The Bee-Master of Warrilow. 



say, shielding his bleak blue eyes with his hand, as he 

 g-azed after it. " 'Twould be agen natur' to hike 'em 

 back here along. An' naught but ill-luck an' worry 

 wi'out end." 



He never observed the skies for tokens of to-morrow's 

 weather, as did his neighbours of the countryside. The 

 bees were his weather-glass and thermometer in one. If 

 they hived very early after noon, though the sun went 

 down in clear gold and the summer night loomed like 

 molten amethyst under the starshine, he would prophesy 

 rain before morning. And sure enough you were 

 wakened at dawn by a furious patter on the window, and 

 the booming of the south.west wind in the pine-clad crest 

 of the hill. But if the bees loitered afield far into the 

 gusty crimson gloaming, and the loud darkness that fol- 

 lowed seemed only to bring added intensity to the busy 

 labour-note within the hives, no matter how the wind 

 keened or the griddle of black storm-cloud threatened, 

 he would go on with his evening task of watering his 

 garden, sure of a morrow of cloudless heat to come. 



He knew all the sources of honey for miles around ; 

 and, by taste and smell, could decide at once the particular 

 crop from which each sample had been gathered. He 

 would discriminate between that from white clover or sain- 

 foin ; the produce of the yellow charlock wastes ; or the 

 orchard-honey, wherein it seemed the fragrance of cherry- 

 bloom was always to be differentiated from that of apple 

 or damson or pear. He would tell you when good honey 

 had been spoilt by the grosser flavour of sunflower or 

 horse-chestnut ; or when the detestable honey-dew had 

 entered into its composition ; or, the super-caps having 

 been removed too late in the season, the bees had got at 

 the early ivy-blossom, and so degraded all the batch. 



Watching bees at work of a fair morning in May, 

 nothing excites the wonder of the casual looker-on more 

 than the mysterious burdens they are for ever bringing 

 home upon their thighs ; semi-globular packs, always 

 gaily coloured, and often so heavy and cumbersome that 

 the bee can hardly drag its weary way into the hive. 

 This is pollen, to be stored in the cells, and afterwards 

 kneaded up with honey as food for the young bees. The 

 old man could say at once by the colour from which flower 

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