GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



July, 1919 



One May afternoon I stood by the gate wait- 

 ing for a street ear, all silk-dressed and 

 white-hatted and ready for club, when I de- 

 cided there was time to go back and get a 

 rose. And there, scarcely waist high, on a 

 young peach tree near the roses, hung one 

 of the prettiest swarms I ever saw. Into 

 a shallow super it too went, there being 

 nothing else handy, and I was able to return 

 the courtesy of their low clustering by 

 merely bending a trifle more the bough 

 where they hung, until it lay on the frames, 

 giving it then a gentle jar. And immediate- 

 ly bodies pointed up at a joyful angle, wings 

 started waving, and I left them taking rap- 

 turous i^ossession of their new home, while 

 I, with my rose, went on to the club. Not 

 worth mentioning, you see, or even remem- 

 bering, if one were a professional, but a 

 happy incident to be told with glee, when 

 one is a side liner. 



And now, in an utter tumult of over 

 whelming moods, I claim my side liner 's 

 right to make my moan and my long tragic 

 wail. Yes; undoubtedly you have guessed 

 it. What else could it be? American, at 

 that. 



The sad details are in no way peculiar. I 

 merely went into the yard one otherwise 

 happy May morning, and when I drew out 

 the first comb, the skies fell around me and 

 the world grew dark. Dry and empty this 

 outside comb was, except that here, there, 

 and elsewhere were perhaps a dozen scat- 

 tered, sealed, sunken cells, with the telltale 

 ragged perforations. I sniffed. No notice- 

 able odor. I broke a twig from the young 

 cherry tree overhead, and with the world 

 holding its breath, inserted it. Something 

 coffee-colored and "ropy came out. Mechani- 

 cally, like a frozen thing, I drew out a 

 comb from the center, looking for evidence 

 of a mated queen. ' ' Eggs, ' ' I coldly in- 

 formed the indifferent universe, and closed 

 the hive. Walking back to the house I 

 thought of Mr. Holtermann; and Job; and 

 Mr. Buchanan who might — might — the I well 

 knew he wouldn't — call it all a mistake; and 

 Mr. Allen, the comforting depths of whose 

 chivalrous courtesy closes over all my woes. 



Mr. Buchanan did all that any inspector 

 could do, came promptly and said the worst. 

 But for all that, the light broke. It always 

 does, you know, even when you get foul 

 brood. We blessed the happy inspiration 

 that had decided us last summer to move 

 our bees away, all but these five hives, now 

 nine, that we kept just for the joy of their 

 presence. Even the humor came in, as it 

 usually does with us here. One evening 

 while I was muttering incantations over a 

 boiler of bubbling lye water, wherein some 

 frames were being coaxed to perfect cleanli- 

 ness, suddenly across the evening came the 

 sound of a fire engine, rushing out into the 

 night with its ladders and its helmeted men 

 and hose. Down the side street it rushed, 

 swung around the corner, drew to a clanging 

 stop at our rear. Lights flashed in darkened 

 houses, people ran into the street. And the 



surprised and peeved firemen found only 

 Mr. Allen, equally surprised and almost 

 equally peeved, where he loomed tall and 

 symbolic over a foulbroody fire in a yawning 

 pit in the backyard! 



Honey prospects? Who can say? It rain- 

 ed twenty-three days in May; not usually 

 showers, either, but long steady persistent 

 rains, that acted as tho they had studied 

 ' ' Power of Will, ' ' and were demonstrating 

 how they could stick to a set purpose, unde- 

 terred by what anybody said. Often it 

 cleared in the evening, the nights being 



There they were snug and prosperous on the under 

 side of the hivestand. 



beautiful with great stars that seemed to 

 promise equally beautiful days. But always 

 dawn was lost in clouds, and morning came 

 clothed in gray garments, wet and dripping; 

 and behold, today was like unto yesterday 

 and the days that passed before. Bees were 

 kept in their hives and beekeepers grew in- 

 creasingly discouraged. 



Yet after all, there is something more 

 than honey crops in this world to reckon 

 rainy days by. There is something in the 

 souls of men and women that answers to the 

 soft mood of a long quiet gray day. Let us 

 never allow crop prospects to crowd the 

 sensitive response out of our souls. Better 

 gather beauty and the high gifts of the 

 spirit, as we go, than all the honey in all 

 the flowers, and all the money in all the 

 world. 



There was one especial day in May. I 

 was alone with the rain, sitting on a high 

 stool under a rather ramshackle roof sloping 

 east from the accommodating shed we have 

 the use of, out there in the country where 

 our bees are. My hands were putting in 

 foundation, but the heart and soul of me 

 were being touched with quietness and all 

 the gentle sounds and tenderness of a rainy 

 <iay. And verily, thru the years to come, the 

 gifts of that day shall be of more value than 

 many pounds of honey. 



RAIN. 

 I am alone with the rain and the young; green eflrth 

 and her fragrance. 

 Alone with the rni.st-hlurred notes that float from 

 a distant, thrush. 

 My sou], so often a flame, today is a cup of wonder. 

 Held to the miracle rain — rain — rain — and the 

 hush. 



