February, 1921. 



GX.EANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



95 



careful beekeeper, he has no fear of finding 

 her or her progeny iu his hive, yet he dis- 

 likes them heartily. He may notice, or read, 

 that the night-flying insects, particularly 

 the moths, visit white flowers chiefly, or 

 flowers heavily scented. 



Reading more, observing more, he comes 

 gradually to realize that his former vague 

 ideas of pollination were pitifully rudimen- 

 tary. Slowly he becomes aware of a great 

 system spreading out before him, and 

 while he may never master any department 

 of natural science, he will find his whole 

 appreciative soul deepened and enriched by 

 the things he continues to learn. He could 

 never write a treatise on it or become a 

 teacher, yet he feels that he is touching the 

 very stuff of life, the very story of its de- 

 velopment. 



When he finall.y learns that that early 

 pollen brought to his hive is from the early- 

 blooming trees, the elms and maples and 

 willows, he probably exclaims in amaze- 

 ment, city-bred that he is, "And I didn't 

 even know that those trees had blossoms!" 

 And he will wonder how the bees knew — 

 until, reading, he finds that trained minds 

 have wondered that before him. Now when 

 he sees his apple tree in bloom, "There," 

 he will think, his books having given di- 

 rection to his thinking, "is a tree that 

 surely needs the bees, for it offers them 

 color, odor, nectar, and pollen. ' ' And he 

 understands anew why an apiary is profit- 

 able for an orchardist, even tho he should 

 get no honey. 



By this time he is caught in a very web 

 of "nature study." He gets great books 

 from the library, feverishly hoping each 

 one is authoritative, that everything he 

 reads may be true, tho he well knows how 

 man flounders about thru many errors in 

 his search for truth. 



Reading away on the endless and now, to 

 his enthusiastic beekeeping soul, endlessly 

 fascinating subject of pollination, he learns 

 in Gray, "the gentle Gray," someone calls 

 him, of the wind-fertilizal)le plants, like 

 the Pines and Birches and Oaks and most 

 Grasses, that "they produce a superabun- 

 dance of very light pollen, adapted to be 

 wind-borne; and they offer neither nectar 

 to feed winged insects, nor fragrance nor 

 bright colors to attract them." In later 

 spring, looking up at these trees, he can 

 fairly see them shrug huge primitive shoul- 

 ders — why put color into their blossoms, 

 or odor or nectar — little need have they of 

 bees and other insects — do not the winds 

 attend to their fertilization? 



At last, finding himself drawn more and 

 more towards this great ocean-like subject 

 of adaptation, he first shakes off the cling- 

 ing heavy old superstition that the beauty 

 of earth exists simply for man's pleasure — • 

 and then he dives boldly in. And when he 

 comes splashing to the surface to breatlie 

 blowing the foam of classic terminology 

 from his lips he bears in his hands many 



curious things, priceless treasures of real 

 truth, scraps of brilliant guesswork, gems 

 of deep learning, vague conjectures and 

 strange contradictions. But like any ama- 

 teur diver, he loves them all, and he spreads 

 them all out to dry and to keep. And he 

 looks them over often, fondling them. 



"Of the two (color and odor) odor is 

 much more important," he cons one over,* 

 thus. "Insects are short-sighted and are 

 thought to be usually color-blind; the hon- 

 evbee is the only insect which has been 

 positively proved to have a sense of color. 

 (A little thrill here, as of family pride.) 

 Fragrant flowers which are inconspicuous 

 are visited much more than are showy ones 

 which have no odor. Night-flying moths lo- 

 cate flowers readily by thqir. fragrance!^ 

 There is reason to believe that many insects 

 detect odors which we are quite vmable to. 

 perceive." 



Again: "Wind pollination is the simplest 

 form. It is also the most ancient. Insect- 

 pollinated plants came from ancestors that 

 were wind-pollinated. ' ' A litle gasp, here, 

 as at a sudden turn in a road, with a wide 

 vista breaking in view. 



Then this: "It is equally certain that the 

 beautiful perfume and the nectar also are, 

 in their present development, the outcome 

 of repeated insect selection." 



Then this, with many skips along the 

 way: "Evolution teaches us that asters and 

 all the triumphant horde of composites were 

 once very different flowers from what we 

 see today. Thru ages of natural selection, 

 having finally arrived at the most success- 

 ful adaptation of their various parts to 

 their surroundings, they are now overrun- 

 ning the earth. Doubtless the aster's remote 

 ancestors were simple green leaves, and de- 

 pended upon the wind to transfer their pol- 

 len. Then some rudimentary flower changed, 

 gradually took on color to attract insects. 

 As flowers and insects developed side by 

 side, and there came to be a better and bet- 

 ter understanding between them, mutual 

 adaptation followed. The flowers that of- 

 fered the best advertisement — " Feverishly 

 he finishes that one and turns to this: 



"Science has proved that almost every 

 blossom in the world is everything it is be- 

 cause of its necessity to attract insect 

 friends or to repel its foes — its form, mech- 

 anism, color, nirtrkings. odor, time of open- 

 ing and closing, and its season of blooming 

 being the result of natural selection by that 

 special insect upon which each depends more 

 or less absolutely for help in perpetuating 

 its species." 



Perhaps some day in early June our new 

 beekeeper, who has thus found his sideline 

 to have these mighty sidelines of its own, 

 will take some common flower in his hand, 

 a clover blossom, perhaps, or a dandelion, 

 and, stirred by all these suggestions of age- 

 old purposes and marvelous processes, he 

 will see in it now history and prophecy and 

 divine intent. 



