we place it on the stand where the hive is to rest. And now let us suppose that we are able to see what is going on in the hive. A number of large, lumbering fellows will, it is true, wander aimlessly about the hive and wait for the others to feed them. But these are the drones, who never do any work, except during one or two days, in their whole lives. The smaller working bees begin to be busy at once. Some fly away in search of honey. Others walk carefully all around the inside of the hive to find any cracks that are there. Then they go off to the horse-chestnut trees, poplars, hollyhocks, or other plants which have sticky buds, and gather a kind of gum. With this they cement the cracks and make the hive air-tight.

But most of the bees begin to hang in a cluster from the roof just as they did from the bough of the apple tree. What are they doing there? Watch for a little while, and you will soon see one bee come out from among her companions and settle on the ceiling of the hive. With her fore legs she will take a scale of wax, hold it in her claws, and bite it with her hard, pointed upper jaws; then, moistening it with her tongue, she will draw it out like a ribbon and plaster it on the top of the hive.

The home of the bees is sometimes called a castle of wax.

But where do they obtain the wax out of

which to make the comb that is to hold the honey? They make it themselves. If you observe the bees closely during the height of the honey harvest, you will see little pearly disks or scales of wax protruding between the rings that form the body of the bee. If you will examine them with a magnifier, you will find these wax scales of rare beauty. Out of them the industrious little workers construct the six-sided tubes which are to contain their stores of honey and beebread, and in which they are to rear their young.

And now begins the work of comb building. It would seem that a careful observer ought to be able to tell with ease how the bees build their honeycomb. But the little fellows have such a quick, sleight-ofhand way of doing the work that it is difficult to find out exactly how they accomplish it.

Let us see what we can learn by close observation. Here is a hive where the bees are at this moment building their comb near the glass window. There! One of them picks the wax scale from the body of a fellow-worker and silently makes her way to the top of the hive, where the building is going on. Reaching her destination, she gives the little piece of wax a pinch against the comb. One would think she might stop awhile and carefully fashion the material into its place; but no, off she scampers for another load. After her follows another busy worker

who has picked up her wax scale from the bottom of the hive. Quickly she deposits this lump of wax, gives it a little touch or a little rubbing and polishing, and she too is off again. Then come other bees, and then others and others, all with their burden of precious wax for the walls they are building. As a result of these maneuvers, in good time the honeycomb, with its six-sided cells, seems to grow out of nothing, as if by magic. No one bee makes an entire cell alone. The finished combs which will finally fill the hive are the product of the united efforts of the whole moving, restless mass.

As soon as a few inches of the first comb have been finished, the bees which are bringing home honey begin to store it in the cells. One cell will hold as much as many bees can carry, and so the busy little workers have to toil all day, filling cell after cell. The honey lies uncovered in the cells, being too thick and sticky to flow out, and is used for daily food. If there is any to spare, the bees close up the cells with wax, to keep the honey for the winter.

And so the life of this wonderful city goes on. The little worker bee lives only a few weeks, but in that time she has done her share of the work in the world. ARABELLA B. BUCKLEY.

From "The Fairy Land of Science."

FARMYARD SONG

OVER the hill the farm boy goes,
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;

In the poplar tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;-
Into the stone heap darts the mink ;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm boy goes,
Cheerily calling, -

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

Farther, farther over the hill,

Faintly calling, calling still,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day;
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon shed stand yoke and plow;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow,
The cooling dews are falling;-

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,

The pigs come grunting to his feet,

The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling, -

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" While still the cowboy, far away,

Goes seeking those that have gone astray,"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes;
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farmyard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling.
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye;
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,

"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,
Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes;
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.