All this incessant coming and going of the busy foragers is alluring enough to the looker-on, but there is evidence of many other activities equally interesting. The work of collecting nectar and pollen is obviously only a part of the duties of this self-immolated spinster-race. Here and there in the seething, hurrying crowd there are bees who do not move with the rest, but, anchored securely in the full force of the living current, with heads lowered and turned towards the hive, are engaged in fanning their wings, and this so swiftly that nothing of the wing but a little grey mist can be seen. Looking more carefully, you will make out that these bees are arranged in nearly regular rows, one behind the other, in open order, so that the conflicting tides of foragers can pass uninterruptedly between. If the watcher is bold enough to bring his ear down to the level of the hive, he will make out a steady hissing noise that rings clear above all the din and turmoil made by the incessant travellers to and fro. These rows of fanners are seen to stretch from the hive-door right to the edge of the footplate, but principally on one side; and still closer observation will reveal the fact that there is a regular system of relief among them. Though the general volume of sound never abates one jot, every few minutes one or another of these stationary bees moves away, her place being immediately taken by another, who settles down to the common task in line with the rest. The reason for all this is plain enough: the fanners are engaged in ventilating the hive, drawing a current of vitiated air through the entrance on one side, which flanks, but does not oppose, a corresponding current of pure air sucked in on the other. All through the warm days of spring and summer this fanning squadron is constantly at work; nor does it cease with the darkness. Chill nights find the ranks weakened and reduced to perhaps only a few bees, or even to none at all when a cold snap of weather intervenes. But in the dog-days, or, as the ancients used to say, when Sirius, the honey-star, is shining, the deep sibilant note of these fanners rises, in a populous apiary, almost to the voice-strength of a gale of wind. To come out then under the stars of a summer night, and stand listening in the tense, fragrant darkness to this mighty note, is to get an impression of bee-life unattainable at any other season. In the daytime the sound is intermingled, overwhelmed, by the chorus of the flying bees. But now all are safely at home. Each hive is packed from floor to roof with tens of thousands of breathing, heat-producing creatures: the necessity for ventilation is quadrupled, and, far and wide in the bee-garden, the fanning armies are setting to their work with a will. [Picture: An old Sussex Bee-house]