CHAPTER XII. The Comb-Builders

THE COMB-BUILDERS

IN the foregoing chapters an attempt has been made to show that the honey-bee lives and moves and has her being in a world which must be actuated by something better than mere instinct, in the common usage of the term. To the modern biologist—the earnest out-of-door student of life under all its manifestations—this may appear as a rather obvious and unnecessary gilding of gold, and the only question yet undecided may seem to be where in the scale of reason the honey-bee is to find her equitable place.

All bee-lovers must plead guilty to an inveterate partizanship, the writer frankly among their number. There is no laodiceanism in bee-craft; and, all the world over, it may be said that, where a few beehives have been got together, there is always to be found a red-hot enthusiast not far off. The word “freemasonry,” in the English tongue, has grown to be a synonym for the truest fraternity; but just as real, and almost as far-reaching, is the brotherhood among keepers of bees. No doubt, among themselves the tendency is rather to magnify the virtues and achievements of their charges: to be over-lavish of inference from too scanty or too isolated facts. And the proved impossibility of having anything to do with the honey-bee without being carried away sooner or later on a high wave of enthusiasm, makes any attempt at holding the balances truly between the zealous bee-lover and the interested but temperate-minded reader, a difficult and delicate task. Any writer on the honey-bee nowadays must be reckoned an ultra-specialist in an age of specialism; and here it is not easy to preserve the sense of proportion undimmed, especially for one admittedly speaking out of the ranks of beemanship, where all are aiders and abettors in ardour, impatient of any estimation falling short of high-water mark.

The story of the Comb-Builders, however, sets none of the usual pitfalls in the way of the over-enthusiastic penman. In its soberest incident and least important detail it is so wonderful, that exuberance of language is as powerless to exaggerate, as a niggardly tongue to minimise, its true and due effect. If the ordering of the bee-commonwealth—the intricate systems of sanitation, division of labour, treatment of the queen and worker-larva, and the like—is subject for marvel, and seems infallibly to denote the possession of high faculties, a much greater degree of acumen must be conceded to the worker-bee when we come to consider her as the designer and builder of honeycomb.

It is here that she shines in her most significant light. The complicated structures with which she fills the bee-city do not call for unwearying toil alone: they could never have been fashioned unless the combined arts of engineer, architect, and mathematician had been brought to bear on them. Nor are they merely simple constructive and mathematical problems which the honey-bee is called upon to face; nor, though difficult, unvarying, and so amenable to instinctive solution. In almost every comb built we see special and necessarily unforeseen difficulties met and triumphantly overcome. In the construction of the six-sided cell, with its base composed of three rhombs or diamonds, the bee has adopted a form which our greatest arithmeticians admit to be the best possible for her requirements, and she endeavours to keep to this form wherever practicable. But it constantly happens, in her work of comb-building, that local conditions interfere with her plans; and then she will make five-sided cells, or square cells, or triangular, or any other form, just as the need impels her. It is a facile, comfortably finite thing to put all this down to a mysterious essence called instinct, with which the organism of the bee has been divinely dosed, as men serve electricity to a Leyden jar. But it was not instinct that made Wren put the steel cable round the dome of St. Paul’s, nor instinct that lifted the crown-stones to the top of the Great Pyramids. These are works of a creature more highly equipped and instigated; yet their supremacy is all of a piece with the honey-comb, which is made of a material fragile, light as air, but which, by the art of the bee, becomes capable not only of supporting, but of suspending a weight thirty times as great as its own.

That the bee does not collect her building materials, but derives them from her own body, is a fact that has come to light only within the last hundred and fifty years or so, although several shrewd guesses at the truth are to be found in the works of the mediæval bee-masters. The wasp, who has much of the ingenuity of the honey-bee, but is doomed to exercise it in a far more humble direction, makes a six-sided cell; but her matter is collected from outside, and can only be put to comparatively simple uses, as it is incapable of bearing tensile strain. Beeswax alone, of all constructive materials in the world, seems to meet every requirement. It can be worked into plates as thin as the 1/180th part of an inch, which is the normal thickness of the cell-wall. It is indestructible to all the elements save heat. It can be rendered soft and easily workable, or allowed to harden, while still retaining its suppleness and life. It is a bad conductor of heat, and therefore conserves the heat of the hive. Vermin do not prey upon it: so far as is known there is only one creature that will eat it—a peculiar kind of moth-larva, against which, however, a strong stock can always hold its own. And then, as the raw materials for its production are secretions of the bee’s own body, the work of preparing it can be carried on when darkness or stress of weather have put an end, for the time being, to work out of doors.

The first labour undertaken by a swarm, directly it has gained possession of its new quarters, is the building of combs. The apparent revulsion of feeling which succeeds the excitement of swarming soon passes off, and the energies of the whole party are at once concentrated on furnishing and victualling the new hive. The older bees commence foraging, each bee as she goes forth hovering a moment with her head towards the hive, to fix its location and appearance in her memory. By far the greater portion, however, remain at home and unite in a dense cluster for wax-making. Time is everything in these first operations of the new colony. The queen, with whom egg-laying has probably been suspended for a day past, or even longer, is overburdened with fecundity, and must be supplied with thousands of brood-cells without delay. The foragers will be coming home laden with nectar and pollen, and will need instant storage-room. Wax must be made with all possible expedition, and the young bees crowd together in the roof of the hive, with their queen snug and warm in their midst.

No doubt one of the chief reasons why swarming bees unite themselves in the solid pendant mass of the cluster so soon after leaving the parent-hive, is to hasten this process of wax-formation. It has been proved that wax is most easily generated under the influence of great heat, and this is well secured in the heart of the cluster. By the time the scouts have decided on the new home, and the swarm must rise again on the wing, a great number of the bees will have their wax-pockets filled, and will be ready for the work of comb-making. When a swarm is hived, even if it be only a short time after its issue, the little white wax-scales can be seen protruding from the armour-joints of many of the bees, and these are often dropped and lost in the general confusion.

One of the most difficult things to observe in bee-life is the actual process of comb-building. The crush is so great, and the movement of the bees so incessant, that at first the comb seems to grow of itself rather than be made by the busy multitude, for ever obscuring it from the watcher’s eyes, or giving him but the rarest glimpse now and then of its white, delicate frailty of pattern. These early efforts of the comb-builders, produced as they are under forced circumstances, are occasionally faulty of design, as though hastily knocked together. Sometimes the first groups of cells made by a swarm will have a yellow, moist, spongy appearance, with thick, irregular walls, and are obviously little more than temporary vats to hold the incoming nectar until the proper honey-cells can be constructed. This emergency-comb is specially interesting, as affording one more instance of the worker-bee’s ever-ready resource in the presence of difficulties. In the ordinary way the mason-bee hangs quietly in the cluster until her wax-secreting organs have done their work, and the six little oblong scales of brittle material are ready for manipulation. These protrude from under the hard plates of her abdomen, three on each side, looking much like half-posted letters. At one of the knee joints of her hind-leg she has a peculiar implement, of which there is not the slightest trace in the queen-bee. This is like a pair of nippers, but instead of two converging points, it is furnished on one side with a row of sharp, stiff bristles; and on the other with a shallow spoon. With this special tool the worker-bee grips the wax-scale, and draws it out of its pocket. It is then transferred to her jaws, and she hurries off with it to the comb-building. Arrived at an unfinished cell, she sets to work to chew up the raw wax into a paste, incorporating it with her saliva, and materially increasing its bulk. The resulting soft, ductile matter is then applied to the work, and moulded into its needed shape. In this way, with hundreds of workers going and coming, the delicate white fabric of brood and honey-comb is built up with extraordinary rapidity.

How the coarse, spongy comb, which swarms will sometimes manufacture, is produced cannot be definitely stated. It has all the appearance of having been made from raw wax, hurriedly masticated and kneaded up with honey, and probably this is its actual composition. The secretion from the salivary gland, is necessarily slow, and with time pressing and a horde of impatient foragers dinning about her ears, eager to unload and be off again to the clover, the ingenious mason-bee appears to have hit on the idea of using the contents of her honey-sac as a substitute. Nothing, however, but a mechanical admixture can take place between honey and the raw wax. This dissolves only under the influence of the bee’s saliva, which has intensely acid properties.

To understand all that the bees have accomplished when a new empty hive has been filled throughout with waxen comb, it is necessary to follow the operations of the swarm pretty closely during the first few weeks of its separate life. It is a big undertaking, the building of an entire, new bee-city, and the problems that confront the builders are many and complicated. In the first place, whether she ever attains it or not, the worker-bee will aim at nothing short of perfection. Hereditary experience tells her exactly what are the home-requirements of the colony, and she now sets to work to fulfil them in the best imaginable way.

A city is to be built which is to accommodate twenty or thirty thousand individuals. Vast nursery-quarters must be constructed, as there may be as many as ten or twelve thousand youngsters to cradle at one and the same time. For at least six months of the year no food will be obtainable from outside, so that the city must contain large storehouses capable of holding more than a six months’ supply. As the temperature in winter can be kept up only by the bodily warmth of the inhabitants, life in the city must be concentrated into the smallest possible space; and the materials of which the city is built must be heat-conserving, while its construction must allow of perfect ventilation at all times, and in summer it must permit a free circulation of air, that the surplus heat can be readily carried off. The city must be a fortress as well as a home, and be closed in on every side as a protection against its many enemies, as well as the weather.

There is another, and just as vital a condition governing its construction—the necessity for strict economy in material. If there were any natural substance having the qualities of tenacity, lightness, ductility, and strength which the bees could obtain out of doors instead of wax, no doubt they would use it for comb-building, and they would not spend hours of precious time and consume large quantities of hard-won stores in the manufacture of their own material. But it seems there is nothing in nature possessing the needful properties. Bees collect a resinous substance, notably from the buds of the poplar, which they use for stopping up crevices. They dilute this also into a varnish, with which they paint the finished combs, and sometimes even combine it with wax to form a rough filling; but it appears to be useless in cell-construction. The whole city must needs be made of wax, and wax alone; and the bees are as careful of this precious substance as a miser of his gold.

Starting with these conditions—efficient house-accommodation for the colony secured at the least cost in time, labour, and material—the bee tackles the problem before her with an ingenuity that is little short of astounding. She appears to begin with the central dominant unit of the difficulty, and to work outward, vanquishing subsidiary problems as she goes. Her line of reasoning seems to run somewhat in this way. To raise the young, and store the honey, there is needed some kind of cell or receptacle. The young larvæ being cylindrical in form, a cylindrical cell is indicated; and this shape will serve also for the honey-barrels. Not a few, however, but many thousands of these vessels will be required: they must therefore be placed close together, as well for economy of space as for natural warmth. The cells could be grouped together mouth upwards in horizontal planes, storey above storey; but such a method of construction would be economically unsound. To prevent sagging in the heat of the hive, and under the weight they will be called to bear, the cell-bases would have to be thickened collectively into a substantial floor, which would need shoring-up at intervals—after the manner of the wasps. But in this, much valuable material would be diverted from its proper use. Obviously, a better plan would be to lay all the cells on their sides, and pile them up into a vertical wall. And, just as obviously, if two walls of these superimposed cells were placed back to back, so that one central vertical sheet of wax would serve to stop the ends of all the cells, right and left, a saving of half the material used for the cell-bottoms would at once be effected.

But, so far, the design is still only in its crude, initial stage. The upright comb, consisting of a double pile of round cells, back to back, with one flat base between, although a great advance on the single sheet of horizontal cells, is yet mechanically and economically deficient. The round cells leave useless interstices, which take much wax in the filling; while the flat bottoms do not coincide with the form of the larvæ, and thus still more space is wasted. Clearly, improvement can only come by altering the shape of the cell; and now the bee seems to have asked herself-and triumphantly answered—an extremely complex question.

She knew how much internal cell-space each larva required for growth. The problem, therefore, was this: of what shape, nearly approaching the cylindrical, ought such a cell to be made, which would ensure the right dimensions, but which would occupy the least possible room, have the greatest possible strength, consume the least possible material in its manufacture, and possess the property that a number of similar cells could be built up in a double vertical plane, leaving no interstices either between the cells or between the planes?

There is only one solution to this problem; and the honey-bee found it—who shall say how many ages ago?—in the hexagon cell, with its base composed of three rhombs.

The whole astounding ingenuity of the thing can only be realised when a piece of nearly perfect, new-made, virgin-comb has been closely examined. It will be at once seen that the hexagon cells combine together over the surface of the comb in absolute geometrical union, and that the six-sided form is round enough for all practical purposes. Looking into the cells on one side of the comb, it will be noted that their bases take the form of depressed pyramids, each made up of three diamond-shaped planes.

Turning the comb over, we see that the cells on this side also have pyramidal bottoms. If the depth of a cell on one side of the comb be taken, and added to the depth of a cell on the other side, and then the width of the whole comb be measured, it will be found that the combined depth of the two cells perceptibly exceeds the width of the whole comb. At first glance this seems like a case of the less including the greater, which is a manifest impossibility. But, holding the comb up to the light, a further discovery is made, and the seeming paradox is eliminated. The bottoms of the cells are so thin as to be almost transparent, and it is at once seen that the cells are not built end to end, in line, but that each cell-base on one side of the comb covers part of three cell-bases on the other. If the three diamonds, composing between them the triangular base of a single cell, be perforated with a needle, and the comb turned over, it will be found that the three perforations come each in a separate cell. Thus the saving in the total width of the comb is effected by allowing the pyramidal bases on each side to engage alternately like the teeth of a trap; instead of meeting point-blank, they overlap each other, and the faces of the pyramids are so contrived that each of them helps to close two cells.

There is another advantage in this arrangement which will be immediately obvious. The apex and three ribs of each pyramidal cell-base form foundation-lines for the cell-walls on the other side of the comb. This means that not only do all cell-walls abut on an arch, but that every cell-base is strengthened throughout by a triple girdering. The result is that the amount of wax required in the construction of the comb can be everywhere reduced to an absolute minimum. It becomes merely a question of what thickness of wax will retain the honey; and this experience proves to be no more than 1/180 part of an inch. The whole thing, indeed, might very well be taken as an ideal exemplar of the triumph of mind over matter.

The geometric principles brought into play in the construction of honey-comb have been a favourite study with mathematicians of all ages, and especially this rhombiform method adopted by the bee in flooring her cells. The rhomb is best described as a plane-figure whose four sides are equal, like those of a square, but whose angles are not right angles. In such a figure there are necessarily two greater angles and two smaller, facing each other in pairs. The three rhombs composing the base of the honey-cell lean together, as has been seen, in the form of a blunt pyramid; and—treating all angles as negligible factors—the bluntness of this pyramid is found to coincide very aptly with the shape of the full-grown larvæ. But this is not the only reason for the particular inclination given by the bee to the rhombs forming the base of each cell. Economy rules here, as in everything else she undertakes; and the truth that she has chosen the one and only form of cell-base which takes the least possible material to construct has received very striking confirmation.

The story is an old and famous one, but it will bear repeating. A great naturalist once put himself to an infinity of trouble in measuring the angles formed by the rhombs in a vast number of comb-cell bases, and he found that these showed remarkable uniformity. It will be clear that the hollow pyramid of the cell-bottom will be either deep or shallow, according to the shape of the three rhombs composing it. The apex of the pyramid is formed by the meeting of three equal angles, one from each rhomb; and it is plain that this apex will be sharp or blunt, according to whether the meeting angles are wide or narrow. It was, of course, impossible to ascertain the dimensions of these angles with absolutely microscopical nicety; but, dealing only with the most perfect comb, the naturalist found that the two greater angles in the rhombs measured very nearly 110°, and the two lesser angles 70°. He also found that the angles formed by the conjunction of the cell-sides with the bases had the same dimensions as those of the rhombs. Assuming therefore that, mathematically, the angles of the rhombs and cell-sides should be equal, he was able to calculate exactly the angles for which the bees were evidently striving in the construction of the rhombs—109° 28′ and 70° 32′.

Another bee-lover scientist, ruminating over these figures, was much impressed by them, and determined to find out the reason why the bee made such constant choice of this particular shape of rhomb. He therefore conceived the idea of submitting the bee’s judgment on this cell-base question to an independent authority. Without disclosing his object, he propounded the following problem to one of the greatest mathematicians of the day.

“Supposing,” said he, in effect, “you were required to close the end of an hexagonal vessel by three rhombs or diamond-shaped plates, what angles must be given to these rhombs so that the greatest amount of space would be enclosed by the least amount of material?”

It was a difficult problem, but the mathematician worked it out at last, and his answer was “109° 26′ and 70° 34.”

Now, the difference between the calculation of the man and the calculation of the bee was an exceedingly small one. No one thought of calling into question the work of the man, who was pre-eminent in his world of figures. It was therefore accepted as a fact that the bee had made a trifling mistake—so trifling, however, that, in the matter of comb-building, it was of no importance. Her reputation was unimpaired: to all intents and purposes the honey-cell was still a perfect example of utmost capacity secured by least material.

But another mathematician—a Scotsman this time—went over the whole business again, and he proved conclusively that the bee was right, while the first mathematician was wrong. He showed that the true answer to the problem of the angles was 109° 28′ and 70° 32′—identically the figures obtained by estimation of the honey-comb.

* * * * *

In the foregoing pages the principles involved in the construction of honey-comb have been gone into rather minutely, because it is here that the lines of thought between the old and the new naturalists seem to make a typical divergence. Both schools are, in the main, agreed on the point that all forms of life emanate from the one omnipotent source; and it matters little whether we speak of the vast periods of time, during which the creation of all things was effected, as ages, or under the old Biblical metaphor of days. But whereas the old school appears to insist on different qualities of life—immortal soul in man, and a mystic, subconscious, perishable thing called instinct in the brute creation—the new school is unable to see any distinction between the intellectual equipment of man and brute, but that of degree. Between the honey-bee and her masters there is indeed a great gulf fixed, but it is conceivably not unbridgable. And unless we are determined at all cost of logical violence to force a favourite set of square opinions into the round holes of observed fact, it is difficult to see how the old position is long to remain tenable.

With regard to this particular question of comb-building, an attempt is still being made to show that it is entirely due to the working of certain natural laws, and is independent of any intelligence or volition which the bees are supposed to exercise. We are told that the cells are always begun in a circular form, but that they afterwards assume the hexagon shape quite automatically, in obedience to the laws of mutual interference and pressure. As a proof of this, it is pointed out that the outside cells of the comb, not being subject to these laws, are usually more or less rounded.

The pressure-theory is hardly worth serious consideration, as it is obvious that the growth of a honey-comb is perfectly free and untrammelled in every way. If the bee makes her comb-cells with six sides and a pyramidal base unthinkingly, and under the yoke of imperious obligation, it is certainly not because the cells force this shape upon one another, like Buffon’s peas in a bottle.

And if we believe that the bee works blindly under the law of mutual interference, any close examination of the results of her work must bring us to the conviction that we are only putting aside one marvel for something more wonderful still. For then we see a natural law taking on a very unnatural quality—that of intelligent adaptation to circumstances. The comb, intended for use in the hive-nursery, is made in two sizes. That used for cradling the worker-brood has cells measuring ⅕ inch across, and a fraction less than ½ inch deep, while that designed for raising the drone-larva is built up of cells having a diameter of ¼ inch, and a depth of about ⅝ inch. These different-sized cells are not mingled indiscriminately over the comb, but are grouped together in large blocks. Some of the combs will be entirely composed of worker-cells, which are always in the vast majority; other combs will be made up of both kinds.

The bees begin a comb by attaching a small block of wax to the roof of the hive. On either side of this they hollow out depressions, which become the bases of the first cells. The work is then extended downwards and sideways, the cell-bases being multiplied in all directions as fast as possible, so that there are a great number of unfinished cells in progress long before the walls of the first cells have been completed. There is a very reasonable motive for this procedure. When a house is being built, as much of the foundations as possible are laid in at the commencement, to allow a large body of bricklayers to get to work on the walls at the same time; and the bee extends her comb-foundations on the same principle.

When about half the comb has been finished for worker-brood, it may be decided to commence building drone-cells. As the bases of the drone-cells are larger than those of the worker-cells, it follows that a change must be effected in the ground-plan of the comb. The bees prepare for this transition very cleverly, evidently studying how the regularity of the comb may be least interrupted. Sometimes the change is contrived without any appreciable loss of space, but more often several misshapen cells have to be made before the symmetrical progress of the comb is resumed. This depends largely on the inherited skill of the bees, which varies according to their strain, as all experienced bee-keepers know. Now, if the work of comb-building is carried through by the bees under blind compulsion of the natural laws of mutual interference and pressure, what other law, it may be asked, interferes with these in turn when the transition from one size of cell to another must be made? If it is all a sort of crystallisation going on independently of the bees’ will or wish, it appears more than curious that the mill should grind large or small, just as the needs of the hive demand it.

But the whole position is really little else than a flagrant example of the evils of argument from a simile. Soaked peas in a bottle will swell to hexagons, or rather, dodecahedrons, by the law of mutual interference. Soap-bubbles will do the same with no more constriction than their own weight. But peas and bubbles are things self-contained and separately existing, before being brought together. If the bees made a vast number of separate, round cells, and then combined them simultaneously, no doubt all but the outside cells would assume the hexagon form. But the essence of the whole art and ingenuity of comb-building lies in the fact that there is no such thing as a separate cell. Each single compartment in the comb shares its parts with no less than nine other compartments. And to talk of mutual interference when there is no separate existence is ploughing the sands indeed.

There are other circumstances connected with the work of the comb-builders which go far to confirm the position that bees do exercise reason, and that of a high order. It has been said that the interior of a hive in daytime is not altogether deprived of light. Probably, during the hours of greatest activity, the bees have always enough light to see their way about by means of their wonderful indoor-eyes, which, under the microscope, have all the solemn wisdom of an owl’s. It is a fact, however, that comb-building is usually carried on at night-time, when other employments are in temporary abeyance. Possibly the—to our eyes—profoundest darkness may be no darkness at all to the bees; but, to all appearances, as we can judge of them, honey-comb is virtually made in the dark.

But combs are built side by side, often simultaneously. They grow downwards together, yet always preserve their right distance apart; so that, when finished, there will be an intervening gangway between the sealed surfaces of about a quarter of an inch, which is just enough to allow the two streams of bees to pass each other, back to back. How are these distances preserved, seeing that the bees at work on the bottom edge of each comb are separated by a space of, perhaps, an inch and a half of empty darkness?

A simple experiment will at once give a clue to this. If a hive, in which a swarm has constructed about half its depth of comb, be canted a little sideways, so as to throw the combs out of the perpendicular, and the hive be then left for several days, it will be found on examination that all building, from the moment of disturbance, has followed on the new line of verticality. The combs will all be slightly bent to one side. This means either that the bees have a natural sense of the perpendicular, or that they work by the plumbline, as humanity is constrained to do. The fact seems to be that the hanging cluster of wax-making bees performs the office of a living plummet, and really guides the comb in its downward progress.

Yet, do bees always suspend their combs? Do they never construct a waxen storehouse, raising it tier above tier from the floor of the hive, after the system of the more intelligent creature, Man?

The first commentary on this is, that such a departure from their common methods would be no improvement, but a retrograde step. These long comb-walls of the bees have a close analogy to the modern transatlantic sky-scraper building. The trouble with all such buildings is to provide them with sufficient base for their height. If American engineers had at their disposal a material of adequate tensile strength, and there were anything in nature to hang them from, it would be, scientifically, a better plan to suspend these buildings than to erect them, because the house would then naturally tend to keep its verticality, and the base-problem would cease to exist. On the same principle the bees, having at hand a material of almost ideal tensility, and a suitable hanging-beam, wisely suspend their heavily, weighted combs from the roof, instead of erecting them, like certain kinds of ant-structures.

But it is undoubtedly long racial experience, and not inability to follow the humanly approved method, that guides them here. Rarely—so rarely that the writer, in the course of many years spent among bees, has seen only a single example of it—bees will build comb upwards, if circumstances will allow no other way. And this would seem not only to drive the last coffin-nail for the poor instinct-theory, but to carve its epitaph as well.

In the instance referred to, a glass-bottomed box had been inverted over the feed-hole of a common hive, and had there remained forgotten. As the season progressed, the hive grew great with bees and honey, and it became imperative to build additional store-comb in the box overhead. But its slippery glass roof would give no foothold to the builders. Time and again they must have tried to get upon it, with their wax-hods filled and ready, and each time failed: the ordinary way of comb-building was clearly impossible. Then the engineers of the hive, inspired by the difficulty, got to work in another way. On the wooden surface below they laid out the plan of a garner-house, not after their usual method of parallel combs, but a regular, oblong house, with cellular storerooms, and communicating passages in between. Upon this they raised storey above storey of horizontal cells, until the glass roof was nearly reached. At this stage, apparently, the honey-flow came to an end in the fields, for the cells in the store-house were never sealed, though all were nearly full of honey; and later in the season it was found and carried away by the bee-master, who still preserves it as a curiosity. He bears a well-known name, {218} and his testimony as to the making of this unique little honey-house is beyond question; but, indeed, it carries in itself infallible evidence of its authenticity. All honey-cells made by bees have a slight upward inclination, which helps, as has been already explained, to retain their contents until they can be capped over. And every cell in the storehouse clearly showed this upward slant.