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GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



OCTOSER, J919 



ANNE LESTER and DADDY LOWE, BEEKEEPERS 



By Grace Allen — Chapter IX 



ANNE LESTEE did not leave the Lowe 

 ^ farm, as she had written her brother she 

 planned to do. The protest she had natu- 

 rally expected broke so overwhelmingly 

 that there was no chance to overrule it. 

 Quite evidently the Lowe family wanted 

 her to stay. So, as she did not need to go 

 and was happy there, she took them at their 

 word, with a simple faith born of her own 

 fine honesty, and stayed. 



October came swinging across the earth 

 like a wave of gold, setting Anne's young 

 heart afire with its flaming beauty. Day 

 after day she and Shep took long rambles 

 thru the countryside and over the hills, 

 bringing home great bunches of goldenrod 

 or delicate aster or scarlet maple boughs. 

 Or she sat reading, thru long, quiet, shining 

 hours, stopping often, wondering, looking 

 off across the autumn earth, letting the 

 mood of it sink in. 



"You know. Miss Anne," young Jack 

 Lowe remarked one afternoon, as she came 

 hurrying up the steps just before supper 

 time, "I thought you were going to live here 

 while Bob was gone." 



"Well, don't 1?" she challenged, turn- 

 ing back in the open door, cheeks like the 

 bright burden of autumn branches she was 

 carrying. 



He shook his head mournfully. "You do 

 not. You eat and sleep here, but you live 

 in some mysterious place outdoors." 



' ' Mysterious nothing, '' Anne laughed. 

 ' ' I 'm the least mysterious person in the 

 world. I've been up in the orchard this 

 afternoon, reading Keats to Shep. ' ' 

 Jack groaned. "Why the orchard?" 

 "There's a lovely view from there, 

 and—" 



"I thought you liked Dad and the bees 

 and things like that." 

 "I do." 



"Then why Shep and the orchard?" 

 "They're things like that." 

 ' ' Maybe so. But why not occasionally 

 read in the yard, to Dad and anyone else 

 that wants to listen?'' 



Anne hesitated. She honestly did not 

 know herself why she had avoided Jack so 

 much lately; she certainly didn't dislike 

 him. ' ' Perhaps I 'm fated to follow Shep, 

 the way Cadmus followed the cow," she 

 finally laughed. 



' ' Then someone 's got to reason with 

 Shep, ' ' said Jack. 



Anne stepped quickly out on the porch, 

 and handed him her armful of autumn beau- 

 ty. ' * Please put these in the big urn for 

 me," she said gently, "over in the corner 

 of the dining room. I have to freshen up 

 for supper." 



The next morning, as they all stepped out 

 on the porch after breakfast, up came Shep, 

 wagging. his tail and laughing at them all 



out of his expressive collie eyes. "What's 

 this, old fellow?" asked Mr. Lowe, leaning 

 over to look at something tied to his collar. 

 ' ' Here, Anne, it 's for you. Looks like a let- 

 ter." 



With a puzzled look, Anne untied and 

 read the note. Then she laughed merrily. 

 ' ' It 's from Shep himself, '' she explained. 

 "Listen. 'Dear Miss Anne: I don't be- 

 lieve you always understand my tail-wag- 

 ging, so I am trying letter-writing. I don 't 

 want to go to the orchard or on the hills 

 today — it 's too far. Won 't you spend at 

 least the morning under the maples by the 

 house? Please. And I hope you'll read to 

 me, as usual. Devotedly, Shep.' " 



Anne took the dog's head between her 

 hands and turned his face up. ' ' I am very 

 sorry, Shep, ' ' she said, gravely. ' * But I 

 have an engagement with Mr. Lowe, Bee- 

 keeper, for this morning. Will this after- 

 noon do?" 



"Where are your manners, Shep?" de- 

 manded Jack. "Answer the lady. Say, 

 this afternoon will do perfectly. Miss Anne. 

 Say it, sir! " 



Shep wagged vigorous delight at the at- 

 tention received. ' ' Gone back to tail-wag- 

 ging, '' reproved Jack, "in spite of Keats' 

 and the correspondence course." 



Two hours later the old beekeeper and 

 the girl were starting their last examination 

 of the bees for that season. Carefully they 

 looked into the brood-chamber of every 

 hive, working together again, that the wis- 

 dom born of many years ' experience might 

 judge the condition of each colony. At 

 Anne 's request, he talked as they worked. 



' ' They are running about as I thought 

 they would," he said once. "Our fall flow 

 was not very heavy, yet heavy enough for 

 most of the colonies to put away plenty for 

 winter. A few have something to spare, and 

 we '11 draw on those for the ones that lack. 

 Some years I can take off a little surplus 

 from boneset and aster; occasionally I have 

 to feed, when they fail completely. This is 

 just an average year." 



' ' Well, Daddy Lowe, I know you plan on 

 30 pounds of honey for winter. Please show 

 me just how you decide how much to leave." 

 ' ' A full-depth comb, sealed solid, has 

 about five pounds of honey; a shallow, near- 

 ly three. That is the basis. I used to weigh 

 the hives, after weighing empty equipment 

 of the same size. But that was when I win- 

 tered in one chamber. Now that I use two 

 stories or one and a half, weighing isn 't so 

 easy. Neither is lifting the hives, to esti- 

 mate the weight. So I usually look thru 

 each one. This way I can be sure that each 

 one has, not only enough stores, but also 

 enough bees, and of course a queen." 



He was opening a hive as he spoke. 

 ' ' Now, " as he set out two combs, and glanc- 



