AS THE BEE FLIES 169 



sat up, disconsolately, and gazed across the 

 pasture. 



&quot;Tame bees ! &quot; muttered Jonathan, in a tone 

 of grief and disgust. &quot;Tame bees, down there 

 in my old woodlots. It s trespass !&quot; 



&quot;You might claim some of Morehead s 

 honey,&quot; I suggested, &quot;since you ve been 

 feeding his bees. But, then,&quot; I reflected, &quot;it 

 would n t be wild honey, and what I wanted 

 was wild honey.&quot; 



We rose dejectedly, and Jonathan picked 

 up the box. &quot;Are n t you going to leave it for 

 the bees?&quot; I asked. &quot;They ll be so disap 

 pointed when they come back.&quot; 



&quot;They aren t the only ones to be disap 

 pointed,&quot; he remarked grimly. &quot;Here, we ll 

 have mushrooms for supper, anyway.&quot; And 

 he stooped to collect a big puff-ball. 



We walked home, our spirits gradually 

 rising. After all, it is hard to stay depressed 

 under a blue fall sky, with a crisp wind blow 

 ing in your face and the sense of complete 

 ness that comes of a long day out of doors. 

 And as we climbed the last long hill to the 

 home farm we could not help feeling cheer 

 ful. 



