The days of autumn are here. The dancing lightness of spring has changed to the plodding pace of fall. The green of the trees, except where a startling red can he see, is less brilliant now. Tumbleweeds straggle across the fields. Thistledown floats in the air. The lonesome calls of the crickets and the katy-dids are heard. The bees lumber about the dusty flowers.

We remember our trips to bee land and wonder what the bees are doing now. Let us go again to see them.

We enter the hive. The appearance of it has changed somewhat since our last visit. Many combs leave little space to walk about. The cells of the comb are filled with the sweets of the fields.

The bees seem to he working as usual. Nevertheless, we feel that another great event will take place because we sense a tenseness in the manners of the bees. The fat drones are everywhere. They gorge themselves on the honey which the workers have gathered. They strut about, get in the way of the worker bees, or return from a pleasure trip into the air to rest in the most comfortable places in the hive. All summer these pompous dandies have lived in idleness and have eaten the sweets which the faithful workers have gathered.

All at once the worker bees stop their regular duties. They are tired of feeding these worthless fellows. They rush upon them and angrily attack them. The sudden onslaught frightens the drones. The finely dressed fellows rush here and there to escape the irate workers. A few of the fat gluttons leave the hive. They will never he permitted to return. They will die of hunger and cold.

Two or three of the workers attack a big, frightened drone. They tear the wings from his body. They hold the poor wretch and pull him hack and forth. Finally, they find an opening between the plates of his body and pierce his body with their poisoned stings. Death comes quickly.

Over in a corner several cowardly drones have huddled together. The workers can't reach them. They are safe from the stings of the punishing females. A terrible fate awaits them. The workers form a circle of guards about the corner. The drones can never come out. There, where the inviting odors of the good honey comes to them, the lazy drones will starve to death.

The dead bodies of the drones are carried outside by the workers. The hive is now cleared of all these gluttons. Only the workers and the queen remain. The stores of honey will be used by those who labored so hard to gather it. Perhaps, now that the drones are killed, there may be enough to last the workers through the winter months and to feed them until the warm breath of spring invites them to begin again their interesting work.

The Bee And The Blue Fringed Gentian

I pushed aside the blue, blue fringe And looked into her golden eye;

She kissed me with a gentian kiss As happy as the autumn sky.