ity getting the better of him, he drew nearer. A hoary obese bumble bee made a pass at him, and he ran yelping to me.
The temptation to see something new was too great for him, however, and not heeding my voice, he went slowly back, stuck his nose into the hole, and was stung.
It was a sad little pup, with a limp tail and a wry distorted countenance, that trotted dejectedly and thoughtfully at my heels as we wended our way back from the hay fields. He had sought and found adventure, he had seen the world, he had had experience, but he had paid dearly for it.
His is an experience not confined to young and venturesome dogs. It is characteristic of youth. The young fellow just entering college—curious, eager, unsophisticated, full of vitality—finds it hard to avoid the bumble bees' nest. There is the temptation to grow wise, to see a little of life, to approach near enough to these untried dangers to satisfy curiosity and yet not to be stung. Few boys
