THE HONEY-FLOW
ON Warrilow Bee-Farm, where it lay under the green lip of the Sussex
Downs, there was always food for wonder, whether the year was at its ebb
or its flow. But in July of a good season the busy life of the farm
reached a culminating point.
The ordinary man, in search of excitement, distraction, the heady wine
served out only to those who stand in the fighting-line of the world,
would hardly seek these things in a little sleepy village sunk fathoms
deep in English summer greenery. But, nevertheless, with the coming of
the great honey-flow to Warrilow came all these subtle human necessities.
If you would keep up with the bee-master and his men at this stirring
time, you must be ready for a break-neck gallop from dawn to dusk of the
working day, and often a working night to follow. While the honey-flow
endured, muscles and nerves were tried to their breaking-point. It was a
race between the great centrifugal honey-extractor and the toiling
millions of the hives; and time and again, in exceptionally favourable
seasons, the bees would win; the honey-chambers would clog with the
interminable sweets, and the dreaded atrophy of contentment would seize
upon the best of the hives, with the result that they would gather no
more honey.
A week of hot bright days and warm still nights, with here and there a
gentle shower to hearten the fields of clover and sainfoin; and then the
fight between the bee-master and his millions would begin in earnest.
There would be no more quiet pipes, strolling and talking among the
hives: the Bee-Master of Warrilow was a general now, with all a great
commander’s stern absorption in the conduct of a difficult campaign.
Often, with the first grey of the summer’s morning, you would hear his
footsteps on the red-tiled path of the garden below, as he hurried off to
the bee-farm, and presently the bell in the little turret over the
extracting-house would clang out a reveille to his men, and draw them
from their beds in the neighbouring village to another day of work,
perhaps the most trying work by which men win their bread.
It is nothing in the ordinary way to lift a super-chamber weighing twenty
pounds or so. But to lift it by imperceptible degrees, place an empty
rack in its place, return the full rack to the hive as an upper story,
and to do it all so quietly and gently that the bees have not realised
the onslaught on their home until the operation is complete, is quite
another thing. And a long day of this wary, delicate handling of heavy
weights, at arm’s length, under broiling sunshine, is one of the most
nerve-wearing and back-breaking experiences in the world.
One of the mistakes made by the unknowing in bee-craft is that the
bee-veil is never used among professional men. But the truth is that
even the oldest, most experienced hand is glad enough, at times, to fall
back behind this, his last line of defence. All depends upon the
momentary temper of the bees. There are times when every hive on the
farm is as gentle as a flock of sheep, and it is possible to take any
liberty with them. At other times, and apparently under much the same
conditions, stocks of bees with the steadiest of reputations will resent
the slightest interference, while the mere approach to others may mean a
furious attack. No true bee-man is afraid of the wickedest bees that
ever flew, but it is only the novice who will disdain necessary
precautions. Even the Bee-Master of Warrilow was seldom seen without a
wisp of black net round the crown of his ancient hat, ready to be let
down at a moment’s notice if the bees showed any inclination to sting.
[Picture: “The upward built comb shown joined on the downward built
comb”]
In a long vista of memorable days spent at Warrilow, one stands out clear
above all the rest. It was in July of a famous honey-year. The hay had
long been carried, and the second crops of sainfoin and Dutch clover were
making their bravest show of blossom in the fields. It was a stifling
day of naked light and heat, with a fierce wind abroad hotter even than
the sunshine. The deep blue of the sky came right down to the
earth-line. The farthest hills were hard and bright under the universal
glare. And on the bee-farm, as I came through the gap in the dusty
hedgerow, I saw that every man had his veil close drawn down. The
bee-master hailed me from his crowded corner.
“Y’are just to the nick!” he called, in his broadest Sussex. “’Tis
stripping-day wi’ us, an’ I can do wi’ a dozen o’ ye! Get on your veil,
d’rectly-minute, an’ wire in t’ot!”
The fierce hot wind surged through the little city of hives, scattering
the bees like chaff in all directions, and rousing in them a wild-cat
fury. Overhead the sunny air was full of bees, striving out and home;
and from every hive there came a shrill note, a tremulous, high-pitched
roar of work, half-baffled, driven through against all odds and
hindrances, a note that bore in upon you an irresistible sense of fear.
I pulled on the bee-veil without more ado.
“Stripping-day” was always the hardest day of the year at Warrilow. It
meant that some infallible sign of the approaching end of the harvest had
been observed, and that all extractable honey must be immediately removed
from the hives. A change of weather was brewing, as the nearness of the
hills foretold. There might be weeks of flood and tempest coming, when
the hives could not be opened. Overnight there had been a ringed moon,
and the morning broke hot and boisterous, with an ominous clearness
everywhere. By midday the glass was tumbling down. The bee-master took
one look at it, then called all hands together. “Strip!” he said
laconically; and all work in extracting-house and packing-sheds was
abandoned, and every man braced himself to the job.
The hives were arranged in long double rows, back to back, with a footway
between wide enough to allow the passage of the honey barrow. This was
not unlike a baker’s hand-cart, and contained empty combs, which were to
be exchanged for the full combs from the hives. I found myself sharing a
row with the bee-master, and already infused with the glowing, static
energy for which he was renowned. The process of stripping the hives
varied little with each colony, but the bees themselves furnished variety
enough and to spare. In working for comb-honey, the racks or sections
are tiered up one above the other until as many as five stories may be
built over a good stock. But where the honey is to be extracted from the
comb another system is followed. There is then only one super-chamber,
holding ten frames side by side, and these frames are removed separately
as fast as the bees fill and seal them, their place being taken by the
empty combs extracted the day before.
The whole art of this work consists in disturbing the bees as little as
possible. At ordinary times the roof of the hive is removed, the
“quilts” which cover the comb-frames are then very gently peeled away,
and the frames with their adhering bees are placed side by side in the
clearing-box. The honey-chamber is then furnished with empty combs, and
the coverings and roof replaced. On nine days out of ten this can be
done without a veil or any subduing contrivance; and the bees which were
shut up with the honey in the clearing-box will soon come out through the
traps in the lid and fly back to their hives. But when time presses, and
several hundred hives must be gone through in a few hours, a different
system is adopted. Speed is now a main desideratum in the work, and on
stripping-day at Warrilow resort is made to a contrivance seldom seen
there at other times. This is simply a square of cloth saturated with
weak carbolic acid, the most detested, loathsome thing in bee-comity.
Directly the comb-frames are laid bare these cloths are drawn over them,
and in a few moments every bee has crowded down terror-stricken into the
lower regions of the hive, leaving the honey-chamber free for instant and
swift manipulation.