that very hour to rifle it, and it is a most pleasing experience to
stand near the hive some mild April day and see them come pouring in
with their little baskets packed with this first fruitage of the
spring. They will have new bread now; they have been to mill in good
earnest; see their dusty coats, and the golden grist they bring home
with them.

When a bee brings pollen into the hive, he advances to the cell in
which it is to be deposited and kicks it off as one might his overalls
or rubber boots, making one foot help the other; then he walks off
without ever looking behind him; another bee, one of the indoor hands,
comes along and rams it down with his head and packs it into the cell
as the dairymaid packs butter into a firkin.

The first spring wild-flowers, whose shy faces among the dry leaves and
rocks are so welcome, yield no honey. The anemone, the hepatica,
the bloodroot, the arbutus, the numerous violets, the spring beauty,
the corydalis, etc., woo lovers of nature, but do not woo the
honey-loving bee. It requires more sun and warmth to develop the
saccharine element, and the beauty of these pale striplings of the
woods and groves is their sole and sufficient excuse for being.
The arbutus, lying low and keeping green all winter, attains to
perfume, but not to honey.

The first honey is perhaps obtained from the flowers of the red maple
and the golden willow. The latter sends forth a wild, delicious
perfume. The sugar maple blooms a little later, and from its silken
tassels a rich nectar is gathered. My bees will not label these
different varieties for me as I really wish they would. Honey from the
maples, a tree so clean and wholesome, and full of such virtues every