“The best bees are round here,” I said, and I led them along to the front of the house.  On the lawn was Myra, surrounded by about eight babies.

“Two more for your collection,” I announced.  “Very fine specimens.  The word with them is bees.”

“Aren’t they darlings?  Sit down, babies, and the pretty gentleman will tell us all a story.”

“Meaning me?” I asked in surprise.  Myra looked beseechingly at me as she arranged the children all round her.  I sat down near them and tried to think.

“Once upon a time,” I said, “there was a—­a—­there was a—­was a—­a bee.”

Myra nodded approvingly.  She seemed to like the story so far.  I didn’t.  The great dearth of adventures that could happen to a bee was revealed to me in a flash.  I saw that I had been hasty.

“At least,” I went on, “he thought he was a bee, but as he grew up his friends felt that he was not really a bee at all, but a dear little rabbit.  His fur was too long for a bee.”

Myra shook her head at me and frowned.  My story was getting over-subtle for the infant mind.  I determined to straighten it out finally.

“However,” I added, “the old name stuck to him, and they all called him a bee.  Now then I can get on.  Where was I?”

But at this moment my story was interrupted.

“Come here,” shouted Archie from the distance.  “You’re wanted.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, getting up quickly.  “Will you finish the story for me?  You’d better leave out the part where he stings the Shah of Persia.  That’s too exciting.  Good-bye.”  And I hurried after Archie.

“Help Simpson with some of these races,” said Archie.  “He’s getting himself into the dickens of a mess.”

Simpson had started two races simultaneously; hence the trouble.  In one of them the bigger boys had to race to a sack containing their boots, rescue their own pair, put them on, and race back to the starting-point.  Good!  In the other the smaller boys, each armed with a paper containing a problem in arithmetic, had to run to their sisters, wait for the problem to be solved, and then run back with the answer.  Excellent!  Simpson at his most inventive.  Unfortunately, when the bootless boys arrived at the turning post, they found nothing but a small problem in arithmetic awaiting them, while on the adjoining stretch of grass young mathematicians were trying, with the help of their sisters, to get into two pairs of boots at once.

“Hallo, there you are,” said Simpson.  “Do help me; I shall be mobbed in a moment.  It’s the mothers.  They think the whole thing is a scheme for stealing their children’s boots.  Can’t you start a race for them?”

“You never ought to go about without somebody.  Where’s Thomas?”

“He’s playing rounders.  He scored a rounder by himself just now from an overthrow, but we shall hear about it at dinner.  Look here, there’s a game called ‘Twos and Threes.’  Couldn’t you start the mothers at that?  You stand in twos, and whenever anyone stands in front of the two then the person behind the two runs away.”