e all dry and in front of the fire and you have your pipe and I'm
making toast?"

I am perfectly sure that Jonathan agreed with me, but what he said was,
"I thought you came out for pleasure."

"Well, can't I come home for pleasure too?" I asked.

XII

As the Bee Flies

Jonathan had taken me to see the "bee tree" down in the "old John Lane
lot." Judging from the name, the spot must have been a clearing at one
time, but now it is one of the oldest pieces of woodland in the
locality. The bee tree, a huge chestnut, cut down thirty years ago for
its store of honey, is sinking back into the forest floor, but we could
still see its hollow heart and charred sides where the fire had been
made to smoke out the bees.

"Jonathan," I said, "I'd like to find some wild honey. It sounds so
good."

"No better than tame honey," said Jonathan.

"It sounds better. I'm sure it would be different scooped out of a tree
like this than done up neatly in pound squares."

"Tastes just the same," persisted Jonathan prosaically.

"Well, anyway, I want to find a bee tree. Let's go bee-hunting!"

"What's the use? You don't know a honeybee from a bumblebee."

"Well, you do, of course," I answered, tactfully.

Jonathan, mollified, became gracious. "I never went bee-hunting, but
I've heard the old fellows tell how it's done. But it takes all day."

"So much the better," I said.

And that night I looked through our books to find out what I could about
bees. Over the fireplace in what was once the "best parlor" is a long,
low cupboard with glass doors. Here Bibles, albums, and a few other
books have always been stored, and from this I pulled down a fat,
gilt-lettered volume called "The Household Friend." This book has
something to say about almost everything, and, sure enough, it had an
article on bees. But the Household Friend had obviously never gone
bee-hunting, and the only real information I got was that bees had four
wings and six legs.

"So has a fly," said Jonathan, when I came to him with this nugget of
wisdom.

The neighbors gave suggestions. "You want to go when the yeller-top's in
bloom," said one.

"Yellow-top?" I questioned, stupidly enough.

"Yes. Yeller-top--'t's in bloom now," with a comprehensive wave of the
hand.

"Oh, you mean goldenrod!"

"Well, I guess you call it that. Yeller-top we call it. You find one o'
them old back fields where the yeller-top's come in, 'n' you'll see bees
'nough."

Anot