be much nearer perfection than the first edition, published under great difficulties, could be, and I hope it may have as many purchasers as this, its forerunner.

W. C. C.

Frodsham, Cheshire,
September, 1872.