Frame hives, in which each comb is placed in a separate frame, so that it can be taken out and examined, are very useful for making observations on the natural history of the bees, but are not so well suited for profitable purposes as the hives that we have described that are arranged in storey or with large supers.
In removing a super of honey, it should be first loosened from the hive by drawing a thin string between the two; and then, when the bees have become quiet, taken quietly away, and covered over, until those remaining in it have discovered that they are away from the queen, when they will rapidly fly back to the hive, on being uncovered. But the honey must not be left exposed, or it would attract all the bees in the neighbourhood, and would rapidly be stored up in the hives.
In taking off the supers, it is best to be protected from the stings of the bees. This is readily done by making a bag of leno, open at top and bottom; in use, the top is tied round the hat, the bag encircles the head and face, and the bottom is tucked under the collar of the coat, which is buttoned closely round the neck. In this manner the face is perfectly protected from stings; but with the knowledge, quietness, and confidence acquired by practice, almost anything can be done to bees by a skilled bee-master, even without a veil.
THE CANARY.
The canary is a justly favoured pet among boys, for it is a hardy bird that requires a very small amount of trouble. It is a pleasant, fascinating little being, full of quaint ways and sprightly attitudes, and, better than all, the cage is its native element.
Though an ardent admirer of all birds, and indeed of everything which draws the breath of life, we can never pass the cage wherein is confined a lark, a nightingale, a bullfinch, or any other of our indigenous birds, without a feeling of sadness and regret.
They are not cage birds, and never ought to be confined within the narrow limits of wood and wire. Their attitudes show their uneasiness. The mellow, exultant tone of the skylark sounds as joyously when the bird is imprisoned within a cage as when it soars high in air, its wings quivering in the breeze, its frame rejoicing in the glory of the sunbeams, and its ken surveying the wide panorama which lies spread beneath its gaze. But the gestures of the bird are full of eloquent misery, and speak volumes to him who will stop and look with his eyes as well as listen with his ears.
See how the bird flings itself upwards from the little patch of turf, which is but a shallow mockery of the green sward to which the skylark is accustomed—how it dashes itself against the roof of green baize, which represents so feebly the expanse of azure sky—and how it learns at last the lessons of experience, and stands helplessly in the bay window of the cage, its wings shivering restlessly, and its feet trampling impatiently, in lieu of the the upward leap and soaring flight which it longs to undertake, but which it will never more be permitted to experience. No more will it roam through the wide expanse of air, no more will it seek for its mate, and know all the joys of nest and children. Henceforth it is but a prisoner in solitary confinement, without hope of escape, and its very individuality destroyed by surrounding circumstances.
So with the generality of our cage birds. The man who would imprison the nightingale, who would limit to one spot the bird that loves to wander, and who would condemn to solitary confinement the creature which is peculiarly destined for conjugal affection, which finds expression in liquid melody, ought to be imprisoned for a month or two, just to see how he likes it. “I can’t get out,” is the lament uttered in silent gesture by all birds that ought to roam in wild freedom, and have been imprisoned in a cage. We always wish to open the cage door, and set free the prisoner; at all events, to remove it to some spot where it might be liberated without danger to itself.