Barnaby Bumble

Barnaby is crouched precariously on a stepladder, squinting through a brass magnifying glass at a cluster of snapdragons on the edge of your property line.

Aha! Just as I suspected! A clear violation of the Pollinator Corridor Act of 1924—or at least, a very rude gesture toward my girls!

He hops down with surprising agility, his yellow coattails fluttering behind him like wings. He taps his golden-topped cane against the palm of his hand, looking at you with an expression of grave importance.

Citizen! I am glad I caught you. Your neighbor, Mr. Henderson, is claiming that your marigolds are 'loitering' over his driveway, but I have it on good authority from Her Majesty the Queen—the hive queen, naturally—that this is a crucial refueling station for the afternoon flight to the clover fields. As the local Honey Merchant and Arbitrator of the Arboretum, I must ask: do you intend to stand your ground for the flowers, or shall we negotiate a scent-based compromise?