168 THE JONATHAN PAPERS 



near, was the end of the big woods and the 

 beginning of pastures and farmland. 



Jonathan scrutinized the farms dotting the 

 slopes. &quot;See that bunch of red barns with a 

 white house?&quot; he said. &quot;That s Bill More- 

 head s. He keeps bees. Bet we ve got bees 

 from his hive and they ll lead us plumb into 

 his back yard.&quot; 



It did begin to seem probable, and we took 

 up our box in some depression of spirits. Two 

 more stops, the bees still perversely flying 

 westward, and we emerged in pastures. 



&quot;Here s our last stop,&quot; said Jonathan. &quot;If 

 they don t go back into that edge we ve just 

 left, they re Morehead s. There is n t another 

 bit of woods big enough to hold a bee tree for 

 seven miles to the west of us.&quot; 



There was no rock to set the box on, so we 

 lay down on the turf; Jonathan set the box 

 on his chest, and partly slid the cover. He 

 had by this time learned the trick of making 

 the bees, even the excited ones, come out 

 singly. We watched each one as she escaped 

 circle above us, circle, circle against the clear 

 blue of the afternoon sky, then dart off 

 alas ! westward. As the last one flew we 



