184 THE LORE OF THE HONEY-BEE 
again; whirring wheels within wheels of insect- 
life, spinning-wheels making thread to weave the 
garments of a whole nation, and humming as 
never spinning-wheels hummed before. 
But the beginning of the end is nigh ; the time 
of singing is nearly over. The old beeman stops 
his weird tom-tomming, throws down key and 
pan, and points to the topmost branch of a young 
apple-sapling. You see a little black knot of bees ' 
clinging to it no larger than a pigeon’s egg. A 
moment later, and it has grown to the size of a 
double fist, and another moment sees it twice this 
size again, as the flying bees stream towards it 
from all directions. Now it is as big as a quart 
measure, and the branch is slowly bending down 
under its weight. In an incredibly short space of 
time the whole swarm has joined the cluster ; they 
hang together in a long, brown, glistening, cigar- 
shaped mass, well-nigh touching the ground, and 
the wild, merry music is over for good. 
Gently swaying in the sunlight, lifeless and 
inert but for a few restless bees that hum about it, 
the sight of a settled swarm has an almost uncanny 
effect on most observers. A little before, the 
whole garden was filled, with its deafening, joyous 
hubbub ; now a strange silence has fallen, and it 
is impossible to dissociate from its present state 
the idea of an abject depression and disillusion- 
ment, as though the whole thing had been but a 
mad escapade, of which the bees were now heartily 
