AS THE BEE FLIES 165 



overhead, gave a little purring cluck of sur 

 prise, and flew off again, with a flare of tawny- 

 yellow wings. In the warmth of the Indian 

 summer noon the shade of the woods was 

 pleasant, and I let Jonathan go back to the 

 bees while I lay on a dry slope above the brook 

 and watched the slim, tall chestnuts swaying 

 in the wind. It is almost like being at sea to 

 lie in the woods and look up at the trees. 

 Their waving tops seem infinitely far away, 

 but the sky beyond seems very near, and one 

 can almost feel the earth go round. 



As I lay there I heard a snapping of twigs 

 and rustling of leaves. It was the wrong direc 

 tion for Jonathan, and I turned gently, expect 

 ing nothing smaller than a deer for deer 

 are growing plentiful now in old New England 

 and met the shameless face of a jerky little 

 red squirrel! He clung to a chestnut trunk 

 and examined me, twitching all over the while, 

 then whisked himself upside down and looked 

 at me from that standpoint, mounted to a 

 branch, clung to the under side and looked 

 again, pretended fright and vanished behind 

 the limb, only to peer over it the next moment 

 to see what I looked like from there all the 



