CHAPTER XI. 



WINTER WORK ON THE BEE-FARM. 



The light snow covered the path through the bee-farm, 

 and whitened the roof of every hive. In the red winter 

 twilight it looked more like a human city than ever, with 

 its long double rows of miniature houses stretching away 

 into the dusk on either hand, and its broad central 

 thoroughfare, where the larger hives crowded shoulder to 

 shoulder, casting their black shadows over the glimmering 

 snow. 



The bee-master led the way towards the extracting- 

 house at the end of the garden, as full of his work, seem- 

 ingly, as ever he had been in the press of summer days. 

 There was noise enough going on in the long lighted build- 

 ing ahead of us, but I missed the droning song of the great 

 extractor itself. 



" No ; we have done with honey-work for this year," 

 said the old bee-man. " It is all bottled and cased long 

 ago, and most of it gone to London. But there's work 

 enough still, as you'll see. The bees get their long rest in 

 the winter ; but, on a big honey-farm, the humans must 

 work all the year round." 



As we drew into the zone of light from the windows, 

 many sounds that from afar had seemed incongruous 

 enough on the silent, frost-bound evening began to explain 

 themselves. The whole building was full of busy life. A 

 furnace roared under a great caldron of smoking syrup, 

 which the foreman was vigorously stirring. In the far 

 corner an oil-engine clanked and spluttered. A circular 

 saw was screaming through a baulk of timber, slicing 

 it up into thin planks as a man would turn over the leaves 

 of a book. Planing machines and hammers and hand- 

 saws innumerable added their voices to the general chorus ; 

 and out of the shining steel jaws of an implement that 

 looked half printing-press and half clothes-wringer there 

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