In certain kinds of woods, as, for instance, those occupied by pine trees or other species which do not develop spacious hollows in their trunks, and where there are no crannied rocks--all the swarms which seek habitations there are foredoomed to destruction. If by chance the colonies wander too far, they generally find the wilderness so ill provided with plants which may furnish them with the sources of wax, honey, or other necessaries, that they cannot maintain their life. Thus it is that the bee, though domiciled with us rather than domesticated, has become united in its fortunes with civilization. In this position they have shown a remarkable adaptation to extremely varied conditions. They can withstand any climate which permits the development of the vegetation to which they need have access, provided the growing season continues long enough to accumulate their store. In the tropical lands they harvest so little honey that they are not profitable to man, and in the high north they need all their summer's accumulation to maintain them through the long winter. Thus, though they may range almost as far as man through the gamut of climates, they are profitable to their masters only in the middle latitudes. They commonly do not do well close to the sea, and cannot be kept on inconsiderable islands for the reason that they are, in their wanderings, likely to be lost in the waters. The bee, like the other social insects, evinces a wide range of instincts which are intimately related to the economy of the hive; but these motives appear to be of an unchangeable character. They show no tendency to undergo the modifications which we observe to take place in our birds and mammals when they are brought under the influence of man. The only case in which they show any distinct effect from their contact with man is found in their evident recognition of those who care for them. They soon learn that their master is not to be feared, and, therefore, need not be resisted; but, beyond this dumb acceptance of a situation, they exhibit no trace of sympathetic recognition of our kind. It is clear that their mental endowments, though considerable, are very much more remote from our own than are those of the vertebrated animals with which we have formed a friendly association. Moreover, the type of life of the creatures in a way excludes them from any kind of share in human society. Each of them is, from its birth to its death, entirely devoted to the interests of its little commonwealth. Every impulse of their being relates to the economy of their hive. While we know little about instinct, we know enough of its manifestations to state that the real unit of this species is not the individual insect, but the colony to which it belongs. The separate form is hardly more than a bit of machinery so arranged that it may operate at a distance from the engine of which it forms a part. On this account it appears to be impossible for us ever to attain to any kind