42 THE HONEYFLOW 



hum in the hives which tells of ceaseless toil. 

 In the grey dawn bees fret at the entrance, 

 running in and out, all eager to get away to the 

 fields the moment there is light enough to steer 

 a course by. By the time the sun has sent his 

 first rays of golden light through the tree tops, 

 the army of foragers has begun to move. A few 

 hardy spirits lead the van and others follow, the 

 numbers increasing steadily, until, by the time 

 the majority of folks are coming down to breakfast, 

 a steady stream of brown atoms is pouring out 

 of the hive at breakneck speed. Some shoot out 

 of the entrance, flinging themselves headlong into 

 the air without a pause. Others run a little way 

 down the alighting board and launch off like a 

 practised and fearless diver taking to the water. 

 None hang round the hive, but fly straight off to 

 the spot which is at the moment yielding the 

 greatest profusion of nectar. By the time the 

 sun is well above the horizon the bees who 

 went out first are beginning to return, their bodies 

 swollen and shiny, their hind-legs in many cases 

 holding great masses of pollen, or " bee bread," 

 as bee-keepers call it, vital nitrogen for hungry 

 baby bees. Weighted to the utmost of their 

 capacity, they alight as near the entrance as 

 possible and crawl heavily in. 



As the sun climbs higher, the hive grows warm 

 and oppressive, and if we stand near it, we hear 

 a new sound proceeding from it, a steady " Zer 



