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The arctic bees were buzzing phrenetically in the weak July sun. They were not the major South American type, but rather the mild midwest flower bees. They preferred milkweed to any other flower. The butterflies were unhappy, but they fluttered in sulky silence. After all, they were bees. They stung. Mary Lou Pinkerton hopped happily through the flowers, intent upon her treehouse at the other end of the meadow. A bee shot past her head from Bobby's bee-shooter and smacked into a daisy where it jostled another worker. She was docked five minutes' pay for that, in addition to the one-time rolling over fine for bee flinging, causing the horrific loss in honey over its life span. She was a lazy bee anyway, never bringing back half as much pollen as the others, and they were considering docking her food allowance.
