92 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



February, 191& 



sible cracks between the different bodies are 

 thus covered and protected from draft. 

 Tiny %-inch blocks, properly placed at each 

 corner of this roundabout cleat, will hold 

 the jacket in position, equally spaced- 



Cold winds, blowing thru the contracted 

 entrance into the center of the body, of emp- 

 ty combs, can not strike the bees, up there 

 above the escape-board. Neither can bright 

 light shine in to rouse them. Raised well 

 away~ from the entrance, anyway, they are 

 further protected from the exposures by this 

 board, with its only opening at the two for- 

 ward corners. These holes provide the bees, 

 of course, with air and exit. This board is 

 the only feature that is new to me, but the 

 combination is new. Moreover, it is con- 

 vincing. Perhaps the majority of bees in 

 this section will always winter unprotected. 

 Yet a growing numbei* of progressive bee- 

 keepers are looking for some method of pro- 

 tection that will be efficient, but less cum- 

 bersome and troublesome than the big pack- 

 ing cases recommended by the Department 

 of Agriculture. The Morris method may 

 come very near solving the problem. At 

 any rate, some of us are very much interest- 

 ed and are watching the Morris bees with 



great hopes. 



* * * 



There is a certain grocer in this "Athens 

 of the South" who is having a hard time 

 conquering the intricacies of the honey busi- 

 ness. First, his display of section honey 

 bore the sign, ".50c a pound." Then some 

 one must have enlightened him as to the 

 error of that eaeh-little-box-weighs-a-pound 

 idea, and now his' display is bravely herald- 

 ed to the passerby as selling for "50c a 

 Cone. ' ' It was night, and the store was 

 closed, when I saw it, or I might have ven- 

 tured in to undertake a diplomatic correc- 

 tion. Yet it is almost too good to change. 



"50c a Cone"! 



* * » 



Beekeepers expect all sorts of questions, 

 but this one was unexpected enough to be 

 refreshing. It was when I was opening a 

 few hives on the campus of Peabody Col- 

 lege. I was alone, which was fortunate, as 

 the bees were decidedly temperamental that 

 day. One young lady hovered near. ' ' Do 

 you reckon they'll sting me?" she called 

 out. "Better not come any nearer," I told 

 her, as they were particularly unpolite at 

 that moment. Then I forgot her. But after 

 a few minutes a voice came floating over 

 the breeze, asking with evident interest and 

 baffled curiosity, "Just what's the idea of 

 the veil?" I have always known that bee- 

 veils were not especially becoming, but had 

 supposed they had the virtue of being self- 



exp^.anatory. 



* * * 



A WARM DAY IN EARLY JANUARY 

 Sometimes a year arises in his -winsome youth 

 And fells grim Winter, unaware, and stands 

 All warm and radiant for a few swift days. 

 Before the tight-lipped Winter gathers back 

 His strength to claim his rightful length of life. 

 And in those few swift days 



We drink the promise of the beauty 

 Of the wonder days to be. 



Today is such a time, and here I sit, 

 Bathed in warm sun, in this my quiet spot. 

 Sitting on a beehive, where a scorer 

 Of liives are pouring out the bees to meet the 



sun. 

 They hum around. 



And lull me to a strange content, • 



That, mingling with old longings and the call 

 Of things I know not if I dream of or 



remember. 

 Stirs within my heart an ancient mood 

 That hearts, I think, have always known. 

 For even as I thrill to sudden rapture, 

 A sense of sadness almost brings the tears. 

 Even while I surge towards heights of 



aspiration, 

 A quiet peace is bidding me. Be still. 

 Even while I would be swift in great 



achievement. 

 The lotus mood is drowsy in my blood. 



There is a sense around of Beauty soon to come, 



Beauty, that some swift and perfect day, 



Shall come and walk beside me, 



Yes, beside me and within. 



Until I too shall be a part of very Beauty's self. 



Against the sky's blue wideness 

 The bare treetops are swelled with mystery ; 

 The grass is brown in patches, green in spots; 

 Dry vines, and ugly, rattle in the breeze. 

 While roses thru their thorns show hints of 



discontent 

 That shall unfold in time to living leaves. 

 My cock crows challenge to my neighbor's, 

 And a cat, awaking from her sunny nap, 

 Goes stretching lazily along the fencer. 

 The sparrows twitter ; a gray and black 



woodpecker 

 Bores and pecks and taps, up and down a tree — 

 And I — 



O Poet-Heart that hath no Poet- Speech, 

 How shall we terll to other hearts 

 These things we feel ? 



These things that strike so deep thru eye and 



ear. 

 They are not all. There is a Spirit here, 

 And in this Presence I sit quiet. 

 Here among my hives. The bees hum on. 

 The winter sun is warm. 



Old, old questions drift across to vex and tease, 

 Then slowly slip away, till lost at last 

 As in a quiet pool of wonder. 

 Shall I not sit and listen here to life 

 And touch perhaps the very garment's hem. 

 The young year standing forth like a flushed 



god, 

 While the hours pass by and by ? 



One dreaming hour ago I read a holy book 

 Of One who walked with men 

 Among warm groves and gardens. 

 Talked with them by twos or threes or crowds. 

 Along the seas and lakes. 

 And prayed alone on hillsides 

 In the quiet hours and places. 

 He has much to do with these my thoughts. 

 My wonders, 



Much to do, I think, with Beauty and with 

 Life. 



What i.s- Life, O Beauty yet to be? 

 And what, O Life, is Beauty? 



No answer. Yet, somehow, 



The very asking brings the Spirit near. 



Is this, then, prayer ? 



Is this, then, answered prayer ? 



