14 THE PASTORAL BEES. 



*' A swarm of bees in May 

 Is worth a load of hay; 

 A swarm of bees in June 

 Is worth a silver spoon ; 

 But a swarm in July 

 Is not worth a fly." 



A swarm in May is indeed a treasure ; it is, like an 

 April baby, sure to thrive, and will very likely itself 

 send out a swarm a month or two later ; but a swarm 

 in July is not to be despised ; it will store no clover 

 or linden honey for the " grand seignior and the ladies 

 of his seraglio," but plenty of the rank and whole- 

 some poor man's nectar, the sun-tanned product of 

 the plebeian buckwheat. Buckwheat honey is the 

 black sheep in this white flock, but there is spirit and 

 character in it. It lays hold of the taste in no equivo- 

 cal manner, especially when at a winter breakfast it 

 meets its fellow, the russet buckwheat cake. Bread 

 with honey to cover it from the same stalk is double 

 good fortune. It is not black, either, but nut-brown, 

 and belongs to the same class of goods as Herrick's 



" Nut-brown mirth and russet wit." 



How the bees love it, and they bring the delicious 

 odor of the blooming plant to the hive with them, so 

 that in the moist warm twilight the apiary is redolent 

 with the perfume of buckwheat. 



Yet evidently it is not the perfume of any flower 

 that attracts the bees ; they pay no attention to the 

 sweet-scented lilac, or to heliotrope, but work upon 

 sumach, silkweed, and the hateful snapdragon. In 

 September they are hard pressed, and do well if they 



