FOURTEENTH ANNUAL YEAR BOOK— PART IX. 635 



where I had clipped the queen. I don't know about the colony with the 

 runaway swarm. They kept on working. But I do not know yet whether 

 it still has a queen or not. Presume I will find out next spring. Another 

 fool notion I suppose. Presume my wife will tell me about it at that 

 time. Maybe some of you can tell me about it now. 



Now while clipping these queens, my wife as usual got busy helping(?). 

 I set a cover loaded with bees, against the fence behind the hives. She 

 took a seat on a pile of bricks nearby, close by the cover, with her dress 

 comfortably spread out. Bees, I have discovered (and so has my wife) 

 always travel up and not down. It was not very long until I heard a 

 cry of surprise: "I'm stung." Well, she was, too. Infection set in and 

 after the physician had discontinued his attentions, I was stung — for 

 $6.50. The super of honey I took off at that time sold for $6.00. The 

 doctor overshot the mark just fifty cents, but he succeeded in getting it 

 all for that time. But in spite of her many experiences, she still per- 

 sists in running out every time I monkey with those bees and makes 

 me as much bother to keep her off the job as any "fool bee" that ever 

 endeavored to attract all my attention. 



However, I harvested 247 nice sections of honey this year. Much of 

 it No. 1 fancy and all selling at 25 cents per cake. I weighed ten sec- 

 tions that I sold to one party for $2.50 and the scales showed ten pounds 

 and four ounces — 25 cents per pound, you see, and the customer wanting 

 more. 



I also have another assistant in my back yard apiary that must not be 

 overlooked. My neighbor's boy. He was less than two years old at the 

 time, but nevertheless took the contagion from me. Whatever he saw 

 me do was, in his mind, worthy of emulation. While mowing the lawn 

 one day, I heard screams of terror and pain coming from the bee yard. 

 Running as fast as I could, I discovered my little helper covered with 

 bees and the balance of them trying to find a place to get at him. In 

 his hand he held a flat paddle with which he had occasionally seen me 

 swatting pestiferous bees. He had just been poking and striking the bees 

 as he stood in front of the hive, just like he thought Ham did it. Giving 

 his little dress a jerk, most of the bees fell to the ground and I carried 

 him out, expecting to see him soon assuming the aspect of his toy balloon 

 that had been given to him at the circus. Again jerking his dress and 

 brushing off the remaining bees, I found he only had seven stingers fast 

 on his face and hands and after free applications of ammonia and car- 

 bolic acid he soon quieted down and to my extreme satisfaction he did 

 not puff up like his toy balloon. He is now a full-fledged helper and 

 never misses a chance to look into the hives every time he sees me 

 opening one, or taking off honey. He always wants to taste. Well, so 

 do I. It never tastes better to me at any other time, so we eat together. 



If there ever was a hobby to get a man's mind off of everything else 

 he ever got his brain busy with, the hec is it. "They say fish and cabbage 

 are foods for the brain. Well, I do believe the bees are the emergency 

 brakes in cases of overwork and brain fag. I have wasted thirty-five 

 years of pleasure and fun, as well as profit and better health, bj' not 

 having discovered the interesting and industrious bee as my friend. 



