<)•") J. 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE. 



Mar 15. 



of the world; but they were moditied outwardly 

 so as to correspond to their cold northern 

 climate. 

 Medina, O., Feb. 5. 



RAMBLE 104. 



RIDES AND talks; THOSE BIG CALIFORNIA 

 YIELDS OF HONEY. 



"Hello, Mr. Rambler! There was a stout- 

 looking fellow inquiring for you the other day. 

 He had a double-barrel shot-gun and a whole 

 row of loaded cartridges around his body; didn't 

 seem to have blood in his eye, but still I thought 

 he might be a dangerous fellow." 



"Oh! no, neighbor; that fellow is not dang(ir- 

 ous. That was a bee-keeping friend of mine 

 who lives in East Riverside, and his name is 

 Unterkircher." 



"What! Unklekitcher?" 



"No, no! Unter — kircher." 



"Wall, I declare! wonder if that was the 

 last name given to man." 



" No, neighbor, there sc(>med to be several 

 names sort o' tangled, and this is one of them. 

 It is a German name. Unter means under in 

 English, and kircher means kicker, I guess. 

 We'll call it that, anyway— Underkicker." 



"But, neighbor, what's in a name? Accord- 

 ing to Shakespeare, the rose would look just as 

 pretty if called a burdock."' 



" That stout-looking fellow has done the un- 

 der kicking on an apiary during the past season, 

 and kicked out over 15 tons of honey." 



" Je-whitliker! is thatso? Well, now, he is 

 some pumpkins;" and my neighbor went on his 

 way, muttering " Underkicker — 15 tons of honey 

 — Jerusha!" 



I was in hopes to have this 15-ton honey-man 

 at the convention in Los Angeles; but la grippe 

 laid him low about that time, and I had to make 

 preparations to leave without him. 



It was my intention to get off at an early 

 hour the day previous to the convention. I had 

 some fears of being intercei)ted by a constable. 

 After going around with Mr. Moflfat and the 

 officer, as described in Ramble 10:2, they consid- 

 ered me a good witness; but matters and things 

 seemed to go wrong that morning. When at- 

 tached to the cart, Vixen, instead of starting 

 off in a civilized way. sat down. After several 

 other antics I raced her around the house and 

 was just ready to start for the railroad when 

 Mr. Hunt put in an appearance. Matters per- 

 taining to beedom had to be considered, when, 

 of course, the constable had to put in his ap- 

 pearance with his subpoena, and I missed the 

 morning train. I hustled for the next one, how- 

 ever, and caught it, and about dark I was land- 

 ed at the door of our treasurer, Mr. Woodbury, 

 in Verdugo. I found Mr. W. had completed his 

 tunnel for water that he was at work upon 

 when Mr. Corey and I visited him. A windmill 



was merrily whirling, pumping water for vari- 

 ous uses. No mishap had marred the comfort 

 of that tunnel except the entrance of a skunk, 

 which had odorized the water and surroundings 

 to a considerable extent for several days. 



After the buzzing of our convention was end- 

 ed, and the bee-keepers had gone to their hives, 

 as the dailies rendered it, I accepted the hospi- 

 tality of Mr. Brodbeck. and prepared to accom- 

 pany him to his residence in South Los Angeles. 

 Mr. B. is not a very boastful man; but since he 

 had partaken of my delicious flap-jacks he had 

 thrown out various tantalizing hints about his 

 superior cooking, even if he was a benedict, 

 and he boldly challenged me to come and see. 

 Before entering the electric car he led the way 

 to a shop kept by an individual termed a cater- 

 er. I kept my eyes open to see what such a per- 

 son was made for. The various mottoes on the 

 walls all bore gastronomic sentiments — "Hot 

 boiled tongue," "Quirks of sausage." "Corn 



^^^^ >yo|Jfa abler! Guess uou 

 ^""^ ^ W W° ^""^^ 0/ these caters."^." 



pones,'' "Doughnuts, such as your grandma 

 made." The more of them you read, the hun- 

 grier you get. I had just concluded to cater on 

 some nice sliced ham when Mr. B. drew my at- 

 tention to the fact that he had more cater bun- 

 dles than he could manage, and I came to his 

 rescue. A caterer's shop, as I understand it, is 

 a place where they create an aching void in 

 your stomach, and then sell you cooked food, 

 sliced and mashed, ready to fill said void. 

 When Los Angelans think of getting a regular 

 meal they say, "Shall we cook or cater?" In 

 this case, with my friend it was cater; and 

 when we arrived at the Brodbeck mansion, and 

 Mrs. B. had returned from the school near by, 

 where she is a teacher, Mr. B. spread out his 

 prepared food on the table, and exclaimed, 

 "There, Mr. Rambler, see what a cook am I," 

 just as though catering can compare with the 



