Jakvarv, 1922 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE 



27 



about their own deaths and the fall of 

 Egj-pt; the Civil Wars were at an end, and 

 the warring Roman Eepublic had become a 

 peaceful Empire under Augustus, who 

 "found Eome a city of brick and left it a 

 city of marble." And during all these 

 years, the poet Virgil, delicate of health but 

 robust of ambition, had lived quietly in the 

 country with his books and his Muses, writ- 

 ing ever greater and greater poetry. 



Thru all these centuries it has lived, both 

 in the original "sensitive Latin" and in 

 many translations into all modern languages. 

 In this country and this century, a new 

 translation has boen made by that scholarly 

 lover of Latin poetry. Theodore Chickering 

 Williams, so saturated with Latin that he 

 "wrote it, spoke it, thought in it," loved 

 it and turned it into English of such beauty 

 and, we are told, such scholarly fidelity, that 

 he has made us love it too. The Williams 

 Georgics in the library at Peabody College 

 is the last link in the long chain leading to 

 this page from Virgil at Mantua, with his 

 slaves writing his lines on papyrus — nearly 

 two thousand years ago. 



There are four Georgics — strangely seri- 

 ous poems about country life, mingling a 

 gentle song on the beauty of the Italian 

 countryside with "a continuous chant on 

 the worth of work ' ' and an unbelievably in- 

 teresting, straightforward presentation of 

 practical information and instruction. For 

 Virgil was really a countryman, tho inti- 

 mately associated with Augustus to whom 

 he was, with cause, deeply devoted. He was 

 intensely patriotic. With earnest conviction 

 amounting to consecration, he wrote these 

 poems as his effort to help strengthen his 

 country and solidify the State of Augustus, 

 by chanting of the dignity of farm life — 

 the honorable foundation of national peace, 

 family virtue and individual content. 



The First Georgic treats largely of the 

 cultivation of the soil and the signs of the 

 weather. The Second, which contains, say 

 those who know and dare to say, "the 

 most perfect passage in all Latin poetry," 

 treats of trees, orchards, fruits, wine. The 

 Third takes up flocks and herds. The Fourth 

 is about bees. 



In this Fourth Georgic, Virgil writes about 

 many things we write about today — loca- 

 tion, windbreaks, shade, water, ^entrances, 

 swarms, wing-clipping, moth, disease and its 

 treatment, the division of labor, destruction 

 of the drones and devotion to the queen^ — • 

 calle'-l "king" in his day. The king error 

 is not the only one. We realize, in a self- 

 satisfied way, how far we have gone since 

 that last century before Christ — tho not so 

 far, perhaps, for the time we have had — 

 when we read some of the queer ideas of 

 beekeepers of tliat period. The funniest 

 are the "clashing cymbals" at swarming 

 time — tho I understand some folks still 

 clash 'em ! — the pebbles for ballast, the 

 treatment of disease and the ideas of repro- 



duction. Then there are other plain errors, 

 just as apparent, tlio not so striking. 



But I wonder what the progressive read- 

 ers of Gleanings in A. D. 3821 will say about 

 our own bee books and journals, to say 

 nothing of our verse,, when they are nine- 

 teen hundred years old! 



Here tlien are a few brief extracts from 

 the Fourth Georgic of Virgil: 



"First, find the bpes safe shelter and abode 

 Where no winds enter 



And where no slieep, no kids with frolic horn, 

 Trample upon th': flowers, nor roving calf 

 Swish thru the dewy grass and tread it down, 

 liet not the scale-backed, painted lizard peer 

 Too nigh the bees' full barns, nor thievish birds, 



But flowing fountains near the hives should be, 

 Still pools with fresh, green mosses bordered round, 

 And thru the grasses a small rill should run. 

 Above their portals let a branching palra 

 Or large wild olive its deep shadows throw. 



Around the place let verdant cassias grow. 



With much strong-scented thyme, and let the stream 



Flow thru sweet beds of thirsting violets. 



The hives themselves, if stitched of hollow bark 



Or plaited basket-work, should have but doors 



Of narrow compass 



Thou likewise o'er the beehives' crannied sides 



Wilt smear warm clay, patting it down, and then 



Strew leaves on top 



They fondly tend, with sweet mysterious joy, 

 The young brood in the nests, and skilfully 

 Sculpture the wax and mould the honeycomb. 

 At the same season, when the caravan 

 Pours from the hives, and skyward, starward, soars 

 Along the glowing air 



take heavy-scented herbs, 

 Bruised balsam and the wax flower's humble weed, 

 And sprinkle with their juice some chosen spot 

 And clash loud cymbals like a Corybant. 

 At this balm-breathing place the swarm will stay 

 And rear, as in their wont, the future brood. 



Thy art must govern their inconstant mind. 

 The task is easy. Thou hast but to clip 

 The leaders' wings ; for when these lag below, 

 No common bee will soar aloft, nor dare 

 Give marching orders to the bivouac. 



They are the only creatures to possess 



Offspring in common, and their city build 



Of undivided houses, where they live 



Obeying mighty laws. 



Warned of approaching winter, they employ 



Tlieir summer's day in toil, and store their gains 



As common treasure. Certain chosen ones 



Forage for food and, so it is agreed, 



Keep busy in "the fields while others, pent 



Within the walls of houses, firmly mould 



The bottom of the comb. Others lead forth 



Their infant brood in air, the tribe to be. 



Still others closely pack the honeydew. 



Till every cell with nectared sweet runs o'er. 



For others 'tis the apportioned task to stand 



Gate-sentinels, and keep alternate watch 



For auguries of rain and cloudy skies. 



These at the gates receive the little loads 



Of the home-comers, or, lined up for war. 



Fight the dull drones and bar them from the hive. 



The oldest ones 



Take counsel for their city, raising walls 



About the honied treasure . . but the younger so: t 



Come late at eve and weary, bringing home 



Thigh-loads of flowery foorl. 



Sometimes they lift small pebbles, as light boats 



Bear ballast thru the waves; and weighted so. 



They keep their balanced flight thru stormful air. 



But veriest marvel of the ways of bees 



Is 'that from leaves 



Of fragrant herbs the mothers with their lips 

 Breathe in their offspring, and nil virginal 

 Give birth to kings and tiny citizens. 

 Repeopling so their waxen state and throne." 



So much that is lovely is omitted! But 

 some of the rest we must have next month. 



