The Mason-bees 



into raptures at these new hives of mine. The 

 news spreads through the village and more 

 than one pokes fun at it. They look upon 

 me as a keeper of hybrid Bees: 



"I wonder what he's going to make out of 

 that!" say they. 



My hives are in full swing before the end 

 of April. When the work is at its height, the 

 swarm becomes a little eddying, buzzing 

 cloud. The arch is a much-frequented 

 passage: it leads to a store-room for various 

 household provisions. The members of my 

 family bully me at first for establishing this 

 dangerous commonwealth within the precincts 

 of our home. They dare not go to fetch 

 things: they would have to pass through a 

 swarm of Bees; and then . . . look out for 

 stings ! There is nothing for it but to prove, 

 once and for all, that the danger does not 

 exist, that mine is a most peaceable Bee, in- 

 capable of stinging so long as she is not 

 startled. I bring my face close to one of the 

 clay nests, so as almost to touch it, while it 

 is black with masons at work; I let my fingers 

 wander through the ranks, I put a few Bees 

 on my hand, 1 stand in the thick of the whirl- 

 ing crowd and never a prick do I receive. I 

 82 



