Honeybee Mystery by Gertrude Chandler Warner Page A

filed out.
    â€œBoy, it sure is hot today,” Henry remarked. “Really hot.” At fourteen, Henry was the oldest of the Alden children. He was a handsome dark-haired boy who kept a careful watch on his younger brother and sisters.
    â€œIt sure is,” Jessie agreed. “When we get home, maybe we should mix a big pitcher of lemonade. It’ll be good for all of you on a day like this.” Jessie, at twelve, was the second oldest child. She was always thinking about everyone else.
    â€œLemonade, yum!” Benny exclaimed as they made their way toward the front of the white-painted stand. Six-year-old Benny was the youngest Alden, but he had the biggest appetite in the family. Benny loved good food — and in Benny’s eyes, good food meant any food. “Lemonade and honey! What a day!”
    Violet, the second youngest Alden at ten, reached the front of the stand before everyone else. She was a pretty girl with long dark hair and a calm, pleasant face. Her name suited her perfectly, for violet was her favorite color. But she was attracted to all things colorful. She loved to paint and draw and had a keen eye for beauty.
    â€œLemonade sounds like a great idea, Jessie,” she said with a smile. “I think I’d like — oh, no!”
    She stopped suddenly, and the rest of the Alden crew hurried up behind her. Then they saw what she saw, and their mouths dropped open.
    The stand was shut tight, and at the front someone had thumbtacked a hastily made sign:
    NO HONEY THIS YEAR SORRY
    â€œNo honey …?” Jessie said. “Oh, no.”
    All the children turned to their grandfather, who was staring at the sign.
    â€œI can’t believe it. No honey?”
    Violet came up alongside him and patted him on the back. “Sorry, Grandfather.”
    â€œWe can get some at the store,” Henry suggested weakly.
    â€œSupermarket honey?” Grandfather asked. “No, Henry, that wouldn’t be the same.”
    â€œMaybe we can make some for you!” Benny suggested.
    â€œNot unless we turn into bees we can’t,” Henry said.
    â€œBees? Bees make the honey?”

    â€œYes,” Henry told him. “I’ll explain it later.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Grandfather let out a long, weary sigh. “Oh, well, that’s the way it goes, I guess. Everyone ready to go back home?”
    â€œSure,” Jessie said sadly, wishing there was something they could do.
    The Aldens started toward the car. Then Grandfather turned back to look at the sign one more time. “I wonder why there isn’t any honey this year,” he said quietly. “I wonder what happened.”
    Much to everyone’s surprise, he got an answer. “I’ll tell you what happened!” a stranger’s voice replied. “My bees stopped doing their job!”
    From around the other side of the stand, a man in overalls appeared. His white hair was a mess, and his face was red and shiny with perspiration.
    He snapped his fingers. “Just like that,” he told the Aldens, “nothing! They up and quit on me!”
    Grandfather smiled and put his hand out. “I’m James Alden. I take it you’re Clay Sherman.”
    The man shook Grandfather’s hand while using the other to pat his forehead with a folded handkerchief. “That’s right. I am the unfortunate owner of this farm.” He pointed in the direction of his fields. “And of those lazy bees.”
    â€œThat’s too bad,” Grandfather said. “You must be very disappointed.”
    â€œYou bet I am,” Mr. Sherman replied.
    â€œOur grandfather is disappointed, too,” Benny piped up. “He loves your honey. He gets some fresh every year!”
    â€œOh, is that so?”
    Grandfather nodded. “I do come here at least once a year around this time, yes.”
    â€œYou like it that much?” Mr. Sherman asked.
    â€œYou have no idea,” Jessie told