THE PASTORAL BEES. 73 



turned intact to the bees. But honey without tli 

 comb is the perfume without the rose, — it is Bwect 

 merely, and soon degenerates into candy. Half the 

 delectabieness is in breaking down these frail and 

 exquisite walls yourself, and tasting the nectar before 

 it has lost its freshness by the contact with the 

 3Ur. Then the comb is a sort of shield or foil 

 that prevents the tongue from being overwhelmed 

 by the shock of the sweet. 



The drones have the least enviable time of it. 

 Their foothold in the hive is very precarious. They 

 look like the giants, the lords of the swarm, but 

 they are really the tools. Their loud, threatening 

 hum has no sting to back it up, and their size and 

 noise make them only the more conspicuous marks 

 for the birds. 



Toward the close of the season, say in July or 

 August^ the flat goes forth that the drones must die ; 

 there is no further use for them. Then the poor 

 creatures, how they are huddled and hustled about, 

 trying to hide in corners and by-ways. There is no 

 loud, defiant humming now, but abject fear seizes 

 them. They cower like hunted criminals. I have 

 seen a dozen or more of them wedge themselves into 

 a small space between the glass and the comb, wh< 

 the bees could not get hold of them, or where they 

 seemed to be overlooked in the general slaughter. 

 They will also crawl outside and hide under the ed 

 of the hive. But sooner or later they are all killed 

 or kicked out. The drone makes no resistance, ex- 

 cept to pull back and try to get away; but (putting 

 yourself in his place) with one bee a-h<>l<l of your col- 

 lar or the hair of your head, and another a-liold of each 

 arm or leg, and still another feeling for your waist- 

 bands with his sting, the odds are greatly against you. 



