i84 THE LORE OF THE HONEY-BEE 



again ; whirring wheels within wheels of insect- 

 life, spinning-wheels making thread to weave the 

 garments of a whole nation, and humming as 

 never spinning-wheels hummed before. 



But the beginning of the end is nigh ; the time 

 of singing is nearly over. The old beeman stops 

 his weird tom-tomming, throws down key and 

 pan, and points to the topmost branch of a young 

 apple-sapling. You see a little black knot of bees 

 clinging to it no larger than a pigeon's egg. A 

 moment later, and it has grown to the size of a 

 double fist, and another moment sees it twice this 

 size again, as the flying bees stream towards it 

 from all directions. Now it is as big as a quart 

 measure, and the branch is slowly bending down 

 under its weight. In an incredibly short space of 

 time the whole swarm has joined the cluster ; they 

 hang together in a long, brown, glistening, cigar- 

 shaped mass, well-nigh touching the ground, and 

 the wild, merry music is over for good. 



Gently swaying in the sunlight, lifeless and 

 inert but for a few restless bees that hum about it, 

 the sight of a settled swarm has an almost uncanny 

 effect on most observers. A little before, the 

 whole garden was filled with its deafening, joyous 

 hubbub ; now a strange silence has fallen, and it 

 is impossible to dissociate from its present state 

 the idea of an abject depression and disillusion- 

 ment, as though the whole thing had been but a 

 mad escapade, of which the bees were now heartily 



