Local newspapers reported an amazing altercation in the village of Cargo in Cumberland, England, in 1827, a battle really (or a battle royal), between two opposing hordes – of bees. The home bees, it seems, were happily hived in the village, going about their bee business when, on June 7, a swarm from a neighboring village flew over the garden in which the first hive was situated. Without warning or so much as a by-your-leave, the interlopers darted down upon the hive and completely covered it, then began to enter the hive, pouring into it in such numbers that it soon became as crowded as happy hour at the local pub.
Then the terrible struggle began. With ear-splitting humming, two armies of combatants rushed forth, besiegers and besieged alike spilling out of the beleaguered hive into the open air. The bee-on-bee battle raged with such fury that the ground below was soon strewn with corpses. Not until the visiting swarm was vanquished and driven away did the battle end. The victors resumed possession of the hive.
The local chronicle did not attempt to explain the motivations involved, but naturalists, adding a scientific perspective, suggested that sometimes bees fight.
Rodgers and Hammerstein Are Frauds. Irving Berlin Too.
Julie Andrews and Von Trapps running from killer bees
It’s spring, and the hills of Vermont are alive with the sound of seventy degree temperatures, giving us a chance to venture out into the great outdoors. A little maintenance, clean out a flower bed or two, rake. Our resident swarm of bees had the same idea — without the raking. We’ve long debated whether these bees are honey bees or some less desirable species.
I have ended the debate. They are killer bees — murderous, cutthroat, bloodthirsty killer bees. And one of their crack snipers got me. I was tending to a bed, not threatening them in any way, and he swooped in and stung me on my eyelid. Before long I looked like I had caught a baseball with my right eye. I tried to recall what I had seen or heard about treating a bee sting and the Rodgers and Hammerstein cure came to me. I spent the rest of the day remembering my favorite things, even drinking a couple of them. It did nothing for me.
I spent a while standing out in front, stooped over, looking very much like Quasimodo, frightening away passing neighborhood children. But I soon tired of this game.
Eventually I toddled off to bed. But sleep wouldn’t come. Finally I remembered Irving Berlin’s prescription for insomnia and began methodically counting my blessings instead of sheep. As it turns out, one’s blessings and one’s favorite things are pretty much the same. Three a.m. I’m on my 137th blessing and wide awake. I won’t bore you with the details of my 137 blessings, but I
Waiting for passers by
will tell you that Rodgers and Hammerstein and bees are not among them.
Today I will perch atop the rock wall out front on hands and knees pretending to be a radiation-mutated giant bullfrog, croaking at passers by. Life goes on.
Be my little baby bumble bee. Buzz around. Buzz around. Keep abuzzing round.
Wretched Richard's Almanac 