66 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
folds closed in upon it, leaving nothing but bare 
yellow waste, where had been a rolling sea of 
crimson blossom. But the charlock lay on every 
hillside like cloth-of-gold. Until harvest was done 
the fallows were safe from the ploughshare, and 
what proved little else than a troublesome weed to 
the farmer was like golden guineas growing to 
every keeper of bees. 
But at last the new moon brought a sharp chilly 
night with it, and the long-awaited signal was given. 
Coming down with the first grey glint of morning 
from the little room under the thatch, I found the 
bee-garden in a swither of commotion. A faint 
smell of carbolic was on the air, and the shadowy 
figures of the bee-master and his men were hurrying 
from hive to hive, taking off the super-racks that 
stood on many three and four stories high. The 
honey-barrows went to and fro groaning under 
their burdens; and the earliest bees, roused from 
their rest by this unwonted turmoil, filled the grey 
dusk with their high timorous note. 
The bee-master came over to me in his white 
overalls, a weird apparition in the half-darkness. 
‘?Tis the honey-dew,”’ he said, out of breath, as 
he passed by. ‘‘ The first cold night of summer 
brings it out thick on every oak-leaf for miles 
around; and if we don’t get the supers off before 
the bees can gather it, the honey will be blackened 
and spoiled for market.”’ 
He carried a curious bundle with him, an armful 
of fluttering pieces of calico, and I followed him 
as he went to work on a fresh row of hives. From 
each bee-dwelling the roof was thrown off, the 
inner cgverings removed, and one of the squares 
