About
The sun shines — you know it has always shone, changeless as Time itself. With such a faith — unfounded and therefore incontestable — I came under the glow of one brave June morning, threading field after field of blossoming clover until I stood at the gate of the bee-garden over against the hill.
I raised the latch of the gate. Its sharp click drew to its full lean height a figure at the end of the garden, which was bending down in the midst of a wilderness of hives. The man came towards me coatless, his rolled-up shirt-sleeves baring wiry brown arms to the hot June sun.
The bee-master had keen grey eyes, set deep in a sun-blackened, honest face, and the ever-ready tongue of him was that of the beeman all the world over. He was ripe and willing to talk of his work, explaining what he was, and what he had done, as we slowly wandered through his domain. (From The Lore of the Honey-Bee)
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