The Bee-Master of Warrilow. 



then began an ingenious piece of business. The little 

 company fell to pecking at the hard wood with their bills, 

 striking out a sharp ringing tattoo plainly audible even 

 where we lay hidden. The old bee-man snorted contemp- 

 tuously, and the cartridges slid home into the breech of 

 his gun with a vicious snap. ■«■ 



" Now keep an eye on the hive-entrance," he said 

 grimly. 



The glass was a good one. Now I could plainly make 

 out a movement in this direction. The noise and vibra- 

 tion made by the birds outside had roused the slumbering 

 colony to a sense of danger. About a dozen bees ran out 

 to see what it all meant, and were immediately pounced 

 upon. And then the gun spoke over my head. It was a 

 shot into the air, but it served its harmless purpose. 

 From every bush and tree there came over to us a dull 

 whirr of wings like far-off thunder, as the blue marauders 

 sped away for the open country, filling the air with 

 their frightened jingling note. 



Perhaps of all cosy retreats from the winter blast it 

 has ever been my good fortune to discover, the extract- 

 ing-room on Warrilow bee-farm was the brightest and 

 most comfortable. In summer-time the whole life of the 

 apiary centred here ; and the stress and bustle, inevitable 

 during the season of the great honey-flow, obscured its 

 manifold possibilities. But in winter the extracting- 

 machines were, for the most part, silent ; and the natural 

 serenity and cosiness of the place reasserted themselves 

 triumphantly. From the open furnace-door a ruddy 

 warmth and glow enriched every nook and corner of the 

 long building. The walls were lined with shehes where 

 the polished tin vessels, in which the surplus honey was 

 stored, gave back the fire-shine in a hundred flickering 

 points of amber light. The work of hive-making in the 

 neighbouring sheds was going briskly forward ; but the 

 noise of hammering, the shrill hum of sawing and planing 

 machinery, and the intermittent cough of the oil-engine 

 reached us only as a subdued, tranquil murmur — the very 

 voice of rest. 



The bee-master closed the window behind its thick bee- 

 proof curtains, and, putting his gun away in a corner, 

 drew a comfortable high-backed settle near to the cheery 



13 



