This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler
[Picture: “A corner in the bee garden”]
THE BEE-MASTER
OF WARRILOW
BY
TICKNER EDWARDES
FELLOW OF THE ENTOMOLOGICAL SOCIETY OF LONDON
AUTHOR OF “THE LORE OF THE HONEY-BEE”
* * * * *
THIRD EDITION
* * * * *
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
* * * * *
_First Published_ _1907_
_Second Edition (Methuen & Co. Ltd.) Revised and _1920_
Enlarged_
_Third Edition_ _1921_
* * * * *
_These Essays are reprinted by the courtesy of the Proprietor of_ “_The
Pall Mall Gazette_.”
DEDICATION
TO THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW’S
OLDEST AND STAUNCHEST FRIEND,
T. W. LITTLETON HAY
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
BY THE WRITER
PREFACE TO NEW EDITION
THE original “BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW”—that queer little honey-coloured
book of far-off days—contained but eleven chapters: in its present
edition the book has grown to more than three times its former length,
and constitutes practically a new volume.
To those who knew and loved the old “BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW,” no apology
for the additional chapters will be required, because it is directly to
the solicitation of many of them that this larger collection of essays on
English bee-garden life owes its appearance. And equally, to those who
will make the old bee-man’s acquaintance for the first time in these
present pages, little need be said. In spite of the War, the honey-bee
remains the same mysterious, fascinating creature that she has ever been;
and the men who live by the fruit of her toil share with her the like
changeless quality. The Master of Warrilow and his bees can very well be
left to win their own way into the hearts of new readers as they did with
the old.
T. E.
THE RED COTTAGE,
BURPHAM, ARUNDEL,
SUSSEX.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
PREFACE 7
INTRODUCTION 13
I. THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 17
II. FEBRUARY AMONGST THE HIVES 24
III. A TWENTIETH CENTURY BEE-FARMER 31
IV. CHLOE AMONG THE BEES 37
V. A BEE-MAN OF THE ’FORTIES 44
VI. HEREDITY IN THE BEE-GARDEN 52
VII. NIGHT ON A HONEY-FARM 59
VIII. IN A BEE-CAMP 65
IX. THE BEE-HUNTERS 73
X. THE PHYSICIAN IN THE HIVE 80
XI. WINTER WORK ON THE BEE-FARM 86
XII. THE QUEEN BEE: IN ROMANCE AND REALITY 93
XIII. THE SONG OF THE HIVES 100
XIV. CONCERNING HONEY 107
XV. IN THE ABBOT’S BEE-GARDEN 113
XVI. BEES AND THEIR MASTERS 120
XVII. THE HONEY THIEVES 126
XVIII. THE STORY OF THE SWARM 132
XIX. THE MIND IN THE HIVE 139
XX. THE KING’S BEE-MASTER 145
XXI. POLLEN AND THE BEE 152
XXII. THE HONEY-FLOW 158
XXIII. SUMMER LIFE IN A BEE-HIVE 164
XXIV. THE YELLOW PERIL IN HIVELAND 170
XXV. THE UNBUSY BEE 176
XXVI. THE LONG NIGHT IN THE HIVE 182
XXVII. THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BEE-GARDEN 189
XXVIII. HONEY-CRAFT OLD AND NEW 196
XXIX. THE BEE-MILK MYSTERY 202
XXX. THE BEE-BURNERS 209
XXXI. EVOLUTION OF THE MODERN HIVE 214
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
A CORNER IN THE BEE-GARDEN 4
BROOD-COMB, SHOWING TWO SIZES OF CELL 24
THE BEE-MASTER’S COTTAGE 46
THE WAX MAKERS 60
HARD TIMES FOR THE BEES 86
HONEY-COMB: ITS VARIOUS STAGES 108
HIVING A SWARM 134
1. UPWARD-BUILT COMB 152
2. UPWARD-BUILT COMB 160
THE GUARDIAN OF THE HIVES 176
A NATURAL HONEY-BEE’S NEST 192
OLD COTTAGE-RUIN, WITH RECESSES FOR HIVES 214
INTRODUCTION
AMONG the beautiful things of the countryside, which are slowly but
surely passing away, must be reckoned the old Bee Gardens—fragrant, sunny
nooks of blossom, where the bees are housed only in the ancient straw
skeps, and have their own way in everything, the work of the bee-keeper
being little more than a placid looking-on at events of which it would
have been heresy to doubt the finite perfection.
To say, however, that modern ideas of progress in bee-farming must
inevitably rob the pursuit of all its old-world poetry and
picturesqueness, would be to represent the case in an unnecessarily bad
light. The latter-day beehive, it is true, has little more æsthetic
value than a Brighton bathing-machine; and the new class of bee-keepers,
which is springing up all over the country, is composed mainly of people
who have taken to the calling as they would to any other lucrative
business, having, for the most part, nothing but a good-humoured contempt
alike for the old-fashioned bee-keeper and the ancient traditions and
superstitions of his craft.
Nor can the inveterate, old-time skeppist himself—the man who obstinately
shuts his eyes to all that is good and true in modern bee-science—be
counted on to help in the preservation of the beautiful old gardens, or
in keeping alive customs which have been handed down from generation to
generation, almost unaltered, for literally thousands of years. Here and
there, in the remoter parts of the country, men can still be found who
keep their bees much in the same way as bees were kept in the time of
Columella or Virgil; and are content with as little profit. But these
form a rapidly diminishing class. The advantages of modern methods are
too overwhelmingly apparent. The old school must choose between the
adoption of latter-day systems, or suffer the only alternative—that of
total extinction at no very distant date.
Luckily for English bee-keeping, there is a third class upon which the
hopes of all who love the ancient ways and days, and yet recognise the
absorbing interest and value of modern research in apiarian science, may
legitimately rely. Born and bred amongst the hives, and steeped from
their earliest years in the lore of their skeppist forefathers, these
interesting folk seem, nevertheless, imbued to the core with the very
spirit of progress. While retaining an unlimited affection for all the
quaint old methods in bee-keeping, they maintain themselves,
unostentatiously, but very thoroughly, abreast of the times. Nothing new
is talked of in the world of bees that these people do not make trial of,
and quietly adopt into their daily practice, if really serviceable; or as
quietly discard, if the contrivance prove to have little else than
novelty to recommend it.
As a rule, they are reserved, silent men, difficult of approach; and yet,
when once on terms of familiarity, they make the most charming of
companions. Then they are ever ready to talk about their bees, or
discuss the latest improvements in apiculture; to explain the intricacies
of bee-life, as revealed by the foremost modern observers, or to dilate
by the hour on the astounding delusions of mediæval times. But they all
seem to possess one invariable characteristic—that of whole-hearted
reverence for the customs of their immediate ancestors, their own fathers
and grandfathers. In a long acquaintance with bee-men of this class, I
have never yet met with one who could be trapped into any decided
admission of defect in the old methods, which—to say truth—were often as
senseless as they were futile, even when not directly contrary to the
interest of the bee-owner, or the plain, obvious dictates of humanity.
In this they form a refreshing contrast to the ultra-modern, pushing
young apiculturist of to-day; and it is as a type of this class that the
Bee-Master of Warrilow is presented to the reader.
CHAPTER I
THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW
LONG, lithe, and sinewy, with three score years of sunburn on his keen,
gnarled face, and the sure stride of a mountain goat, the Bee-Master of
Warrilow struck you at once as a notable figure in any company.
Warrilow is a little precipitous village tucked away under the green
brink of the Sussex Downs; and the bee-farm lay on the southern slope of
the hill, with a sheltering barrier of pine above, in which, all day
long, the winter wind kept up an impotent complaining. But below, among
the hives, nothing stirred in the frosty, sun-riddled air. Now and again
a solitary worker-bee darted up from a hive door, took a brisk turn or
two in the dazzling light, then hurried home again to the warm cluster.
But the flash and quiver of wings, and the drowsy song of summer days,
were gone in the iron-bound January weather; and the bee-master was
lounging idly to and fro in the great main-way of the waxen city,
shot-gun under arm, and with apparently nothing more to do than to
meditate over past achievements, or to plan out operations for the season
to come.
As I approached, the sharp report of the gun rang out, and a little cloud
of birds went chippering fearsomely away over the hedgerow. The old man
watched them as they flew off dark against the snowy hillside. He threw
out the cartridge-cases disgustedly.
“Blue-tits!” said he. “They are the great pest of the bee-keeper in
winter time. When the snow covers the ground, and the frost has driven
all insect-life deep into the crevices of the trees, all the blue-caps
for miles round trek to the bee-gardens. Of course, if the bees would
only keep indoors they would be safe enough. But the same cause that
drives the birds in lures the bees out. The snow reflects the sunlight
up through the hive-entrances, and they think the bright days of spring
have come, and out they flock to their death. And winter is just the
time when every single bee is valuable. In summer a few hundreds more or
less make little difference, when in every hive young bees are maturing
at the rate of several thousands a day to take the place of those that
perish. But now every bee captured by the tits is an appreciable loss to
the colony. They are all nurse-bees in the winter-hives, and on them
depends the safe hatching-out of the first broods in the spring season.
So the bee-keeper would do well to include a shot-gun among his
paraphernalia, unless he is willing to feed all the starving tits of the
countryside at the risk of his year’s harvest.”
“But the blue-cap,” he went on, “is not always content to wait for his
breakfast until the bees voluntarily bring it to him. He has a trick of
enticing them out of the hive which is often successful even in the
coldest weather. Come into the extracting-house yonder, and I may be
able to show you what I mean.”
He led the way to a row of outbuildings which flanked the northern
boundary of the garden and formed additional shelter from the blustering
gale. A window of the extracting-house overlooked the whole extent of
hives. Opening this from within with as little noise as possible, the
bee-master put a strong field-glass into my hand.
“Now that we are out of sight,” he said, “the tits will soon be back
again. There they come—whole families of them together! Now watch that
green hive over there under the apple-tree.”
Looking through the glass, I saw that about a dozen tits had settled in
the tree. Their bright plumage contrasted vividly with the sober green
and grey of the lichened boughs, as they swung themselves to and fro in
the sunshine. But presently the boldest of them gave up this pretence of
searching for food among the branches, and hopped down upon the
alighting-board of the hive. At once two or three others followed him;
and then began an ingenious piece of business. The little company fell
to pecking at the hard wood with their bills, striking out a sharp
ringing tattoo plainly audible even where we lay hidden. The old bee-man
snorted contemptuously, and the cartridges slid home into the breech of
his gun with a vicious snap.
“Now keep an eye on the hive-entrance,” he said grimly.
The glass was a good one. Now I could plainly make out a movement in
this direction. The noise and vibration made by the birds outside had
roused the slumbering colony to a sense of danger. About a dozen bees
ran out to see what it all meant, and were immediately pounced upon. And
then the gun spoke over my head. It was a shot into the air, but it
served its harmless purpose. From every bush and tree there came over to
us a dull whirr of wings like far-off thunder, as the blue marauders sped
away for the open country, filling the air with their frightened jingling
note.
Perhaps of all cosy retreats from the winter blast it has ever been my
good fortune to discover, the extracting-room on Warrilow bee-farm was
the brightest and most comfortable. In summer-time the whole life of the
apiary centred here; and the stress and bustle, inevitable during the
season of the great honey-flow, obscured its manifold possibilities. But
in winter the extracting-machines were, for the most part, silent; and
the natural serenity and cosiness of the place reasserted themselves
triumphantly. From the open furnace-door a ruddy warmth and glow
enriched every nook and corner of the long building. The walls were
lined with shelves where the polished tin vessels, in which the surplus
honey was stored, gave back the fire-shine in a hundred flickering points
of amber light. The work of hive-making in the neighbouring sheds was
going briskly forward, but the noise of hammering, the shrill hum of
sawing and planing machinery, and the intermittent cough of the
oil-engine reached us only as a subdued, tranquil murmur—the very voice
of rest.
The bee-master closed the window behind its thick bee-proof curtains,
and, putting his gun away in a corner, drew a comfortable high-backed
settle near to the cheery blaze. Then he disappeared for a moment, and
returned with a dusty cobweb-shrouded bottle, which he carried in a
wicker cradle as a butler would bear priceless old wine. The cork came
out with a ringing jubilant report, and the pale, straw-coloured liquid
foamed into the glasses like champagne. It stilled at once, leaving the
whole inner surface of the glass veneered with golden bells. The old
bee-man held it up critically against the light.
“The last of 19–,” he said, regretfully. “The finest mead year in this
part of the country for many a decade back. Most people have never
tasted the old Anglo-Saxon drink that King Alfred loved, and probably
Harold’s men made merry with on the eve of Hastings. So they can’t be
expected to know that metheglin varies with each season as much as wine
from the grape.”
Of the goodness of the liquor there admitted no question. It had the
bouquet of a ripe Ribston pippin, and the potency of East Indian sherry
thrice round the Horn. But its flavour entirely eluded all attempt at
comparison. There was a suggestive note of fine old perry about it, and
a dim reminder of certain almost colourless Rhenish wines, never
imported, and only to be encountered in moments of rare and happy chance.
Yet neither of these parallels came within a sunbeam’s length of the
truth about this immaculate honey-vintage of Warrilow. Pondering over
the liquor thus, the thought came to me that nothing less than a supreme
occasion could have warranted its production to-day. And this conjecture
was immediately verified. The bee-master raised his glass above his
head.
“To the Bees of Warrilow!” he said, lapsing into the broad Sussex
dialect, as he always did when much moved by his theme. “Forty-one years
ago to-day the first stock I ever owned was fixed up out there under the
old codlin-tree; and now there are two hundred and twenty of them. ’Twas
before you were born, likely as not; and bee science has seen many
changes since then. In those days there were nothing but the old straw
skeps, and most bee-keepers knew as little about the inner life of their
bees as we do of the bottom of the South Pacific. Now things are very
different; but the improvement is mostly in the bee-keepers themselves.
The bees are exactly as they always have been, and work on the same
principles as they did in the time of Solomon. They go their appointed
way inexorably, and all the bee-master can do is to run on ahead and
smooth the path a little for them. Indeed, after forty odd years of
bee-keeping, I doubt if the bees even realise that they are ‘kept’ at
all. The bee-master’s work has little more to do with their progress
than the organ-blower’s with the tune.”
“Can you,” I asked him, as we parted, “after all these years of
experience, lay down for beginners in beemanship one royal maxim of
success above any other?”
He thought it over a little, the gun on his shoulder again.
“Well, they might take warning from this same King Solomon,” he said,
“and beware the foreign feminine element. Let British bee-keepers cease
to import queen bees from Italy and elsewhere, and stick to the good old
English Black. All my bees are of this strain, and mostly from one pure
original Sussex stock. The English black bee is a more generous
honey-maker in indifferent seasons; she does not swarm so determinedly,
under proper treatment, as the Ligurians or Carniolans; and, above all,
though she is not so handsome as some of her Continental rivals, she
comes of a hardy northern race, and stands the ups and downs of the
British winter better than any of the fantastic yellow-girdled crew from
overseas.”