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 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, , 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 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 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 millions of the hives; and time and again, in exceptionally seasons, the bees would win; the honey-chambers would with the interminable sweets, and the 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 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 , delicate handling of heavy weights, at arm’s length, under 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 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 under much the same conditions, stocks of bees with the steadiest of reputations will resent the slightest interference, while the 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 who will 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 to sting.
 
In a long of 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 day of naked light and heat, with a fierce wind abroad hotter even than the sunshine.  The deep blue of the............