20 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
‘“‘Now keep an eye on the hive-entrance,’’ he 
said grimly. 
The glass was a good one. Now I could 
plainly make out a movement in this direction. 
The noise and vibration made by the birds outside 
had roused the slumbering colony to a sense of 
danger. About a dozen bees ran out to see what it 
all meant, and were immediately pounced upon. 
And then the gun spoke over my head. It was a 
shot into the air, but it served its harmless purpose. 
From every bush and tree there came over to 
us a dull whirr of wings like far-off thunder, as 
the blue marauders sped away for the open 
country, filling the air with their frightened jingling 
note. 
Perhaps of all cosy retreats from the winter blast 
it has ever been my good fortune to discover, the 
extracting-room on Warrilow bee-farm was the 
brightest and most comfortable. In summer-time 
the whole life of the apiary centred here; and the 
stress and bustle, inevitable during the séason of 
the great honey-flow, obscured its manifold possi- 
bilities. But in winter the extracting-machines were, 
for the most part, silent; and the natural serenity 
and cosiness of the place reasserted themselves 
triumphantly. From the open furnace-door a 
ruddy warmth and glow enriched every nook and 
corner of the long building. The walls were lined 
with shelves where the polished tin vessels, in 
which the surplus honey was stored, gave back 
the fire-shine in a hundred flickering points of amber 
light. The work of hive-making in the neighbour- 
ing sheds was going briskly forward, but the noise 
of hammering, the shrill hum of sawing and planing 
