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Of all the decisions before them there is none that would seem imperative; nor can man, if content to play the part of spectator only, foretell in the slightest degree which one the bees will adopt.  But that the most careful deliberation governs their choice is proved by the fact that we are able to influence, or even determine it, by for instance reducing or enlarging the space we accord them; or by removing combs full of honey, and setting up, in their stead, empty combs which are well supplied with workers’ cells.

The question they have to consider is not whether a second or third swarm shall be immediately launched,—­for in arriving at such a decision they would merely be blindly and thoughtlessly yielding to the caprice or temptation of a favourable moment,—­but the instantaneous, unanimous adoption of measures that shall enable them to issue a second swarm or “cast” three or four days after the birth of the first queen, and a third swarm three days after the departure of the second, with this first queen at their head.  It must be admitted, therefore, that we discover here a perfectly reasoned system, and a mature combination of plans extending over a period considerable indeed when compared with the brevity of the bee’s existence.

These measures concern the care of the youthful queens who still lie immured in their waxen prisons.  Let us assume that the “spirit of the hive “has pronounced against the despatch of a second swarm.  Two courses still remain open.  The bees may permit the first-born of the royal virgins, the one whose birth we have witnessed, to destroy her sister-enemies; or they may elect to wait till she have performed the perilous ceremony known as the “nuptial flight,” whereon the nation’s future depends.  The immediate massacre will be authorised often, and often denied; but in the latter case it is of course not easy for us to pronounce whether the bees’ decision be due to a desire for a second swarm, or to their recognition of the dangers attending the nuptial flight; for it will happen at times that, on account of the weather unexpectedly becoming less favourable, or for some other reason we cannot divine, they will suddenly change their mind, renounce the cast that they had decreed, and destroy the royal progeny they had so carefully preserved.  But at present we will suppose that they have determined to dispense with a second swarm, and that they accept the risks of the nuptial flight.  Our young queen hastens towards the large cradles, urged on by her great desire, and the guard make way before her.  Listening only to her furious jealousy, she will fling herself on to the first cell she comes across, madly strip off the wax with her teeth and claws, tear away the cocoon that carpets the cell, and divest the sleeping princess of every covering.  If her rival should be already recognisable, the queen will turn so that her sting may enter the capsule, and will frantically stab it with her venomous weapon until the victim perish.  She then becomes calmer, appeased by the death that puts a term to the hatred of every creature; she withdraws her sting, hurries to the adjoining cell, attacks it and opens it, passing it by should she find in it only an imperfect larva or nymph; nor does she pause till, at last, exhausted and breathless, her claws and teeth glide harmless over the waxen walls.