We found him at once. “What does this mean?” I cried.
“It means,” said he, “that, late as the season is, the swarming fever has
seized the colony.”
“Why?” we cried.
“Well, we have so much honey and there is so much in the field and the
colony so strong, it can easily spare a force of pioneers to begin a new
colony. Here is the working out of destiny controlling the very life of
the bee.”
Crip spoke enthusiastically, and both Buzz-Buzz and I were fascinated by
his story.
The first thing I knew I, also, was seized with the enthusiasm.
Queen-cells had been started—half a dozen at least. I laid hold and
helped draw out the comb to build up a huge cell, where, in the
mysterious processes of time, a Queen would appear!
Almost against her wishes, the Queen-Mother deposited eggs in the various
cells and began, under mild protest, to expand her brood-chamber in
anticipation of the promised exodus of her children. While she did not
fear that enough would go to imperil the existence of her own colony,
she doubted the wisdom of the enterprise. She discouraged in every way
possible the ardor of the workers who continued to bring in honey until
there was no longer space to store it. Indeed, they crowded the Queen so
that she was driven to despair. The very space she had set aside for her
brood-chamber for the winter was encroached upon and heaped with bread
and honey, but for the nonce there was no stopping them.
Crip said: “You are crazy; it is too late in the season to swarm; it
means extinction.”
But one replied: “It is the law! There is a chance for the swarm to
survive, and the chance must be taken; particularly when the parent
colony shows its ability to survive.”
“Truly said,” added Crip. “I merely wanted to find whether you knew what
the higher law compels.”
But where would the swarm begin a home? This question now began to be
asked. It seemed that nobody thought of the great Master who sat for
hours under the mesquite-tree. Would he not provide a house?
The next day Buzz-Buzz came to me, greatly excited. “You and I and
others are to go into the woods and search for a home for the swarm!”
That was the order. It was enough—we went.
We seemed to know that the only place to look for a home was among the
great oaks that bordered the lake, and thither we betook ourselves. We
flew from tree to tree, exploring every hole we could find in the hope of
discovering a hollow big enough to house a swarm. Three days we spent in
vain. On the fourth we found one, and with great joy we returned home and
reported. Immediately a hundred bees or more were assigned to prepare the
hollow tree for a habitation. Buzz-Buzz and I led the way back, and all
hands fell to cleaning out the cobwebs and the débris of decayed wood.
Several days were spent in this undertaking, and finally the word was
passed that the new home was ready.
But things were not ready with the parent colony. No Queen had emerged
from her cell. From hour to hour the bees marched by impatiently, waiting
for the “click-click” of her mandibles and for sight of them piercing the
wax door to the cell. And there was much speculation as to which of the
half-dozen possible Queens would first emerge. Finally, one day, at high
noon, the rumor ran over the hive that a Queen had been born, and the
excitement became intense. “A Queen! A Queen!”
Crip and I forced our way through the crush to the spot where the Queen
was surrounded by a joyous multitude. He, finally, on account of his
lameness, was compelled to abandon his efforts to pay his homage to the
new-born mother. But I, nothing daunted, persisted, and presently came
near enough to feel her presence. I, too, sang fervently, for a new hope
had risen. Soon in the vast forest of the world a new colony would be
planted to aid in carrying on the eternal work of the bee.
At another corner of the hive I heard a different sound. It was the wail
of a Queen that was being destroyed. I hurried toward her, but somehow
felt no pity for her. A great cluster of bees completely enveloped her;
this was the mode of taking the royal life. All the remaining cells with
their occupants had been cut down, and soon there remained in all the
hive but the one mother and the one daughter. I came upon the destroyed
cells, torn and empty, and could not help mourning the death of the royal
creatures they had housed. Perhaps there had been but minutes between the
births of the Queens, but those minutes had been fatal to the last.
Preparations went steadily on for the day of the exodus. The new Queen
took her first flight successfully; and then came the mating! Only
a few drones had been permitted to escape the massacre of a month
earlier—tolerated on the chance of a lost or a dead Queen—borne with
against a belated mating.
“How wonderful,” Crip observed, “that these things should be provided
for—and how close are life and death!”
It was a hot afternoon when the time came for the nuptial flight, and it
lacked the wild glamour of an earlier one that I had witnessed. On the
first occasion there were literally thousands of drones that went up
toward the heavens in search of the one radiant thing in the world. And
they had all returned save one immortal, who had found and won the Queen,
only to lose his life! Compared with the first flight, this last seemed
commonplace. I should have foregone the opportunity of witnessing the
thin procession, bound on the momentous journey of uniting two lives, so
that the thread of existence might not be cut short for the bee.
I groped about impatiently, awaiting news of the bridal party. It was
not long delayed, for soon there were sounds of rejoicing throughout the
hive; and now the last preparations had been ended and the day was at
hand for the great adventure.
Round and round the hive went the signal that on the morrow the swarm
should go forth to its home in the woods. Quietly and with no bickerings,
the tallies were laid—this one should go, this one should stay—there was
in no case dispute or contest. Each bee accepted the issue with all the
grace of a fatalist. I was one of them.
Really, I was greatly disappointed not to have been chosen to go, for
I had been one of the pioneers and had helped find and prepare the new
home in the live-oak by the clear waters of the beautiful lake. It was a
bitter disappointment, but I uttered no word of complaint. When I came up
with Crip I found he, too, had been left behind.
“Why shouldn’t we have been chosen to go?” I asked, somewhat downcast.
“I am too old—too useless,” Crip answered. “You are young and brave
enough, but battles are to be fought here as well as yonder. And some of
the strong and gallant had need to remain.”
Something in Crip’s look and tone struck me. Was I too old to go? Had
that been the reason? I had heard a cry over the hive that only young
bees should go, for there would be small hope of raising much of a brood
in the new colony through the winter. If it could build comb enough and
gather sufficient honey to feed itself, it would be fortunate.
So, I was not young enough. Until then I had not thought of my age; it
seemed to me that I was still as active as on the day I flew into the sky.
As for Crip, “too useless” seemed a cruel phrase. For who could say what
was the worth of his stores of knowledge? But I could see that he moved
more feebly from day to day.
“Only the strong are to be chosen—the fit? Crip, that bears hard on us.”
“Not a bit of it,” he replied, cheerily. “Take courage; that is the way
of things in the world of the bee.”
Then he added that it would be a hard battle to build a home in the short
space of time allotted and to store food enough to last through the
winter. It meant a fight, for already the glimmerings of the fall were
upon us! Pale shadows of color began to stain the leaves, and the flowers
turned their faces more wistfully each day to the sun. Still, the bees
would go. There was no denying the operation of the law, which commanded
that the chance be taken. The whole law of survival was involved—and
there was none to deny it.
So, all night long murmurings and vague discontents and forebodings and
anticipations ran through the hive. Those marked so mysteriously to go
realized that their lives were at stake and likely to be lost. Yet each
one in the hive would have gone. It was not until late that I learned
that our own mother, my mother, the mother of the hive, was to go away,
leaving her daughter to preside over the destinies of the old. Here, too,
Crip was wont to philosophize.
“You see, our mother is not young,” he began. “If she should perish in
the stress of the winter and the new colony be lost, it would be less
grievous than the loss of this new, vigorous Queen. Besides, our mother
has had experience. She has lived over one winter. She knows how much of
a brood to rear to maintain the strength of the colony—or whether she
dare rear any at all—bearing in mind the while that there must be a fine
adjustment between the mouths to be fed and the total of supplies. She
knows well how to keep this account. Last winter, I am told, our stores
ran low, so low, in fact, that many of our brothers sacrificed their
lives in order to conserve the supplies so as to bring the Queen-Mother
with a few attendants through the long, bitter winter. Not a young bee
was reared until the first flowers had come riotously trampling on the
skirts of the frost. So, you see, _they_ know best. _She_ will lead the
swarm, and perhaps, if the season is late, and the frost slow to come,
they can build their combs and store sufficient honey to bring them
through. Perhaps even spring may come to their rescue, blossoming early.
A late, backward spring, however, might end them, even if they had
escaped the fury of the winter.”
There seemed no end to Crip’s knowledge. Lying there on the comb, he
looked pathetically helpless, and there was a quaver in his voice. I
could see that he was reflecting—that age had dropped upon him heavily on
account of his wounds. Then, stoic that he was, I knew that some morning
I should search in vain for trace of him. Once a bee becomes useless, he
said, there is but one thing for him to do. I knew that Crip was already
contemplating the end. Bitterness for a moment welled up in me at the
thought that so much wisdom should be lost—and so soon. That was the
edict. But, after all, was the wisdom really lost?
Our talk was broken at length by the call of the morning. The first pale
gleams of light filtered through the entrance of the hive. Already there
were murmurings and presently the faint note of the swarm.
Two hours passed—three hours—and now the trumpet sounded for the flight.
Each of the chosen rushed to the nearest cell and filled his sac to
its utmost capacity. Some early-returning foragers, laden with pollen,
heard the signal and made ready to go, carrying with them their loads.
Stores must be taken along to last until comb was built and new supplies
gathered from the fields. Rations for three or four days were thus
provided. When all was ready the trumpet sounded again and the march
began. In the fore went the scouts who were to lead the way to the new
home. Then, following after, came the chosen ones in a mighty multitude,
and lastly the Queen.
Out into the air they flew, then round and round, each one singing the
Song of the Swarm, which could be heard afar off. Round and round in a
dizzy circle they flew, but in an ever-widening whirl. The scouts, I
could hear from my point of vantage at the door, were becoming impatient.
The Queen had been delayed, and until word of her presence among them was
spoken, they could only circle about. Or else, failing that word, they
could and would return to the hive. But at the height of their impatience
the glad word came, “The Queen is here!”
Then they delayed no longer, but started in a whirlwind flight toward the
lake and to their new home, uttering, as they drew away, that marvelously
wild and moving song which pulsed with the tremors of life and death.
[Illustration: CHAPTER FOURTEEN