254 THE LORE OF THE HONEY-BEE 



race with the sun, in which the swiftest must lag 

 behind. They have never known the over- 

 weighty cargoes, the bursting honey - sacs, and 

 pollen-panniers so laden that they could be scarce 

 dragged into the hive, and they will never know 

 them. These bees, born late in the season, have 

 their lot cast in the torpid backwaters of their 

 little world. Theirs is to be but a dreary eking 

 out of days, so that they may have strength 

 enough to warm the first spring broods into life. 

 The few hot days that burn in the midst of the 

 snows of each English March — immeasurably far 

 off now, and unattainable, seemingly — will be all 

 they will ever see of the power of sunshine. 

 Winter bees are born to the prison-house ; and in 

 it, and for it, live and die. 



At the most, a worker-bee sees but six months 

 of life : at the least — and this is the lot of many- 

 she withstands the incessant wear and tear of her 

 hard calling for six, or possibly eight, weeks. 

 Thus, though the hive may be always packed with 

 citizens, the population is for ever changing. 

 Half a dozen times in the year, perhaps, and for a 

 score of years, you may go to your bee-garden, and 

 each time move among tens of thousands to whom 

 you are an utter stranger, and whom you have 

 never seen before. And yet, in all its customs, its 

 propensities, its traditions, the life of the bees is 

 Continuity impersonified. You may go round the 

 world, and spend ten years on the journey ; and, 



