Mr Smallword's article on beekeeping folklore.

I’ve always paid attention to folklore articles, yet what I stubbled on this week is a corker! J. Smallword published an article about beekeeping folklore in the 1914 edition the Bee-keepers Record.

You’ll find it below and it will be an accompaniment to my next podcast. Enjoy!

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FOLKLORE by J. Smallwood

There is always a sentimental charm in turning over the musty, fusty records of past times. That is the excuse for my writing this article. I don't quite know that I am going to add one iota to anyone's practical knowledge or to my own.

But it is the poetry of the thing. We take up an old parchment manuscript, illuminated in gold and colours, but nut brown with age ; we pick up an old weapon with a significant notch here and there on its edge ; we visit an old ruin and peep through the slits from whence archers once shot their arrows , and mentally we create a scene of what we think must have been the surroundings in each case. Dreams, idle dreams , with just a shadow of foundation, and yet it is very pleasant dreaming.

Now bee-keeping has traditions and stories all of its own. We all know how the ancients, wondering at the organisation which they did not understand, thought that bees were Heaven taught, and one goddess was supposed to have them under her special care. My memory is not to be trusted as to her name, and my notes in which are recorded her attributes are not at the moment available. Therefore, being the favourites of the celestials, it was needful to propitiate them when in wrath. Hustling, bustling, teeming out of their home in thousands, loud humming, and ever circling, swarming-time seemed to those unobservant of the real reason, a sign of anger.

Pagan and Scriptural writings both record how Heaven could be appeased by music and dancing, the clashing of cymbals and the rhythm of movement. Aristotle , Columella , and others tells us that the exodus of the bees might be stayed by the beating of brass and earthenware vessels. The old custom has travelled through long centuries. The peasant of Italy, France, and Germany, dins with whatever he has of metal domestic ware; in our own country it is generally the frying or warming-pan and the door-key.

Ownership

It is said that the custom is a demonstration of ownership of the swarm — that the owner knows they are on the move and is claiming them. It might be so, but I am inclined to think my version is the more correct.

Now, talking of that door-key. It is interesting to note what an important item of domestic proprietorship it is as connected with bees. Perhaps after the symphony we have been talking about in the previous paragraph there is no custom better known than that of "telling the bees" of the death of their late owner. The origin of this is difficult to trace, unless we again associate ourselves with the conception that the bees were of the gods, and therefore above the ordinary insects and animals.

In their new conditions the spirit which had passed would still need his sword, food, and his strong drink. The latter was provided for him by the bees in the tankards of the mead which he had been accustomed to quaff in his banquets. What was more likely than that he, now in his spirit nature, should come back to command the busy makers to work for him unless they should be prevented? Therefore it was necessary to give information to the bees of the change of ownership. Now almost every County in England had a different wording and different ritual by which this intelligence was conveyed. The curious thing is that in almost every instance the key of the main door must be taken, and there with a rapping must be made on the side and floorboard of the hive, accompanied at the same time by certain words. The variations of the different speeches which must be made and the accompanying formulæ are so numerous that perhaps it may interest readers in the next number of your journal .

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Fairies

In those bygone days when fairies danced under the greenwood trees, sipped nectar from the flowers, and banqueted in a butterfly, with dew in an acorn cup as beverage, then , indeed, Cornwall was one of their favourite counties. Its bosky dells echoing just a faint murmur of the ever restless sea, its furzy, ferny brakes and creviced cliffs were right merry hiding places for them. There they dwelt in every nook, and it cannot for a minute be supposed but that between twin creatures, such as the bees and the fairies, there was not some intercourse, and if such were the case equally true it was that they must have been able to talk to each other. This was well known and acknowledged by the mere humans, for the same name "Brownie" called both. But these fairies were so difficult to get in touch with. Scarcely ever were they visible to mortal eye, and yet they were potent for good or evil.

Happy was he who stood well in their favour. His crops were heavy, his cattle thrived and fattened, and in the hen roost the eggs were multitudinous. On the contrary, if they were aggrieved with him they racked him with rheumatic pains. There was a blight on his corn, and the milk turned sour ere it reached the churn. Needs must then that there should be an intermediary 'twixt the man and the elf, and in this position were the bees. Therefore all family affairs were whispered to the bee. There was no luck if the bees, and of course the fairies, were not told. Such was the faith of Cornwall. A wedding, a birth, but more especially a death, must at once be communicated. Nor was it sufficient in the latter case that they should only be told of the decease. The bees themselves could not wear a black thread round the right wing or the joint of the leg; the hives, therefore, had to be draped in crape. In Devonshire, however, the county families of the bees and fairies were closely united in both counties. This was not considered sufficient. Due intimation had to be given when the funeral was that of the master of the house. At the moment when, for the last journey, he was being carried through the front door, then the hives had all to be turned round while at the same time it was whispered in a low voice "The master is dead." Nor were they (and the fairies) to be deprived of the meats prepared on such occasions. Wine, also honey, had to be put before the hives on the day of the funeral. And so their pride, as part of the household, not being slighted, they were appeased, and the luck of the new master went well. But if they sorrowed with the mortals, in the season of rejoicing they also rejoiced. On Christmas Eve at midnight all the world knew that the bees sang their welcome to the new -born Saviour. The unbeliever might, if he chose , go to the hive and hear them. Their reward was, as may be supposed, "Wassail," under the guise of honey and wine. The sentiment, therefore, it seems , that our forefathers had concerning their bees was that they were a species of heirloom to be handed down from father to son, one generation after another. It was unlucky to sell them, but, compelled, it must be for a piece of gold or a bushel of corn. And the bees themselves were to be informed that their rate of exchange was the latter, or they might not be willing workers for the new owner. They are of a prouder race, and a lower valuation would be an insult. As to taking honey away, this might only be done on the day of St. Bartholomew (August 24th ), the patron saint of bees.

And such is the connection , so Cornish and Devon legend and folklore tell us, between the bees and the little folk who haunt the woods and the fernbrake. It seems to me quite natural that they should work in peace and amity with each other. If the bees permit them to taste of their sweets, they, for their part, in the dark watches of the night, while the bee sleeps. They both haunt the same flowers. (about which clever men differ), hustle and towzle and bustle away the moth who would enter the hive. And Mister Field-mouse , should he only poke his sharp nose into the entrance of the hive to sniff the honey, a fairy jumps on his back immediately, and with the creature's own whiskers as reins and bramble thorn as spur, compels him to flight at his fastest paces.

But there, I am only telling you a tale of fairies. How romantic it would be if it were true!