204 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE. 



Mar. 



often found three miles from home at any 

 season of the year. But to cover the ground 

 as you have planned it, I believe I should 

 want as much space between them as three 

 miles; therefore, all things considered, I 

 should say you have got it about right. 



RAMBLE NO. 12. 



SOURING HONEY, ETC. 



Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea; 



A rivulet, then a river, 

 And here by thee will hum the bee 



For ever and for ever. 



SIG'S feet having been put in proper order, 

 they patted down in staccato time as we hied 

 away again over hill and dale, by quiet for- 

 est shades and over babbling brooks, until 

 our course was arrested by what is popular- 

 ly known as Hall's Mills— a gristmill, sawmill, cider- 

 mill, a potato-hook mill, and, besides all these, a 

 honey-mill, or, in other words, Mr. Hall, not getting 

 filthy lucre fast enough, he thought he saw a great 

 bonanza in the production of honey, and enthusias 

 tically stocked up, with bees, bee-journals, etc. A 

 severe winter loss caused a perceptible decline in 

 enthusiasm. Then a few seasons of short yields 

 caused the abandonment of bee-journals, and a 

 general neglect of both bees and honey; and it is 

 evident that Hall's bees will not hum by this rivulet, 

 " for ever and for ever." 



The Rambler found four barrels of honey, rolled 

 out at the rear of the house, under the eaves, with 

 the honey in all more or less sour. This, when ex- 

 tracted, was evidently a good quality of clover 

 honey; but being left in a damp cellar, with bungs 

 out, it had absorbed so much moisture as to make 

 it a damaged article, and it was finally rolled out to 

 make room for cider. If this honey had been 

 stored in a dry room, the quality would not have 

 been injured. The opinion people had of it was 

 fully expressed by Mrs. Hall asking the Rambler if 

 his customers for extracted honey ever wanted any 

 the second time. When told that many customers 

 laid in a supply every fall for winter use, year aft- 

 er year, many preferring it to comb honey, she was 

 incredulous, and said their customers never came 

 for extracted honey the second time; and it was 

 even hard to sell comb honey to those who had used 

 their extracted honey. 



As the Rambler went on his way again, the 

 thought uppermost in his mind was the great fact 

 that many people are induced to keep bees who are 

 not and never can befitted for the business; and 

 the production and sale of honey in many localities 

 is injured more by incompetent local producers 

 than by any other cause. The Rambler does not 

 encourage everybody to keep bees. 



LUTE VIRGIL. 



The sun was just descending behind the western 

 hills, the lovely autumnal tints blending to charm 

 the eye, while the musical notes of the fall cricket 

 rose and fell in rich cadence from orchard and 

 meadow, and the Rambler would fain lay himself 

 down upon some mossy bank and sweetly dream of 

 the hum of bees and a flowery laud. The real hard 

 struggles of life were, however, before me; the 

 farmers were coming in from the toils of the day, 

 with sweat-bedewed faces, tattered clothes, and 

 calloused hands that silently spoke of the hard 

 struggle with nature. A few of the "cattle from a 



thousand hills " were being herded for the night, 

 and all signs admonished the Rambler to hasten to 

 a haven for the night, under the roof of Mr. Lute 

 Virgil, a noted bee-keeper of Whitehall. Bro. V. 

 lives upon one of the world's byways. We go down 

 through a dark ravine. The stalwart trees on 

 either side, like huge sentinels, seem to guard the 

 rocky pass. When safely down we come out on a 

 broad alluvial bottom, and this is called an interval 

 on Wood Creek. A sharp turn to the right soon 

 brings us to a cosy cottage, under a perpendicular 

 rocky cliff of over sixty feet in height. As it is 

 east of the house, old Sol puts in a late appearance 

 at the Virgil homestead. I found Bro. V. attending 

 to the chores, after the completion of which we ad- 

 journed to the house, where I found Mrs. V. and two 

 bright little girls to enliven the home and lo make 

 it worth loving and living for. Nearly all of the 

 Dee-journals are found upon his table, and we 

 found his preferences strong in particular direc- 

 tions. A worthy man named Doolittle seemed, ac- 

 cording to Bro. V.'s dictionary, to be the only writ- 

 er of much consequence in the apicultural ranks. 

 To sum up the main points of our conversation 

 during the evening, I find it ran about as follows: 



" Well, Bro. Virgil, I did not see your hives as 1 

 entered your grounds this evening; you must 

 paint them a dark color." 



RAMBLER'S DREAM — FOLLOWING IN THE XKACK.S 

 OF DOOLITTLE. 



"Oh, ho! friend R, I follow nature; take Doolit- 

 tle's advice, and don't paint them sit all. Bees win- 

 ter better in unpainted hives. I don't believe in 

 any fancy fixings or poetry about hives and yards, 

 etc. I run my bees at the least possible expense. 

 I am after the hard dollars." 



" Then I suppose you use the Doolittle hive." 



"Oh, no! I use the Langstroth hive; but if I had 

 known as much about Doolittle's plans as I do now, 

 I would have adopted his hive. His big yields of 

 honey every year show that the hive enables him 

 to get there every time." 



" Then I suppose you don't think much of the 

 new-fangled Heddon hive." 



"Well, no! You see, Doolittle don't say much 

 about it." 



"Well, Bro. V., do you practice artificial swarm- 

 ing?" 



"No, sir. You don't catch me so far from na 

 ture's plan as that. Doolittle and I agree on 

 swarming, exactly." 



" I see you have Alley's Handy-book; how do you 



