Part 15

Then he added that it would be a hard battle to build a home in the short space of time allotted and to store food enough to last through the winter. It meant a fight, for already the glimmerings of the fall were upon us! Pale shadows of color began to stain the leaves, and the flowers turned their faces more wistfully each day to the sun. Still, the bees would go. There was no denying the operation of the law, which commanded that the chance be taken. The whole law of survival was involved—and there was none to deny it.

So, all night long murmurings and vague discontents and forebodings and anticipations ran through the hive. Those marked so mysteriously to go realized that their lives were at stake and likely to be lost. Yet each one in the hive would have gone. It was not until late that I learned that our own mother, my mother, the mother of the hive, was to go away, leaving her daughter to preside over the destinies of the old. Here, too, Crip was wont to philosophize.

“You see, our mother is not young,” he began. “If she should perish in the stress of the winter and the new colony be lost, it would be less grievous than the loss of this new, vigorous Queen. Besides, our mother has had experience. She has lived over one winter. She knows how much of a brood to rear to maintain the strength of the colony—or whether she dare rear any at all—bearing in mind the while that there must be a fine adjustment between the mouths to be fed and the total of supplies. She knows well how to keep this account. Last winter, I am told, our stores ran low, so low, in fact, that many of our brothers sacrificed their lives in order to conserve the supplies so as to bring the Queen-Mother with a few attendants through the long, bitter winter. Not a young bee was reared until the first flowers had come riotously trampling on the skirts of the frost. So, you see, they know best. She will lead the swarm, and perhaps, if the season is late, and the frost slow to come, they can build their combs and store sufficient honey to bring them through. Perhaps even spring may come to their rescue, blossoming early. A late, backward spring, however, might end them, even if they had escaped the fury of the winter.”

There seemed no end to Crip’s knowledge. Lying there on the comb, he looked pathetically helpless, and there was a quaver in his voice. I could see that he was reflecting—that age had dropped upon him heavily on account of his wounds. Then, stoic that he was, I knew that some morning I should search in vain for trace of him. Once a bee becomes useless, he said, there is but one thing for him to do. I knew that Crip was already contemplating the end. Bitterness for a moment welled up in me at the thought that so much wisdom should be lost—and so soon. That was the edict. But, after all, was the wisdom really lost?

Our talk was broken at length by the call of the morning. The first pale gleams of light filtered through the entrance of the hive. Already there were murmurings and presently the faint note of the swarm.

Two hours passed—three hours—and now the trumpet sounded for the flight. Each of the chosen rushed to the nearest cell and filled his sac to its utmost capacity. Some early-returning foragers, laden with pollen, heard the signal and made ready to go, carrying with them their loads. Stores must be taken along to last until comb was built and new supplies gathered from the fields. Rations for three or four days were thus provided. When all was ready the trumpet sounded again and the march began. In the fore went the scouts who were to lead the way to the new home. Then, following after, came the chosen ones in a mighty multitude, and lastly the Queen.

Out into the air they flew, then round and round, each one singing the Song of the Swarm, which could be heard afar off. Round and round in a dizzy circle they flew, but in an ever-widening whirl. The scouts, I could hear from my point of vantage at the door, were becoming impatient. The Queen had been delayed, and until word of her presence among them was spoken, they could only circle about. Or else, failing that word, they could and would return to the hive. But at the height of their impatience the glad word came, “The Queen is here!”

Then they delayed no longer, but started in a whirlwind flight toward the lake and to their new home, uttering, as they drew away, that marvelously wild and moving song which pulsed with the tremors of life and death.

Perils]

Crip and I were sober and silent.

From the alighting-board we watched them draw away and disappear, and were on the eve of turning into the hive, when up came the Master breathlessly. He stopped and gazed at the retreating cloud, knowing too well what had happened. He knew, too, by their actions, that a home had been prepared for their reception. He seemed surprised to think that the bees should swarm so late in the season, and not a little chagrined to think they could have done it under his eyes. His curiosity at once led him to find whence the swarm had come, and he walked straight to our hive. A few excited bees were still flying back and forth, but Crip and I, like the condemned, stood stolidly and wondered.

His lips moved, but he said no word; he turned on his heels and went away.

Shortly, however, he returned, the little Shadow with him. They were talking of the swarming, for he pointed the way the bees had gone. In his hand he held that horrid smoking thing, and Crip and I both knew what that meant. He would open our house. I resented this, for I remembered the smoke in my eyes when he took the top off our hive and lifted out frame after frame, taking away from us part of our honey. I remembered, too, how I longed to sting him, but how all my efforts were unavailing, for he had hidden himself under a screen. And yet I really did not want to sting him. Just why I flew at him I could not understand.

“He is angry with us now,” said Crip. “He knows we are insane. He probably will take away our honey and leave us to starve, as we merit. We have proven our short-sightedness and have lost our right to survive.”

“No, he will not do that,” I replied.

On the instant I seemed no longer to distrust him; I remembered his kindness to me on a day when, overladen, a gust of wind had felled me to the earth. He had placed me on a twig, where, after disgorging part of my load, and washing my body and my wings, I again made way to my home.

But it was certain that we should know his intentions shortly, for, on coming close, he sent a puff of smoke into the entrance that choked and blinded both Crip and me and the guards, and sent us scurrying into the hive. Then, passing the smoker to the Little Master, he carefully lifted off the top and the upper section of our hive, and began an inspection of the brood-chamber. He seemed to be right happy at discovering that the queen-cells had been destroyed, which carried the assurance to his mind that no further swarming was in contemplation; but when his eyes fell upon the new Queen-Mother, they widely distended and a smile of joy lighted his face.

“Wonderful creature,” he murmured.

The little Shadow cried: “Let me see. Isn’t she a beauty!”

By this time the smoke had cleared away and my disposition had changed. I said to Crip that we ought to attack them. But he answered that it would be folly now—that only evil would result. Further parleying was cut short by a blast of smoke shot at us by the Little Master, who apparently had discerned outward signs of the rebellion, for my body was poised and I suppose I must have been emitting the note of anger. The smoke sent us all flying into a remote corner of the hive.

Then the Master replaced the section of hive he had removed, and began to lift frame after frame, uttering little exclamations, as though he had not suspected that we had gathered such quantities of honey in so short and late a season. It was easy for him now to understand why we had developed the swarming fever, although it evidently appeared to him a foolish adventure.

“He has been dreaming in his rose-garden,” commented Crip, when the Master had nearly finished his examination. “That is the reason he has neglected us of late. He did not know there had been a great flow of honey.”

We were talking among ourselves, when up came Buzz-Buzz, angry from the smoke in his eyes.

“A fine lot this fellow,” he growled.

“You don’t like him?” I asked.

He just looked at us. He was too irritated to speak.

“He’ll get over it,” mused Crip.

We were still holding converse when again the top came off and one by one the Master lifted out our combs and robbed them of their honey. They were battered and broken and empty when he restored them to us. We were all infuriated, and for a while flew madly about him and about the Little Master—the dog kept at a respectful distance—straining every effort to drive them away. But the Little One only smoked us the more, while the Master went on with his work. He was careful to kill no bee, brushing off every one of them before taking away the combs of honey, and while returning them.