HONEY-CRAFT OLD AND NEW 201 
of two summers, and fall to useless drone-breeding 
in the third. 
Already the sun has climbed high, and yet I linger, 
though I know I should be gone an hour ago. The 
darkness, far away as it seems, will not find all done 
that should be done on the bee-farm, toil as hard as 
we may. For these sudden hot days in spring often 
come singly, and every moment of them is precious. 
To-morrow the north wind may be keening under an 
iron-grey sky, and pallid wreaths of snow-flakes 
weighing down the almond-blossom. So it happened 
only a year ago, when on the twenty-fifth of April I 
must clear away the snow from the entrance-boards 
of the hives. It is, I think, the unending round of 
business—the itch that is on us now of finding a 
day’s work for every day in the year in modern bee- 
craft—which has had most to do with the changed 
times. The old leisure, as well as the old colour and 
mystery, has gone out of bee-keeping. Between 
burning-time in August and swarming-time in May 
there used to be little else for the bee-master to do 
but smoke his pipe and ruminate and watch the wax 
flowing into the hives. For we all believed that the 
little pellets of many-tinted pollen which the bees 
constantly carry’ in on their thighs were not food 
for the grubs in the cells, but wax for the comb- 
building. I could believe it now, indeed, if I 
might only sit here long enough; but the busy 
voices are calling, calling, and I must be gone. 
