Volume 146 — A VAGRANT.

The humble bee No skep has he, No twisted, straw-thatched dome, A ferny crest Provides his nest, The mowing-grass his home. The crook-beaked shrike His back may spike And pierce him with a thorn; The humble bee A tramp is he And there is none to mourn. O'er bank and brook, In wooded nook, He wanders at his whim, Lives as he can, Owes naught to man, And man owes naught to him. No hive receives The sweets he gives, No flowers for him are sown, Yet wild and gay He hums his way, A nomad on his own.