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LITTLE BEE SO there you are, settled on the sill of my window at last. You have been there a long, long moment dancing in the rising sun. The sun of autumn, which is still fresh from the coolness of the night. Where do you come from, little black and yellow bee? By what road have you come through the great town up to my sixth-floor window, and what gaiety or what despair has bidden you dance so long within the framework of my open window? Sometimes you flew up with a determined spring, as though you meant to reach the heavens, then your dance became sad, and you dropped slowly down again. Tell me, little bee, do you come
