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Show 366. it was one sweet bee-garden," he began, but not any longer, not since the coming of the plow and sheep: . . . culture thus far has given no adequate compensation, at least in kind - acres of a l f a l f a for miles of the richest wild pasture, ornamental roses and honeysuckles around cottage doors for cascades of wild roses in the dells, and small, square orchards and orange-groves for broad mountain-belts of chaparral. From a bee's point of view i t appeared that agri-culture had destroyed a boundless garden and replaced i t with circumscribed plots. The culture of the f i e l d s was b e t t e r , thought the bee, when the State was under a wild c u l t i v a t i o n , when the fields were the cult of the bee. The root of culture indicates not only t i l l i n g and care, but worship and dwelling. So agriculture could be worship and dwelling in the fields. The strategy i s similar to that Muir used in "Wild Wool," when he contrasted fine wild and coarse tame c u l t u r e . The bees themselves were solar powered, "impelled by sun-power, as water-wheels by water-power," l i k e the flowers they fed on and pollinated - "dainty feeders" who "hug t h e i r favorite flowers with profound c o r d i a l i t y , and push t h e i r blunt, polleny faces against them, l i k e babies on t h e i r mother's bosom. And fondly too," Muir continued, "with e t e r n a l love, does Mother Nature clasp her small bee-babies, and suckle them, multitudes at once, on her warm Shasta b r e a s t ." If the reader wanted sentiment, here i t was in sweet abundance, if Shasta was a breast to the bees, then their |