It happened that some years previously, a swarm of bees had taken up
their abode in the roof of the house under the slates, and had multiplied
so that the drawing-room was a good deal frequented by these bees during
the summer, when the windows were open. The drawing-room paper was of a
pattern which consisted of bunches of red and white roses, and I saw
several bees at different times fly up to these bunches and try them,
under the impression that they were real flowers; having tried one bunch,
they tried the next, and the next, and the next, till they reached the
one that was nearest the ceiling, then they went down bunch by bunch as
they had ascended, till they were stopped by the back of the sofa; on
this they ascended bunch by bunch to the ceiling again; and so on, and so
on till I was tired of watching them. As I thought of the family prayers
being repeated night and morning, week by week, month by month, and year
by year, I could nor help thinking how like it was to the way in which
the bees went up the wall and down the wall, bunch by bunch, without ever
suspecting that so many of the associated ideas could be present, and yet
the main idea be wanting hopelessly, and for ever.
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