CHAPTER XVII 
THE HONEY THIEVES 
W HERE the bee-garden lay, under its sheltering 
crest of pine-wood, the April sunbeams 
seemed to gather, as water gathers in the lap of 
enclosing hills. Out in the lane the sweet hot wind 
sang in the hedgerows, and the white dust lifted 
under every footfall and went bowling merrily 
away on the breeze. But once among the crowding 
hives, you were launched on a still calm lake of 
sunshine, where the daffodils hardly swayed on their 
slender stems; and the smoke from the bee-master’s 
pipe, as he came down the red-tiled path, hung in 
the air behind hhim like blue gossamer spread to 
catch the flying bees. 
As usual, the old bee-man had an unexpected 
answer ready to the most obvious question. 
‘© When will the new honey begin to come in? ”’ he 
said, repeating my inquiry. ‘‘ Well, the truth is 
honey never comes into the hives at all; it only 
goes out. That’s the old mistake people are always 
falling into. Good bees never gather honey: they 
leave that to the wicked ones. If I had a hive of 
bees that took to pone Hine, I should have to 
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