CHAPTER III.

  Wanderings in the Wilderness.--A Bee-Hunt.--Sunrise.--The Fox-Squirrel.--The Blue-Jay.--The Gopher.--The Partridges.--Wild Geese, Ducks, and Cranes.--Blackbirds and Meadow-Larks.--Venison's Account of the Bees' Domestic Economy.--How Venison found what he was in Search of.--Honey Secured.--After Reflections.

  Venison Styles and myself, as I have stated, had now become intimate.Together we scoured the woods and streams, in pursuit of fish and game.There was a kind of rustic poetry about the old man that fascinated mysoul. His thoughts and feelings had been drawn from nature, and there was astrange freshness and life about everything he said and did. He was as firmand fiery as a flint; and the sparks struck out of him were as beautiful.Winds and storms, morn's early dawn, the hush of evening, the seasons andall their changes, had become a part of him--they had moulded and kept him.They played upon him like a breeze upon a harp. How could I help lovinghim?

  Before daybreak, one morning in October, Venison, myself, his honey-box,and axes, set out "a bee-hunting," as he called it. It was in the beautifuland inspiring season of Indian summer, a season that lingers long andlovely over the forests of the west. There had been a hard, black frostduring the night, and the great red sun rose upon it, shrouded in smoke.We were soon deep in the heart of the wilderness, tramping over the fallenleaves, and pushing forward to where the "bees were thick a-workin',"according to Venison.

  As the sun rose higher and higher, the leaves began, all around, to thaw,and detach themselves from the trees, and silently settle to the ground.There stood the yellow walnut, the blood-red maple, side by side with thegreen pine and the spruce. Ten thousand rainbows were interlaced throughthe tops of the trees, and now and then a sharp peak shot up its pile ofmosaic into the sky.

  Not a sound was heard around us till morning's dawn. The tranquillity wasoppressive. The mighty wilderness was asleep. Everything felt as fixed andawful as eternity. The vast extent of the wooded waste, reaching thousandsof miles beyond, on, and on, and _on_, filled with mountains, lakes, andstreams, lying in solitary grandeur, as unchanged as on the day thePyramids were finished, overwhelmed the imagination. And then the futurearose upon the mind, when all this will be busy with life--when the presentwill be history, referred to, but not remembered--when the presentpopulation of the globe will have been swept from the face of it, andanother generation in our place, playing with the toys that so long amused,and which we, at last, left behind us.

  But as day dawned, and morning began to throw in her arrows of gold aboutour feet, the wilderness began to wake up. A fox-squirrel shot out from hisbed in a hollow tree, where he had been lodging during the night; andscampering up a tall maple, he sat himself down, threw his tail over hisback, and broke forth with his _chick-chick-chickaree, chickaree,chickaree_!--making the woods ring with his song.

  "Look at him," exclaimed Venison; "he's as sassy as ever. If I had myrifle, I'd knock the spots off that check coat of his'n; I'd larn him tochickaree old Venison."

  This squirrel, very common in some of the north-western states, is one ofthe largest and most beautiful of its species. He is dressed in a suit oflight-brown check, and may be seen, in warm, sunny days, cantering over theground, or running through the tree-tops. He is a very careful and a verybusy body. I have often watched him, as he sat bolt upright in a hickory,eating nuts, and throwing the shucks on the ground, with all the gravity ofa judge. During the fall, he hoards up large quantities of stores. He hullshis beech-nuts, selects the fairest walnuts, picks up, here and there, afew chestnuts, and packs everything away in his castle with the utmostcare; and, as Venison says, "the choppers in the winter have stolen bushelson 'em!"

  While our squirrel was singing his morning psalm, a crow, just out of hisbed, went sailing along above us, with his "caw! caw!" and settled on atree nearby. "Caw! caw!" he screamed again, looking down curiously at thesquirrel, as much as to say, "Who cares for _your_ music!" Then out hurriedanother squirrel, and another, breaking forth with joy, until the crow,fairly drowned out, spread his wings and soared away. Venison says, "Themcrows can smell gunpowder, and that fellow know'd we hadn't any, when helit so near us."

  A blue-jay then commenced a loud call from a distant part of the forest. Heis one of the birds that lingers behind, and braves the blasts of winter.He was flitting about in a tree-top, and had just commenced his day'swork. How gaudily Nature has dressed this bird! How he shines, duringspring and summer! All the shades, and touches, and tinges of blue flowover his gaudy mantle; and how orderly and lavishly they are strown overhim. But the blue-jay is a dissolute kind of a fellow, after all--"neithermore nor less than a thief," Venison says. His shadowy dress fades with theleaf, and after strutting about during the warmer months, making a greatdisplay of his finery, he "runs down," at last, into a confirmed loafer.Groups of them may be seen in the winter, drudging around among thewithered bushes, and scolding like so many shrews.

  Then out popped the little _gopher_, that finished piece of stripe andcheck, that miner, who digs deep in the ground. He, too, had left hismansion, and come to greet the morn. A troop of quail marched along, headedby their chief. Who does not love the quail? She is associated with earlychildhood and household memories. Her voice rings through the past. Weheard it sounding over our better years. What a rich brown suit she wears,cut round with Quaker simplicity! what taste and neatness about it! It wasshe that long ago went forth with the reapers, and piped for them hersunrise psalm, "_More wet! More wet!_" and she will stay here with usduring the winter, and traverse, with her caravan, all day, the desertwastes of snow. Venison says he "don't never kill a quail--it ain'tright--but he don't know why."

  The partridges, all around, commenced rolling their drums, and every littlewhile, one would whirr past our heads, and die away in the distance. Thewhole wood-pecker family began _their_ labor. He who wears a red velvetcap, silk shawl, and white under-clothes, was boring away in a rotten tree,to find his breakfast; and he kept hitching around, and hammering, withoutregarding or caring for our presence. The rabbit, with ears erect, satdrawn up in a heap, quivering with fear, as he gazed upon us.

  At last we reached the bank of the river, and Venison said, "We had bettersit down, and take our reck'ning." Here was one of the most beautifulpictures of still life ever painted by Nature. The river wound away like asilver serpent, until it was lost in a bank of Indian summer haze, and itgurgled and dashed through the aisles of the forest, like a dream throughthe silent realms of sleep. It lay, half sunshine, half shadow, and theshadow was slowly creeping up a tall cliff on the opposite shore, as theday advanced, counting, as it were, the moments as they passed. Afar downit, I was amused as I watched a flock of wild geese. They were about ahundred in number, sleeping upon the water, in a glassy cove, their headsneatly tucked under their wings. An old gander, who had been appointedsentinel, to keep watch and guard, was doing the best he could to performhis duty. He stood upon one leg, and he grew so drowsy, several times, thathe nearly toppled over, to his great consternation, and the danger of hischarge. But rousing up, and taking two or three pompous strides, andstretching his neck to its utmost, with a very wise look, he satisfiedhimself that all was right, and that he was not so bad a sentinel, afterall.

  Near by this sleeping community, where a ripple played over a cluster ofrocks, a flock of ducks were performing their ablutions. Now they werediving, now combing out their feathers, now rising and flapping theirwings, now playing with each other, when the leader blowing a blast on histrumpet, they rose gracefully from their bath, and forming themselves intoa _drag_, went winnowing up the river to their haunts far away.

  A sand-hill crane, hoisted up on his legs of stilts, his clothes gatheredup, and pinned behind him, was leisurely wading about, spearing fish forhis breakfast. A dozy, stupid-looking kingfisher sat upon a blasted limbjust over him, looking as grave as a country justice engaged in the samebusiness. A bald eagle came rushing down the stream like an air-ship, hisgreat wings slowly heaving
up and down, as if he had set out upon anall-day's journey. A muskrat ferried himself over from one side to theother, urgent upon business best known to himself. A prairie-wolf came downto the water's edge, gave a bark or two, and taking a drink, turned backthe way he came.

  How many birds had left the wilderness for other climes! The blackbirds,those saucy gabblers, who spent the summer here, feeding upon wild rice,departed a month ago. I saw their bustle and preparation. They were daysand days getting ready for their journey. The whole country around wasalive with their noise. They sang, and fretted. They seemed to be out ofall kind of patience with everybody and everything--to have a kind of spiteagainst Nature for driving them off. All the trees about the marshes wereloaded, and some were singing, some complaining, some scolding; but havingfinally completed their arrangements, all of a sudden they left. And themeadow-lark, that came so early with her spring song--she who used to situpon the waving grass, and heave herself to and fro, in so ecstatic andpolite a manner, as her melody rose and fell--she, too, is gone.

  But about _hunting bees_. Venison informed me that here was the spot wherehe should "try 'em--that he didn't know nothin' about his luck;" that "beeswere the knowingest critters alive"--that they lived in "the holler trees,all around us." He said "they had queens to govern 'em"--that they had"workers and drones"--that "everything about 'em was done just so, and ifany of 'em broke the laws, they just killed 'em, and pitched 'emoverboard." This, he said, he had "seed himself; he had seed a reg'lar beefuneral." He "seed, once, four bees tugging at a dead body, drawing it onthe back, when they throw'd it out of the hive, and covered it over withdirt." And then they have "wars," he says, and "gin'rals," and "captins,"and "sogers," and "go out a-fightin', and a-stealin' honey;" they are very"knowin' critters, and there is no tellin' nothin' about 'em."

  Venison took the little box he had brought with him, which was filled withhoney, and, opening its lid, placed it on a stump. He then rambled aroundthe woods until he found a lingering flower that had escaped the frost,with a honey-bee upon it. This he picked, bee and all, and placed on thehoney. Soon the bee began to work and load himself; and finally he rose incircles, winding high in the air, and suddenly turning a right angle, heshot out of sight.

  "Where has he gone?" inquired I.

  "Gone hum where he lives," answered Venison, "to unload his thighs and tellthe news."

  In a few moments, three bees returned, filled themselves, and departed;then six; then a dozen, until a black line was formed, along which theywere rushing both ways, empty and laden, one _end_ of which was lost in theforest.

  Venison and myself then started on a trot, with our eyes upward, to followthis living line; and after having proceeded a quarter of a mile it becameso confused and scattered that we gave it up, and returned.

  "What now?" I inquired.

  "I'll have 'em! I'll have 'em!" he replied. "They can't cheat old Venison.I've hunted the critters mor-nor forty years, and I allers takes 'em when Itries. I'll draw a couple of more sights on 'em."

  Venison took two pieces more of honey, and placed one on each side of hisbox. The bees followed him and commenced their work. Very soon, instead ofone, he had three lines established, his line of honey forming the base ofa triangle, while the bees were all rushing to its point, on each side ofthis triangle, and through its middle.

  This, of course, was a demonstration. Venison and myself followed up again,and, sure enough, we "had 'em," as he predicted. There they were, roaringin the top of a great oak, like thunder, coming in and going out, wheelingup and down through the air as though some great celebration was going on.It seemed that the whole hive of workers must have broken forth to captureand carry away Venison's honey-box.

  "Will they sting?" inquired I.

  "Some folks say they will," he replied. "If they hate a man they'll followhim a mile; and nobody knows who they hate and who they don't, untilthey're tried."

  "Where's the honey?" I inquired again.

  "Well, that's the next thing I'm arter;" and Venison put his ear to thetrunk of the tree to ascertain in what part of it they were "a-workin'." Helistened a while, but "they warn't low down, he know'd, for he didn't hear'em hummin'." He thought the honey was "out the way, high up somewhere." Soat the tree he went with his axe, and in half an hour the old oak--older,probably, than any man on the globe--came down with a crash that roused upall the echoes of the wilderness.

  Upon an examination, the honey was, probably, Venison thought, packed awayin a hollow of the tree, about fifty feet from the ground, as a largeknot-hole was discerned, out of which the bees were streaming in greatconsternation. So he severed the trunk again, at the bottom of the hollow,and there it was, great flakes piled one upon another, some of which hadbeen broken by the fall of the tree, and were dripping and oozing out theirwild richness.

  "That's the raal stuff," exclaimed Venison; "something 'sides bees-bread."

  Venison had brought nothing with him to hold his honey, and I was a littlecurious to know how he would manage. He cut the tree again above the knot.During his labor the bees had settled all over him. His hands, face, andhair were filled, besides a circle of them that were angrily wheeling abouthis head. But he heeded them not, except by an occasional shake, which wassignificant of pity rather than rage.

  "Now," said Venison, when his work was finished, the tree cut, theknot-hole stopped, and the whole turned upside down, "that's what I call anat'ral bee-hive, and we'll just stuff in a little dry grass on the top,and then I'll be ready to move."

  A BEE HUNT.

  "That's the raal stuff," exclaimed Venison; "something 'sides bees'-bread."Page 62.]

  "Move!" I exclaimed, "move! You don't expect _ue_ will carry home a _tree_,do you?"

  "Two or three on 'em, I s'pect. Venison allers gets as much as that."

  Venison was right. Before noon, half a dozen hives were captured and readyfor removal. I confess, after the excitement was over, that I began to growquite serious over my forenoon's labor. I sat down to rest myself, and thevery solemnity of the wilderness produced a sober train of thought. Asouth-west breeze sprang up loaded with the dying breath of thefall-flowers. It was blowing down the leaves around me, and piling them upin gorgeous drifts. Like an undertaker around the remains of the dead, itwas quietly tearing down the drapery, and preparing the year for itsburial. A haze overspread everything, and the distance was mellow, theobjects indistinct, and the whole landscape seemed swimming, as wesometimes see it in a dream. The trees were covered with haze; and a canoe,on its way down, appeared to be hung up in the air; the birds were hazy;and, looking about me, I appeared to be sitting in a great tent of haze.The squirrels were clattering through the trees, and throwing down thenuts; the partridges were drumming; the rabbits rustling through the dryleaves; the water-fowl hurrying through the air; and the crickets, thosemelancholy musicians, were piping a low, dirge-like strain to the goldenhours of autumn as they passed away.

  I thought I could hear the great heart of Nature beat with measured andpalpitating strokes; could feel the pendulum of Time swinging back andforth.

  But I said I was rather sober. There stood our six bee-hives, and clingingto each in large clusters were its inhabitants, who had been driven forthby us to brave a pitiless winter. We had destroyed six cities, and banishedtheir people; six cities, six governments of law and order. Cities laid outin lanes, and streets, and squares; cities of dwelling-houses and castles;cities filled with all sorts of people; all castes in society. There werethe queen and her palace; the drones and their castles; and the serf, orday-laborer, and his hut; and there, sitting upon her throne, the sovereignswayed as mighty a sceptre, tyrannized over as great a people, in heropinion, as any human despot. She undoubtedly bustled about, talked large,swelled up herself with her importance, boasted of her blood, of her divineright to rule (certainly divine in her case), just as all earthly princesdo. There she projected plans of war, marshalled her forces, and stimulatedtheir courage with inflammatory appeals. She talked about
her house as theroyal line, as the French used to about the Bourbons. And then a lazyaristocracy had been broken up by us; we had turned hundreds of dronesadrift, and according to the modern definition, drones must be aristocrats;that is, they did no work, and lived upon the labor of others. They were,in all probability, just like all other aristocratic drones. They loungedabout the hive in each other's company; had an occasional uproar at eachother's table; turned out to take the morning air, and slept after dinner.They probably advised in all matters of public policy, and cried every day,"Long live the Queen." I did not care much about the drones, however. Butwe had turned the poor day-laborer out of doors; he who rose with the sun,and went forth to work while the dew was yet tying on the flowers. We hadhumbled the pride of six cities, and brought it to the dust. Is it strangethat I felt sober?

  But Venison broke my musing by informing me that it was "about time tocakalate a little about getting our honey home, and he guessed he'd go andrig up a raft, and float the cargo down."

  And soon a raft was constructed of flood-wood, and bound together withgreen withes, the honey rolled aboard, two long poles prepared to be usedto guide the craft, and away we glided, followed by a long train of bees,who had been despoiled, and who streamed along after us, until the shadowsof evening arrested their flight, and parted them and their treasureforever.