The Life of the Bee 
most ingeniously contrive that the enlarged 
cells on the convex side shall coincide with 
the reduced cells on the concave side of the 
comb. 
But before finally quitting this subject let 
us pause, though it be but for an instant, 
to consider the mysterious fashion in which 
they manage to act in concert and combine 
their labour when simultaneously carving 
two opposite sides of a comb, and unable 
therefore to see each other. Take a finished 
comb to the light, fix your eyes on the 
diaphanous wax, you will see, most clearly 
designed, an entire network of sharply cut 
prisms, a whole system of concordances so 
infallible that one might almost believe 
them to be stamped on steel. 
I wonder whether those who never have 
seen the interior of a hive can form an 
adequate conception of the arrangement 
and aspect of the combs. Let them imagine 
—we will take a peasant’s hive, where the 
bee is left entirely to its own resources— 
let them imagine a dome of straw or 
osier, divided from top to bottom by five, 
six, eight, sometimes ten, strips of wax, 
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