408 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



of bees hooked together and hanging between the 

 warmest central combs. The queen, her season of 

 egg-laying over, is no more regarded than the 

 humblest worker (if there were among these Socialists 

 degrees of humbleness). Those who have their feet 

 on the honey-cells hand down the social sweet to 

 others who pass it on and on, till every unit is fed 

 and thus able to contribute to the warmth on which 

 the whole mass depends. They are all unemployed. 

 No work can by any means be found for them. 

 So they live on the capital they produced in happier 

 times. The sun still shines for them from the thou- 

 sand hexagonal cells in which they had the prudence 

 to store it while they might. Very soon now, the 

 empty cells in the middle of their cluster-comb will 

 inspire the queen with the idea of laying a score or 

 so of eggs, and the old bees that disdain such work 

 in summer will feed the young nurses of the next 

 generation but one. A cold snap may give them 

 a Malthus scare and provoke the hasty destruction of 

 the brood ; but the first excuse for renewed optimism 

 will be seized, and again tiny grubs will come in 

 the drowsy hive. The willow-catkins of March will 

 not lack their musical myriads. 



Yet the solstice is not midwinter. Our almanacs, 

 founded on the irrefutable testimony of the ther- 

 mometer and we know not what other instruments, 

 declare that on Christmas Day winter begins. The 

 big frosts of the year, the snow and the biting winds 

 come in January, February, March, and even April, 

 and rarely, as in this week, in November or December. 

 The townsman shivers at the thought of a country 

 ramble on February 14, Midwinter Day, when never- 



