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A young bee crawled up the greasy trampled alighting-board. "Excuse me," she began, "but it's my first honey-flight. Could you kindly tell me if this is my " " own hive?" the Guard snapped. "Yes! Buzz in, and be foul-brooded to you! Next!" "Shame!" cried half a dozen old workers with worn wings and nerves, and there was a scuffle and a hum.
Behind her came the bee who had been slanged by the Guard. "What is the world like, Melissa?" said a companion. "Cruel! I brought in a full load of first-class stuff, and the Guard told me to go and be foul-brooded!" She sat down in the cool draught across the combs. "If you'd only heard," said the Wax-moth silkily, "the insolence of the Guard's tone when she cursed our sister.
Laying at every sob, the Wax-moth backed into a crowd of young bees, and left Melissa bewildered and annoyed. So she lifted up her little voice in the darkness and cried, "Stores!" till a gang of cell-fillers hailed her, and she left her load with them. "I'm afraid I foul-brooded you just now," said a voice over her shoulder.
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