160 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
One of the mistakes made by the unknowing in 
bee-craft is that the bee-veil is never used among 
professional men. But the truth is that even the 
oldest, most experienced hand is glad enough, at 
times, to fall back behind this, his last line of defence. 
All depends upon the momentary temper of the 
bees. There are times when every hive on the 
farm is as gentle as a flock of sheep, and it is 
possible to take any liberty with them. At other 
times, and apparently under much the same 
conditions, stocks of bees with the steadiest of 
reputations will resent the slightest interference, 
while the mere approach to others may mean a 
furious attack. No true bee-man is afraid of the 
wickedest bees that ever flew, but it is only the 
novice who will disdain necessary precautions. 
Even the Bee-Master of Warrilow was seldom 
seen without a wisp of black net round the crown 
of his ancient hat, ready to be let down at a moment’s 
notice if the bees showed any inclination to sting. 
In a long vista of memorable days spent at 
Warrilow, one stands out clear above all the rest. 
It was in July of a famous honey-year. The hay 
had long been carried, and the second crops of 
sainfoin and Dutch clover were making their 
bravest show of blossom in the fields. It was a 
stifling day of naked light and heat, with a fierce 
wind abroad hotter even than the sunshine. The 
deep blue of the sky came right down to the earth- 
line. The farthest hills were hard and bright under 
the universal glare. And on the bee-farm, as I 
came through the gap in the dusty hedgerow, I 
saw that every man had his veil close drawn down. 
The bee-master hailed me from his crowded corner. 
