The honey-bee that wanders all day long The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er, To gather in his fragrant winter store, Humming in calm content his winter song, Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast, The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips, But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips The single drop of sweetness closely pressed Within the poison chalice.

Don't wear perfume in the garden - unless you want to be pollinated by bees.

It was true. Sugar did treat her bees like next of kin but then again, they were.
Along with her manners, the accent she tried so hard to soften, a single china cup covered in blue daisies and a weathered box of essential oils, they were all she carried with her from her past. Her bees relied on her for shelter and food but she relied on them too. She made her living from their honey, not just the healthful liquid itself but from the salves and gels and tinctures and remedies she created and sold at farm stands or farmers' markets wherever she lived.
It was the most symbiotic of relationships.

It was close to being condemned.

I know they get hundreds of applications, maybe thousands. But they responded right away, and it was off to Hollywood.

In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew?