Trog

'Into my hive an air that chills
From yon far country blows ..' intoned the Queen

“I beg your pardon?”, said one of her retinue.

“It's poetry”, said another, “A Shropshire Bee, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Quite right, though improved by myself.”, said her maj.

“She's quite the polymath, our queen.”, said a bee on the edge of the circle.

“An autodidactic polymath,” added another, not wishing to be outdone.

A wee fluffy grey bee wandered past. Having emerged only a couple of hours ago, she was still having quite enough trouble coming to terms with being a bee and getting used to her legs, never mind all this high-flown stuff.

“Please, what are you talking about?”, she asked.

“The queen.”

“She knows lots of stuff.”

“And she learnt it all herself.”

“Oh”, said the wee grey bee, “Thanks.” Then, “I did a lot of thinking while I was pupating.”

“And did you come to any conclusions, wee grey bee?”

“I think, therefore I bee ..”, she replied.

Mitzzi, refuelling nearby, though to herself that this bee might be worth mentoring when she grew up, and made a mental note to keep at least one eye on her.