168 THE BEE-KEEPERS' REVIEW 



mind wander at its own sweet will — think of what it pleases — it is 

 no longer in the harness. 



A little past noon I reach the end of my railroad journey, and 

 how good it looks to see Elmer, wnth the horse and red wagon, 

 waiting for me. There are hotels and livery stables in town, but 

 anybody can patronize them — we have a better plan. A mile out 

 on our road, we know of a little spring brook that goes babbling 

 through a grove by the roadside; and here, to the accompaniment of 

 the horse grinding his hay and oats at the w^agon box, we turn our 

 attention to the contents of the dinner pail, while Elmer tells me 

 the news ; that the hives of honey are "piled up as high as your 

 shoulder." W'hy is it that such common things as bread and but- 

 ter, dried beef and pickles, have such a flavor when the consumer 

 has his back against a tree in the woods? 



After driving out two or three miles we come up over a ridge 

 that allows us to look over the valley in which flows the Manistee 

 river. How blue the distant hills look across on the other side; 

 and there always comes to me the feeling that over there is the 

 "promised land." Perhaps this feeling comes from the fact that 

 over among those wooded hills nestle the a})iaries. 



The next day the wagon is loaded with tools, bedding and pro- 

 visions, and we drive away to one of the apiaries. A part of the 

 way our course lies along the high banks of the Manistee, the most 

 famous trout stream in the world, then we drive along old, grass- 

 grown lumber roads that wind hither and thither, and are banked 

 on either side with the vines of wild berries, or canopied over with 

 the branches of trees. Occasionally we hear the distant tinkle of 

 some settler's cow bell, the song of wild birds greets the ear, there 

 is a "woodsy" odor in the air, and the feeling of freedom and buoy- 

 ancy becomes so strong as to break out occasionally in snatches of 

 song. 



When removing the honey we live in the honey house and keep 

 bachelor's hall. Let me describe our breakfasts: Boiled potatoes, 

 not common potatoes, but such as grow only in the virgin sand of 

 Northern Michigan, crisp and mealy, bread and butter, coffee, and 

 great, big dishes of wild blackberries covered with cream obtained 

 of a nearby settler. 



Work in the apiary has for me a peculiar fascination : To stand 

 out among the hives at midday, and watch the bees as they leave 

 their hives with quick, upward sweeps, and return so heavily laden 

 that many fall short of the entrance, rest a moment, and then crawl 

 wearily in ; to find each breath actually redolent with the aroma of 

 newly gathered nectar; to look up and see clearly outlined against 

 the blue sky, an intricate, mazy network of dark, circling lines 

 drawn by the busy workers as they eagerly go and come ; to listen 



