He was a clever and courageous bee-master, and "took" all my
neighbours' swarms as well as my own, my gardener not being _persona
grata_ to bees. The job is not a popular one, and he would, when
accompanied by the owner, always ask, "Will you hold the ladder or
hive 'em?" The invariable answer was, "Hold the ladder." He firmly
believed in the necessity of telling the bees in cases where the owner
had died, the superstition being that unless the hive was tapped after
dark, when all were at home, and a set form of announcement repeated,
the bees would desert their quarters. I had an alarming experience
once with bees when cycling between Ringwood and Burley in the New
Forest, my present home. As I passed a house close to the road, a
swarm crossed my path, rising from their hive just as I reached the
hedge before the garden. There was a mighty humming, and I felt the
bees, with which I was colliding, striking my hands and face with some
violence. I expected a sting each moment, but my greatest fear was
lest the queen should have settled on my coat amongst the bees it had
collected, and that presently I should have the whole swarm in
possession. It was dangerous to stop, so I raced on some distance,
dismounted, discarded my coat, shaking off my unwelcome
fellow-travellers, and I was much surprised to find that none of them
retaliated.
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