206 The Book of Bugs. 



know that, for the honey that came on the table in a big, 

 brownish mass, the poor bees that had worked so hard 

 had not only been robbed, but murdered also with sul- 

 phur fumes. The neat and pretty one-pound section 

 frames on our tables to-day represent a politer fashion, 

 that of ' benevolent assimilation." A gentler practice 

 has given us whiter honey and almost complete control 

 of swarming, once such a care to the bee-master. I can 

 remember going past Mr. Cochran's house one morning, 

 on my way to Sunday-school, and watching that ruling 

 elder in the Presbyterian church struggle with the deter- 

 mination not to lose his swarm and the shame of publicly 

 breaking the Sabbath with a dishpan and a mush paddle, 

 while his pious wife tooted a fish-horn. 



' Consarn 'em ! ' -I can hear him say it now ' Con- 

 sarn 'em ! No other day ? ud suit 'em to swarm on ! ' 



The plagued things had a way of settling on the elm- 

 tree, too far up to reach by standing on a chair, and awk- 

 ward to get at with a ladder because of the back fence. 

 Probably a queen had once alighted on that bough and 

 her perfume, not to be removed by wind and weather, 

 had attracted them. Honey bees will cluster on the fin- 

 gers that had held a queen, even on the knife that has 

 dissected her. 



Some say it is of no use to make a noise ; the bees can't 

 hear you. I don't know about that. If they can't hear, 

 why do they buzz? Why does the drone hum? Why 

 do the rival queens go, " Zeet, zeet, zeet," at each other? 

 Who would 'holler' if nobody heeded? Anyhow, this 

 fish-horn, dishpan, and mush paddle racket serves one 

 good purpose. It lets folks know whose swarm it is. 



Smart bee-masters by throwing water on the swarm 

 and various other little cunning devices can scoop up 

 thousands of bees together as if they were so many seeds. 



