Their loud, threatening hum has
no sting to back it up, and their size and noise make them only the
more conspicuous marks for the birds.
Toward the close of the season, say in July or August, the fiat goes
forth that the drones must die; there is no further use for them.
Then the poor creatures, how they are huddled and hustled about, trying
to hide in corners and by-ways. There is no loud, defiant humming now,
but abject fear seizes them. They cower like hunted criminals. I have
seen a dozen or more of them wedge themselves into a small space
between the glass and the comb, where the bees could not get hold of
them or where they seemed to be overlooked in the general slaughter.
They will also crawl outside and hide under the edges of the hive.
But sooner or later they are all killed or kicked out. The drone makes
no resistance, except to pull back and try to get away; but
(putting yourself in his place) with one bee a-hold of your collar or
the hair of your head, and another a-hold of each arm or leg, and still
another feeling for your waistbands with his sting, the odds are
greatly against you.
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