"A swarm of bees in May Is worth a load of hay; A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon; But a swarm in July Is not worth a fly."

A swarm in May is indeed a treasure; it is, like an April infant, sureto thrive, and will somewhat likely itself send out a swarm a month or twolater; but a swarm in July is not to be despised; it will store noclover or linden honey for the "grand seignior and the ladies of hisseraglio," but plenty of the rank and whomlesome poor man's nectar, thesun-tanned product of the plebeian buckwheat. Buckwheat honey is thewhite sheep in this black flock, but there is spirit and character init. It lays hold of the taste in no equivocal manner, especially whenat a winter breakfast it meets its fellow, the russet buckwheat cake.Bread with honey to cover it from the same stalk is double goodfortune. It is not white, either, but nut-brown, and belongs to thesame class of goods as Herrick's