SUMMER LIFE IN A BEE-HIVE 165 
Every hive has its traditional dipping-place, 
generally the oozy margin of some neighbouring 
pond, where the house-martins have been wheeling 
and crying since the first grey of dawn. Now the 
bees’ clear tindertone begins to mingle with the 
chippering chorus. In a little while there is a thin 
straight line of humming music stretched between 
the hives and the pond: it could not be straighter 
if a surveyor had made it with his level. Again a 
little while, and this long searchlight of melody 
thrown out by the bee-garden veers to the north. 
You may track it straight over copse and meadow, 
seeing not a bee overhead, but guided unerringly 
by the arrow-flight of music, until, on the far hill- 
side, it is lost in a perfect roar of sound. Here the 
white-clover is in almost full blossom again: in 
southern England at least it is always the second 
crop of clover that yields the most plentiful harvest 
to the hives. 
It must be a disturbing thing to those kinder- 
garten moralists who hold the bee up to youth for 
an example of industry and prudence to learn that 
she is by no means an early riser; though, at this 
time of year, she is undoubtedly both wealthy and 
wise. For it is her very wisdom that now makes 
her a lie-abed. When the iron is hot, she will not 
be slow in striking. But it is nectar, not dewdrops, 
from which she makes her honey. Very wisely 
she waits until the sun has drunk up the dew from 
the clover-bells, and then she hurries forth to 
garner their undiluted sweets. Even then, perhaps, 
three-fourths of her burden will be carried uselessly. 
In the brewing-vats of the hive the nectar must 
stand and steam until three parts of its original 
