128 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
sunshine, and as constant a current homeward, as 
the bees returned heavily weighed down under loads 
of golden pollen from the willows by the neigh- 
bouring riverside. But round the hive, near which 
the bee-master presently came to a halt, there was 
a very different scene enacting. The deep, rich note 
of labour was replaced by an angry hubbub of war. 
The alighting-board of the hive was covered with 
fighting bees; company launched against company’ 
single combats to the death; writhing masses of 
bees locked together and tumbling furiously to the 
ground in every direction. The soil about the hive 
was already thickly strewn with the dead and dying: 
and the air, for yards round, was filled with the 
piercing note of the fray. It seemed as hopeless 
to attempt to stop the carnage as it was manifestly 
perilous to go near. 
But the bee-master had his own short way with 
this, as with most other difficulties. He took up a 
big watering-can and filled it hastily from the butt 
close by. 
“‘This hive is a weak stock,”’ he explained, ‘‘ and 
it is being robbed by one of the stronger ones. 
That is always the danger in spring. We must try 
to drive the robbers home, and only one thing will 
do it. That is, a heavy rainstorm; and as there is 
no chance of getting the real thing, we must make 
one for ourselves.”’ 
He strode into the thick of the flying bees, and 
raising the can above his head, sent a steady 
cascade of water over the whole hive. The effect 
was instantaneous. The fighting ceased at once. 
The marauding bees rose on the wing and streamed 
away homeward. Those belonging to the attacked 
