348 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTUEE. 



M.^ 



first discovered they were in a strange 

 neighborhood. So far as I can recollect, 

 they always took their points. I do not re- 

 member to have seen a bee under such cir- 

 cumstances go right off to the fields without 

 noticing that the surroundings were dif- 

 ferent, and I have always supposed that the 

 minute they discover they are in a strange 

 neighborhood they take their bearings as 

 bees do from a newly hived swarm. In pur- 

 chasing bees from our neighbor Eice, about 

 10 miles away, I often watch them when the 

 wire cloth is taken from the entrance. Un- 

 der such circumstances they come out with 

 a rush— a great lot of them, while others 

 stand humming at the entrance, and, as a 

 general thing, Ithink almost every bee very 

 soon, and without going a great distance, 

 goes back to the hive he came from. Pret- 

 ty soon they sally out for another reconnoi- 

 sance, and within a couple of hours some of 

 them will return with pollen. Now, if 

 neighbor Eice lived within half a mile I 

 should expect these pollen-gatherers to go 

 to their old home with their loads ; but so 

 far as I can recollect, where they are moved 

 a mile there is not often much going back : 

 a mile and a half, almost none of it ; and 

 when you come to two miles, I never saw a 

 bee go back at all. When I brought the first 

 Italians into Medina County I watched this 

 matter very thoroughly. I do not believe 

 that our bees often fly more than two miles. 

 In the last issue, p. 308, J. F. Whitmore had 

 something to say on the same subject. 



FROM SAN DIEGO TO DEHESA. 



A RIDE THROUGH THE COUNTRY. 



el. 



H RIEND ROOT:— At 6 o'clock to-morrow morn- 

 2| ing you will takeji seat in my buggy, behind 

 W my messenger horse John. We will journey 

 to the east, for Dehesa is 25 miles away, 

 among the mountains, 1200 ft. above sea-lev- 

 Now, 1 am to do most of the talking; first, be- 

 cause I am older; second, because I know more of 

 the country than you do. There, we have left the 

 city behind; and at a glance over our shoulder we 

 can see a thousand little clouds of smoke, risiDg 

 from so many chimneys, where the busy wives are 

 preparing breakfast. Look just over those little 

 clouds of smoke, and you see San Diego Bay. How 

 peaceful and smooth it is! and when you open 

 your eye a little wider you see Coronado, with its 

 grand and imposing hotel (the largest in the 

 world). 



But here we are, three miles out of town, and 

 what have we? Only a gravelly soil; low, gently 

 sloping hills, covered with brush. Why is this 

 land in this state of nature? Is it not good for any 

 thing? Yes, nature has bestowed upon this soil all 

 that is necessary to raise good grain, fruit, berries, 

 vegetables, nuts, and flowers; in fact, everything 

 that goes to make a prosperous and happy home. 

 Only one thing is lacking— water. Water is king in 

 this country. But, wait ! You shall see, as we go 

 further on, the source whence all this land shall 

 drink, whence all the dense population that shall 

 build for themselves homes upon this self-same 

 soil in this delightful climate, where old Jack Frost 

 oeldom if ever comes, and then only to nip the 



tenderest flower or shrub. Goon, John; let's jog 

 along and show Mr. Root, at "five miles away." 



Here we are. This is not a bad-looking place on 

 our right; fine house, fine barn, fine out-buildings, 

 and it looks nestled snug in that little canyon; the 

 hennery— that looks a good deal like home, does it 

 not? Look to the left, and you see the orange-or- 

 chard. Yes, the trees are small. You were not 

 with me one short year ago when John and I trav- 

 eled along here, much as we are doing now. Well, 

 then there was not a blow struck, the brush was 

 waving in the morning breeze, the jack rabbit 

 sported on hillside and valley. You ask, " How 

 comes this transformation in one short year?" I 

 tell you, money and Water (put the capital for Wa- 

 ter, for 'tis Mug). This man was more fortunate, 

 perhaps, than all would be, for he struck a big 

 flow at a reasonable depth; and with his 14-foot 

 windmill he hoists it to his tank, thence to the 

 thirsty earth about his ground and trees. But we 

 must hurry on. 



Now you see the small house on the left; that is 

 the six-mile house, where Mr. Harbison used to 

 have his first out-apiary, now sold out and gone, 

 for the bees must go further back. You see but 

 little change in the face of the country. The same 

 undulating hills and valleys, the same sandy soil, 

 and brush and jack rabbits, but no houses ; no, 

 none. Two miles more, and here is the eight-mile 

 house where the greatest stock in trade is bad 

 whisky. Let's hurry.up, John, and get out of this 

 locality, for we are coming into America. Every 

 turn of the wheels brings us into a higher altitude; 

 and now if you will put on your glasses, over that 

 joint at the left you will see an oasis in this wilder- 

 ness of brush and low hills and gravelly soil. Here 

 is home again, wiih its comforts and two wind- 

 mills. We are now 700 feet above San Diego Bay, 

 and within a stone's throw of the first crossing of 

 the Cuyamaca & Eastern R. R. This word " Cuy- 

 amaca" would be spelled and pronounced in Eng- 

 lish (Quemahka). This road, that is now building 

 as fast as men and money can push it through, will 

 be one more through line from the great East to 

 the western shore; and the next time you visit San 

 Diego you will be hurled along at 40 miles an hour 

 over the very ground over which we now sit. 



We have left the sage brush behind for a time, 

 and this newly turned-up soil on our right tells of 

 culture, thrift, progress, and the go-ahead spirit ot 

 the true American. Do you see that streak of newly 

 turned-up soil? Look at its meandering course, 

 over hill and valley, now to the right, now to the 

 left, but still on and on to the sea. That is the path 

 where lies hidden the great water-pipe from the 

 San Diego flume (but you shall hear more of that 

 when we get to it). The summit ! here we are, 11 

 miles from the city, and 900 feet up. You see no 

 more brush, but cultivated fields; and if you will 

 hold your breath for a little while, John will let us 

 down to the first crossing of the great flume and 

 the second of the Cuyamaca. Here they are to- 

 gether. While we contemplate the beauty of this 

 body of fresh mountain water, flowing so peaceful- 

 ly beneath us, we can not 'jut admire the skill and 

 energy of man that has hollowed out and cut this 

 path through the mountain-side for the locomotive, 

 for the wagon-road passes over them both at this 

 point. But on a few rods, and we will put on the 

 brake, while you feast your eyes upon the scene 

 below. This is the El Cajon Valley. " Cajon " in 



