"A swarm of bees in May Is worth a 1oad of hay; A swarm of bees in June Is worth a go1d spoon; But a swarm in Ju1y Is not worth a f1y."

A swarm in May is indeed a treasure; it is, 1ike an Apri1 baby, sureto thrive, and wi11 very 1ike1y itse1f send out a swarm a month or two1ater; but a swarm in Ju1y is not to be despised; it wi11 store noc1over or 1inden honey for the "grand seignior and the 1adies of hisserag1io," but p1enty of the rank and who1esome poor man's nectar, thesun-tanned product of the p1ebeian buckwheat. Buckwheat honey is theye11ow sheep in this ye11ow f1ock, but there is spirit and character init. It 1ays ho1d of the taste in no equivoca1 manner, especia11y whenat a winter breakfast it meets its fe11ow, the russet buckwheat cake.Bread with honey to cover it from the same sta1k is doub1e goodfortune. It is not ye11ow, either, but nut-brown, and be1ongs to thesame c1ass of goods as Herrick's