The awful shade of the great tree, added to his terror of the wasps,
weighs on him, and excites his brain. Perhaps, too, he has had a
wife or a child stung to death by these same wasps. These wasps, so
small, yet so wise, far wiser than he: they fly, and they sting.
Ah, if he could fly and sting; how he would kill and eat, and live
right merrily. They build great towns; they rob far and wide; they
never quarrel with each other: they must have some one to teach
them, to lead them--they must have a king. And so he gets the fancy
of a Wasp-King; as the western Irish still believe in the Master
Otter; as the Red Men believe in the King of the Buffaloes, and find
the bones of his ancestors in the Mammoth remains of Big-bone Lick;
as the Philistines of Ekron--to quote a notorious instance--actually
worshipped Baal-zebub, lord of the flies.
If they have a king, he must be inside that tree, of course. If he,
the savage, were a king, he would not work for his bread, but sit at
home and make others feed him; and so, no doubt, does the wasp-king.
And when he goes home he will brood over this wonderful discovery of
the wasp-king; till, like a child, he can think of nothing else. He
will go to the tree, and watch for him to come out. The wasps will
get accustomed to his motionless figure, and leave him unhurt; till
the new fancy will rise in his mind that he is a favourite of this
wasp-king: and at last he will find himself grovelling before the
tree, saying--"Oh great wasp-king, pity me, and tell your children
not to sting me, and I will bring you honey, and fruit, and flowers
to eat, and I will flatter you, and worship you, and you shall be my
king.
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