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BEES.

It has been the custom, from the earliest ages, to rub the inside of the hive with a handful of salt and clover, or some other grass or sweet-scented herb, previously to the swarm’s being put in the hive.  We have seen no advantage in this; on the contrary, it gives a great deal of unnecessary labour to the bees, as they will be compelled to remove every particle of foreign matter from the hive before they begin to work.  A clean, cool hive, free from any peculiar smell or mustiness, will be acceptable to the bees; and the more closely the hive is joined together, the less labour will the insects have, whose first care it is to stop up every crevice, that light and air may be excluded.  We must not omit to reprehend, as utterly useless, the vile practice of making an astounding noise, with tin pans and kettles, when the bees are swarming.  It may have originated in some ancient superstition, or it may have been the signal to call aid from the fields, to assist in the hiving.  If harmless it is unnecessary; and everything that tends to encumber the management of bees should be avoided.—­American Farmer’s Manual.

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CONVENT GARDEN MARKET.

[Illustration:  Covent Garden Market.—­“Here to-day, and gone to-morrow.”—­Tristram Shandy.]

I know some of the ugliest men who are the most agreeable fellows in the world.  The ladies may doubt this remark; but if they compel me to produce an example, I shall waive all modesty, and prove my veracity by quoting myself.  I have often thought how it is that ugliness contrives to invest itself with a “certain something,” that not only destroys its disagreeable properties, but actually commands an interest—­(by the by, this is referring generally, and nothing personal to myself.) I philosophically refer it all to the balance of nature.  Now I know some very ugly places that have a degree of interest, and here again I fancy a lady’s sceptical ejaculation, “Indeed!” Ay, but it is so; and let us go no further than Covent Garden.  Enter it from Russell-street.  What can be more unsightly,—­with its piles of cabbages in the street, and basket-measures on the roofs of the shops—­narrow alleys, wooden buildings, rotting vegetables “undique,” and swarms of Irish basket-women, who wander about like the ghosts on this side of the Styx, and who, in habits, features, and dialect, appear as if belonging to another world.  Yet the Garden, like every garden, has its charms.  I have lounged through it on a summer’s day, mixing with pretty women, looking upon choice fruit, smelling delicious roses, with now and then an admixture of sundry disagreeables, such as a vigorous puff out of an ugly old woman’s doodeen, just as you are about to make a pretty speech to a much prettier lady—­to say nothing