Telling the Bees

Through the centuries bees have been a vital part of any farm.  

Not only did they give golden honey to their owners, they produced a wax that could be burned or used in balms and salves. Even the Egyptians recognized that honey could be spread on wounds and the bacteria within it had a healing value. Honey was sometimes referred to as the food of the Gods.

The bee was seen as a mystical creature. 

Any engineer could tell you that a bee does not possess  the aerodynamics which enable flight. Yet, they surely do fly. It was thought that bees were tiny winged souls that were capable of flying up to Heaven and back.

For this reason, great care was taken not to offend the bees within a hive.


A tradition dealing with death began in England and was subsequently carried with the Colonists to America. If a person on the farm were to pass, someone was required to inform the bees.  The carrier of the information would need to lean into the hive and whisper the sad news.

Once the bees had been respectfully informed of the death, a shroud would be applied to the hive. The hope was to not offend the spiritual bees. If this happened,  they may leave the hive which would be a great loss for the farm.

In some cases the hive would have to be moved for it's own protection. That way Death could not also find the bees and harm them. Furthermore, it may be prudent to turn the opening of the hive away, so that the funeral happenings could not be viewed by the bees.  That being said, during the funeral, the hive may be ceremoniously lifted a few inches and put down again at the same time as the coffin. Then an offering of food and drink from a beekeeper's funeral may be left by the hive for the bees, including the funeral biscuts and wine.

 John Greenleaf Whittier, wrote a poem about this folklore entitled, “Telling the Bees.”  Whittier’s poem is the story about a man going to visit his girlfriend – a beekeeper – who lived with her father at “Fernside Farm.”  The following three stanzas from the poem give detail.

“Just the same as the month before –
The house and the trees,
The barn’s brown gable, the vine by the door –
Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall,
Forward and back,
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened:  The summer sun
Had the chill of snow;
For I knew she was telling the bees of one
Gone on the journey we all must go!”