CHAPTER XVII 



BEE-KEEPING AND THE SIMPLE LIFE 



IT is a quality of English sunshine that it comes 

 and goes capriciously, so that no man may be 

 sure of the comradeship of his shadow from 

 day to day. But when there is sunshine in 

 England, it always seems an abiding, permanent 

 force. The grey of yesterday, and the patter-song 

 of the rain on the leaves, were only a dream. You 

 were sleeping under the changeless blue of a 

 summer night, and had but a vision of weeping, 

 drab skies, gone now with the joy that comes in 

 the morning. And to-morrow, when perhaps the 

 old wild scurry of storm-cloud is alive overhead, 

 and all the house resounds with the runnel-music 

 from the pouring eaves, still it will be only a 

 dream. Of a surety you will tell yourself so, as 

 the sun breaks through the griddle of cloud, and 

 the wind relents, and the Dutchman can get to 

 his tailoring; and when you are stepping out 

 amidst the swamp and glitter and rehabilitation of 

 life, as glad of it all as the finches and butterflies 

 that sweep on before you down the lane. The 



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