In the ancient country of Orn, there lived an old man who was called the Bee Man, because his whole time was spent in the company of bees. He lived in a small hut, which was nothing more than an immense bee hive, for these little creatures had built their honeycombs in every corner of the one room it contained, on the shelves, under the little table, all about the rough bench on which the old man sat, and even about the head board and along the sides of his low bed. All day the air of the room was thick with buzzing insects, but this did not interfere in any way with the old Bee Man, who walked in among them, ate his meals, and went to sleep, without the slightest fear of being stung. He had lived with the bees so long, they had become so accustomed to him, and his skin was so tough and hard, that the bees no more thought of stinging him than they would of stinging a tree or a stone. One day, there stopped at the hut of the Bee Man a Junior Sorcerer. This young person, who was a student of magic, necromancy, and the kindred arts, was much interested in the Bee Man. 'Do you know,' he said, when the Bee Man came out of his hut, 'that you have been transformed?' 'What do you mean by that?' said the other, much surprised. 'You have surely heard of animals and human beings who have been magically transformed into different kinds of creatures?' 'Yes, I have heard of these things,' said the Bee Man; 'but what have I been transformed from?' 'That is more than I know,' said the Junior Sorcerer. 'But one thing is certain you ought to be changed back.'