GLEAJS^INGS IN BEE CULTURE 



Tlie buildings at Kandlett's Landing as seen from the deck of the steamer on the river. The building 

 at the extreme left is the sleeping quarters (Saints' Rest); in the center, the kitchen; at the right the 

 extracting-room and work-shop. 



hesitate on a journey, however long, in this 

 country. 



As the train sped southward, evidences 

 were everj'where that spring had come. 

 Snow was " going, going, gone," though a 

 few icicles were still to be seen on the rocks. 

 Green fields, with skipping lambs, began to 

 appear; and in two days our novice was 

 sailing in a stern wheeler down the River 

 Apalachicola, in northern Florida, amid 

 luxuriant, semi-tropical forests. It was a 

 strange experience to come, thus quickly, 

 out of the frozen North into summer 

 warmth. I retired early, for the steamer 

 was to touch Randlett's Landing in the small 

 hours of the morning. Coming on deck 

 shortly after daylight the purser intimated, 

 " Next stop for you all." 



Here on a bend of the river, right in the 

 heart of the illimitable forest, the camp is 

 situated — the kitchen, fittingly named "Lib- 

 erty Hall," in the center; the workshop 

 below on the right, and the " Saints' Rest," 

 or sleeping-quarters, on the left; and around 

 the camp, " The Home of tlie Honey-bees," 

 on raised platforms, because, of occasional 

 floods, stand the hives, to the number of 

 three hundred and more, each full of busy 

 life from early morn till dewy eve. 



Breakfast was set, despite the early hour, 

 and I was made heartily welcome. And 

 what a repast ! Gentlemen ! "Pickled eels' 

 feet ! " intimated my vis-d-vis, a veritable 

 son of Anak. That happy note, struck at 

 the very beginning of my novitiate, has 

 been the note of the camp ever since. 



Here and there the figure of our expert, 

 Mr. Marehant, a name famous in beedom, 

 moves about, busily at work among the 

 hives. Sometimes he sings to himself ; some- 

 times a cloud in the sky is reflected in his 

 sunburnt face. It has been a trying season ; 

 but now every bee has gone mad with work. 

 A deep vibrating murmur is upon the air. 

 " Just listen to the bees, now ! Fly, mv 

 bullies ! " 



The young bees gambol in front of the 

 hives and around the already "swelled head'" 

 of Novice. The workers seem to fill the blue 

 sky as they dart hither and thither on their 

 way to gather pollen and honey. 



Many sounds are heard from the long 

 workroom. A small gasoline-engine putt- 

 putts and whirrs as a sanding-wheel screams 

 against the nucleus-braces, turning them out 

 as smooth as glass. The twanging of a wire 

 as it is drawn taut in a frame, and the 

 sound of hammering added to the din. In one 



