t'i)t (mu0&raf0 art QSuit'bin^ 



honey are sealed in the combs, and the colony is safe 

 should the sun not shine again for a year and a day. 



But here is Nature, in these extra pounds of honey, 

 making preparation for me, incapable drone that I 

 am. I could not make a drop of honey from a whole 

 forest of Unden bloom. Yet I must live, so I give 

 the bees a bigger gum log than they need ; I build 

 them greater barns ; and when the harvest is all 

 in, this extra store I make my own. I too with the 

 others am getting ready for the cold. 



It is well that I am. The last of the asters have 

 long since gone; so have the witch-hazels. All is quiet 

 about the hives. The bees have formed into their 

 warm winter clusters upon the combs, and except 

 "when come the calm, mild days," they will fly no 

 more until March or April. I will contract their 

 entrances, — put on their storm-doors. And now 

 there is little else that I can do but put on my own. 



The whole of my out-of-doors is a great hive, 

 stored and sealed for the winter, its swarming life 

 close-clustered, and covering in its centre, as coals 

 in the ashes, the warm life-fires of summer. 



I stand along the edge of the hillside here and 

 look down the length of its frozen slope. The brown 



II 



