1899 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE. 



137 



favorable to the occupation by wild animals, 

 and the hunting population is sparse. In the 

 autumn, bears intent upon securing their daily- 

 rations of acorns sometimes stray down to the 

 farming district. One morning the butcher 

 !>oy, in his rounds between Oro Fino and Etna, 

 ran across one of these derelict bears in an 

 intervening piece of woods. The boy put 

 whip to his horse, and sped on to Etna. The 

 report that a bear was near town set the hunt- 

 ers in motion, and only a few hours elapsed 

 when poor bruin was shot and brought to town. 



In my explorations of these wild canyons 

 through which I could ride a wheel tolerably 

 well I expected at almost ever}- turn in the 

 road to see among the big trees a specimen of 

 big game. It might happen, you know, just 

 as it did with the butcher boy. 



Having no gun with me at such times, I 

 might be in quite a predicament. Still, my 

 curiosity to see the country led me into all 

 manner of wild places. Aside from rabbits 

 and other small game, a stray coyote would 

 occasionally halt in surprise as I wbirled 

 around a bend in the road, stick up his ears, 

 and then scurry away through the forest. 



Kitter Creek flows from one of these wild 

 canyons, and in one of its clearings is where 

 the late Mr. Levering had one of his apiaries 

 destroyed by bears. 



It is not remarkable that, while exploring 

 such places, and thinking of possible adven- 

 ture, the senses of the novice should become 

 very acute, and the least unusual noise quick- 

 en the pace and give more of a tension to the 

 nerves. And so it happened one day while in 

 Kitter Creek Canyon that I became quite ex- 

 cited as I saw a violent agitation of the bushes 

 to the right, and ahead of me, and presently 

 I caught a glimpse of a bulky cinnamon-color- 

 ed body. Now, there are cinnamon bears in 

 these mountains, and they are exceedingly 

 fierce ; and the immediate inference was that 

 this was one of the varmints. I could hardly 

 stop my wheel without coming in deadly con- 

 tact, therefore I could do nothing but scorch 

 ahead ; but it was not much of a scorch, for 

 the road was sandy. As the animal plunged 

 through the brush I imagined growls, and my 

 hair began to elevate. Oh for a gun ! oh for 

 a stray hunter with his trusty rifle ! But no 

 friendly aid appeared. All my past life flashed 

 suddenly before me, and my conscience was 

 dreadfully pricked by the sarcastic remarks in 

 which I had indulged about old maids and 

 grass widows, and especially what I had told 

 Mr. Mallow, the Fort Jones beekeeper, only 

 a day or two before. He inquired of me if 

 that young man Wilder who traveled with me 

 a few years ago was not dead. 



"Dead, Mr. Mallow?" replied I; "why, 

 he is worse than dead — he is married." 



In this supreme moment I was so sorry I 

 said it; for if Mr. Wilder was worse than dead 

 with just a wife, what must be the condition 

 of Mr. Mallow with wife and eight children ? 

 About the time that sorry feeling had taken 

 possession of me the animal plunged across 

 my track. It was all done in a second of time. 

 My wheel went from under me, and I was 

 tumbled in the dust, and at the mercy of the 



beast. I tremblingly bounced to my feet; but 

 what a relief ! Then I picked up my wheel ; 

 then I laughed. My bear, when it came into 

 the open, proved to be nothing but a con- 

 temptible cinnamon - colored calf. It had 

 escaped from some alfalfa-patch with a long 

 picket-rope attached to its neck ; and my 

 wheel, in passing over the rope, and the rope 

 running rapidly under it, nicely tripped the 

 rider. My exertions in the dust caused the 

 calf to continue its headlong career, which I 

 hope is still continued ; but I really believe a 

 wheelman was never tripped in like manner 

 before. 



But all things have their times and seasons, 

 and the pleasant days I had enjoyed in Scott 

 Valley drew near their ending ; and as I con- 

 templated on my journey south I regretted 

 that I had lived so many months near the 

 Oregon line, and had not put a foot on its soil. 



"Why," said I to Mr. Levering, one eve- 

 ning, as an inspiration struck me, " what is to 

 hinder me from going north through Oregon 

 to Portland, and from there to San Francisco 

 by steamer ? ' ' 



"Nothing," said Mr. Levering. " It is only 

 250 miles. Take your wheel and that calf 

 along, and you will astonish the natives with 

 your fleetness." 



Mr. Levering threw in that calf matter as a 

 joke ; and as we talked and joked over the 

 matter the idea grew upon me to such an ex- 

 tent that I not only resolved to put a foot in 

 Oregon, but both feet into Washington, and 

 to return south from Seattle. 



In accordance with the above plans I left 

 Scott Valley on the 26th of October. My bag T 

 gage went out in a freighter's wagon while I 

 wheeled out. The last I saw of Mr. Levering 

 he was leaning pensively on his cane while 

 the morning breeze was toying as usual with 

 his whiskers. I crossed the mountain safely, 

 and stopped that night in Yreka. 



E. L., Pa. — It would be simply impossible 

 to cross bumble-bees with Italians, because 

 they are functionally different ; and, for an- 

 other reason, they are an entirely distinct 

 species. 



F. A. K., Wis. — If your bees have the dys- 

 entery in your bee-cellar I hardly know what 

 you can do. If tbey once get this disease 

 indoors they are pretty sure to die in large 

 numbers before spring. The trouble is, doubt- 

 less, due to inferior stores. If you could take 

 away the stores they have, and give them bee- 

 candy, it might help matters. If you had 

 combs of sealed sugar stores this would be 

 altogether better ; or if you do not happen to 

 have this, mix powdered sugar and honey into 

 a stiff dough and set on top of the frames; but 

 before doing this I would recommend that 

 you take away the present stores and give 

 them empty combs. 



