She is the sole female bee in the
hive, and the swarm clings to her because she is their life. Deprived
of their queen, and of all brood from which to rear one, the swarm
loses all heart and soon dies, though there be an abundance of honey in
the hive.
The common bees will never use their sting upon the queen; if she is to
be disposed of they starve her to death; and the queen herself will
sting nothing but royalty--nothing but a rival queen.
The queen, I say, is the mother bee; it is undoubtedly complimenting
her to call her a queen and invest her with regal authority, yet she is
a superb creature, and looks every inch a queen. It is an event to
distinguish her amid the mass of bees when the swarm alights; it
awakens a thrill. Before you have seen a queen you wonder if this or
that bee, which seems a little larger than its fellows, is not she, but
when you once really set eyes upon her you do not doubt for a moment.
You know that is the queen. That long, elegant, shining,
feminine-looking creature can be none less than royalty.
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