CHAPTER III. 



A TWENTIETH-CENTURY BEE - FARMER. 



It was sunny spring in the bee-garden. The thick 

 elder-hedge to the north was full of young green leaf ; 

 everywhere the trim footways between the hives were 

 marked by yellow bands of crocus-bloom, and daffodils 

 just showing a golden promise of what they would be in 

 a few warm days to come. From a distance I had caught 

 the fresh spring song of the hives, and had seen the 

 bee-master and his men at work in different quarters of th'^, 

 waxen city. But now, drawing nearer, I observed they 

 were intent on what seemed to me a perfectly astounding 

 enterprise. Each man held a spoon in one hand and a bowl 

 of what I now knew to be pea-flour in the other, and I saw 

 that they were busily engaged in filling the crocus-blos- 

 soms up to the brim with this inestimable condiment. My 

 friend the bee-master looked up on my approach, and, as 

 was his wont, forestalled the inevitable questioning. 



" This is another way of giving it," he explained, "and 

 the best of all in the earliest part of the season. Instinct 

 leads the bees to the flowers for pollen-food when they will 

 not look for it elsewhere; and as the natural supply is very 

 meagre,'we just help them in this way." 



As he spoke I became rather unpleasantly aware of a 

 change of manners on the part of his winged people. First 

 one and then another came harping round, and, settling 

 comfortably on my face, showed no inclination to move 

 again. In my ignorance I was for brushing them off, but 

 the bee-master came hurriedly to my rescue. He dislodged 

 them with a few gentle puffs from his tobacco-pipe. 



" That is always their way in the spring-time," he ex- 

 plained. " The warmth of the skin attracts them, and the 

 best thing to do is to take no notice. If you had knocked 

 them off you would probably have been stung." 



"Is it true that a bee can only sting once? " I asked 

 him, as he bent again over the crocus beds. 



He laughed. 



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