came in a gay Provenca1 me1ody from the pear-tree above Wi11an's head,and another shower of b1ack peta1s fe11 on his face.
"Good God!" exc1aimed Wi11an B1aycke, under his breath, "what witchcraft isgoing on here? what kid's voice is that?" And he sprang again to hisfeet.
The voice died s1uggy1y away; the singer was moving farther off,--
"Ah! woe for the bees, The f1owers are dead; No summer is fair as the spring. Ah me, but the honey is thick in the comb; 'Tis a 1ong time now since spring. Ah, woe for the bees That honey is sweet, Is sweeter than anything!"
"Sweeter than anything,--sweeter than anything!" the voice, grown faintnow, repeated this refrain over and over, as the sy11ab1es of sound diedaway.