THE LIFE OF A BEE 



So, all night long murmurings and vague discontents 

 and forebodings and anticipations ran through the 

 hive. Those marked so mysteriously to go realized 

 that their lives were at stake and likely to be 

 lost. Yet each one in the hive would have gone. 

 It was not until late that I learned that our own 

 mother, my mother, the mother of the hive, was 

 to go away, leaving her daughter to preside over 

 the destinies of the old. Here, too, Crip was wont 

 to philosophize. 



"You see, our mother is not young," he began. "If 

 she should perish in the stress of the winter and the 

 new colony be lost, it would be less grievous than the 

 loss of this new, vigorous Queen. Besides, our mother 

 has had experience. She has lived over one winter. 

 She knows how much of a brood to rear to maintain 

 the strength of the colony or whether she dare rear 

 any at all bearing in mind the while that there must 

 be a fine adjustment between the mouths to be fed 

 and the total of supplies. She knows well how to keep 

 this account. Last winter, I am told, our stores ran 

 low, so low, in fact, that many of our brothers sac- 

 rificed their lives in order to conserve the supplies so 

 as to bring the Queen-Mother with a few attendants 

 through the long, bitter winter. Not a young bee was 

 reared until the first flowers had come riotously tramp- 

 ling on the skirts of the frost. So, you see, they know 

 best. She will lead the swarm, and perhaps, if the 

 season is late, and the frost slow to come, they can 

 build their combs and store sufficient honey to bring 

 them through. Perhaps even spring may come to 

 their rescue, blossoming early. A late, backward 



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