A BEE-MAN OF THE ’FORTIES 47 
natur’ to hike ’em back here along. An’ naught 
but ill-luck an’ worry wi’out end.” 
He never observed the skies for tokens of to- 
morrow’s weather, as did his neighbours of the 
countryside. The bees were his weather-glass 
and thermometer in one. If they hived very early 
after noon, though the sun went down in clear 
gold and the summer night loomed like molten 
amethyst under the starshine, he would prophesy 
rain before morning. And sure enough you were 
wakened at dawn by a furious patter on the 
window, and the booming of the south-west wind 
in the pine-clad crest of the hill. But if the bees 
loitered afield far into the gusty crimson gloaming, 
and the loud darkness that followed seemed only to 
bring added intensity to the busy labour-note 
within the hives, no matter how the wind keened 
or the griddle of black storm-cloud threatened, he 
would go on with his evening task of watering his 
garden, sure of a morrow of cloudless heat to 
come, 
He knew all the sources of honey for miles 
around; and, by taste and smell, could decide at 
once the particular crop from which each sample 
had been gathered. He would discriminate between 
that from white clover or sainfoin; the produce of 
the yellow charlock wastes; or the orchard-honey, 
wherein it seemed the fragrance of cherry-bloom 
was always to be differentiated from that of apple 
or damson or pear. He would tell you when good 
honey had been spoilt by the grosser flavour of 
sunflower or horse-chestnut; or when the detestable 
honey-dew had entered into its composition; or, the 
super-caps having been removed too late in the 
