74. THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
of the trees. Then every year these stray colonies 
have sent out their own swarms again, until to-day 
the woods are full of bees, wild as wolves and often 
as savage, guarding stores that have been accumu- 
lating perhaps for years and years.” 
He shifted his heavy kit from one shoulder to the 
other. Overhead the sun burned in a cloudless 
August sky, and the willow-herb by the roadside 
was full of singing bees and the flicker of white 
butterflies. In the hedgerows there were more bees 
plundering the blackberry blossom, or sounding 
their vagrant note in the white convolvulus-bells 
which hung in bridal wreaths at every turn of the 
way. Beyond the hedgerow the yellow cornlands 
flowed away over hill and dale under the torrid 
light; and each scarlet poppy that hid in the rustling 
gold-brown wheat had its winged musician chanting 
at its portal. As I turned and went along with the 
expedition, the bee-master gave me more details of 
the coming enterprise. 
“Mind you,”’ he said, ‘ this is not good beeman- 
ship as the moderns understand it. It is nothing 
but bee-murder, of the old-fashioned kind. But 
even if the bees could be easily taken alive, we 
should not want them in the apiary. Blood counts 
in bee-life, as in everything else; and these 
forest-bees have been too long under the old natural 
conditions to be of any use among the domestic 
strain. However, the honey is worth the getting, 
and if we can land only one big stock or two it will 
be a profitable day’s work.” 
We had left the hot, dusty lane, and taken to 
the field-path leading up through a sea of white 
clover to the woods above. 
