tree had been cut
nearly half through. Any Nature-lover would have known that a beaver
had been at work, while everyday folks would have suspected a
saw-mill.

Dick missed Tom and at first was troubled, but finally discovered
him sitting on a branch behind a tree around which he could look
without making himself conspicuous.

"Shall we wait till to-morrow to finish the job?" asked Ned.

"Not much. By to-morrow my face will be so swollen that I can't see
and the rest of me so sore that I can't move. Let's make a big
smudge at the foot of the tree. I'd rather be smothered by smoke
than stung and poisoned to death by those little beasts."

[Illustration: "A FEW OF THE HOMELESS BEES LIT ON THE COMB"]

The smudge worked and the bee hunters had no more trouble until the
tree fell, when they got into the thickest of the smoke they had
made. This did not save them altogether, for the bees were very
numerous and very mad and a few dozen of them got far enough in the
smoke to leave their marks on their enemies. When the insects had
quieted down and were gathered in bunches on logs and stumps,
looking stupidly at the wreck of their home, the boys made another
smudge near the hole in the fallen tree which led to the home of the
bees. They sounded the hollow tree and found it only a shell where
the honey was stored and a little work with the hatchet laid open
the storehouse of the insects. A few of the homeless bees lit on the
comb they had made, other bees gathered on the cypress knees which
abounded in the swamp and through which the great cypress trees
breathed, but their spirit was gone and they made no attack on the
destroyers of their home. Of the comb and honey which the boys found
in the tree they were able to carry away less than half and they
wondered if the bees would have the sense to save what was left or
if some wandering bear would scoop it in for his supper.

As the young bee hunters started for camp laden with their spoils,
Tom stepped softly out of a nearby thicket, licking his chops and
apparently thinking of the delicate lunch of fat tree-rat he had
just eaten.

"Dick," said Ned, as they were lazily resting against a log, after a
supper that was mostly dessert, having consisted of a little smoked
bear and a lot of honey, "something has got to be done for the
larder. We go for honey when we need meat. We let Indian hens which
we can get, escape on the chance of turkeys which we can never bag.
We are loo