Hibernation, in the true sense of the word, has no part in bee-life. The queen-wasp and countless other creatures hibernate, passing the cold months in a torpor of sleep until the enduring warmth of another year lures them back to active existence. But the honey-bees have a better way: they gather together in a dense, all but motionless cluster in the heart of the hive, with their precious queen in their midst and their food-stores above them. At this time honey is their only necessary food, and very little of this suffices to keep up the needful temperature of the colony. When they are out and about at their work, or busy within the hive, the nitrogenous pollen must be added to their daily ration of nectar to build up wasted tissues; but now honey, the nectar concentrated, the heat-producer, is all they want. The bees of the cluster nearest to the combs broach the full cells beneath them, and the honey is passed through the crowd, each bee getting its scanty dole. [Picture: Winter in the Bee-Garden] Economy is now reduced to a fine art. None knows when a fresh supply may be available, although no chance will be lost to replenish the larder at the first sign of returning warmth. But now the barest minimum of food is taken, and as the nearest cells become emptied of their contents, the cluster moves a step upward. Thus there is a system of slow browsing over the combs, until the dense flock of bees has reached the highest limit of the hive, when new grazing-ground must be taken. But the movement of the cluster is exceedingly slow, perhaps the slowest thing in the animate world. All recognise that existence depends on the stores being eked out to their uttermost. It is a scientific damping-down of the fires of life—a carefully thought-out and perfected plan for preserving the greatest possible number of worker-bees alive on the smallest practicable amount of food, so that the largest possible army of nurse-bees and foragers may be at hand in the springtime to raise the young bees that are to represent the future colony. But there is no hibernation. It is doubtful even if bees ever sleep, either in their season of greatest activity or in the coldest depths of winter. At all times a slight rap on the hive will awaken an immediate timorous outcry within. Sturdy knocking will soon bring the guard-bees to the entrance to find out the cause of the disturbance, and many bees lose their lives from this vigilant habit alone. On frosty days the tits may often be seen perched on the entrance-board of a hive, beating out a noisy tattoo, and snapping up every bee that emerges; and many other small birds have discovered the same never-failing source of a meal.