THE BEE-MASTER OF 
WARRILOW 
CHAPTER I 
THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
ONG, lithe, and sinewy, with three score 
years of sunburn on his keen, gnarled face, 
and the sure stride of a mountain goat, the Bee- 
Master of Warrilow struck you at once as a notable 
figure in any company. 
Warrilow is a little precipitous village tucked 
away under the green brink of the Sussex Downs; 
and the bee-farm lay on the southern slope of the 
hill, with a sheltering barrier of pine above, in 
which, all day long, the winter wind kept up an 
impotent complaining. But below, among the 
hives, nothing stirred in the frosty, sun-riddled air. 
Now and again a solitary worker-bee darted up from 
a hive door, took a brisk turn or two in the dazzling 
light, then hurried home again to the warm cluster. 
But the flash and quiver of wings, and the drowsy 
song of summer days, were gone in the iron-bound 
January weather; and the bee-master was lounging 
idly to and fro in the great main-way of the waxen 
B 17 
