430 



AMERICAN BEE JOURNAL. 



and just as you think you are ready to 

 snip that wing, all the colony below you 

 hear the same robber cry, and are up in 

 arms instantly. 



You are sure this colony will swarm 

 to-morrow if you do not catch that 

 queen, and you are equally as sure that 

 you will wish they had swarmed a year 

 ago if you do not get out of this right 

 quick, and there you are. This is the 

 shady side of that part of the work. 



Later on, when the lindens swing 

 their creamy tassels, and the great trees 

 arje filled with that peculiar happy hum 

 of bees that are gathering ligitimate 

 stores of sweets — for even a bee does 

 not sing in a happy strain when robbing 

 others — and when all the pastures are 

 white with fragrant clover bloom, then 

 we place a hive upon our scales, and 

 feel that peculiar glow of exultation 

 that we all understand, but could not 

 explain in words, when we see the 

 weight coming slowly and steadily 

 down, and realize that it is being thus 

 lowered by pure, clear stores of the 

 sweetest of all sweets — honey. 



This is, perhaps, the bravest light of 

 them all. For much as we may love 

 bees for themselves, for their wonderful 

 intelligence, their thrift and tidiness, it 

 must be admitted that it is human 

 nature to smile most serenely when the 

 hard cash, or its equivalent, is coming 

 rapidly in. 



Later still, when we begi;i to take off 

 this luscious store, then you— if your 

 apiary is situated as mine is, in the sun- 

 niest part of the garden — cannot possibly 

 connect the word "shadow" with this 

 part of the work, except in a very 

 figurative sense. But in this sense it 

 comes out strong. 



We always manage to have honey to 

 take off after the flow is over, and this 

 is the time that robbers abound, and of 

 all disagreeable things I hold the hum 

 of a robber bee the worst. I have a very 

 vivid remembrance of this sound. I have 

 had experience with it, and it happened 

 in this wise : 



I had occasion to hold two or three 

 frames of honey for a few days, so I 

 hung them in an upper story, and set 

 them on the side-table in the kitchen. A 

 few days later, my girl came in to say 

 that there were two or three bees on the 

 kitchen window. 



Now, I knew I ought to go and attend 

 to that honey, but I was writing some- 

 thing — probably an article on the 

 proper care of honey — and did not want 

 to stop ; besides, the bees had been hav- 

 ing such fine pasturage, that I did not 



really think it could be quite gone. So 

 I kept writing. 



An hour or two later the girl went 

 back to the kitchen again. I heard a 

 wild shriek, and rushed after her. She 

 was in the dining-room nursing a sting, 

 but motioned me toward the kitchen. I 

 opened the door. 



Words fail me ! That room was like 

 a hive. All the swarms that ever issued 

 never filled the air as completely full, 

 and fresh train loads arriving every 

 second. At first, I rushed in with some 

 vague idea that I could "shoo" them 

 out, but they convinced me to the con- 

 trary, and I ducked and dodged back, 

 and stopped to poke about a dozen out 

 of my frizzes. Then, I put on my regu- 

 lar regimentals, went bravely outside, 

 closed the door and shutters, and tried 

 to smoke them out. It did not work, for 

 they came in faster than they went out. 



At last, driven to desperation, I caught 

 up the roaring hive, and actually carried 

 ii down cellar. I shall never forget the 

 horrible roar, and I never want to hug 

 up as much noise and viciousness again 

 and hold it so, while I descend into a 

 dark cellar. I did not get a sting, but I 

 got experience. 



In removing section crates from hives, 

 I find one of my dark shadows. With 

 the average hive I can combine a chisel 

 and muscular force, and, as the dead 

 beat says, "make a raise" of the fullest 

 crate. 



But I have some of Mr. Hilton's 

 double-walled hives, and I hope he is 

 here to hear me say I do think them the 

 prettiest hive in the world — but when it 

 comes to the matter of lifting off the 

 crates, I fail to see how any man living 

 does it. Here a chisel cannot be used. 

 In fact, I hardly know what can. About 

 the only thing I ever noticed any man 

 who helps me use, in this place, was bad 

 words, and they did not seem to lift a 

 bit. 



Now, according to my notion, if some 

 bee-keeper will invent some argument 

 by which bees can be convinced, as fully 

 as I am, of the folly displayed in so 

 pasting the surplus honey crates down 

 onto the hive, he will throw a great and 

 needed light onto this very dark and 

 sticky part of the pleasure of bee- 

 keeping. 



Every good housewife knows, though 

 usually she is not a bee-keeper, that 

 more than all the pride she takes in her 

 rows of well filled fruit cans, her glasses 

 of ruby jelly, and her jars of luscious 

 preserves, and snappy pickles, is the 

 pride she feels when she sees her store 

 of Winter goodies augmented by crates 



