“I don’t believe I ever saw a honey-flow last so well,” said Alice. “It surely can’t go on much longer, and I’m almost afraid to look out every morning, for fear it’s over.”
They expected frost every day now, but for another full week the weather continued warm and open, and the bees continued to bring in nectar, though in daily-diminishing quantities. Then one evening the wind shifted into the north, and the temperature went down, not to frost, but low enough to stop the secretion of nectar. The bees were idle, and that day the tragedy of the drones began. The long steady flow of honey had caused the bees to tolerate them until late, but now their time had come. At every hive-entrance the bees could be seen chasing them, biting and worrying them, driving them out, but seldom stinging. The big, stingless drone is very much afraid of his armed little sisters, and is unable to resist when thrown out of the hive. All day long could be heard the loud buzzing of the drones as they tried in vain to reenter their homes, and the next morning they could be seen by scores, dead in front of the hives, where they had perished of cold and starvation. In a week hardly a drone was left in the apiary.
This meant an end to Alice’s queen-rearing, and she took out and destroyed the last set of cells that was under way. It was now too late in the season to kill a queen and attempt to replace her. Every effort had to be turned toward getting the colonies into the best condition for winter.
The weather did turn slightly warmer, but the honey-flow did not recommence. Then, early one morning, when Carl went out to the yard, he found the tops of the hives white with hoar-frost.
“That’s the end of it,” he said. “Well, we can’t complain, for it’s lasted wonderfully.”
That day the fireweed flowers hung wilted in the sunshine. The honey-season was certainly over this time. Nothing remained to be done now but to extract and sell what was on the hives, but they considered it better to leave it in the supers to ripen for another week.
All the honey at the lakeside apiary would have to be hauled home to be extracted, since there was no extracting-house near or any facilities for doing the work. It was somewhat uncertain how much was there, for they had not visited that yard for about two weeks. It was needful now, however, to make up a close estimate of the amount of honey to be taken off, for they wanted to order the honey-tins to hold the crop. Bob offered to go over to the lake and count the supers, and he set off early in the morning, taking his rifle.
It was a beautifully crisp autumn day. Squirrels chattered from the trees; partridges roared up from the undergrowth. Bob sighted a fresh deer-trail on the old lumber road, but the legal season for deer had not yet opened. He shot a couple of partridges on the way, however, clipping their heads neatly with a bullet, and hung them up on a tree to be picked up on his return.
He was quite a quarter of a mile from the apiary when he became aware of a faint murmur, which he took for the breeze in the tree-tops. But as he advanced it increased to a roar. It sounded like a dozen swarms flying at once. Bob was bewildered, then scared, and he began to run.
“It can’t possibly be swarming!” he thought. “Surely the bees in this yard haven’t struck a new honey-flow at this time of year.”