Wings and Stings: A Tale for the Young

“HAD you not better go on a little faster with your work, Polly?” said Minnie Wingfield, glancing up for a minute from her own, over which her little fingers had been busily moving, and from which she now for the first time raised her eyes.

“I wish that there were no such thing as work!” exclaimed Polly, from her favourite seat by the school-room window, through which she had been watching the bees[10] thronging in and out of their hive, some flying away to seek honied treasure, some returning laden with it to their home.

“I think that work makes one enjoy play more,” replied Minnie, her soft voice scarcely heard amidst the confusion of sounds which filled the school-room; for there was a spelling-class answering questions at the moment, and the hum of voices from the boys’ school-room, which adjoined that of the girls, added not a little to the noise.

The house might itself be regarded as a hive, its rosy-cheeked scholars as a little swarm of bees, and knowledge as the honey of which they were in search, drawn, not from flowers, but from the leaves of certain dog’s-eared books, which had few charms for the eyes of Polly Bright.

“I never have any play,” said the little girl peevishly. “As soon as school is over, and I should like a little fun, there is Johnny to be looked after, and the baby to be carried. I hate the care of children—mother[11] knows that I do—and I think that baby is always crying on purpose to tease me.”