148 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



March, 1919 



to let them in when they come home from 

 some frolic out in the sun. So end most of 

 the drones. That 's why there aren 't any 

 this time of year." 



' ' How can the same kind of egg make 

 either a queen or a worker?" 



"I wish I knew. Which they become 

 seems to depend upon the food given to the 

 larvae. Most of them, oh, by far the most 

 of them, develop into workers, but when 

 the bees decide to raise queens, the food 

 administration changes its regulations. 

 They make the cells larger where the queens 

 are to be — and when they finally come out 

 they are beautiful, long and slim and 

 golden. ' ' 



' ' Have they wings ? ' ' 



' ' Oh ves, wings like gauze, but strong and 

 swift. ' '^ 



' ' Well, if they never fly out, I don 't 

 se(^" 



' ' They do fly out. When the young queen 

 is about a week old, she takes her wedding 

 flight. But after that she stays quietly in 

 the dark hive, laying thousands and thou- 

 sands of eggs, and practically never leaves 

 the hive again, unless with a swarm. ' ' 



' ' I know about swarms — they all go off 

 and live in a hollow tree." 



' ' Sometimes. ' ' 



"Why do they go?" 



' ' Usually because they have so many 

 children they don 't know what to do. So 

 part of them, including the queen, move 

 out. ' ' 



' ' Then those that are left haven 't any 

 queen." 



' ' They always leave young princesses in 

 cells, ready to emerge soon. ' ' 



"I see. Then they hatch out and there 

 are plenty of cpieens. And is there anything 

 else?" 



"Well, there are a few details left! For 

 instance, when those 'plenty of queens' 

 hatch, either the first one kills the others, 

 or they fight to the death, or the workers 

 kill them — anyway, they have only one in 

 each hive." 



"Please don't tell me those queens fight! 

 It does seem as tho queens really might be 

 'too proud to fight'. How much fight and 

 struggle and killing there is in this world! " 



She slid off her hive. "Oh, look at all 

 these dead bees, in front, here!" she cried. 



"And see the live ones dragging the dead 

 ones out?" 



"Yes, and there too! What makes them 

 die?" 



"Old age and weariness. They had to 

 work pretty hard during the winter to keep 

 warm. That wore out some of them, and 

 some of them were old enough to die, any- 

 way. ' ' 



"How old are they when they're old 

 enough to die?" 



"Fall and winter bees live several 

 months, some of them on into the spring. 

 Summer bees wear themselves out in about 

 six weeks. ' ' 



Anne sighed. ' ' This is a lovely world, 

 but there's an awful lot of sadness in it." 



They walked off together, slow and seri- 

 ous. "Where do you suppose our soldier 

 boys are now?" she asked presently. "And 

 what are they doing? Are they both still 

 all right? And how soon will we hear from 

 them again?" 



The old man shook his head. ' ' There is 

 one thing absolutely certain about war, 

 Anne, ' ' he replied quietly, ' ' and that is 

 that the ones at home will ask such ques- 

 tions a thousand times before they are able 

 to answer them. Our part seems to be pa- 

 tience and resignation," he added, smiling. 



' ' Well, ' ' she laughed, ' ' I don 't mean to 

 criticise patience. Patience is all right when 

 it 's big and strong and fine — but I honest- 

 ly despise what some people call patience. 

 Half the time it's nothing but lack of 

 spirit and grit. As for resignation, the 

 word somehow gets on my nerves. It's not 

 big enough. Whatever comes to me, I do 

 hope I '11 always be something bigger than 

 just resigned." 



Mrs. Lowe met them at the door. "A let- 

 ter from Jack, Father! " she exclaimed hap- 

 pily. "I haven't quite worn it out reading 

 it. He's in France somewhere. You have 

 one too, Anne dear." 



"Did he say anything about Eobert?" 

 Anne asked, seeing her own letter was not 

 from her brother. 



' * He was still in England, the last Jack 

 knew," Mrs. Lowe replied. "Too bad they 

 couldn't have stayed together." 



Anne eyed her letter suspiciously, then 

 laid it aside. She opened it a little later, in 

 her room. "0 dear!" she exclaimed, 

 flushed and embarrassed, after she had read 

 it. "Now what do I do next?" 



Neither the furniture nor the letter told 

 her. "I know what I'm going to say," she 

 explained to the silence, "but I don't know 

 how to say it. ' ' 



That evening, after many efforts, she 

 finally evolved what seemed to satisfy her. 

 "Now, Mr. Theodore Eobinson, please, 

 please, don't let me hear from you again," 

 she remarked as she addressed the envelope. 

 Then she drew the letter out to read once 

 more. This is what she read: 



"My dear Theodore: You are utterly mis- 

 taken. I was not torn away from home. 

 I came here because I wanted to. And it's 

 not a desert. It's a lovely farm, with little 

 hills around the edges. I love it. There are 

 bees here too, workers and queens and sure- 

 enough drones, and bits of ivory eggs that 

 turn into chubby white worms and then get 

 wings and fly out and hum. I hate city 

 noises, but this gets into your soul. 

 I am always going to live in the 

 country, where there are bees and 

 daffodils and old men. So you see 

 I can 't very well marry you, Theo- 

 dore. Please forget that you asked 

 me. With best wishes, your friend, 

 Anne Lester." 



(To be Continued.) 



