AN IDYL OF THE HONEY-BEE 57 



honey, come with me some bright, warm, late Sep- 

 tember or early October day. It is the golden sea- 

 son of the year, and any errand or pursuit that 

 takes us abroad upon the hills or by the painted 

 woods and along the amber- colored streams at such 

 a time is enough. So, with haversacks filled with 

 grapes and peaches and apples and a bottle of milk, 

 — for we shall not be home to dinner, — and armed 

 with a compass, a hatchet, a pail, and a box with a 

 piece of comb honey neatly fitted into it, — any box 

 the size of your hand with a lid will do nearly 

 as well as the elaborate and ingenious contrivance 

 of the regular bee-hunter, — we sally forth. Our 

 course at first lies along the highway under great 

 chestnut- trees whose nuts are just dropping, then 

 through an orchard and across a little creek, thence 

 gently rising through a long series of cultivated 

 fields toward some high uplying land behind which 

 rises a rugged wooded ridge or mountain, the most 

 sightly point in all this section. Behind this ridge 

 for several miles the country is wild, wooded, and 

 rocky, and is no doubt the home of many wild 

 swarms of bees. What a gleeful uproar the robins, 

 cedar-birds, high-holes, and cow blackbirds make 

 amid the black cherry trees as we pass along! The 

 raccoons, too, have been here after black cherries, 

 and we see their marks at various points. Several 

 crows are walking about a newly sowed wheatfield 

 we pass through, and we pause to note their grace- 

 ful movements and glossy coats. I have seen no 

 bird walk the ground with just the same air the 



