The Sunday Eight O'Clock/Stung
I WAS ten, I suppose, and the pup and I were wandering across the dry stubble of prairie grass. I was picking my way cautiously in a vain endeavor to save my bare feet from the sharp ends of the dead weeds. The pup—young, curious, and unsophisticated—was making wide excursions in all directions, searing up flocks of quails or nosing in a gopher's hole. I was carrying a jug of water to the men in the hay field; the pup was intent on new experiences.
We had not gone far until we came upon a bumble bees' nest buried under the prairie sod. The bees were not in a good humor.
They were buzzing about petulantly, and, remembering former experiences, I veered to one side. The pup was fascinated. He showed interest, but with head erect he kept at first at a safe distance. Then, his curiosity 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 Stung expect to come out of these derelict excursions any the worse for the experience; they want only to see; but he is the rare exception who does not ultimately feel the sting of shame or disgrace, and physical pain.
The girl who is eager to be a good fellow, who is out for a lark, and who laughs at conventionalities, is running into the bumble bees' nest. She will hardly be able to keep herself from criticism, from vulgar cheap comment, from the sting of a tarnished reputation.
It is a foolish pup that sticks his nose into a bees' nest.
September