Thursday, January 7, 2016

Telling The Bees


     Bees and beekeeping have held a great importance to many cultures through history particularly prior to the arrival of sugar cane to colder areas of the world.  A British tradition that was held by some was "Telling the Bees".  This involved informing the bees of any important family events like birth, marriage or death.  Beekeepers would often leave small offerings like wedding cake or small sweets for a birth and drape the hives with black cloth or turn the hives away from the house upon death.  It was said that the bees would either die or leave the hives if not told of the death of their keeper.  This tradition was brought to the Americas by immigrants in the 19th century.  In Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn he wrote:

“And he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, because I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me.”

     Another example of "Telling the Bees" is in England in 1840, a woman upon the death of their keeper leaving an offering of sweets and reciting the poem: 

Your master J.A. has passed away.
But his wife now begs you will freely stay,
and still gather honey for many a day.
Bonny bees, Bonny bees, hear what I say. 

     Here is a poem written by John Greenleaf Whittier about "Telling the Bees" of their keepers passing.


Telling the Bees
(The traditional telling the bees of a recent beekeeper passing)
Here is the place; right over the hill
Runs the path I took;
You can see the gap in the old wall still,
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
And the poplars tall;
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,
And the white horns tossing above the wall.
There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
And the same brook sings of a year ago.
There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;
And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
I mind me how with a lover's care
From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair,
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
Since we parted, a month had passed,--
To love, a year;
Down through the beeches I looked at last
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain
Of light through the leaves,
The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
Just the same as a month before,--
The house and the trees,
The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,--
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened: The summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on the journey we all must go!
Then I said to myself, 'My Mary weeps
For the dead to-day;
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
The fret and the pain of his age away.'
But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
And the song she was singing ever since
In my ear sounds on:
'Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!'

     There is also a tradition called "Asking the Bees" where a new beekeeper "Asks the Bees" to accept them as their keeper and to impart their wisdom to them.  These traditions died in the late 19th century but a few like myself still follow these traditions.  Though I spend a lot of time with other beekeepers in a beekeeping organization and coop I cherish those intimate times I spend alone with bees talking to them about what's happening in my life.  When I do this the bees land on my arms, feeding on the moisture and sodium, listening intently.  Emily sent me a wonderful story of the prayers read at the funeral of Clive Watson, a much loved leader and supporter of the beekeeping community.  These are the prayers that were read to his hives (Telling the Bees ).
      I hope that upon my passing someone reads prayers to my bees.  This is a beautiful, moving film about a son informing the bees of his father's passing and deciding their future.

   


     

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