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portion eliminated bee-bread from our 

 surplus comb honey ; not because bees 

 are less liable to carry pollen above 

 shallow brood-chambers, but because 

 shallowness has little or nothing to do 

 with it, and we have discovered and 

 attended to the conditions which 

 cause it. 



Queen-exclndlng Honey-Boards. 



The Doctor claims to be the first 

 who used queen-excluding zinc in 

 hone^'-boards, and the first to make it 

 public ; but on examining the record 

 we find that this is not so, and believe 

 we can prove that we have used more 

 than twenty queen-excluding honey- 

 boards to his one. 



We say this in all kindness, and will 

 try liei'eafter to show up the Doctor's 

 mistakes in articles which shall com- 

 bine both kindness and truth. 



We trust we have written this 

 kindly, that our brother bee-keeper 

 will hereafter devote his attention to 

 the statements and arguments made 

 by those who difl'er with him upon 

 these important points in progressive 

 bee-keeping, rather than to the char- 

 acter of the writing or writer. 



Dowagiac, Mich. 



A BEE'S SOLILOQUY. 



Written for the American Bee Journal 



BY JOHIf JAMESON. 



As I sat musing one fine day, 

 I thus commenced to sing my lay. 

 The poet Virgil sang of bees, 

 His martial countrymen to please, 

 And now I will prolong the strain, 

 And sing about the bees again. 



We must have perish'd in the flood. 

 In water deep, and slimy mud, 

 Except the pair in Noah's cell ; 

 What kind they were, let wise men tell. 

 That's something far beyond my ken, 

 And puzzles e'en the wisest men. 



I (io not care for stylish hive. 

 If in a keg could live and thrive. 

 1 likn the one as well's the other. 

 New inventions seldom bother. 



Had I my way, I'd rather be 

 In hollow dark of some high tree, 

 Or in the cleft of some steep rock, 

 Away from human kind and smoke. 



They ship me here, and ship me there, 

 Exhibit at the County Fair ; 

 Where some great bee-man, I expect. 

 Expatiates on the great insect. 

 And when they get a costly prize, 

 I never see it with my eyes. 



Above all insects we have fame, 

 There's none has sweeter, honored name. 

 We're found almost in ev'ry land. 

 On Mediterranean strand, 

 And on the shores of Norway bleat. 

 In Mexico, round Mozambeque. 

 We're humming round on ev'ry hand, 

 Australia and Van Diemen's land. 



Sometimes they ship us far away. 

 And then we travel night and day. 

 They crowd us np in little space, 

 Until we reach the destin'd place. 



And then the same thing o'er and o'er, 

 My old home likely see no more, 

 A change of masters matters not. 

 Ours surely is a cruel lot. 



For days we rattle in the train, 



And weary to be out again. 



Sometimes among the freight I'm jamm'd. 



At other times I'm toss'd and slamm'd. 



I do detest the din and dust, • 



But no use talking, go we must. 



Left to ourselves, we'd rather be. 

 Along the Caribbean sea. 

 We love to be where it is warm. 

 Cold does incalculable harm. 

 We want some Raleigh, or a Penn, 

 To lead us out of this cold den. 

 We hope the rising generation. 

 Will all encourage emigration. 



The Tropics suit us far the best. 

 In this cold climate too much rest. 

 The bee-men all should move their camp, 

 And with us take a southern tramp ; 

 There daily we would better fare. 

 And keepers would have far less care. 

 And need no granulated trash. 

 Or any other kind of mash. 



They brought my mother o'er the sea. 



My daddy was a native bee ; 



So I'm a hybrid vicious pest. 



And dreaded more than all the rest. 



Tes, all I am, and have, I'll bet, 

 The pure Italian is the pet ; 

 O, give me not so hard a name. 

 Organization is to blame. 



No doubt you have a brighter band ; 

 But can't call this your native land. 

 At home you had a balmier air, 

 A sky with which few can compare, 

 " I love my own, my native land," 

 And care not for your triple band. 



Some say you gather far more honey, 

 And make your owners lots of money, 

 Perhaps that's so ; but last season. 

 For being short, we've good reason ; 

 Nature withheld her precious stores, 

 Now poverty surrounds our doors. 



I've often heard the natives say, 

 That blacks were in the earliest day. 

 Fresh from the great Creator's hand. 

 With all the humble, creeping hand. 

 That climate, food, and habit chang'd, 

 According to the parts we rang'd. 



It puzzles me and all the rest, 

 To find how we got so far West ; 

 Perhaps we came by Behring's Strait, 

 On some rude craft with Indian freight. 



Perhaps the Northerner brought us here. 

 This heterogeneous mass to cheer ; 

 Perhaps we are a new creatiou, 

 Prepar'd to feed this Yankee nation. 



My life is short ; but I am proud. 

 For o'er me hangs portentious cloud, 

 A weary slave for SplHsh man. 

 And never pleas'd do all you can. 



Some keepers well deserve a share. 

 Of us they take such gentle care ; 

 Old fogies should not have an ounce. 

 Bees ev'rywhere on them should pounce. 



The bipeds would get burning hail, 

 But they protect with gloves and veil. 

 If bees could only stop supplies. 

 Our masters then would ope their ej'es. 



Our keepers take some stores away. 

 And drones, alas ! would always stay ; 

 But we express no clement doubt, 

 We pinch their necks and hustle out. 



The robbers come and plunder too, 

 A turbulent and murderous crew. 

 Moths, mice and ants give us no peace. 

 The human, lower, all us fleece. 



I reckon we must not forget. 

 That man has got Dominion yet ; 

 The land and sea subserves his end. 

 This state of things we cannot mend. 



No doubt the premordial hoardes 

 Had honey on their festive hoards ; 

 Not from a pretty Langstroth box. 

 But from the hollow trees and rocks. 



Sometimes they pack us round with chaff. 

 And then we have a general laugh ; 

 Sometimes they put us in the cellar. 

 And there we sleep,and sometimes beller. 



For four long months ne'er see the light. 

 Until we take our early flight ; 

 When rosy spring cheers up the land, 

 Tliey place us on the summer stand. 



Our mother's wing they often clip, 

 Tet swarming time makes bee-men skip ; 

 Where have they gone ? up in a tree ! 

 There! there! run fast! be quick! see! see! 



Some plant the luscious melilot 

 As near as can be to our cot ; 

 So that we need not travel far 

 To gather in the sweet nectar. 



In spring we often have the dwindle ! ! 

 And that the bee-man's ire doth kindle. 

 He's often left without a bee, 

 And that's a piteous sight to see. 



How to increase all don't agree. 

 Some say divide, some let them be. 

 Some like the model old Langstroth, 

 Some Simplicity, some like both. 



Five shining eyes, and hairy tongue 

 To see, and gatlier sweets among 

 The aromatic woods and dells. 

 And store the honey in our cells. 



Like Robin Hood and bold Rob Roy, 

 Free booting ev'rywhere enjoy ; 

 A fence to us is not a bar, 

 We find aroma near and far. 



Now I will stop my cogitation. 

 And ply with zeal my avocation ; 

 Adjust my wings, and busy go it, 

 'Twill better pay than being poet. 



—West Toledo, O. 



FALL CROP. 



Pro8pecl§ for a Fall Crop- 

 Honey vs. Increase. 



Written for the Prairie Farmer 



BY MES. L. HARRISON. 



Ill opening a colonj' of bees this 

 morning, I found all the frames full of 

 brood, but scarcely • a day's ration 

 ahead, and plenty of drones and drone- 

 brood, with every appearance of com- 

 ing swarms. All needed now for an 

 outbreak of the swarming fever, is a 

 flow of nectar. There appears to be 

 plenty of pollen, and bee-bread is 

 abundant. The locusts are in bloom, 

 but there has been a great deal of rain 

 of late, which washed out the sweet- 

 ness. It is fair to-day (May 30), and 

 there may be some nectar secreted. 



Fall Crop of Honey. 



So much rain promises well for 

 honey in the future. The greatest flow 

 ever known here was in the fall. This 

 wet weather will bring forward white 

 clover, and we may yet hope for a 

 supply of this delightful sweet; — real 

 ambrosia, fit for the gods. When the 

 electric conditions are just right, and 

 the flow abundant, the comb is so 

 delicate as to be almost imperceptible. 

 I have yet to see a finer honey than 

 from the white clover of the North and 

 West. As this honey is so desirable, 

 every effort should be made to secure 

 as much as possible in tlie best shape. 



