in the hedgerow that surrounds the bee-garden the wrens and robins 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 magenta by the garden gate. over the door porch of the old thatched cottage purple clematis climbs bravely; and the nasturtiums still flaunt their scarlet and gold in the sunny angle of the wall. but, for all the colour and the music, the hot sun, and the serene blue air overhead, you can never forget that it is october. if the towering elm-trees by the lane-side showed no fretting of amber in their greenery, nor the beeches 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, hovers a while before setting easy sail for the ivy in the lane; and, on returning, she may bask 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 toil. the guards at the gate must redouble their vigilance. cut off from most of their natural supplies, the yellow pirates—the wasps—are continually prowling about the entrance; and, in these lean times, will dare all dangers for a fill of honey. incessant fierce skirmishes take place on the alighting-board. the guards hurl themselves at each adventuress in turn. the wasp, 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 picket is engaged with other would-be pilferers, she slips round the scuffling crew, and plunges into the fragrant gloom of the hive.
the variation in temperament among the members of a bee-colony is never better illustrated 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 darts 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 desultory advance, she often cannons against single bees; and then she may be either mildly interrogated, 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 simultaneously. 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 adroitness and pace save her at every turn. it is about an even wager 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 temerity. 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 mentally and physically in advance of their sisters. the notion of the old bee-keepers—that there were generals and captains as well as rank-and-file in the hive—seems, in fact, to be not entirely without latter-day confirmation. and it is just the chance of falling in with one of these bees that constitutes, for the wasp, the main risk when robbing the hives.
if this happens, there is no longer any doubt of the turn affairs are to take. at an unlucky moment the wasp brushes against one of these hive-constables and instead of indifference, or, at most, a spiteful tweak of the leg or wing in passing, she finds herself suddenly at deadly grips. the bee’s attack is as swift as it is furious. seizing the yellow honey-thief with all six legs, she hacks away at her with her jaws, at the same time curving her body inwards with her cruel sting bared to the hilt. even now, although more than equal to one bee at any time, the policy of the wasp is to refuse the fight, and to run. her long legs give her a better reach. she forces her adversary away, disengages, and charges off towards the dim light of the entrance.
in all that follows, this is the beacon that guides her. if she could get a clear course, her greater speed would soon out-distance all pursuit. but the sudden clash of arms in the quiet of the hive has an extraordinary effect on the sluggish colony. the alarm spreads on every side. wherever the wasp runs now she is met with snapping jaws and detaining embraces. as she rushes madly down the comb, she is continually pulled up in full flight by bees hanging on to her legs, her wings, her black waving antenna. a dozen times she shakes them all off, and speeds on, the spot of light and safety in the distance ever growing brighter and larger. but she seldom escapes with her life if affairs have reached this pass. the way now is alive with enemies. she is stopped and headed off in all directions. trying this way and that for a loophole, she finally gives it up and turns on her tracks, bewildered and panic-stricken, only to rush straight into the midst of more foes.
the end is always the same. another of the stalwarts spies her, and in a moment the two are locked in berserk conflict. together they drop down between the combs and thud to the bottom of the hive. here it is hard to tell what happens. the fight is so fierce and sharp, and the two whirl round and tumble over and over together so wildly that you can make out little else than a spinning blur of brown and yellow. a great bright drop of honey flies off: in her extremity the wasp has disgorged her spoils. perhaps for an instant the warriors may get wedged up in a corner, and then you may see that they are not lunging at random with their stilettos, but each is trying for a side-thrust on the body; these mail-clad creatures are vulnerable to each other only at one point—the spiracles, or breathing-holes. often the wasp deals the first fatal blow, and the bee drops off mortally hurt. she may even dispose of three or four of her assailants thus in quick succession. but each time another bee closes with her at once. for the wasp there can only be one end to it. sooner or later she gets the finishing stroke.
and then there follows a grim little comedy. the bee, torn and ragged as she is from the incessant gnashing of those razor-edged yellow jaws, nevertheless pauses not a moment. she grips her dying adversary by the base of the wing, and struggles off with her towards the entrance of the hive. it is a hard job, but she succeeds at last. alternately pushing her burden before her, or dragging it behind, at length she wins out into the open, and, with a final desperate effort, tumbles the wasp over the edge of the footboard down into the grass below. yet this is not enough. the victory must be celebrated in the old warrior fashion. rent and bleeding and exhausted as she is, she finds she can still fly. and up into the mellow sunbeams of the october morning she sweeps, giddily and uncertainly, piercing the air with her shrill song of triumph. through the murmurous quiet of the bee-garden, it rings out like a cry in the night.
