A BEE-MAN OF THE ’FORTIES — 49 
always had swarms in May as far back as his 
memory could serve him; and the oldest hive in the 
garden was generally the first to swarm. As a 
rule the bees gave sufficient warning of their 
intended migration some hours before their actual 
issue. The strenuous pell-mell business of the hive 
would come to a sudden portentous halt. While a 
few of the bees still darted straight off into the 
sunshine on their wonted errands, or returned with 
the usual motley loads upon their thighs, the rest 
of the colony seemed to have abandoned work 
altogether. From early morning they hung in a 
great brown cluster all over the face of the hive, 
and down almost to the earth beneath; a churning 
mass of insect-life that grew bigger and bigger with 
every moment, glistening like wet seaweed in the 
morning stn. In the cluster itself there was an 
uncanny silence. But out of the depths of the hive 
came a low vibrating murmur, wholly distinct 
from its usual note; and every now and again a 
faint shrill piping sound could be heard, as the old 
queen worked herself up to swarming frenzy, 
vainly seeking the while to reach the royal nursery 
where the rival who was to oust her from her old 
dominion was even then steadily gnawing through 
her constraining prison walls. 
At these momentous times a quaint ceremonial 
was rigidly adhered to by the old bee-master. 
First he brought out a pitcher of home-brewed ale, 
from which all who were to assist in the swarm- 
taking were required to drink, as at a solemn rite. 
The dressing of the skep was his next care. A 
little of the beer was sprinkled over its interior, and 
then it was carefully scoured out with a handful of 
nD 
