716 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



November, 1919 



tion, wire 'em in, and you'll get good work- 

 er comb. Don 't allow any drones at all. 

 Then you '11 have too many anyhow. Never 

 let the hives get crowded. Always keep 

 ahead of your bees. Give 'em what they 

 want before they want it. Doesn't that 

 sound like Dad?'' 



Anne nodded merrily. "Do go on! It 

 sounds like a beekeeper's book of proverbs." 

 "There's lots more — Dad drilled it in 

 pretty well. Never leave honey exposed or 

 you '11 start robbing. Work quietly. Don 't 

 use too much smoke. But use enough. 

 Don 't let your bees swarm. At least, not 

 often! Now don't ask me how to prevent 

 it, Miss Anne. You can 't put swarm pre- 

 vention into a proverb. You know that. 

 Still, how's this? Plenty of room for both 

 brood and honey, a little shade, and a lot of 

 ventilation. That '11 all help. And young 

 queens aren 't so apt to swarm as old ones. 

 But, goodness, some of them will swai-m re- 

 gardless. I've hived a lot of them in my 

 life. Clip your queens and they can 't go 

 away. Like my summary proverbs?" 



' ' They 're dandies. ' ' 



' ' Then you give me some wintery ones. ' ' 



"Young queens again, then. Plenty of 

 young bees, emphasis on the young. Plenty 

 of sealed stores, not less than thirty pounds. 

 Windbreaks. The rest of it has scarcely 

 passed into a proverb yet. Plenty of pack- 

 ing, if you pack, and small entrances. If 

 you cellar, a diy, well-ventilated cellar, 

 averaging about 45 degrees. And Jack, your 

 father says, above all, winter or summer, 

 you must love the work. ' ' 



On down the rainy road they went, 

 straight into the heart of November. And 

 all around them was life and inspiration and 

 beauty, where so many older, wearier folk, 

 huddled about small fires, saw only fog and 

 drizzle and chill. It is the way of youth, 

 this seeing beauty at the heart of all things. 

 And some there be, happily, who stay al- 

 ways young. 



For a long time they walked in silence, 

 with only the occasional comments that 

 grew out of the walk itself; "Some tree," 

 from Jack, as they passed the bare oak at 

 the corner; "How heavy and drenched the 

 leaves lie under," from Anne, or "Listen! " 

 when a birdnote floated across the gray; 

 and other such little obvious things, that 

 just said themselves and wisely rested there. 



* ' There 's one nice thing about you, ' ' 

 Jack remarked once. 



' ' Thanks, ' ' said Anne. ' ' My raincoat ? ' ' 



"Also," said Jack, "you don't think you 

 have to talk every minute." 



"I like conversation," she answered. 

 ' ' But I do like to keep still, too, and just 

 listen. Something comes closer when you 're 

 still. God, maybe. ' ' 



"There's one nice thing about you, too," 

 she added, a few minutes later. "You 

 don 't have to be talked to every minute. 

 It does make a difference, ' ' she explained. 

 "Some men sort of rattle, if vou don't 

 talk." 



Jack shook his head in mock distress. 



' ' Empty wagons on a rough road, ' ' he 

 mourned. "And some girls, by the way, rat- 

 tle when they do talk," he added. 



They turned by the old sycamore, and fol- 

 lowed the creek road for some time. "If I 

 weren't here," there was the slightest tinge 

 of self -scorn in Jack 's voice as they paused 

 where stepping-stones led ^cross, "you'd 

 go on over and climb the old hill." 



' ' Perhaps, ' ' she admitted. ' ' But it 's a 

 prouder thing to stand here and remember 

 just why you can 't climb hills right now. ' ' 



The honest ring in her voice shamed the 

 dissatisfaction out of his. "Please under- 

 stand I don 't mind what I got, ' ' he urged 

 anxiously. 



' ' Of course I understand. You 're in a 

 hurry to go back. But Jack, you know even 

 strong young hearts like yours don 't get 

 over such a bad case of gas in a month or 

 two." 



Midway her words Jack turned to her 

 swiftly. How lovely she was, vivid and 

 windblown and earnest. "And there are 

 some things they never get over, Miss 

 Anne, ' ' he said, his voice suddenly low and 

 tense, ' ' and never want to. ' ' 



"Does he mean Katherine?" Anne 

 thought. For sometimes even women force 

 themselves to think with their heads only, 

 instead of with their hearts — ^the natural 

 way. ' ' Anyhow, ' ' she decided quickly, 

 heart and head both fluttered a bit by the 

 strange new tone and the strange new look, 

 so directly into her eyes, "anyhow, this is 

 no time to keep still. But — I can 't think 

 of a thing to talk about. I'll have to try 

 the weather." 



So presently the girlish voice said, ' ' It 

 seems queer to me that some people don 't 

 like rain. I love it. ' ' 



No reply. 



' ' I believe I 'd want it to rain even in 

 the Forest of Arden. ' ' 



Still no reply. 



' ' I don 't mean just to make things grow, ' ' 

 she kept on, sure she was talking against 

 something inevitable, "but just for thle 

 rain's sake." 



And still no reply. 



Whereupon Anne 

 twinkly sort of sigh. 



won 't do, ' ' she remarked impersonally to 

 the scenery, "I'll have to fall back on bees, 

 or the war, or books. ' ' 



Then Jack turned to hei again. "Anne!'" 



One word — and it was as tho she had 

 never heard her name before. 



' ' Anne, I don 't know a thing about rain ! 

 Or bees or books or anything but you. There 

 isn't anything or anybody in the whole 

 wide world — but Anne!" 



And the look in his faee was such as no 

 one had ever seen there before, so flaming 

 it was, so swept with emotion, so tender 

 and holy and reverent. 



"I wish to God there wasn't any war!" 

 The words broke from the inmost depths of 

 the brave and boyish soul of him. "But 



when it's over — dear — do you think — ? 



Anne!" — Concluded in December issue. 



sighed, a solemnly 

 ' ' Evidently the rain 



