ia8 THE LORE OT THE HONEY-BEE 



ways where the traffic seems too congested for the 

 old thoroughfares of the hive. 



On all sides the scavenging bees go to and fro, 

 picking up every particle of refuse, and carrying 

 it safely away. Winged undertakers drive their 

 trade in the midst of the throng, bearing the 

 corpses of their comrades, old and young, towards 

 the entrance, and flying away with them into the 

 sunlight of the young spring day. There is the 

 ventilating army outside the city gates, skilfully 

 organised in relays, so that, day and night, a con- 

 stant circulation of air is maintained. There are 

 the guard-bees close by, watching all in-comers 

 and out-goers. There is a sort of General Pur- 

 poses Committee ready outside the threshold with 

 a helping hand for all : succouring the overladen, 

 grooming down any in need of such assistance, 

 gathering up fallen treasure, or, as it would seem, 

 taking careful note of the weather for their next 

 official report. And all through the hours of sun- 

 shine, in unnumbered thousands, the foragers are 

 charging to and fro, some bringing nectar, some 

 staggering in under mighty loads of pollen, others 

 with full water-sacs, still more dragging behind 

 them lumps of the curious cement called by the 

 ancients Propolis, and used for so many different 

 purposes in the daily work of the hive. 



And it all goes on with the regularity of a well- 

 ordered human settlement. There is complexity, 

 yet no confusion ; there is soeed without hurry. 



