March, 1919 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



117 



ANNE LESTER AND DADDY LOWE, BEEKEEPERS 



By Grace Allen — Chapter II 



ONE morning March broke heavily over 

 Daddy Lowe's farm. Wind and storm 

 ruled thru that day, and the next, and 

 the next, dying away at last into little pro- 

 testing coughs against something young and 

 warm that was coming. And on the fourth 

 day there was blue in the sky and sun over 

 all the earth. Daddj^ Lowe unbuttoned his 

 overcoat, and walked around the syringa 

 bush to tap on the window of the sitting 

 room. "Come out, Anne!" he shouted. 



"Can't, possibly," called a voice behind 

 him. And there was Anne herself with three 

 gay daffodils. " 'I wandered lonely as a 

 cloud,' " she began, showing her treasure, 

 "and you accuse me of being inside." 



' ' You weren 't among the bees, ' ' he pro- 

 tested, "and they're flying." 



"Bees aren't the only thing in the 

 world," she declared. "I wanted to see 

 what the storm had done to the daffodils — 

 they were all ready to come out when it 

 struck them. And it hasn't hurt them a bit. 

 Aren't they brave-hearted? That's what I 

 love, Daddy Lowe — not just putting your 

 lips together and being grim, and not being 

 just patient and resigned, but being down- 

 right brave, like a daffodil, and when the 

 storm 's over, blossoming right on and being 

 what you were meant to be. ' ' 



' ' You are very young, Anne, ' ' the old 

 man said gently. ' ' That is the right way, 

 but it's the hard way." 



"Please don't say that. Daddy Lowe," 

 she begged, as they turned towards the bee- 

 yard. "I never could endure that idea. 

 Whatever 's the right way ought to be the 

 easy way, once we catch the hang of it. ' ' 



Daddy Lowe smiled. "Once we catch the 

 hang of it," he repeated, " yes. For that 

 end came all the law and the prophets. Per- 

 haps the poets, too." 



"And maybe the daffodils?" insisted 

 Anne gently. Then she stopped. From hive 

 after hive the bees were streaming out into 

 the sun. Their humming seemed suddenly 

 to fill the world. For an instant she stood 

 silent, a new look on her face, then she 

 cried out merrily, ' ' The bees too. Daddy 

 Lowe! I believe this would help people get 

 the little knack of being brave and big and 

 doing the right things easily." Then sud- 

 denly, "Ah, now I know — this is how you 

 got it!" 



"But I haven't got it," he said, shaking 

 his head. ' ' The bees do help, but I haven 't 

 got that little knack! You little child — to 

 call it that!" 



' ' You can 't make me angry calling me 

 names on a day like this," she comforted 

 him. "How near dare I gof" 



' ' That 's for you to answer, ' ' he replied, 

 sitting on a hive. ' ' But it is considered 

 polite as well as discreet not to stand right 

 in their way, in front of the entrances. ' ' 



So Anne politely sat down on another 

 hive, and for a long time it was very still, 

 except for that one great humming, which 

 is like nothing else in the world. Slowly 

 the listening look deepened in the girl's 

 eyes. But at last she turned to the man. 

 "Daddy Lowe," she said, smiling, "I can 

 see contentment hanging about you like a 

 garment. But there is a bee crawling across 

 my hand. Of course, I am not afraid of him, 

 but how does one get rid of him — most 

 politely?" 



"One takes her up by her wings — so," 

 replied the old beekeeper, skillfully taking 

 possession of the bee. 



"Her wings?" echoed the girl. "Are 

 these all lady bees?" 



"Yes," he replied, "there are no drones 

 at this season." 



"From which I deduce that drones are 

 not ladies, ' ' she observed. 



"Your deduction is correct." 



"If I keep on deducing, will I know 

 everything about bees, or are you going to 

 tell me, all in order, like a real story?" 



"You have never read Maeterlinck's 

 'Life of the Bee'?" 



"No. I've read 'The Blue Bird' but not 

 the bee. Must I read it, or will you tell 

 me?" 



' ' Well, ' ' hg began, ' ' in each of these hives, 

 if things are normal, is one queen-mother. 

 She never goes out to the fields, but lays 

 thousands of eggs here in the cells of the 

 combs. Her eggs are like tiny specks of 

 ivory — each in the bottom of a cell — you 

 shall see them later. There are two distinct 

 kinds. One develops into drones, the other 

 into either one of two kinds of females — ■ 

 either queens or workers. These are work- 

 ers flying around here. 



"It takes three days for any of these 

 little eggs- to hatch. Then they are tiny 

 white grubs, or larvjE. The worker bees 

 feed them, and they grow so fast that in 

 about six more days they stretch out in their 

 cells, and the workers cover them and leave 

 them there. In about twelve days more, 

 they gnaw their way out, bees. Most of 

 them are these worker bees, undeveloped fe- 

 males whose chief business in life is work. 

 They are the nurses, the housekeepers, the 

 gatherers of nectar and pollen and the de- 

 fenders of the hive. The males are truly 

 drones, for they don't do any work at all." 



"Stackers," scoffed Anne. 



' ' So they are — they neither work nor 

 fight. They are big and coarse and awk- 

 ward, big eaters, good-natured but not very 

 tidy. Usually there comes a time in late 

 summer when their sisters think there is 

 no longer any chance for any of them to 

 mate with any young princesses, so they 

 just kill them all off — usually by refusing 



