424 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE. 



May 15 



suburbs of the town. Among the ruins Mr. 

 Quint showed us some of his best-g-rowing- 

 vegetables. 



We were on again and to Mariel. This 

 is a port about 25 miles west of Havana. 

 Located here is a marine hospital; also, 



THE POSTMASTER S APIARY. 



with its prow pointing into the air at an 

 acute angle, is the Spanish war-ship Al- 

 phonso XII., sunk during the war. 



I might also tell j'ou of the pleasant eve- 

 ning we spent with Miss Edwards, who has 

 about 25 orphan children in charge, and is 

 performing a very benevolent work. 



I might also tell j'ou about a Cuban hotel 

 where the eatables are good, but the beds 

 are wretched, all made too short for Amer- 

 icans, and where the pillows are made of 

 sawdust or something about as hard. 



Well, Mariel is one of those points on the 

 north coast where Mr. S. expects to estab- 

 lish an apiary, and from which 

 to ship sloop-loads of honey. 



Here we bade fare well to 

 good roads, and took to rutty 

 highways, cow-paths, holes in 

 the bushes, or any old thing 

 looking toward new and bloom- 

 ing honey-fields. Mr. S., be- 

 ing guide, set his face toward 

 the head of Mosquito Baj'. 

 Passing a goodly acreage of 

 honey flora, Mr. S. would shout, 

 "There, Rambler, how does 

 that suit you? how would you 

 like an apiary here?" 



"This may be all right, Bro. 

 S., but here we are on a sort of 

 a hogback, as we would say in 

 California, and no water near. 

 Then here are bad roads." 



But not a word from Bro. S. 

 in reply. He went plunging 

 through the bushes on his wheel. 



"See here, Rambler," again 

 shouts Mr. S., " look aw ay over 

 the hill yonder; see the grand 



ocean, and see those millions of honey- 

 plants — doesn't that beat California?" 



"Pshaw! Bro. S., this is tame beside the 



Golden State. There, instead of a little 



hill, it is from ocean to roses, and then to 



snowclad mountains, and honey beyond the 



dream of avarice." 



Mr. Faulkner is a very quiet 

 young man; but he enthused 

 here and said, "This may not 

 beat California but it beats all 

 I ever saw in New Jersey." 



Well, after alternately riding 

 and walking we reached the 

 head of Mosquito Bay; and here, 

 five miles away from anybodj^ 

 and everybody, we found a little 

 palm cabin and a Cuban and his 

 wife. He eked out a living by 

 burning charcoal. Here Mr. S. 

 located another apiary, and 

 hired the Cuban to take charge 

 of it; and he got on so well with 

 him that he offered to take us 

 down the bay some two miles 

 with his flat-bottomed boat; but, 

 of course, Mr. S. paid him well 

 for it. 



Mosquitoes must be bad here, 

 for the Cuban looked unutterable 

 misery when asked if there were many. A 

 white man who gets honey in such a place 

 gets it under many difficulties, and at quite 

 an expense. 



It was on again through holes in the 

 bushes, and in some places we had to shoul- 

 der our wheels. Right here, where there 

 were acres of aguinaldo bianco in bloom, I 

 took a snap shot at it while Bro. S. was es- 

 tablishing another apinrj'. 



"Hey, Rambler, doesn't this beat Cali- 

 fornia?" quoth S. 



"There, Bro. S., don't bring up such triv- 

 ial things in comparison to California." 



STIRRING UP THE NATIVES — AGUINALDO BLANCO PLANT. 



