94 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
the worker-bees. They have the whole manage- 
ment of the hive, and simply look upon the queen as 
a much prized and carefully-guarded piece of egg- 
laying machinery, to be made the most of as long 
as her usefulness lasts, but to be thrown over and 
replaced by another the moment her powers begin 
to flag.” 
‘* No; there are no queens, properly so called, in 
bee-life,”’ he continued. ‘‘ All that belongs to the 
good old times when there were nothing but straw- 
skeps, and ’twas well-nigh impossible to get at the 
rights of anything; so the bee-keeper went on 
believing that honey was made out of starshine, 
and young bees were bred from the juice of white 
honeysuckle, which was all pretty enough in its 
way, even though it warn’t true. But nowadays, 
when they make hives with comb-frames that can 
be lifted out and looked at in the broad light of day, 
folk are beginning to understand a power of things 
about bees that were dark mysteries only a while 
ago.”’ 
He puffed at his pipe for a little in silence. Far 
away over the great province of hives, the clock 
on the extracting-house pointed to half-past twelve; 
and, true to their usual time, the home-staying bees 
—the housekeepers and nurses and lately hatched 
young ones—were out for their midday exercise. 
The foragers were going to and fro as thickly as 
ever with their loads of pollen and water for the 
still cradled larve within; but now round every hive 
a little cloud of bees hovered, filling the sunshine 
with the drowsy music of their wings. The old 
bee-man took up his theme again presently at the 
point he had broken it off. 
