I
Since the publication of "The Life of the Bee," I have often been asked
to throw light upon one of the most dreaded mysteries of the hive,
namely, the psychology of its inexplicable, sudden and sometimes mortal
wrath. A crowd of cruel and unjust legends, in fact, hovers around the
abode of the yellow fairies of the honey. The bravest among the guests
who visit the garden slacken their pace and lapse into involuntary
silence as they approach the enclosure, blooming with clover and
mignonette, where buzz the daughters of the light. Doting mothers keep
their children away from it, as they would keep them away from a
smouldering fire or a nest of adders; nor does the bee-keeping novice,
gloved in leather, veiled in gauze, surrounded by clouds of smoke, face
the mystic citadel without that little unavowed shiver which men feel
before a great battle.
How much reason is there at the bottom of these traditional fears? Is
the bee really dangerous? Does she allow herself to be tamed? Is there a
risk in approaching the hives? Ought we to flee or to face their wrath?
Has the bee-keeper some secret or some talisman that preserves him from
being stung? These are the questions that are anxiously put by all those
who have started a timid hive and who are beginning their
apprenticeship.