CHAPTER XXVII 
THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BEE-GARDEN 
“Books,” said the Bee-Master of Warrilow, 
looking round through grey wreaths of 
tobacco-smoke at his crowded shelves, ‘‘ books 
seem to tell ye most things ne’ersome-matter; but 
when it comes to books on bees—well, ’tis somehow 
quite another pair o’ shoes.” 
He stopped to listen to the wind, blowing great 
guns outside in the winter darkness. The little 
cottage seemed to crouch and shudder beneath the 
blast, and the rain drove against the lattice-windows 
with a sobbing, timorous note. The bee-master 
drew the old oak settle nearer to the fire, and sat 
for a moment silently watching the comfortable 
blaze. 
““* True as print,’’’ he went on, lapsing more 
and more into the quaint, tangy Sussex dialect, as 
his theme impressed him; ‘‘ ’twas an old saying o’ 
my father’s; and right enough, maybe, in his time. 
A’ couldn’t read, to be sure; so a’ might have been 
ower unsceptical. But books was too expensive in 
those days to put many lies into.’’ 
He took down at kangen from the case on the 
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