A Bee-master.
Tunbridge Wells.
* * * * *
About Wasps.
_To the Editor of "The Times."_
Sir,--There is no sweet without a bitter. Every bee-master feels
the plague of wasps this autumn of 1864; for fifteen years, the
range of my experience as a bee-master, I have not seen so fierce
and multitudinous bands of wasps descending on my bees on predatory
incursions. I do not mean to insinuate that the wasp has no mission,
I believe he has his use. He is the scavenger of our gardens, and
clears off decay, putrescence, and filth of every sort. For this I
give him credit, but I cannot extend to him either the affection
or respect I feel for my bees. Wasps often remind me of a class of
critics not found in Printing-house-square, but by no means rare in
other quarters. Like wasps, they ignore or pass by ripe, fragrant,
and beautiful fruit, and select and gloat over incidental decay.
The wasp-critic does not touch a beautiful thought in Tennyson or
Longfellow; he can neither appreciate nor digest it. But if he can
only discover a word misspelt or a word misprinted, or the word
"octagon" accidentally used for "hexagon," he buzzes about it for
hours, and feeds on it with waspish delight. Should the editor of a
respectable paper or periodical refuse his contribution, he flies
to a congenial refuge, and there pours out what wasps have nearly a
monopoly of--the venom identified with and peculiar to that insect.
There is also the wasp ecclesiastical. He contributes no sweet
honey to the Church, and takes little interest in its good. But in
Synods, Presbyteries, Convocations, he flies about, driving his
sting sometimes into a bishop and sometimes into a presbyter. A sin
in another he scents from afar. A virtue in a brother he cannot
appreciate. He lives on decay. He sings while he feeds on it. It is
his nutriment and his joy.
There is also the political wasp. He has no fixed principles, but,
instead, he has a furious temper. He makes great noise, and attacks
everybody right and left that comes within scent, eyesight, or
earshot. His delight is proportionate to the degree in which he can
sting. He cares nothing about party, or side, or leader. He spurns all
organisation. He revels in wrath and fierce words and keen invective,
unsweetened by a grain of genial feeling, or an expression softened
by the humanities and amenities of debate, and unillumined by wit or
humour.
There is the wasp social. He is impersonated in the burglar. Were
you to see the wasps this autumn rushing into my hives, sometimes
by a sudden dash, at other times by stealth, you would instantly
acknowledge in them the type of the thief and the burglar. But my bees
are better prepared for the wasp's reception than London house-holders
for thieves. He runs the gauntlet every time he enters. Through my
glass observatory windows I watch the conflict. One bee, half his
size, seizes him by the throat, another gives him a taste of his
sting, and two or three watchers seize him by the legs and drag him
out. I have hit on an admirable plan of keeping him off, well worth
disclosing to every bee-master. I place at the entrance of the hive
a stick of barley-sugar a couple of inches long. This brings to
the entrance a dozen of bees, who thankfully feed on it. There is
thus secured an additional guard at the gates. The moment the wasp
alights, the whole _posse_ fly at him and drive him away. Another plan
is to fill half-full a wine-bottle with beer and sugar. Incidentally
a bee may look in, but the wasps, whose scent is perfect, rush in
and are drowned. It is a sacred duty devolving on every bee-master
to exterminate these Arabs, Bedouins, and corsairs. They lay up no
stores for themselves--they do nothing for the support or enjoyment
of man. They use their stings, not like bees, in self-defence, but in
sheer wickedness. They are professional thieves. Like the bees of a
correspondent of yours, they have no respect for _tuum_, and having no
_meum_, they care nothing. Living at the expense of others, without
consulting the convenience or goodwill of anybody, they richly deserve
what their extermination will pay for--sulphur, gunpowder, and boiling
water. Let every bee-master give sixpence to every boy who destroys a
wasps'-nest.
The wasp builds its nest generally underground. Their cells are
hexagonal. The house is built of paper, fabricated by this insect long
before its manufacture was discovered by man. With their powerful
jaws they tear off decayed wood, which they moisten with a sort of
gum or glue secreted from themselves. They form this into a kind of
pulp and spread it out into thin sheets, with which they roof in and
surround their cells. So far they are good paper manufacturers; but
I have not heard of their paper being used in the service of man.
They seem also to understand the laws of heat. Everybody knows that
double windows are warmer than single ones, the atmospheric air being
a good non-conductor. The wasps surround themselves with several walls
of paper, leaving spaces between, and thus not only keep out the
cold, but render the entrance of damp all but impossible. The combs
of the wasp are built in horizontal tiers, supported by pillars. In
this respect they are builders as well as papermakers. They are also
admirable sappers and miners. They tunnel a covered way from their
nest to the open air, and very often, instead of using a deserted
mole or mouse hole, they excavate a round chamber of really fine
proportions. It is truly matter of regret that so much capable talent
should be prostituted to so much dishonesty. Unhappily, thieves and
pick-pockets are generally very clever. Yet reformatories do operate
real transformations of thieves; but no plan that philanthropy has
yet devised has turned a wasp into a kind, honest, and respectable
member of society. He is incapable of transmutation. He is worthy
of the special study of Darwin. The death penalty, I unhesitatingly
affirm, is due to every wasp that enters a bee-garden. The razing
of his house, the desolation of its furniture, and the dislodgment
and destruction of the whole clan, have become a sacred duty. Even
the Quaker, who objects to the sentence of death on murderers, would
consent to the doom of the wasp. I cannot believe there were wasps in
Paradise of old. Though no prophet, nor prophet's son, I confidently
predict there will be no wasps in Paradise that is to be, nor will
there be waspish tempers, or passions, or propensities. Of all ugly
things on earth, next to the serpent, a hornet is the ugliest, the
most thievish, and the most dishonest You can neither tame nor
turn the wicked imp. He is a thief from his birth--a bee-cide by
habit; feeding on corruption, and full of wickedness. If, instead of
killing sparrows and blackbirds and thrushes, because they take a few
currants, while they destroy slugs and vermin, and many of them regale
springtide with song, the farmers would set about destroying wasps,
they would find as much amusement, and do vastly more good. I have a
lurking suspicion that some of those apiarians who speak against bees,
and call them thieves and regicides, must have wasps, not bees, in
their hives. Let me beg of these irritable gentlemen, who never cease
buzzing, to examine their hives. Let me remind them that wasps are
bigger and longer than bees; are surrounded with concentric yellow
circles, emit a subterranean sort of hum, neither treble, tenor,
nor bass, and, after a little study on their part, may be easily
distinguished from bees. Above all, let me intreat them to give up
feeding on wasps' food, and, if they have no honey of their own, let
me offer them half a bar, in order to elevate their taste or improve
their temper.
Let me also beg all that value their lives to examine well every
apple, pear, and peach they eat; for these venomous insects may be
seen this year ensconced under the skin, and if admitted within the
mouth they will sting the throat, and, as in several recent cases,
the sufferers will die. Do not conclude I am uncharitable; I am not
so. It is no charity to connive at theft and murder. I am satisfied
that killing wasps is no murder. Had Peter the Hermit or Walter the
Penniless lived in my garden, and witnessed these wicked vagabonds
trying every hive, worrying my bees and stealing my honey, they
would have preached a crusade against wasps. In one respect they are
unfortunate; they have no queen, no subordination or reverence for law
and order. They are genuine Red Republicans--Marats and Robespierres,
and richly deserve the worst they get.