1918 



AMERICAN BEE JOURNAL 



91 



families, to find out what they need; 

 our source of supply, to find out 

 what we may use, and government 

 publications, which will give us light 

 on both. Aside from government 

 bulletins, there is a mass of litera- 

 ture flooding the country today, 

 which should be used cautiously, 

 common sense dictating what to as- 

 similate and what to disregard. Too 

 frequently such literature is put to- 

 bether hastily by inexperienced 

 '"food experts,' and this is no time 

 for experiments. Food, we know, 

 is scarce, and experiments often 

 costly, therefore tried and tested 

 methods that you know, are the best 

 to use, unless you are sure of your 

 source of information. Above all, 

 let us use common sense. Here, for 

 example, is a paper containing re- 

 cipes for meat substitutes. In one 

 wheat is used, elaborate preparation 

 is necessary, and two hours' cooking 

 is required, therefore much fuel. 

 That sort of thing our common sense 

 teaches us not to try, a good general 

 rule being to have simple meals 

 which require the least time in prep- 

 aration, the least fuel to cook, and 

 the least use of meat, wheat and 

 sugar, yet conforming to the family 

 needs. 



Most of us are willing and earnest 

 in our efforts toward food conserva- 

 tion, but the difficult part is to keep 

 up the effort day after day. It is 

 easy to plan a meatless day and a 

 wheatless day for a few weeks, but 

 the strain comes when, without hope 

 of receiving medals of honor, we 

 have it to do week after week. The 

 men in the trenches are relieved ev- 

 ery few days and go behind the lines 

 for rest. Our part is to keep on the 

 firing line until the war is over. All 

 honor to the housewife who does it 

 cheerfully and gladly! 



Washington, D. C. 



hearts of the poppies. I know the 

 very place. In one corner of the field 

 stands a live oak. There the young 

 gardener and I met (quite by ac- 

 cident) and had worshipped the "land 

 of fire" as the Spanish mariners who 

 sailed up and down the coast in the 

 early days, described the "flame" of 

 Eschcholtzia Californica. 



Of course, the bees do not mention 

 the California poppy in botanical 



My Neighbor's Garden 



By C. D. Stuart. 



STRAIGHT from the neighbor- 

 hood of her garden flew my 

 bees. I listened to catch some 

 message from her in their gossipy 

 murmurings, even as whiffs of frag- 

 rance, from magic-carpeted fields 

 just beyond, came to me on the pin- 

 ions of a brisk March wind. I could 

 close my eyes and see that absurd 

 little garden with its young gardener 

 — my neighbor's daughter, and the 

 apple of his eye — fussing over the 

 one rose bush I myself had given to 

 her, as Mother Eve might have tend- 

 ed the first infant in the world. 



But all my mental tiptoeing failed 

 to bring the message. 



"We must be about our queen's 

 business," those busy honey-gather- 

 ers ruled, thus cleverly passing back 

 to me the problem of bridging the 

 hostile trenches of parental jurisdic- 

 tion. 



One spinster bee, rather brazenly, I 

 thought, dragged into a hive two 

 bulging suit cases the color of new 

 tan shoes. One could see at a glance 

 that they had been stolen from a 

 poppy field and that they had been 

 tightly packed with crystals from the 



WHITE OR FIELD MUSTARD. Some- 

 times called "Wild Turnip." 



(Photographed by John R. Douglass). 



terms. Even the gardener feels more 

 at home with its everyday name. But 

 as that spinster bee, together with 

 other spinsters, continued to drag 

 into the hive other spick and span 

 bulging suit cases, one could dis- 

 tinctly overhear in their excited hum- 

 ming, unanimous approval of the 

 poppy, which only a poet may inter- 

 pret. 

 "... Not all proud Seeba's queenly 



offerings 

 Could match the golden marvel of 



thy bloom . . . 



Brimmed with the golden vintage of 

 the sun." 



Other spinsters, more decorous, 

 with nectar hidden from public view, 

 were drowsily chanting of the lu- 

 pine intermingled with the poppies — ■ 

 "snowy and amethystine in seas of 

 red bloom." 



But only the gardener knows the 

 intimate history of our flower which 

 is kith and kin to that other flower 

 whose essence has enslaved an en- 

 tire nation, although she claims that 

 our poppy has never been guilty of 

 a greater offense than giving the In- 

 dian a few hours of happy forgetful- 

 ness, or, possibly, raising the hopes 

 of certain elderly Spanish Califor- 

 nians who were wont to put their 

 faith in a hair-restorer distilled from 

 it. 



It is clear, then, that bees, like 

 other specialists, are limited by their 

 occupations, as flowers appear to 

 mean only nectar and pollen to them. 

 On the other hand, the young gard- 

 ener's fund of half— forgotten lore 

 concerning all growing things, appar- 

 ently is inexhaustible. 



"The mustard's in bloom!" she had 

 exclaimed only a few days before. 



I smiled indulgently and looked in 

 the direction of her gaze. Sure 

 enough, a yellow haze was just be- 

 ginning to tinge the orchards. 



"The kind one buys with a ham 

 sandwich? - " I teased. 



"Sandwich mustard grows taller 

 and blooms much later," she cor- 

 rected, and at once took my educa- 

 tion firmly in hand. 



"What's the difference?" I de- 

 manded. "Smells the same." 



She broke off a piece and held it 

 up to me. It had a brittle, reedy 

 stalk and smooth, pale leaves. "Field 

 or white mustard," she called it, and 

 added, '"Some know it as wild tur- 

 nip." 



"Then what's this?" I triumphantly 

 held up to her a plant with rough, 

 hairy leaves, but with the same pale 

 yellow flowers. 



"Migra, or black mustard/* she 



ESCHOLTZIA CALIFORNICA 

 )n hills and plains, lifting, exultant, every ktngly cup. 



