1900 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE. 



307 



"But for all that, they can," said I. "You 

 see, all animals and plants vary from each 

 other more or less when taken from their wild 

 haunts and domesticated or cultivated. Then 

 by selecting the best for many generations we 

 can improve them. You see how we got our 

 choice grapes which our grandfathers knew 

 nothing about. Mr. Bull took some wild fox- 

 grapes that were fit only for partridges or wild 

 Indians to eat, and planted a lot of seeds in 

 his garden, and then selected seeds from the 

 best fruit and planted again, when, after a 

 while, he raised the Concord, which he named 

 after the town in which he lived. So by rais- 

 ing seedlings, and crossing with better varie- 

 ties, we now have a good many choice grapes. 

 Then there are our wild plums — but here comes 

 Dan Savage. Good morning, Mt. Savage." 



" Good morning. Bees making honey now 

 days, I reckon ? " 



"Not much," said I. " I don't know how 

 many times I have had that question asked 

 me this winter. It is queer anybody should 

 think of such a thing — as though bees could 

 gather honey when there is not a plant in 

 blossom out of doors within five hundred 

 miles of here, and the snow is two feet deep, 

 atid the mercury 10° below zero. But then, 

 you might teach me something about pigs." 



"I reckon 1 could," said Savage. " I have 

 raised enough on 'ein ; and there is money in 

 the business, too, I reckon, with improved 

 breeds. I can raise corn cheap on my flats, 

 and then with clover and artichokes I am right 

 in it, I reckon. But you want a good breed. 

 There is the case-knife breed. I wouldn't 

 give a cat's commission for the hull on 'em. 

 Old Jenkins has 'em, and I reckon he will lose 

 his farm. I'll bet it '11 go on a mortgage in 

 less than a year." 



' ' Yes, I see ; 

 I have just been 

 looking this 

 matter i:p. I 

 am very much 

 interested in im- 

 pr o vin g my 

 bees, and I 

 wanted to see 

 what had been 

 accom p 1 i s h e d 

 with other do- 

 mestic animals. 

 I found a pic- 

 ture of what you 

 call the case- 

 knife breed, 

 from an old 

 work by Rich- 

 ardson, and call- 

 ed by him the 

 Irish gray- 

 hound ; and two 

 pictures from 

 ' Youatt on the 

 Pig,' showing 

 the head and 

 neck of the 

 wild boar and a Yorkshire pig. You see the 

 difference, the grayhound pig and the York- 

 shire pig. Both descended, doubtless, from 



Yorkshire 



the same wild stock; but how different ! The 

 grayhound had to pick up its living as it 

 could, and bred as it happened, while the 

 Yorkshire pig has been well fed and housed 

 and bred for many generations from carefully 

 selected stock." 



"I reckon that is so," said Savage, as he 

 turned and shuffled down the street to look 

 after his herd of squealing brutes, and my 

 more agreeable neighbor Ben Bridgman 

 walked into my shop with a cordial " Hello ! 

 how are you? " 



"Pretty well. When did you get back 

 from the city? " 



" Came in on the morning train." 



"Sell your wool?" I asked, for Ben is a 

 wool-grower and a sheep-breeder as well, for 

 about here both seem to go together. But be- 

 fore he had time to answer me I asked another 

 question : 



" See here," I said. " I have been wanting 

 to see you for some time to ask you about your 

 flock You began keeping sheep, if my mem- 

 ory serves me right, some thirty-five years ago. 

 What I wanted to know is, how much wool 

 your flock averaged ?t that time, and how 

 much now." 



"During the civil war," he began, "the 

 price of wool was high, and I increased my 

 flock as fast as I could, and in 1865 I sheared 

 just three hundred sheep, and they averaged 

 me just five pounds of wool a head, which I 

 sold for a dollar a pound. I don't keep so 

 many sheep now — only about two hundred. 

 Last year these averaged me ten pounds a 

 head — just twice what I got thirty-four years 

 ago." 



" Good ! I don't believe there are many bee- 

 keepers who can make as good a show as that 

 in improving their stock." 



I was going to make some more very com- 

 plimentary remarks when Esquire Fullam 

 came in. 



"Good morning, 'squire. I notice by the 

 papers you dairymen have been having a pret- 

 ty lively convention over at B ." 



"Well, that we did," said the 'squire. 

 " You know our dairymen's association is the 

 oldest one of its kind in the United States. 

 We take our wives and daughters along with 

 us, and put up at the best hotels, and have a 

 jolly good time I assure you. Dairying is hard 

 work, but it is honest, and we are all the time 

 improving our stock and our farms — yes, and 

 our children too. Ours is a grand State for 

 dairying. We have the largest creamery in 



the world, and is the only town in 



the world that has the proud distinction of 

 sprinkling its streets with buttermilk. I tell 

 you I wouldn't swap our State for any other 

 in the Union. Those York Staters may make 

 more cheese, but I doubt if it is as good." 



I noticed he was getting a little short of 

 breath, and, at the risk of being rude, I in- 

 terrupted him and said, "You spoke of im- 

 proving your stock. Can you tell me how 

 much you have improved it since your asso- 

 ciation was formed ? ' ' 



" Well, let me see," he began. "Thirty years 

 ago we got — that is, the best of us — two hun- 

 dred pounds of butter to the cow, while now 



