THE HONEY-FLOW 161 
Yare just to the nick!’’ he called, in his 
broadest Sussex. ‘’Tis stripping-day wi’ us, an’ I 
can do wi’ a dozen o’ ye! Get on your veil, d’rectly- 
minute, an’ wire in t’ot!”’ 
The fierce hot wind surged through the little city 
of hives, scattering the bees like chaff in all 
directions, and rousing in them a wild-cat fury. 
Overhead the sunny air was full of bees, striving 
out and home; and from every hive there came a 
shrill note, a tremulous, high-pitched roar of work, 
half-baffled,. driven through against all odds and 
hindrances, a note that bore in upon you an 
irresistible sense of fear. I pulled on the bee-veil 
without more ado. 
‘* Stripping-day ’’ was always the hardest day of 
the year at Warrilow. It meant that some infallible 
sign of the approaching end of the harvest had been 
observed, and that all extractable honey must be 
immediately removed from the hives. A change of 
weather was brewing, as the nearness of the hills 
foretold. There might be weeks of flood and 
tempest coming, when the hives could not be opened. 
Overnight there had been a ringed moon, and the 
morning broke hot and boisterous, with an ominous 
clearness everywhere. By midday the glass was 
tumbling down. The bee-master took one look at 
it, then called all hands together. ‘“‘Strip!’’ he 
said laconically; and all work in extracting-house 
and packing-sheds was abandoned, and every man 
braced himself to the job. 
The hives were arranged in long double rows, 
back to back, with a footway between wide enough 
to allow the passage of the honey barrow. This 
was not unlike a baker’s hand-cart, and contained 
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