But woe to the black bumblebees discovered in their
mossy nests in the ground! With a few strokes of their huge paws the
bears uncover the entire establishment, and, before time is given for a
general buzz, bees old and young, larvae, honey, stings, nest, and all
are taken in one ravishing mouthful.
Not the least influential of the agents concerned in the superior
sweetness of the Shasta flora are its storms--storms I mean that are
strictly local, bred and born on the mountain. The magical rapidity with
which they are grown on the mountain-top, and bestow their charity in
rain and snow, never fails to astonish the inexperienced lowlander.
Often in calm, glowing days, while the bees are still on the wing, a
storm-cloud may be seen far above in the pure ether, swelling its pearl
bosses, and growing silently, like a plant. Presently a clear, ringing
discharge of thunder is heard, followed by a rush of wind that comes
sounding over the bending woods like the roar of the ocean, mingling
raindrops, snow-flowers, honey-flowers, and bees in wild storm harmony.
Still more impressive are the warm, reviving days of spring in the
mountain pastures. The blood of the plants throbbing beneath the
life-giving sunshine seems to be heard and felt.
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