Virgil, and almost all the classic writers, give stirring accounts of the frequent battles among bees in their day. We are told of vast conflicts taking place in mid-air, of the kings leading forth their hosts of warriors—the din of carnage—the wounded and dying falling like rain out of the blue of the summer sky. These descriptions have always been a great puzzle to modern students of bee-life, because nothing of the kind seems to take place at the present day. Each hive goes about its business, apparently in complete disregard of the existence of other hives. Neither at home, nor abroad in the fields, are reprisals ever witnessed among bees, whether singly or collectively. The most peaceable creature in the world is the honey-bee, except in the single case when her home is being wantonly assailed. But in autumn frequent encounters take place between robber-bees and the hive they are attacking, and one is constrained to believe that it is of this Virgil writes. Perhaps when once a stock has discovered that stealing honey is a much quicker and easier method of obtaining it than by the laborious process of gathering, these particular bees will never again be won back to honest courses. Not only will the parent hive continue to break out in this way at the close of every season, but all swarms from the same hive are certain to develop the like tendencies. The strain will be a continual source of annoyance and loss to the bee-master, and, if he be wise, he will take the shortest and surest way of putting an end to the trouble, by promptly changing the queen, and thus in the end exterminating the original stock. Where this is in his own garden, there will be no difficulty in the matter; but often the robbers are wild bees, brigands inhabiting a hollow tree in some neighbouring wood, and making sudden raids upon their law-abiding neighbours in adjacent villages, after the manner of brigands all the world over. The strangers have often a peculiar appearance, which singles them out immediately from the legitimate members of the gardens. They are darker in colour and shinier; and they have a bold, yet furtive, way of getting about, which suggests at once the prowling marauder. Wandering among the hives on a fine September morning, several of these light-fingered, sinister folk may be seen hovering about the entrance to a hive, or trying to creep in unobserved. Their presence is promptly detected, and a sudden hubbub arises as the guard-bees set upon the intruders and drive them off. There is no doubt of their intention. They are spies from the robber camp, and their object is to discover those hives which are weak in population, and so will fall the easier prey to the depredators when in force. Strong stocks have little to fear from robbers; they can always hold their own against attack, and therefore are seldom molested.