CHAPTER VIII. 



IN A BEE-CAMP. 



" 'Tis a good thing — life; but ye never know how good, 

 really, till you've followed the bees to the heather." 



It was an old saying of the bee-master's, and it came 

 again slowly from his lips now, as he knelt by the camp-fire, 

 watching the caress of the flames round the bubbling pot. 

 We were in the heart of the Sussex moorland, miles away 

 from the nearest village, still farther from the great bee- 

 farm where, at other times, the old man drove his thriving 

 trade. But the bees were here — a million of them perhaps 

 — all singing their loudest in the blossoming heather that 

 stretched away on every side to the far horizon, under the 

 sweltering August sun. 



Getting the bees to the moors was always the chief 

 event of the year down at the honey-farm. For days the 

 waggons stood by the laneside, all ready to be loaded up 

 with the best and most populous hives; but the exact 

 moment of departure depended on one very uncertain fac- 

 tor. The white-clover crop was almost at an end. Every 

 day saw the acreage of sainfoin narrowing, as the sheep- 

 folds closed in upon it, leaving nothing but bare yellow 

 waste, where had been a rolling sea of crimson blossom. 

 But the charlock lay on every hillside like cloth-of-gold. 

 Until harvest was done the fallows were safe from the 

 ploughshare, and what proved little else than a troublesome 

 weed to the farmer was like golden guineas growing to 

 every keeper of bees. 



But at last the new moon brought a sharp chilly night 

 with it, and the long-awaited signal was given. Coming 

 down with the first grey glint of morning from the little 

 room under the thatch, I found the bee-garden in a swither 

 of commotion. A faint smell of carbolic was on the air, and 

 the shadowy figures of the bee-master and his men were 

 hurrying from hive to hive, taking off the super-racks that 

 stood on many three and four stories high. The honey- 



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