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.

“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.