50 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 
treasure. The sharp axe, as it played in the hands of 
Tom, was replied to by a stout negro from the opposite 
side of the tree, and their united strokes fast gained 
upon the heart of their lordly victim. 
There was little poetry in the thought, that long 
before this mighty empire of States was formed, Tom 
Owen’s “ bee-hive” had stretched its brawny arms to the 
winter’s blast, and grown green in the summer’s sun. 
Yet such was the case, and how long I might have 
moralized I know not, had not the enraged buzzing 
about my ears satisfied me that the occupants of the tree 
were not going to give up their home and treasure, with- 
out showing considerable practical fight. No sooner had 
the little insects satisfied themselves that they were 
about to be invaded, than they began, one after another, 
to descend from their airy abode, and fiercely pitch into 
our faces; anon a small company, headed by an old vet- 
eran, would charge with its entire force upon all parts 
of our body at once. 
It need not be said that the better part of valor was 
displayed by a precipitate retreat from such attacks. 
In the midst of this warfare, the tree began to trem- 
ble with the fast-repeated strokes of the axe, and then 
might have been seen a “bee-line ” 
of stingers precipi- 
tating themselves from above, on the unfortunate hunter 
beneath. 
Now it was that Tom shone forth in his glory, for 
. his partisans—like many hangers-on about great men, 
