THE HONEY-FLOW 150 
would win; the honey-chambers would clog with 
the interminable sweets, and the dreaded atrophy 
of contentment would seize upon the best of the 
hives, with the result that they would gather no 
more honey. 
A week of hot bright days and warm still nights, 
with here and there a gentle shower to hearten the 
fields of clover and sainfoin; and then the fight 
between the bee-master and his millions would begin 
in earnest. There would be no more quiet pipes, 
strolling and talking among the hives: the Bee- 
Master of Warrilow was a general now, with all 
a great commander’s stern absorption in the conduct 
of a difficult campaign. Often, with the first grey 
of the summer’s morning, you would hear his 
footsteps on the red-tiled path of the garden below, 
as he hurried off to the bee-farm, and presently the 
bell in the little turret over the extracting-house 
would clang out a reveille to his men, and draw 
them from their beds in the neighbouring village 
to another day of work, perhaps the most trying 
work by which men win their bread. 
It is nothing in the ordinary way to lift a super- 
chamber weighing twenty pounds or so. But to 
lift it by imperceptible degrees, place an empty rack 
in its place, return the full rack to the hive as an 
upper story, and to do it all so quietly and gently 
that the bees have not realised the onslaught on 
their home until the operation is complete, is quite 
another thing. And a long day of this wary, 
delicate handling of heavy weights, at arm’s length, 
under broiling sunshine, is one of the most nerve- 
wearing and back-breaking experiences in the 
world, 
