244 THE LORE OF THE HONEY-BEE 



in her nature, matching ill with the fine hues and 

 qualities of mind for which she is so justly famed. 

 And that she is not all lovable, all admirable, 

 accounts for the exceeding love of her that moves 

 the hearts of men who know her through and 

 through. The story of the massacre of the drones 

 has hardly a parallel for sheer relentless ferocity — 

 unrecking abandonment to a vengeance long with- 

 held for expediency's sake. There come the first 

 chill nights of mid-July, and the honey-flow is 

 suddenly at an end. The clover and sainfoin 

 have already fallen to the sickle. Nothing but 

 the bravest warmth and exuberance of the summer 

 could now withstand the drain of the myriad honey- 

 makers, and a few hours' cold dams up at once the 

 attenuated stream. The time of prosperity is over. 

 There will be no more abundance of honey. It 

 remains for the genius of hive-economy to prove 

 how much of what has been gathered can be pre- 

 served for future needs. 



The first sign of the ddbdcle is the throwing 

 out at the hive entrance of certain pale, gruesome 

 objects — the corpses of immature drones, not dead 

 from mischance, but ruthlessly torn from their cells. 

 This may go on intermittently for many days, and 

 while the fell work is proceeding the living drones 

 seem to take no warning. They keep up their 

 merry round ; the unending feast riots forward ; 

 daily the bee-garden is filled with their careless, 

 overweening song. And then at last the signal 



