268 THE LORE OF THE HONEY-BEE 



sun shines : you know it has always shone, change- 

 less as Time itself. 



With such a faith — unfounded and therefore 

 uncontestable — I came under the glow of one 

 brave June morning, threading field after field of 

 blossoming clover until I stood at the gate of the 

 bee-garden over against the hill. With its name 

 I had long been familiar, for in the county paper 

 there was always the little five-line advertisement, 

 quaintly worded, announcing honey for sale. But 

 I had never yet seen it, nor, indeed, ever set foot 

 in this part of the good Sussex land. So, on this 

 brimming June morning, giving rein for once to 

 the indolent Shank's mare of moods that is fated 

 to carry me, I set out into the bright sloth, the 

 joyous hastelessness, of the day ; and came at 

 length to my destination — to the bee-garden that 

 nestles under the green Downland hills. 



It was girt about with a tall hedge of hawthorn, 

 smothered in snowlike blossom, with just that rosy 

 tinge upon it which is the first hectic of decay. 

 Beyond the hedge I could see, stretching aloft, 

 green apple-boughs, whose full-blown posies were 

 alive with the desperate humming energy of count- 

 less bees. There was a blue wisp of smoke trail- 

 ing idly away from a chimney-stack, all that could 

 be seen of the snug thatched cottage within ; and 

 there were voices, a leisurely baritone, a sudden 

 peal of laughter high-pitched and obviously a 

 woman's, and now and then a bar or two of an 



