244 THE LORE OF THE HONEY-BEE 
in her nature, matching ill with the fine hues and 
qualities of mind for which she is so justly famed. 
And that she is not all lovable, all admirable, 
accounts for the exceeding love of her that moves 
the hearts of men who know her through and 
through. The story of the massacre of the drones 
has hardly a parallel for sheer relentless ferocity— 
unrecking abandonment to a vengeance long with- 
held for expediency’s sake. There come the first 
chill nights of mid-July, and the honey-flow is 
suddenly at an end. The clover and sainfoin 
have already fallen to the sickle. Nothing but 
the bravest warmth and exuberance of the summer 
could now withstand the drain of the myriad honey- 
makers, and a few hours’ cold dams up at once the 
attenuated stream. The time of prosperity is over. 
There will be no more abundance of honey. It 
remains for the genius of hive-economy to prove 
how much of what has been gathered can be pre- 
served for future needs. 
The first sign of the déddcle is the throwing 
out at the hive entrance of certain pale, gruesome 
objects—the corpses of immature drones, not dead 
from mischance, but ruthlessly torn from their cells. 
This may go on intermittently for many days, and 
while the fell work is proceeding the living drones 
seem to take no warning. They keep up their 
merry round; the unending feast riots forward ; 
daily the bee-garden is filled with their careless, 
overweening song. And then at last the signal 
