AT THE CITY GATES 65 



and begin their noontide gambols about the hive, 

 filling the air with a gay, roistering song. In a 

 little while they will be all gone to their revels, 

 and the bee-garden will seem, by comparison, 

 strangely quiet. But now the sudden accession 

 of energy is unmistakable. With the awakening 

 of the drones there seems to be a new spfrit 

 abroad. The air is no longer filled to overflow- 

 ing with busy foragers. Many of these have 

 joined the dance round the hives, so that each 

 bee-dwelling is the centre of a singing, gambolling 

 crowd, moved rather by a spirit of play, almost of 

 idleness. But this brief moment of relaxation 

 soon passes. The drones betake themselves 

 to their marital pleasuring in the fields. The 

 noisy midday symphony dies down to the old 

 steady monotone of work. And the watcher at 

 the gates of the bee-city turns to retrace his steps 

 down the flower-garlanded way of the old pleas- 

 ance, satiated with wonders, yet not satisfied, his 

 curiosity only quickened a thousandfold for that 

 which has been inexorably held from him, a 

 glimpse of what is happening behind those baffling 

 walls of straw. 



Wending slowly homeward, and pondering, he 

 asks himself many questions. What is the reason, 

 the final outcome, of all this earnest, well-directed 

 labour ? What is done with the pollen that has 

 been carried in all the morning long ? Where 

 there is obviously so much system, and unanimity, 

 5 



