March, 1919 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



things. All this accumulated wisdom is 

 his for the mere reading of it, and the di- 

 gesting, and the applying. Nor could any 

 beginner expect the time of a convention to 

 be given over to the explanation of what are 

 mere rudiments, long known by all present 

 except the two or three very new ones. 

 Even were it reasonable to turn the meeting 

 over thus to such primary instruction, the 

 beginner could not learn it all that day. So 

 the thing for him to do is, as has been said 

 countless times, read — read — read. As one 

 of Mr. Adkisson 's clever negro verses says 

 in conclusion, 



" I's sho gwine git me some modjun hives, 

 De Gleanin's an' A. B. C. ; 

 Den de w'ite man an' de w'ite man's bees 

 Aint gwine ter have nothin' on me." 



with honey; for such a warm, open winter 

 as this is calls for a W(>alth of stores. Now if 

 only the spring will not convict us of queens 

 honey-bound in the fall! More than one bee- 

 keeper is worried. 



* * » 



Three thousand tons of honey hoarded in 

 Australia for speculation! Naughty, naughty 



somebody! 



* * * 



Some one asks, "If a man who works on 

 a farm is called a farmer, and a woman 

 who does the same work is a farmerette, 

 why isn 't a man who works with beea a 

 bee-er , or beer, and a woman who does the 

 same work a beerette?" I don't know; 

 perhaps it's contrary to the recent 18th 

 amendment to the constitution. 



Those of us who had not heard the heavy 

 news before were utterly saddened to learn 

 at the convention of the death in France of 

 Frank Eing of Franklin, Tenn., one of our 

 younger beekeepers. Somehow it struck 

 hard and deep, that news that day — he was 

 so young, so strong, so upstanding, so boy- 

 ish. The last time I saw him was at the 

 State Fair in 1917, gay and full of light- 

 hearted good cheer. At the Fair last fall 

 his father took a bit of the red, white, and 

 blue decoration from our booth to inclose 

 with a message of good wishes I sent to 

 Frank by him. I wonder if he ever got it. 

 Oh, you who sit by the peace table in Paris, 

 be wise and godly in your judgments. We 

 have laid holy gifts on the altar of right- 

 eousness — it is yours to see the altar kept 

 clean and fair, worthy forever of the sacri- 

 fice. They must not have died in vain, 

 Frank Ring fresh from his bee-yard in Ten- 

 nessee and those uncounted others from 

 their homes over all the earth. ■*' 



You know Rupert Brooke 's wonderful 

 sonnet beginning, 



" If I should die, think only this of me 

 That there's some corner of a foreign field 

 That is forever England." 



So, over there now, there is a corner of a 

 French field that is forever Tennessee. 

 Surely sometime soon there shall be blossom- 

 ing things on it that shall bring the bees, and 

 all around and above shall be a humming 

 like the humming in the old yard at home. 

 And, somewhere, Frank shall know, and 



smile. 



» » * 



It has certainly been a mild winter over 

 all the country. The new year came in on 

 rather a bad day, here, when the mercury 

 dropped from 65 to 29 degrees, and there 

 was sleet, and wind with a velocity of 35 

 miles per hour. Not very bad, yet that 

 was the worst wind and the worst daily 

 variation in the w^hole of January. The mean 

 temperature for the month was 40 degrees, 

 and that 's not very mean. Last year it was 

 26. Normal for January is 38. 



We are all feeling pretty thankful for 

 that big fall flow, and the hives so heavy 



A certain sympathetic gentleman who be- 

 lieves in poetic justice has admitted that if 

 there were any of the beekeeping fraternity 

 among those who were soused with molasses 

 in the explosion of the molasses tank in 

 Boston in January, he hoped it was some one 

 who had rolled queen bees in honey. ' ' Serv- 

 ed 'em right — let 'em find out how it feels, ' ' 

 he imagined the queens murmuring, when 

 the news reached them. 



The ground hog saw no shadow on the 

 first of February, so, according to the queer 

 old tradition, winter is practically over. 

 Tree tops are full of promise. Onion sets 

 are being quoted on the market page of the 

 daily papers. The bees are bringing in pol- 

 len. So, tho this is only the third of Feb- 

 ruary, the wonder season seems to be almost 

 upon us. Still there are many, of wide ex- 

 perience and little faith, who cry, "Beware 

 of February and March!" 



MY THOUGHTS. 



Some days my thoughts are butterflies. 

 And some days they are bees, 



But every day they fly away 

 Beyond the farthest trees 



To where some perfect beauty lies 

 For either bees or butterflies. 



Sometimes they've color on their wings. 



Sometimes they hum a song. 

 Sometimes they glean as for a queen 



Fair gifts I've wanted long, 

 And bring me back the lovely things 



With raptured song and homing wings. 



And that is when my thoughts are bees, 



When every joyous flight 

 Brings something back from that wild trade 



They make across the light. 

 For fairy plunder no one sees 



My thoughts take flight like flashing bees. 



But when my thoughts are butterflies 



They rift so gently out 

 I scarcely know they mean to go 



Or what they are about. 

 They are more beautiful than wise 



When they drift out like butterflies. 



