THE BEE'S YEAR 



THE bees are going down into the yellow cups of the 

 crocuses. They clamber in by the red stigmas, and 

 come out from the purple-shaded depth smeared with 

 pollen. You can see their shadow through the golden 

 walls, like the shadow of people against a lighted 

 window. In a few days summer has started up from 

 the cold ground, and summer has come out of the cold 

 air. There is nothing so hot as a bee in full quest 

 for floral loot, nothing so bright as a yellow crocus in 

 the sun. Bare beds almost everywhere, dull lawns, 

 trees without leaves, and then, in a favoured spot, 

 showers of brightest jewels upon the grass, pearls and 

 amethyst and gold with bees hot about them. Only, 

 when the crocuses are gone, there will be little else 

 for a while. And the bees that suck them will be dead 

 almost as soon as they. 



With the opening of spring the population begins 

 to go down. The life of the bee in work being little 

 more than two months, all those but the youngest that 

 have seen the colony through the winter are finished 

 by a few days' work as water-carriers or gatherers of 

 pollen in the cold and treacherous days with which the 

 year opens. Lucky is the bee-master whose hives 

 were producing healthy young bees up to the middle 

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