By Thomas Hastings
Oh, mother dear, pray tell me where
The bees in winter stay?
The flowers are gone they feed upon,
So sweet in summer’s day.
My child, they live within the hive,
And have enough to eat;
Amid the storm they’re clean and warm,
Their food is honey sweet.
Say, mother dear, how came it there?
Did father feed them so?
I see no way in winter’s day
That honey has to grow.
No, no, my child; in summer mild
The bees laid up their store
Of honey-drops in little cups,
Till they would want no more.
In cups, you said—how are they made?
Are they as large as ours?
Oh, no; they’re all made nice and small,
Of wax found in the flowers.
Our summer’s day, to work and play,
Is now in mercy given,
And we must strive, long as we live,
To lay up stores in heaven.
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