154 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



March, 1920 



W! 



c 



Beek 



eeping as a 



Grace Allen 



ILJ 



'HEN will 

 ter brings 

 day after 

 day of rain to 

 Tennessee, as it 

 has done several 

 times this win- 

 ter, it drives 

 home the reali- 

 zation of one 



great difference between this section, as 

 suited to beekeeping, and sections much 

 further north, Canada, for instance. In the 

 far North the rain wouldn't be rain, often, 

 it would be snow; and it would pile softly 

 up around the hives, protecting them from 

 cold winds. Then in the spring, it would 

 gradually melt, letting the moisture into 

 the ground when it would do so very much 

 good. 



Take one little rainy spell we had in 

 January this past winter; it rained almost 

 steadily for more than three days, the pre- 

 cipitation during that period being four 

 inches. According to the estimate of the 

 United States Weather Bureau, it takes 

 about 10 inches of snow to equal 1 inch of 

 rain. So, had this particular rain fallen as 

 snow, it would have covered our January 

 earth practically 3% feet deep — to our 

 waists. If all our cold, splashy, dripping, 

 soaking wetness of that time could have 

 been thus stored in the form of deep, soft, 

 blanketing snow, to be used later as per- 

 meating moisture sinking gently down to 

 the roots of things, it would have made for 

 better beekeeping conditions. But our pre- 

 cipitation is nearly always rain, not snow. 

 At this writing (Feb. 7) not one flake of 

 snow has fallen on Nashville and her en- 

 virons this winter. This matter of winter 

 rains, then, and days damp and chill, be- 

 comes one of the factors important in the 

 wintering of our bees. Moreover, the spring 

 moisture so necessary for the swift coming 

 of the clover depends entirely upon spring 

 rains, where there are no melting snows. 

 Let those who will, laugh at the continual 

 harping of beekeepers on the word "locali- 

 ty"; the countless variations in conditions 

 make the beekeepers of one part of the 

 country stagger under problems utterly un- 

 known, perhaps, to those of some other sec- 

 tion; while at the same time they may tread 

 a veritable primrose way as to other con- 

 ditions, the envied of all observers. Locali- 

 ty, Horatio, locality. 



* * * 

 How does it happen that bees never stung 

 anybody's grandfather? They never did, 

 you know. Anyway, there is never a gather- 

 ing of people that someone among them did 

 not have either an uncle or a grandfather 

 who kept bees, and they never, never stung 

 him. Even out atPeabodyCollege last month, 

 when I gave a talk on beekeeping at an 

 evening round-table of county-agents-to-be 

 gathered before an open fire, it was the same 

 story. "Grandfather swarmed them and 

 robbed them, and never got stung. But just 



Side Line 



i 



ILJ 



let me go near 

 them!" Of 

 course, tho, 

 there 's one thing 

 to be remember- 

 ed about Grand- 

 father — except 

 for thus skill- 

 fully " swarm- 

 ing ' ' them and 

 ' ' robbing ' ' them, he didu 't do much to 

 them, you know, in years gone by. He 

 seldom ran any risk. His apiarian career 

 was singularly free of manipulations. There 

 were relatively few chances to get stung. 

 Incidentally, he didn't get much honey 

 either. But now that grandfathers and 

 uncles and all of us are facing the open hive 

 somewhat oftener, gentle motions and bee- 

 proof veils are better things to depend on 

 than any traditions of favoritism, or any 

 vague hope of inheriting Grandfather 's hap- 

 py lot — unread, unhoneyed, and unstung. 



We had a delightful taste of Virginia hos- 

 pitality that night at Peabody College, by 

 the way; the Virginia club had had a party 

 and there were baskets of loaves and fishes 

 left. So after the talk we were taken be- 

 hind the scenes and refreshed with sand- 

 wiches and coffee and friendly courtesy. 



While we have never done a mail-order 

 business, we have often mailed out extracted 

 honey to friends or members of the family. 

 This has always been in friction-top tin con- 

 tainers, which Mr. Allen packed most skill- 

 fully and thoroly. These have always been 

 accepted at the postoffice without protest 

 until within the last few weeks. Now the 

 window clerk refuses to accept honey except 

 in screwtop containers. 

 * * * 



A High School boy of Nashville bought 

 two colonies last fall, his first bees. That 

 was an unfortunate time to buy, unless one 

 could know just how things were inside. 

 These bees were in box hives, and all he 

 knew about them was that one was consider- 

 ably heavier than the other, and that the 

 man he bought them from was "a good old 

 fellow." As the weeks went by, the pile 

 of dead bees grew suspiciously large in front 

 of this light hive. One warm day he opened 

 it. The bees still in the box were as dead 

 as those outside, and there was not an ounce 

 of honey left. The other hive was still 

 heavy, with bees flying. Fortunately for 

 this beginner, the "good old fellow" 

 agreed to give him another colony in place 

 of the one that died. But "never again" 

 says the lad, "will I buy bees in box hivea 

 in the fall." 



When this young lad, utterly inexperienc- 

 ed, first visited our yard, he surprised us by 

 knowing what things were, when we called 

 them by name — -queen, brood, super, queen- 

 excluder, etc. — and he knew what part they 

 played in the hive. Some good instinct had 

 led him to get hold of a government bulletin 



