18 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
city, shot-gun under arm, and with apparently 
nothing more to do than to meditate over past 
achievements, or to plan out operations for the 
season to come. 
As I approached, the sharp report of the gun rang 
out, and a little cloud of birds went chippering 
fearsomely away over the hedgerow. The old man 
watched them as they flew off dark against the 
snowy hillside. He threw out the cartridge-cases 
disgustedly. 
‘* Blue-tits!’’ said he. ‘‘ They are the great pest 
of the bee-keeper in winter time. When the snow 
covers the ground, and the frost has driven all 
insect-life deep into the crevices of the trees, all the 
blue-caps for miles round trek to the bee-gardens. 
Of course, if the bees would only keep indoors they 
would be safe enough. But the same cause that 
drives the birds in lures the bees out. The snow 
reflects the sunlight up through the hive-entrances, 
and they think the bright days of spring have come, 
and out they flock to their death. And winter is 
just the time when every single bee is valuable. In 
summer a few hundreds more or less make little 
difference, when in every hive young bees are 
maturing at the rate of several thousands a day 
to take the place of those that perish. But now 
every bee captured by the tits is an appreciable loss 
to the colony. They are all nurse-bees in the winter- 
hives, and on them depends the safe hatching-out of 
the first broods in the spring season. So the bee- 
keeper would do well to include a shot-gun among 
his paraphernalia, unless he is willing to feed all the 
starving tits of the countryside at the risk of his 
year’s harvest,” 
