A BEE-MAN OF THE ’FORTIES © 51 
supposed to fly higher or lower according to the 
measure of the music; and now the great door-key 
beat out a slow, stately chime like a cathedral bell. 
Whether this ringing of the old-time skeppists had 
any real influence on the movements of a swarm 
has never been absolutely determined; but there 
was no doubt in this case of the bee-keeper’s perfect 
faith in the process, or that the bees would 
commence their descent and settle, usually in one 
of the apple trees, very soon after the din began. 
The rapid growth of the swarm-cluster was 
always one of the most bewildering things to watch. 
From a little dark knot no bigger than the clenched 
hand, it swelled in a moment to the size of a half- 
gallon measure, growing in girth and length with 
inconceivable swiftness, until the branch began to 
droop under its weight. A minute more, and the 
last of the flying bees had joined the cluster; the 
stout apple-branch was bent almost double; and 
the completed swarm hung within a few inches of 
the ground, a long cigar-shaped mass gently swaying 
to and fro in the flickering light and shade. 
The joyous trek-song of the bees, and the clang- 
ing melody of key and basin, died down together. 
The old murmuring, songful quiet closed over the 
garden again, as water over a cast stone. To hive 
a swarm thus easily within reach was a simple 
matter. Soon the old bee-man had got all snugly 
inside the skep, and the hive in its self-appointed 
station. And already the bees were settling down 
to work; hovering merrily about it, or packed in 
the fragrant darkness busy at comb-building, or 
lancing off to the clover-fields, eager to begin the 
task of provisioning: the new home, 
