In the hedgerow that surrounds the bee-garden the and have been singing all the morning long.  Still a few pale sulphur buds remain on the evening-primroses.  The balsams make a glowing patch of by the garden gate.  Over the door porch of the old thatched cottage purple clematis climbs bravely; and the nasturtiums still their and gold in the sunny angle of the wall.  But, for all the colour and the music, the hot sun, and the blue air overhead, you can never forget that it is October.  If the towering elm-trees by the lane-side showed no of in their greenery, nor the sent down their steady rain of russet, there would still be one indubitable mark of the season—the voice of the hives themselves.  
Rich and wavering and low in the sweet autumn sunlight, it comes over to you now with the very spirit of rest in every halting tone.  There is work, of a kind, doing in the bee-garden.  A steady tide of bees is stemming out from and home to every hive.  But there is none of the press and busy clamour of bygone summer days.  It is only a make-believe of duty.  Each bee, as she swings up into the sunshine, a while before setting easy sail for the in the lane; and, on returning, she may for whole minutes together on the hot hive-roof.  There is no sort of hurry; little as there may be to do abroad, there is less at home.
 
But to one section of the bee-community, these slack October hours bring no cessation of .  The guards at the gate must redouble their vigilance.  Cut off from most of their natural supplies, the yellow pirates—the —are continually prowling about the entrance; and, in these lean times, will dare all dangers for a fill of honey.  fierce skirmishes take place on the alighting-board.  The guards themselves at each adventuress in turn.  The , calculating coward that she is, invariably declines battle, and makes off; but only to return a little later, hoping for the unwary moment that is sure to come.  While the whole strength of the is engaged with other would-be pilferers, she slips round the scuffling crew, and into the gloom of the hive.
 
The variation in among the members of a bee-colony is never better than by the way in which these marauders are received and dealt with.  The wasp never tries to pick a way to the honey-stores through the close packed ranks of the bees.  She keeps to the sides of the hive, and works her way up by a series of quick whenever a path opens before her.  Evidently her plan is to avoid contact with the home-keeping bees, which, at this time of year, have little more to do than loiter over the combs, or tuck themselves away in the empty brood-cells by the hour together.  But in her advance, she often against single bees; and then she may be either mildly , fiercely challenged, or may be allowed to pass with a friendly stroke of the antennæ, as though she were an orthodox member of the hive.  Again, you may see her recognised for a stranger by three or four workers .  She will be surrounded and closely questioned.  The bees draw back and confer among themselves in obvious doubt.  The wasp knows better than to await the result of their deliberations; by the time they look for her again, she is gone.
 
She carries her life in her hand, and well she knows it.  The farther she goes, the more suspicious and menacing the bees become.  Now she has wild little scuffles here and there with the boldest of them, but her superior and pace save her at every turn.  It is about an even that she will reach the brimming honey-cells, load herself up to the chin, and escape home to her paper-stronghold with her spoils.
 
As often as not, however, these hive-robbing wasps pay the last great price for their .  Those who study bee-life closely and unremittingly, year after year, find it difficult to escape the conclusion that there are certain bees in the crowd who are menta............