Late that afternoon it rained a little, and the next day was hot and muggy. It was perhaps the best honey day of the whole season. The bees were almost frantic over the abundance of sweet. The apiary roared like a huge mill. Carl, who had gone fishing, declared that he could hear it a quarter of a mile away. Long after dark the apiary still roared sonorously from every hive, where the bees were fanning furiously with their wings, driving currents of air between the combs to ripen the fresh honey. Bob looked into the supers after flying had ceased, and reported that many of the combs were entirely full of sparkling honey, clear as water. Of course, it was still unripe and unsealed, and would need the care of the bees for some time before taking on the rich, thick consistency of finished honey, ready to be sealed.
For the time being the apiarists had checked the swarming and had a few days of leisure. Now and again a swarm did come out despite all precaution, but they caught nearly all of these, so that there was a fresh row of new colonies being built up.
Then a succession of chilly days cut the honey-flow short. The bees turned sulky and cross. It was impossible to go among the hives without being stung, but after the third day honey began to come in slowly once more.
Strawberries were now ripe, and could be picked in the greatest profusion. Alice gathered them daily; so did the boys, and in fact for a few days they ate hardly anything else. Alice longed to make jam, but had no jam-pots.
Carl went out one morning to pick berries, but returned within an hour, looking disturbed. In one hand he held his half-filled pail, and in the other a rusty tin pan.
“What do you think of this, Bob?” he demanded.
The pan was half full of some dark fluid, at which his brother sniffed carefully.
“Maple syrup,” he pronounced.
“Yes, and something else. See that green sediment? That’s Paris green. I found the pan under the bushes, just beyond the hives.”
“Poison!” cried Alice. “Why, it must have been meant to kill the bees!”