All quite hopelessly Victorian! for, after all, why should people
ever think of anybody but themselves?
Dr. Cumming was a great bee-fancier, and a recognised authority on
bees. Calling one day on my mother, he brought with him four
queen-bees of a new breed, each one encased in a little paper bag.
He prided himself on his skill in handling bees, and proudly
exhibited those treasures to my mother. He replaced them in their
paper bags, and being a very absent-minded man, he slipped the
bags into the tail pocket of his clerical frock-coat. Soon after
he began one of his long arguments (probably fixing the exact date
of the end of the world), and, totally oblivious of the presence
of the bees in his tail pocket, he leant against the mantelpiece.
The queen-bees, naturally resenting the pressure, stung him
through the cloth on that portion of his anatomy immediately
nearest to their temporary prison. Dr. Cumming yelled with pain,
and began skipping all round the room. It so tickled my fancy to
see the grim and austere minister, who towered above me in the
pulpit every Sunday, executing a sort of solo-Jazz dance up and
down the big room, punctuated with loud cries, that I rolled about
on the floor with laughter.
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