252 Old Days on the Farm 



erratic to make bosom friends of. A relative of 

 mine, a big strong man, was once stung on the 

 neck, just above the carotid artery, by a bee, and 

 in less than a minute, he — the man — became un- 

 conscious and remained in that condition over an 

 hour. The poison injected into his jugular vein 

 had been carried to his heart with well-nigh fatal 

 results. 



I recall that when I was a schoolboy, along 

 with other youngsters, I used to pass by, every 

 day, a house by the side of the road, in the garden 

 adjoining which an elderly man, who wore whisk- 

 ers, was often to be seen about his bee-hives. I 

 remember, on one occasion, some young scamp 

 banged an apple, a stone, or a clod of earth, 

 against a hive, by which the old gentleman was 

 fondly lingering. I can see that old chap yet 

 tearing at those whiskers and hear him fracturing 

 the atmosphere, not with honeyed, but unprint- 

 able words. 



BEES BEOKE UP THE CHURCH SEEVICE 



The village church that I attended in my youth- 

 ful days was once the scene of a lively encounter 

 with bees. The sacred edifice was a long, homely, 

 frame structure with hard, unbendable and se- 

 verely straight-backed seats of heavy pine. Like 

 most pioneer public buildings it was poorly heated. 

 A great box-stove stood near the door, and a long, 

 uneven pipe was carried along the ceiling to the 



