August, 1919 



Gi. p:anings in bee culture 



ANNE LESTER AND DADDY LOWE, BEEKEEPERS J 



By Grace Allen — Chapter VII 



^^r-r-iRUK taste is forever growing, leani- 

 J[ ing, reading, worshiping, laying its 

 hand upon its mouth because it is as- 

 tonished, casting its shoes from off its feet 

 because it finds all ground holy — " Daddy 

 Lowe was reading aloud, to the clicking — ■ 

 then resting — of Mrs. Lowe's knitting need- 

 les; while Anne, big-eyed with the intensity 

 of her listening, sat with her knitting in her 

 laj), looking off across the world. The old 

 man read on. 



"And it finds whereof to feed, and where- 

 by to grow, in all things; for there is that 

 to be seen in every street and lane of every 

 city^that to be felt and found in every 

 human heart and countenance, that to be 

 loved in every roadside weed and moss- 

 grown wall, which, in the hands of faithful 

 men, may convey emotions of glory and sub- 

 limity continual and exalted." 



Daddy Lowe laid down his beloved Eus- 

 kin and the three sat silent. The early 

 August day hung hot and heavy. 



"I wonder what Euskin would have done 

 if he had lived during this war," Anne mus- 

 ed presently. 



"He would have hated it," the old man 

 answered. "But if he had been young, he 

 would have fought, I think. And if he had 

 been old, he would have written things to 

 feed men 's souls. ' ' 



Again they were silent, there in the deep 

 shade of the maples. 



"Daddy Lowe," Anne began again, "are 

 all beekeepers like you?" 



"Bless vou, no. Are all young girls like 

 you?" 



"Yes, I think so — just about. Only I like 

 books more than most of them — and parties 

 less. And country more and cities less. ' ' 



"And bees more and beaux less," sug- 

 gested Mr. Lowe. 



"And old people more and young people 

 less, ' ' smiled Mrs. Lowe. 



' ' Oh, I love everybody, ' ' Anne declared, 

 "almost. And you two most of all, after 

 Robert. But I was thinking what a nice 

 kind of work beekeeping is for nice men 

 like Daddy Lowe, because it doesn't take 

 every minute every day. Hours like this 

 are so lovely." 



' ' I have friends who say this way of liv- 

 ing hasn't made me rich," the old beekeeper 

 said quietly. 



"Well, it has," flamed Anne, "rich in- 

 side. Why — some people are so poor inside 

 that their ideals are all ragged and worn. 

 But you, you are rich, rich, rich." 



"One thing we have to be careful about, 

 Anne, ' ' Mr. Lowe said presently. ' ' Those of 

 us who care a great deal about books and 

 quiet hours have much the same problem 

 as the more energetic ambitious people liave, 

 that is, to maintain a poise, not too much 



work nor too much leisure, but a quiet bal- 

 ance between the two extremes." 



"Well, you can certainly work hard," 

 Anne approved. "And you can get a lot 

 out of leisure too. ' ' 



' ' You flatter me, ' ' he smiled, adding, 

 "It's time I started showing off my work- 

 ing talents again. Anyone want to join the 

 \ain display?" 



Before Anne could answer, she was wav- 

 ing a friendly hand to a passing car, as it 

 crossed the one open space where the road 

 was visible. "Theodore," she explained. 

 Then, laughing, "He goes right by when 

 I'm in polite clothes, and drives relentlessly 

 in when I'm working in the yard." 



' ' Then he '11 likely drive in tomorrow, ' ' 

 said Mr. Lowe. 



And so he did. But only for a few min- 

 utes. He was taking Aliss Katherine Clark 

 to the train for a visit to friends in the city, 

 and she wanted to say good-bye to Anne, to 

 v.honi she had taken a great liking. 



"I'm going to have such a good time!" 

 she chirped in delighted anticipation. "I 

 do love the city so. ' ' She turned to Anne. 

 "Do you really like all this?" she demand- 

 ed, with a puzzled look at the work clothes 

 and the stained hands and the moist face of 

 Anne. 



"Ask Theodore," laughed Anne. 



"She thinks she does," he affirmed. 

 "Can't we persuade her she doesn't?" 



Katherine pointed an accusing finger at 

 him. ' ' Pluck the farming beam out of your 

 own eye before trying to dig the beekeeping 

 n'ote out of hers!" Then to Anne, "I've 

 found out he doesn't like farming a bit. 

 Even Father says he ought to go back to the 

 city. But he won 't — for some secret rea- 

 son. Patriotism, I suppose. ' ' 



"No telling," murmured Anne. The car 

 started out. 



"But he's coming in Thursday to take me 

 riding and to a concert," the girl leaned 

 out to call back. "Isn't that nice of him?" 



"Lovely," agreed Anne, waving her 

 good-byes and good wishes to the happy girl 

 and a very red and very miserable Theodore. 

 She watched quietly till they were out of 

 sight, then turned back to her beekeeper 

 friend and teacher. 



"What had you started to say, Daddy 

 Lowe?" she asked. "Something about 

 planning right now for next season 's crop. ' ' 



With the fine courtesy that makes no un- 

 invited comments, he again started to ex- 

 l)lain the next work to be done. 



' ' You see, Anne, the only way we can get 

 a maximum crop next summer is to have 

 every colony in as perfect condition as possi- 

 ble when that flow comes. That calls for 

 good wintering. That requires a lot of 

 young bees this fall. To get them we need 



