178 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
An Officious Dame 
Many more set themselves to look for sweets 
where they must know there is little likelihood of 
finding any. Scarce one goes near the glowing 
belt of pompons rimming the garden on every side. 
But here is one bee, an ancient dame, with ragged 
wings and shiny thorax, poised outside a cranny in 
the old brick wall, and examining it with serious, 
shrill inquiry. She is obviously making-believe, to 
while away the time, that it is a choice blossom full 
of nectar. She knows it is nothing of the kind; 
but that will neither check her ardour nor expedite 
the piece of play-acting. She spins it out to the 
utmost, and leaves the one dusty crevice at last only 
to go through the same performance at the next. 
I often wonder wherein lies the fascination to a 
hive-bee of an open window or door. Sitting here 
ledgering in the little office of the bee-farm—where 
no honey, nor the smell of honey, is ever allowed to 
come—sooner or later, in the quiet of the golden 
morning, the familiar voice peals out. It is 
startling at first, unless you are well used to it— 
this sudden high-pitched clamour breaking the 
silence about you; and the oldest bee-man must lay 
down pen or rule, and look up from his work to 
scan the intruder. 
She has darted in at the door, and has stopped in 
mid-air a foot or two within the room. The sound 
she makes is very different from that of a bee in 
ordinary flight. You cannot mistake its meaning; 
it is one long-drawn-out, musical note of exclamation, 
an intense, reiterated wonder at all about her—the 
