CHAPTER I
THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW
Long, lithe, and sinewy, with three score years of sunburn on his keen, gnarled face, and the sure stride of a mountain goat, the Bee-Master of Warrilow struck you at once as a notable figure in any company.
Warrilow is a little precipitous village tucked away under the green brink of the Sussex Downs; and the bee-farm lay on the southern slope of the hill, with a sheltering barrier of pine above, in which, all day long, the winter wind kept up an impotent complaining. But below, among the hives, nothing stirred in the frosty, sun-riddled air. Now and again a solitary worker-bee darted up from a hive door, took a brisk turn or two in the dazzling light, then hurried home again to the warm cluster. But the flash and quiver of wings, and the drowsy song of summer days, were gone in the iron-bound January weather; and the bee-master was lounging idly to and fro in the great main-way of the waxen city, shot-gun under arm, and with apparently nothing more to do than to meditate over past achievements, or to plan out operations for the season to come.
As I approached, the sharp report of the gun rang out, and a little cloud of birds went chippering fearsomely away over the hedgerow. The old man watched them as they flew off dark against the snowy hillside. He threw out the cartridge-cases disgustedly.
“Blue-tits!” said he. “They are the great pest of the bee-keeper in winter time. When the snow covers the ground, and the frost has driven all insect-life deep into the crevices of the trees, all the blue-caps for miles round trek to the bee-gardens. Of course, if the bees would only keep indoors they would be safe enough. But the same cause that drives the birds in lures the bees out. The snow reflects the sunlight up through the hive-entrances, and they think the bright days of spring have come, and out they flock to their death. And winter is just the time when every single bee is valuable. In summer a few hundreds more or less make little difference, when in every hive young bees are maturing at the rate of several thousands a day to take the place of those that perish. But now every bee captured by the tits is an appreciable loss to the colony. They are all nurse-bees in the winter-hives, and on them depends the safe hatching-out of the first broods in the spring season. So the bee-keeper would do well to include a shot-gun among his paraphernalia, unless he is willing to feed all the starving tits of the countryside at the risk of his year’s harvest.”
“But the blue-cap,” he went on, “is not always content to wait for his breakfast until the bees voluntarily bring it to him. He has a trick of enticing them out of the hive which is often successful even in the coldest weather. Come into the extracting-house yonder, and I may be able to show you what I mean.”
He led the way to a row of outbuildings which flanked the northern boundary of the garden and formed additional shelter from the blustering gale. A window of the extracting-house overlooked the whole extent of hives. Opening this from within with as little noise as possible, the bee-master put a strong field-glass into my hand.
“Now that we are out of sight,” he said, “the tits will soon be back again. There they come—whole families of them together! Now watch that green hive over there under the apple-tree.”
Looking through the glass, I saw that about a dozen tits had settled in the tree. Their bright plumage contrasted vividly with the sober green and grey of the lichened boughs, as they swung themselves to and fro in the sunshine. But presently the boldest of them gave up this pretence of searching for food among the branches, and hopped down upon the alighting-board of the hive. At once two or three others followed him; and then began an ingenious piece of business. The little company fell to pecking at the hard wood with their bills, striking out a sharp ringing tattoo plainly audible even where we lay hidden. The old bee-man snorted contemptuously, and the cartridges slid home into the breech of his gun with a vicious snap.