1917 



AMERICAN BEK JOURNAL 



235 



education by first getting grounded in 

 the physiology of the bee. It would be 

 an enormous task forme to do this. . ." 

 "The hives I use are not made or 

 sold by any dealer; I have to make 

 them myself and do not think it would 

 be practical for you to make them — 

 better use the dovetailed Langstroth 

 style of hive sold by the dealers." 



" Don't go into this or any other ex- 

 pert business too largely at first, liees 

 can be bought from any dealer. Don't 

 start with more than from three to six 

 hives, and increase in proportion as 



your knowledge increases " 



A neighbor informed me that bees 

 can be bought by the pound, and ad- 

 vised getting none but fertile, tested 

 queens. Many of my questions were 

 answered by him, but those I forgot to 

 ask were legion. What kind of hive to 

 use? Vaguely I know that Poppleton's 

 hive, as written up by the Roots years 

 ago, was radical, being one story and 

 long, like a carpenter's tool chest, to 

 facilitate its removal to and from the 

 launch, piling in tiers, and to obviate 

 the building of "brace comb", as the 

 odds and ends of comb built by the 

 bees between the first story or brood- 

 chamber, and super or second storage 

 chamber, are known. And, most im- 

 portant of all — a question I learn which 

 has troubled beginners since time be- 

 gan — how to get the bees into the hive 

 and how to keep them there ? Wild 

 thoughts of using- chloroform haunted 

 me, pending the arrival of some text 

 books I had sent for. I thought bees, 

 dreamed bees, and had bees in my mind 

 as I ate whatever was put before me. 



" Please get me some bed ticking like 

 the last," said my wife one day as I 

 started for town, "three yards of it, a 

 set of darning needles, and the grocer- 

 ies in this list And don't let 



him give you common brown sugar 

 this time — we are entirely out of it, and 

 I must have the white !" 



"Bed ticking, three yards, darning 

 needles, and sugar, only the white," I 

 unconsciously repeated between the 

 perfunctory or choleric 'Get up, Dol- 

 ly's!" and "What are you doing 

 there's !" on the way in. What I got, 

 by some subconscious trick of the 

 mind, was insect powder, and fly paper. 

 To the grocer I had said — I shudder 

 yet as I think of it — 



" I want three pounds of bees and a 

 fertile queen. Give me nothing but the 

 white, please — the last I got were 

 brown, and I know I said white." What 

 the man said didn't amount to much — 

 it was what he thought and looked. But 

 I came home in triumph with white 

 sugar. 



" Some day," I said to my wife in a 

 burst of patronage and confidence, "I 

 may write a book, " Three Years Among 

 the Bees." Langstroth's hobby was 

 ants for many years — it was only 

 through seeing honey in the comb on a 

 friend's table that he was led to pur- 

 chase some bees and make a study 

 of them. They all write about them — 

 Dr. C. C. Miller " wrote ' A Year Among 

 the Bees ', Quinby wrote a book, Root 

 wrote a book. Cook wrote a — " 



" That's it, you forgot to get me that 

 cook book I sent you over for yester- 

 day", interjected my wife severely. 

 Guiltily I thought of the bee book I 

 had borrowed at thi neighbor's in- 

 stead, and said nothing. 



My first hive came at last. I had 

 sent for one minus bees and plus the 



fixtures, smoker, etc., in order that I 

 might study them better. Then came 

 the day — it will retain its vernal fresh- 

 ness in my mind as long as I live — -I 

 remember it for the first thrill, and all 

 the little and big thrills that came after. 



" Mother says you know about bees ", 

 said a small boy at the kitchen door. 

 " There's a bunch hanging on the wash 

 line, and she says come and get them 

 and you can have 'em." 



" So already my reputation as a skilled 

 apiarist has spread among the neigh- 

 bors," I exulted, visions of that book 

 to be written flitting as industriously 

 through the nooks in my cranium as a 

 bee flits from flower to flower. 



With smoker in my left hand, swarm 

 basket under an arm, bee veil in my 

 right hand — and directions concealed 

 in my pocket, I strode gaily forth to 

 my doom. 



" Don't let them sting you — aren't you 

 afraid of them ? Don't you use gloves? 

 Are they glad to see you want to put 

 them in a nice new hive ? I believe 



"My Head is Larger than its Wont, so 



THAT Even the Dog Stares in 



Bristling Wonder." 



they are glad — hear them hum !" were 

 a few of the questions hurled at me. 



" A beekeeper never uses gloves," I 

 replied less gaily, perhaps with a trifle 

 of weariness in my tone. " Bees are 

 always full of honey when they swarm, 

 and in that condition never sting!" 



Who wrote that last phrase? Ordi- 

 nary killing with a club, fists or pois- 

 onous gas would be too refined for 

 him. Those bees ivere glad to see me. 

 Perhaps they mistook the veil I wore 

 for a crown, hence decided that I was 

 the queen. To see the haste with which 

 they forsook that plain hemp clothes 

 line for me was flattering— at first. Did 

 they merely desire to embrace me? 

 Wildly, and with a sinking feeling 

 clutching me about the pit of the 

 stomach, I hoped so. Vain, hollow 

 bauble is hope in this cruel world. 



"Stung!" Literally and figuratively 

 I was stung. Four quarts of fond, lov- 

 ing and affectionate bees fell, by some 

 perverse process, into a fold of my bee- 

 veil, inside of it, and refused to be dis- 



lodged from that haven. A pint of bees 

 dropped into each sleeve; adventure- 

 some and shameless hussies crawled 

 up my pants leg, due to the sudden 

 loosening of a refractory leggin. caus- 

 ing me to shed bitter tears of humilia- 

 tion and outraged modesty. 



Cheerfully would I have disrobed, 

 there before Mrs. L's. kitchen, only the 

 commiserating matron insisted on 

 standing there, just back of the screen 

 door, telling me just what to do. 

 Vaguely, as one hears joyful picnickers 

 in a passing boat, through the murmur- 

 ing, roaring surf, while bathing, I heard 

 neighbors, female neighbors, big ones, 

 middling, frying sized girls in the gig- 

 gling stage, wild-eyed youngsters in 

 skirts, skirted tots, millions of omni- 

 present small boys. And not a knot 

 hole big enough tor me to crawl into. 



The bees were enjoying themselves 

 meanwhile — or did my antics annoy 

 them ? Some broke their stingers off 

 in my skin, and seemed desirous of 

 retrieving them. Others got them in, 

 and in some way could not withdraw 

 them, which caused a wild, twisting, 

 boring motion, like a man having teeth 

 all over his head and body, and all be- 

 ing filled at once, only much worse. 



What happened in the next five min- 

 utes — Mrs. L insists it was only five 

 minutes, though to me it seems a long 

 summer's day and an arctic night for 

 good measure — I know not. Perhaps I 

 hit my head mercifully against the cel- 

 lar door (Mrs. L. says I fainted, but I 

 know better). 



When I came to I was in the L's cel- 

 lar, my head on the soft side of a brick, 

 and Mrs. L. was bending over me, with 

 a greasy dish pan, empty, in her left 

 hand. (The water it had held was mostly 

 down my neck and over my clothes.) 

 Her right hand was engaged in bathing 

 my fevered and swollen brow with the 

 dish rag, with what my wife, who un- 

 luckily chanced to come at that mo- 

 ment, insists was a caressing motion. 



As a consequence, there is a coolness 

 between my wife and Mrs. L., in spite 

 of the hot weather, and they don't 

 speak to each other. Possibly I might 

 explain, but my lips are sealed — they 

 are so swollen that I cannot speak to 

 either. My head, also, is larger than 

 its usual wont, resembling that of a 

 rather distinguished ex-president to 

 such an extent that even the dog stares 

 in bristling wonder — as a consequence 

 I proudly avert my head as I pass the 

 neighbors, and fail to see them, for, 

 owing to the swelling, I couldn't see 

 any one if I tried. 

 Glendale, Ariz. 



No. 6.— Seventy Years of Bee- 

 keeping 



IN our last issue we gave a list of the 

 present periodical publications on 

 bees in the United States. This 

 list was prepared before the opening of 

 the year. Since Jan. 1 another periodi- 

 cal has apppeared which is worthy of 

 mention. It is entitled "The Beekeep- 

 ers' Item," and is published at New 

 Braunfels, Tex. The vast State of Texas 

 has entirely different beekeeping con- 

 ditions from the other States of the 

 Union, and therefore needs a special 

 periodical. This need has made itself 

 felt so often that already at least three 

 publications made the attempt without 



