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"Ye nimble honey-making bees, the flowers are in their prime; Come now and taste the little buds of sweetly breathing thyme, Of tender poppies all so fair, or bits of raisin sweet, Or down that decks the apple tribe, or fragrant violet; Come, nibble on, your vessels store with honey while you can, In order that the hive-protecting, bee-preserving Pan May have a tasting for himself, and that the hand so rude, That cuts away the comb, may leave yourselves some little food."
You could make it so it could be closed up in the winter, too, then you wouldn't need a cellar." "I'll do that to-night," said Bob, "because we can't afford to lose any bees, they're too valuable this time of the year, just when the honey-making season's opening."
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