Fiction | March 01, 1979

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Some lively visitors to my sickroom in early summer were the wasps.  Certainly the stately, dashing appearance of the wasps befitted the forerunners of an active, prosperous season.  Even the melancholy sickroom seemed suddenly to acquire an air of gaiety.  The wasps were never still.  Of course not when they were flying around, but even when they alighted a brimful energy kept their bodies pulsing as they moved about in short, mincing steps.

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