February, 1919 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



81 



so still they hoard a woodpcckor tapping 

 on an old oak noar by. 



"It's beautiful here," Anne said softly 

 at last, "beautiful. I hate cities. And 

 I 've loved our week here. Mr. Lowe, if 

 brother Jack hadn't gone and got captain- 

 ized, I 'd be wheedling him to buy your farm 

 for me, this minute. ' ' 



"I'm afraid I wouldn't be selling, tho, " 

 the old man replied- ' ' I love it myself. But 

 Miss Anne, what makes you go back to the 

 city? We wish you'd stay here, Mother and 

 I. ~ We talked about it last night. You 

 see — with our boy — and your brother — ^both 

 gone — we 'd be so alone here, and you 'd be 

 so alone there — and — • — ■" 



' ' Do you mean for us to be alone all to- 

 gether, here — while they're away?" Anne 

 asked slowly. 



"Yes," he said, "that's what I mean." 

 "It would be lovely," she said softly. 

 "I'd read you Marcus Aurelius and Vir- 

 gil and Isaiah, ' ' he tempted. 



The girl fairly crowed. "I'd read you 

 Whitman and Eupert Brooke and Tagore," 

 she retaliated. 



"And Maeterlinck," insisted the man. 

 ' ' And Henley, ' ' gloated the girl. 

 "Then you'll come?" 



She turned to her brother. "It's for you 

 to decide, Anne, ' ' he smiled. 



' ' I have already decided, ' ' she answered, 

 and laid her hand in Daddy Lowe's. 



' ' Poor misguided young thing, ' ' murmur- 

 ed Jack teasingly, ' ' she '11 grow up to be a 

 beekeeper, sure! " 



Within a month both young men had 

 gone, and Anne had settled down on the 

 Lowe farm for an indefinite stay with the 

 two old people. "It's hard to say which I 

 love more," she wrote her brother, "the 

 sweet-faced, frail little mother, with her 

 spirited sense of fun, or this strong, fine old 

 man, who lives so simply and thinks such 

 big thoughts. But I do seem to chum more 

 with him — he takes in all outdoors, some- 

 how, and gives me a jolly feeling of down- 

 right farmery, and we have such grand 

 reading sprees nights and stormy days, with 

 the mother knitting or sewing- Anyway no- 

 body could feel exactly chummy with Mrs. 

 Lowe; it would seem too familiar, like try- 

 ing to chum with the Madonna- I do be- 

 lieve she is really a saint, a saint with a 

 sense of humor.' ' 



Meantime Mother Lowe was writing Jack: 

 ' ' Your friend 's sister brings a very sweet 

 young breath into our old lives, and she is 

 lovable indeed. Her devotion to your 

 father makes me most happy, but — will she 

 love him later, when the bees begin to 

 sting?" 



Being keenly alive, especially to things 

 out of doors, Anne was interested in every 

 phase of the farm. But from the first, the 

 quiet beeyard attracted her. One cold day 

 she walked over to it with Daddy Lowe. The 

 sky was that dead gray that drops great 

 snows on the earth. But the sun was just 

 breaking thru, and everything was white 



and glistening. The trees hung their heavy 

 branches low, while row on row, the bee- 

 hives were nearly hidden beneath the heaps 

 of drifted snow. 



"It's beautiful, but won't they all 

 smother, with the snow over their doors 

 that way?" Anne asked anxiously. 



"The snow is so porous they get all the 

 air they need, ' ' he answered, ' ' and it helps 

 to keep them warm. ' ' 



Then he showed her some big packing 

 cases. ' ' There are four hives in each of 

 these, for the winter," he explained, "with 

 chaff over them and under them and all 

 around. Most of my bees have chaff only 

 on toj), but — ' ' 



' ' Well, I should think they 'd need it all 

 around, thick and warm," Anne interrupt- 

 ed, pulling her furry cap lower. ' ' I don 't 

 see how they can live thru winter weather 

 anyhow. They don 't indulge in furs or 

 blankets — and they 're so little- ' ' 



Then he told her about the cluster, "In 

 winter, ' ' he said, ' ' the bees leave the sides 

 and bottoms and corners of the hive and 

 gather together in a ball, some of them in 

 the cells of the comb and the rest all 

 bunched up together so that the whole 

 thing's like a ball, a live ball. There they 

 take exercises, as it were, to help keep 

 warm. It always gives me a queer feeling 

 to come and stand near tliem this way, and 

 try to imagine what 's going on inside there. 

 There there are, thousands of tiny bits of 

 life, not sleeping, yet all grouped together 

 in that wonderful and mysterious cluster. 

 The warm inner ones gradually come out 

 while the chilled ones on the outside slip 

 slowly in towards the warm center. And 

 somewhere at the heart of each cluster is 

 the queen." 



"The queen?" queried Anne, big-eyed, 

 "the queen?" 



"The mother, more correctly. But she's 

 called queen, and she 's a beauty. Long and 

 slim and really royal looking. ' ' 



' ' ' Divinely tall and most divinely 

 fair'?" quoted Anne interrogatively. 



' ' Exactly. And likewise ' imperially 

 slim. ' Miss Anne, you '11 love them. Wait 

 till spring when the apples bloom, and we '11 

 open the hives. Then you shall see them all, 

 and learn their ways and a little of their 

 mystery. But come, you're getting chilled. 

 Let 's go in- I 've got some supers to put 

 together. ' ' 



"And I'm to help? — whatever supers may 

 be?" 



' ' Well, how much of a carpenter are 

 you?" 



Anne meditated. ' ' I 've pulled tacks, ' ' 

 she ventured, "I've driven nails 

 to hold pictures and stewpans. And 

 I don 't stick my front finger 

 straight out on the handle of the 

 hammer, either. Can any man re- 

 quire greater skill than this, even 

 for supers?" 



(To Be Continued.) 



