CHAPTER VIII 
IN A BEE-CAMP 
a "Ts a good thing—life; but ye never know how 
good, really, till you’ve followed the bees to 
the heather.” 
It was an old saying of the bee-master’s, and it 
came again slowly from his lips now, as he knelt 
by the camp-fire, watching the caress of the flames 
round the bubbling pot. We were in the heart of 
the Sussex moorland, miles away from the nearest 
village, still farther from the great bee-farm where, 
at other times, the old man drove his thriving 
trade. But the bees were here—a million of them 
perhaps—all singing their loudest in the blossom- 
ing heather that stretched away on every side 
to the far horizon, under the sweltering August 
sun. 
Getting the bees to the moors was always the 
chief event of the year down at the honey-farm. 
For days the waggons stood by the laneside, all 
ready to be loaded up with the best and most 
populous hives; but the exact moment of departure 
depended on one very uncertain factor. The white- 
clover crop was almost at an end. Every day saw 
the acreage of sainfoin narrowing, as the sheep- 
gE 65 
