THE HONEY THIEVES 127 
stop them, or end them altogether. It would have 
to be either kill or cure.” 
He took a quiet whiff or two, enjoying the effect 
of this seeming paradox, then went on to explain. 
“What the bees gather from the flowers,’”’ said 
he, “‘ is no more honey than barley and hops are 
beer. Honey has to be manufactured, first in the 
body of the bee, and then in the comb-cells. It 
must stand to brew in the heat of the hive, just as 
the wort stands in the gyle-tun; and when it is 
ready to be bunged down, before the bee adds the 
last little plate of wax to the cell-capping, she turns 
herself about and, as I believe, injects a drop of the 
poison from her sting—or seems to do so. Then it 
is real honey, but not before. Now, about these bad 
bees, the honey-gatherers——”’ 
He stopped, putting his hand suddenly to his face. 
A bee had unexpectedly fastened her sting into his 
cheek. At the same moment another came at me 
like a spent shot from a gun, and struck home on 
my own face. The old bee-man took a hurried 
survey of his hives. 
‘* Why,” said he, ‘‘ as luck, or ill-luck, will have 
it, I think I can show you the honey-gatherers at 
work now. There’s only one thing that would 
make my bees wild on such a morning as this; and 
we must find out where the trouble is, and stop it.”’ 
He was looking about him in every direction as 
he spoke; and at last, on the farther side of the 
bee-garden, seemed to make out something amiss. 
As we passed between the long rows of bee- 
dwellings every hive was the centre of its own 
thronging busy life. From each there was a steady 
stream of foragers setting outward into the brilliant 
