I knew, for I had kissed him lightly as he sat on the window-frame.

I had seen him brushing first one side and then the other side of his head, with an action so exactly that of my father brushing his whiskers on Sunday morning, that I thought the bee might be trimming his; not knowing that he was sweeping the flower-dust off his antennae with his legs, and putting it into his waistcoat pocket to make bee bread of.
It was the liberty I took in kissing him that made him not sit still any more, and hindered me from examining his cheeks for myself.

He began to dance all over the window, humming his own tune, and before he got tired of dancing he found a chink open at the top sash, and sailed away like a spot of plush upon the air.
I had thus no opportunity of becoming intimate with him, but he was the cause of a more lasting friendship--my friendship with Isaac Irvine, the bee-keeper.

For when I asked that silly question, my mother said, "Not that I ever saw, love;" and my father said, "If he wants to know about bees, he should go to old Isaac.

He'll tell him plenty of queer stories about them." The first time I saw the bee-keeper was in church, on Catechism Sunday, in circumstances which led to my disgracing myself in a manner that must have been very annoying to my mother, who had taken infinite pains in teaching us.
The provoking part of it was that I had not had a fear of breaking down.
With poor Jem it was very different.