The next thing is to place my tiles. I want to have them under my
eyes, in a position where I can watch them easily and save myself the
worries of earlier days: going up and down ladders, standing for hours
at a stretch on a narrow rung that hurt the soles of my feet and
risking sunstroke up against a scorching wall. Moreover, it is
necessary that my guests should feel almost as much at home with me as
where they come from. I must make life pleasant for them, if I should
have them grow attached to the new dwelling. And I happen to have the
very thing for them.

Under the leads of my house is a wide arch, the sides of which get the
sun, while the back remains in the shade. There is something for
everybody: the shade for me, the sunlight for my boarders. We fasten a
stout hook to each tile and hang it on the wall, on a level with our
eyes. Half my nests are on the right, half on the left. The general
effect is rather original. Any one walking in and seeing my show for
the first time begins by taking it for a display of smoked provisions,
gammons of some outlandish bacon curing in the sun. On perceiving his
mistake, he falls into raptures at these new hives of mine. The news
spreads through the village and more than one pokes fun at it. They
look upon me as a keeper of hybrid Bees:

'I wonder what he's going to make out of that!' say they.

My hives are in full swing before the end of April. When the work is
at its height, the swarm becomes a little eddying, buzzing cloud. The
arch is a much-frequented passage: it leads to a store-room for
various household provisions. The members of my family bully me at
first for establishing this dangerous commonwealth within the
precincts of our home. They dare not go to fetch things: they would