THE 



BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW. 



CHAPTER I. 



Long, lithe, and sinewy, with three score of years of 

 sunburn on his keen, gnarled face, and the sure stride of 

 a mountain goat, the Bee-Master of Warrilow struck you 

 at once as a notable figure in any company. 



Warrilow is a little precipitous village tucked away 

 under the green brink of the Sussex Downs ; and the bee- 

 farm lay on the southern slope of the hill, with a shelter- 

 ing barrier of pine above, in which, all day long, the 

 winter wind kept up an impotent complaining. But below, 

 among the hives, nothing stirred in the frosty, sun- 

 riddled air. Now and again a solitary worker-bee 

 darted up from a hive door, took a brisk turn or two in 

 the dazzling light, then hurried home again to the warm 

 cluster. But the flash and quiver of wings, and the 

 drowsy song of summer days, were gone in the iron-bound 

 January weather ; and the bee-master was lounging idly 

 to and fro in the great main-way of the waxen city, shot- 

 gun under arm, and with apparently nothing more to do 

 than to meditate over past achievements, or to plan out 

 operations for the season to come. 



As I approached, the sharp report of the gun rang 

 out, and a little cloud of birds went chippering fearsomely 

 away over the hedgerow. The old man watched them as 

 they flew off dark against the snowy hillside. He threw 

 out the cartridge-cases disgustedly. 



" Blue-tits ! " said he. " They are the great pest of 

 the bee-keeper in winter time. When the snow covers the 

 ground, and the frost has driven all insect-life deep into 



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