THE BEE-HUNTERS
“IN that bit of forest,” said the bee-master, indicating a long stretch
of neighbouring woodland with one comprehensive sweep of his thumb,
“there are tons of honey waiting for any man who knows how to find it.”
I had met and stopped the old bee-keeper and his men, bent on what seemed
a rather singular undertaking. They carried none of the usual implements
of their craft, but were laden up with the paraphernalia of
woodmen—rip-saws and hatchets and climbing-irons, and a mysterious box or
two, the use of which I could not even guess at. But the bee-master soon
made his errand plain.
“Tons of honey,” he went on. “And we are going to look for some of it.
There have been wild bees, I suppose, in the forest country from the
beginning of things. Then see how the land lies. There are villages all
round, and for ages past swarms have continually got away from the
bee-gardens, and hived themselves in the hollow trunks of the trees.
Then every year these stray colonies have sent out their own swarms
again, until to-day the woods are full of bees, wild as wolves and often
as savage, guarding stores that have been accumulating perhaps for years
and years.”
He shifted his heavy kit from one shoulder to the other. Overhead the
sun burned in a cloudless August sky, and the willow-herb by the roadside
was full of singing bees and the flicker of white butterflies. In the
hedgerows there were more bees plundering the blackberry blossom, or
sounding their vagrant note in the white convolvulus-bells which hung in
bridal wreaths at every turn of the way. Beyond the hedgerow the yellow
cornlands flowed away over hill and dale under the torrid light; and each
scarlet poppy that hid in the rustling gold-brown wheat had its winged
musician chanting at its portal. As I turned and went along with the
expedition, the bee-master gave me more details of the coming enterprise.
“Mind you,” he said, “this is not good beemanship as the moderns
understand it. It is nothing but bee-murder, of the old-fashioned kind.
But even if the bees could be easily taken alive, we should not want them
in the apiary. Blood counts in bee-life, as in everything else; and
these forest-bees have been too long under the old natural conditions to
be of any use among the domestic strain. However, the honey is worth the
getting, and if we can land only one big stock or two it will be a
profitable day’s work.”
We had left the hot, dusty lane, and taken to the field-path leading up
through a sea of white clover to the woods above.
“This is the after-crop,” said the bee-master, as he strode on ahead with
his jingling burden. “The second cut of Dutch clover always gives the
most honey. Listen to the bees everywhere—it is just like the roar of
London heard from the top of St Paul’s! And most of it here is going
into the woods, more’s the pity. Well, well; we must try to get some of
it back to-day.”
Between the verge of the clover-field and the shadowy depths of the
forest ran a broad green waggon-way; and here we came to a halt. In the
field we had lately traversed the deep note of the bees had sounded
mainly underfoot; but now it was all above us, as the honeymakers sped to
and fro between the sunlit plane of blossom and their hidden storehouses
in the wood. The upper air was full of their music; but, straining the
sight to its utmost, not a bee could be seen.
“And you will never see them,” said the bee-master, watching me as he
unpacked his kit. “They fly too fast and too high. And if you can’t see
them go by out here in the broad sunshine, how will you track them to
their lair through the dim light under the trees? And yet,” he went on,
“that is the only way to do it. It is useless to search the wood for
their nests; you might travel the whole day through and find nothing.
The only plan is to follow the laden bees returning to the hive. And now
watch how we do that in Sussex.”
From one of the boxes he produced a contrivance like a flat tin saucer
mounted on top of a pointed stick. He stuck this in the ground near the
edge of the clover-field so that the saucer stood on a level with the
highest blossoms. Now he took a small bottle of honey from his pocket,
emptied it into the tin receptacle, and beckoned me to come near.
Already three or four bees had discovered this unawaited feast and
settled on it; a minute more and the saucer was black with crowding bees.
Now the bee-master took a wire-gauze cover and softly inverted it over
the saucer. Then, plucking his ingenious trap up by the roots, he set
off towards the forest with his prisoners, followed by his men.
“These,” said he, “are our guides to the secret treasure-chamber.
Without them we might look for a week and never find it. But now it is
all plain sailing, as you’ll see.”
He pulled up on the edge of the wood. By this time every bee in the trap
had forsaken the honey, and was clambering about in the top of the
dome-shaped lid, eager for flight.
“They are all full of honey,” said the bee-master, “and the first thing a
fully-laden bee thinks of is home. And now we will set the first one on
the wing.”
He opened a small valve in the trap-cover, and allowed one of the bees to
escape. She rose into the air, made a short circle, then sped away into
the gloom of the wood. In a moment she was lost to sight, but the main
direction of her course was clear; and we all followed helter-skelter
until our leader called another halt.
“Now watch this one,” he said, pressing the valve again.
This time the guide rose high into the dim air, and was at once lost to
my view. But the keen eyes of the old bee-man had challenged her.
“There she goes!” he said, pointing down a long shadowy glade somewhat to
his left. “Watch that bit of sunlight away yonder!”
I followed this indication. Through the dense wood-canopy a hundred feet
away the sun had thrust one long golden tentacle; and I saw a tiny spark
of light flash through into the gloom beyond. We all stampeded after it.
Another and another of the guides was set free, each one taking us deeper
into the heart of the forest, until at last the bee-master suddenly
stopped and held up his hand.
“Listen!” he said under his breath.
Above the rustling of the leaves, above the quiet stir of the undergrowth
and the crooning of the stock-doves, a shrill insistent note came over to
us on the gentle wind. The bee-man led the way silently into the darkest
depths of the wood. Halting, listening, going swiftly forward in turn,
at last he stopped at the foot of an old decayed elm-stump. The shrill
note we had heard was much louder now, and right overhead. Following his
pointing forefinger, I saw a dark cleft in the old trunk about twenty
feet above; and round this a cloud of bees was circling, filling the air
with their rich deep labour-song. At the same instant, with a note like
the twang of a harp-string, a bee came at me and fastened a red-hot
fish-hook into my cheek. The old bee-keeper laughed.
“Get this on as soon as you can,” he said, producing a pocketful of
bee-veils, and handing me one from the bunch. “These are wild bees,
thirty thousand of them, maybe; and we shall need all our armour to-day.
Only wait till they find us out! But now rub your hands all over with
this.”
Every man scrambled into his veil, and anointed his hands with the oil of
wintergreen—the one abiding terror of vindictive bees. And then the real
business of the day commenced.
The bee-master had strapped on his climbing-irons. Now he struck his way
slowly up the tree, tapping the wood with the butt-end of a hatchet inch
by inch as he went. At last he found what he wanted. The trunk rang
hollow about a dozen feet from the ground. Immediately he began to cut
it away. The noise of the hatchet woke all the echoes of the forest.
The chips came fluttering to the earth. The rich murmur overhead changed
to an angry buzzing. In a moment the bees were on the worker in a vortex
of humming fury, covering his veil, his clothes, his hands. But he
worked on unconcernedly until he had driven a large hole through the
crust of the tree and laid bare the glistening honeycomb within. Now I
saw him take from a sling-bag at his side handful after handful of some
yellow substance and heap it into the cavity he had made. Then he struck
a match, lighted the stuff, and came sliding swiftly to earth again. We
all drew off and waited.
“That,” explained the bee-master, as he leaned on his woodman’s axe out
of breath, “is cotton-waste, soaked in creosote, and then smothered in
powdered brimstone. See! it is burning famously. The fumes will soon
fill the hollow of the tree and settle the whole company. Then we shall
cut away enough of the rotten wood above to get all the best of the combs
out; there are eighty pounds of good honey up there, or I’m no bee-man.
And then it’s back to the clover-field for more guide-bees, and away on a
new scent.”