hive-shelves in that apparently purposeless unrest that precedes
creation. But whether they intended, any of them, to create a new city
that day, none might know. Vessons said not. Hazel, always for
adventure, said they would, and said also that she could hear the queen
in one hive 'zeep-zeeping'--that strange music which, like the
maddeningly soft skirl of bagpipes or the fiddling of Ned Pugh, has
power to lure living creatures away from comfort and full hives into
the unknown--so darkly sweet.

'I canna hear it,' said Vessons obstinately.

'Go on! You're deaf, Mr. Vessons.'

'Deaf, am I? Maybe I hear as much as I want to, and more. Ah! that I
do!'

'Well, then, why canna you hear 'em? Listen at 'em now. D'you know the
noise I mean?'

'Do I know the noise?' Vessons' voice grew almost tearful with rage.
'Do I know? Me! As can make a thousand bees go through the neck of a
pint bottle each after other, like cows to the milking! Me! Maybe you'd
like to learn me beekeeping?' he continued with salty humility. 'Maybe
you would! Never will I!'

He began to tear off the tops of the hives.

'Oh, Mr. Vessons, dunna be so cross!' Hazel was afraid there would be
another scene like Monday's. 'You take 'em off very neat,' she added,
with a pathetic attempt to be tactful--'as neat as my dad.'