60 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
frames of honeycomb, each in its separate gatuze- 
wire cage. The bee-master. tugged a lever. The 
cages—there must have been twenty-five or thirty 
of them—turned over simultaneously like single 
leaves of a book, bringing the other side of each 
comb into place. The wheel dropped down once 
more, and swung round again on its giddy journey. 
From my place by the door I could hear the honey 
driving out against the sides of the vat like heavy 
rain. 
** Halt!’’ cried the bee-master again. Once more 
the big wheel rose, glistening and dripping, into the 
yellow lamplight. And now a trolley was pushed up 
laden with more honeycomb ready for extraction. 
The wire-net cages were opened, the empty combs 
taken out, and full ones deftly put in their place. 
The wheel plunged down again into its mellifluous 
cavern, and began its deep song once more. The 
bee-master gave up his post to the foreman, and 
came towards me, wiping the honey from his 
hands. He was very proud of his big extractor, 
and quite willing to explain the whole process. 
‘“‘In the old days,’ he said, ‘‘the only way to 
get the honey from the comb was to press it out. 
You could not obtain your honey without destroying 
the comb, which at this season of the year is worth 
very much more than the honey itself; for if the 
combs can be emptied and _ restored perfect 
to the hive, the bees will fill them again imme- 
diately, without having to waste valuable time 
in the height of the honey-flow by stopping 
to make new combs. And when the bees 
are wax-making they are not only prevented from 
gathering honey, but have to consume their own 
