The industry of the bee in nectar-gathering has always been a stock subject for wonder, and it is commonly supposed that she is born with full instinctive capabilities for her task. A little observation, however, soon tends to upset this theory. The work of foraging has to be learnt step by step, like every other species of skilled work in hive-life. The young bee, setting out on her first flight, has all the will to do well, and her imitative faculty is strongly developed; but she seems to have very little else. Her first experiences are a succession of blunders. She appears not to know for certain where to look for the coveted sweets, and can be seen industriously searching the most unlikely places—crevices in walls, tufts of grass, or the leaves of a plant instead of its flowers. The fact that the nectar is hidden deep down in the cup of the flower, beyond its pollen-bearing mechanism, seems to dawn upon her only after much thought and many fruitless essays. It has been proved that bees will go as far as two or even three miles in their foraging journeys. The distance seems to vary according to the nature of the country. Bees in hilly districts appear to venture only short distances from home, while in flat country the foraging flights are more extended. A bee-line has become proverbial for a straight course, but it is doubtful whether the bee ever makes a perfectly direct flight from point to point. The truth seems to be that there are well-defined air-paths out from and home to every bee-garden, and that these are continually thronged with bees going and returning throughout the working hours of the day. These aërial thoroughfares lie high above all but the tallest obstacles, so high indeed that the keenest sight will reveal nothing. Only the busy song of the travellers can be heard, like a river of music, far overhead. In the South Down country, where the isolated farms are each surrounded with their compact acreage of blossoming sheep-feed, and there is nothing but empty miles of close-cropped turf between, these bee-roads in the air can be easily found and studied. Walking over the springy, undulating grass in the quiet of a summer’s morning, a faint, far-off note breaks suddenly upon you like the twang of a harp-string high up in the blue. A step or two onward and you lose it; retracing your path, it peals out again. You can see nothing, strain your eyes as you will; but its cause is evident, and with a little trying you can presently make out the main direction of the flight, and see down in the hollow far below, the huddled roofs of a farmstead with a patchwork of fields about it, white with clover, or rose-red with sainfoin in fullest bloom.