254 THE LORE OF THE HONEY BEE 
race with the sun, in which the swiftest must lag 
behind. They have never known the over- 
weighty cargoes, the bursting honey - sacs, and 
pollen-panniers so laden that they could be scarce 
dragged into the hive, and they will never know 
them. These bees, born late in the season, have 
their lot cast in the torpid backwaters of their 
little world. Theirs is to be but a dreary eking 
out of days, so that they may have strength 
enough to warm the first spring broods into life. 
The few hot days that burn in the midst of the 
snows of each English March—immeasurably far 
off now, and unattainable, seemingly—will be all 
they will ever see of the power of sunshine. 
Winter bees are born to the prison-house ; and in 
it, and for it, live and die. 
At the most, a worker-bee sees but six months 
of life: at the least—and this is the lot of many— 
she withstands the incessant wear and tear of her 
hard calling for six, or possibly eight, weeks. 
Thus, though the hive may be always packed with 
citizens, the population is for ever changing. 
Half a dozen times in the year, perhaps, and for a 
score of years, you may go to your bee-garden, and 
each time move among tens of thousands to whom 
you are an utter stranger, and whom you have 
never seen before. And yet, in all its customs, its 
propensities, its traditions, the life of the bees is 
Continuity impersonified. You may go round the 
world, and spend ten years on the journey ; and, 
