This may be imagined as following on a great discovery, an epoch-making discovery, changing the whole face and future of bee-life—how, by the nursing and feeding of the young grub of the female bee, she could be atrophied into a mere, sexless, over-intellectual labourer, or glorified into a creature lacking, it is true, all initiative and almost all mental power, but possessing a body capable of mothering the whole nation. Here is socialistic political economy carried to its sternest, most logical conclusions. All is sacrificed for the good of the State. The individual is nothing: the race is everything. “Thorough” is the motto of the honey-bee, and she drives every theory home to its last notch. Men are pleased to call themselves bee-masters; but the best of them can do no more than study the ways of their bees, learn in what directions it is their will to move, and then try to smooth the way for them. The worker-bees collectively are the whole brains in the business, and the bee-keeper is as much the slave of the conditions and systems they have inaugurated as they are themselves; while the queen-bee is the most willing, and, at certain seasons, the most laborious slave of them all. It is useless to deny that bee-polity, with its stern dead-reckoning of ingenuity, its merciless adherence to the demands of a system perfected through countless ages, has its unpleasant and even its revolting aspects. Nature is always wonderful, but not always admirable; and a close study of the Life within the Hive brings out this truth perhaps more clearly than with any other form of life, humanity not excepted. Absolute communism implies incidental cruelty: it is only under a system of bland political compromise, of neighbourly give and take, that justice and mercy can ever be yoke-fellows. In the republic of bees, nothing is allowed to persist that is harmful or useless to the general good. Every individual in the hive seems to acquiesce in this common principle—either by choice or compulsion—from the mother-bee down to the last lazy drone, born into the brief plenty of waning summer days. In the height of the honey-flow, the State demands a storehouse filled to the brim; and every bee keeps herself to the task unceasingly until death from overwork comes upon her, and her last load never reaches the hive. If the queen-bee grows old, or her powers of egg-laying prematurely fail, she is ruthlessly slaughtered, and her place filled by another specially raised by the workers to meet this contingency during her lifetime and in her full view. Drones are bred in plenty, plied with the richest provender in the hive, and allowed to wanton through their days of insatiate appetite, so that no young queen may go forth on her nuptial flight unchallenged. But when the last princess is happily mated, and safely home again in the warm, awaiting cluster, every drone is callously done to death, or driven out of the hive to perish. If hard times threaten,