“I haven’t any such thing,” answered Mrs. Muddauber, angrily. “I haven’t any time to dance. I’m nervous, that’s all. Anybody would be nervous with all the work I have to do, and my mate such a lazy fellow that he never thinks of lending me a helping mandible in making my home. He says he doesn’t live very long, and wants to enjoy himself while he can. Speaking of houses, I don’t approve of paper ones. I always make mine of mud. I’m a mason, you see. I get one room finished, and lay an egg in it. Then I go to market to get my baby’s dinner.” “But you haven’t any baby,” objected Mrs. Horntail. “Your egg doesn’t hatch as soon as it is laid, I know that.” “What of it? The egg will be a baby sometime, and the baby will be hungry. He will not be a vegetarian either. He will want meat. Juicy spiders are what he prefers, and he likes them fresh. Now if I should kill them they would be anything but fresh when he is ready to eat them, so I merely sting them until they are quite paralyzed, then I put them in the room with my egg and seal it up. I build a number of cells with an egg and spiders in each, but I am not a jug builder. I have no time to fool after such silly affairs as you sometimes see on twigs and bushes.” “She isn’t artistic enough, she had better say,” remarked the little jug builder. “My nests are wonderfully pretty. I have heard many people say so. I am very careful to give them a delicate shape. I line them with silk too, but I will not tell you how I make this silk. Even the wise men have not discovered our secret.” “Disagreeable creature!” remarked Mrs. Horntail; “but then what can you expect from a wasp of any kind? Now who _is_ making that dreadful noise? I shall certainly be a wreck before I get away from this place. People who buzz in such a fashion ought certainly to be turned out. But there, what’s the use of asking? I might know it could only be——” “Sir Bumble Bee at your service.” And a big fellow dressed all in black and gold buzzed up before the angry Mrs. Horntail. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XII THE HONEY MAKERS Gaily we fly, my fellows and I, Seeking the honey our hives to supply. “I am an American,” he went on, in a voice which all could hear. “A native of this great and glorious country, and I have a right to buzz, or make any noise I please. Those little bees who make honeycomb are foreigners—immigrants. Useful citizens, I will grant, but still immigrants. Now, _my_ ancestors were here when Columbus discovered America. Do you know that my name is Bombus, spelt with a big ‘B’? Now, to show you how useful we bumble bees are, I shall tell you a story. Once upon a time—are you all listening?” “I am,” answered Ruth, quickly. “Please go on.”