. British bee journal & bee-keepers adviser. Bees. Jan. 6, 1898.] THE BRITISH BEE JOURNAL. SKETCHES BY A ROVING BEE-KEEPER—No IV. (a sequel.). BY ALFRED WATKINS. When, in 1889, we described the "Home of Industry," we did not think that years— instead of weeks—would elapse before we again see the familiar cottage. Once more we visit the mountain district where the little town of Rhayader keeps watch at the gate of the Wye. In nine years' inter- val events have marched on. The raven which John Williams—with infinite trouble—took as a nestling from the rocks of Owm Elan is but a mem
. British bee journal & bee-keepers adviser. Bees. Jan. 6, 1898.] THE BRITISH BEE JOURNAL. SKETCHES BY A ROVING BEE-KEEPER—No IV. (a sequel.). BY ALFRED WATKINS. When, in 1889, we described the "Home of Industry," we did not think that years— instead of weeks—would elapse before we again see the familiar cottage. Once more we visit the mountain district where the little town of Rhayader keeps watch at the gate of the Wye. In nine years' inter- val events have marched on. The raven which John Williams—with infinite trouble—took as a nestling from the rocks of Owm Elan is but a memory. For some years he was the humourist of our back yard, the terror of the tramps, the boon companion of the watch-dog. But his interest in gardening became too excessive ; not a bulb or seedling was planted but the strong beak brought it up in search of hidden treasure. So poor Grip's talents were restricted within the limits of a fowl-house. One glorious holiday, however, came to him a month before he left us disconsolate. The morning was spent in the company of the new dog, who, in sheer amazement at being evicted from his kennel, stood barking at the intruder quietly sitting in the doorway picking over the bones which he had unearthed from Rover's private hiding-place; the afternoon went all too quickly in the greenhouse, there was the water-can to upset, the pot-labels to •pull out, the trowel to steal and hide away— but we are wandering away and have greater changes to chronicle. The grassy hills and the lovely Elan Valley where John guided us under the raven's nest- ing place is now bought up by the Birmingham Corporation. The "finest water-shed in the island '' is secured to the midland town, while London—the great city with the stifled mind —allows her opportunities to slip away. The heather-clad hill-side where we planted our hives looks down upon a village of navvies' huts. A bran new hotel stands at the entrance to the valley. A spot where w
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