THE SWARM 39 



21 



But we are forgetting the hive wherein the swarming 

 bees have begun to lose patience, the hive whose black 

 and vibrating waves are bubbling and overflowing, like a 

 brazen cup beneath an ardent sun. It is noon, and the heat 

 so great that the assembled trees would seem almost to hold 

 back their leaves, as a man holds his breath before some- 

 thing very tender but very grave. The bees give their 

 honey and sweet-smelling wax to the man who attends them ; 

 but more precious gift still is their summoning him to the 

 gladness of June, to the joy of the beautiful months ; for 

 events in which bees take part happen only when skies are 

 pure, at the winsome hours of the year when flowers keep 

 holiday. They are the soul of the summer, the clock whose 

 dial records the moments of plenty ; they are the untiring 

 wing on which delicate perfumes float, the guide of the 

 quivering light-ray, the song of the slumberous, languid air ; 

 and their flight is the token, the sure and melodious note, 

 of all the myriad fragile joys that are born in the heat and 

 dwell in the sunshine. They teach us to tune our ear to 

 the softest, most intimate whisper of these good, natural 

 hours. To him who has known them and loved them, a 

 summer where there are no bees becomes as sad and as 

 empty as one without flowers or birds. 



