352 BEE-HUNTING. 



the art. At length I encountered T. S., a man who 

 was supposed to be at the very summit of his pro- 

 fession, a kind of senior-wrangler in bee-hunting. 



Like all great minds, T. S. was indifferent to dress. 

 Like a rough diamond he knew his innate value, and 

 did not care to be polished and set, knowing he should 

 lose some precious particles in the process. A frayed 

 and tattered Panama hat graced his head, which, with 

 grease, dust, honey, and occasional showers, was a little 

 of all colours, but none in particular. Around the 

 sides, lengths of fishing-lines were twined, the hooks 

 being stuck in what remained of the brim ; and as these 

 were snatched out when required, without reg*ard to the 

 hat's integrity, its raggedness was readily accounted for. 



His coat, too, was like the youthful Joseph's, of 

 many colours. What its material had been originally, 

 it would have puzzled the * bench of bishops ' to decide. 

 If it had been cloth, it was now half buckskin ; and if 

 it had been buckskin, it was now half cloth. The 

 patches were of all sizes and shapes, from the size of a 

 dollar to that of a frying-pan; whilst the skirts and 

 sleeves, fringed by briars, and thorns, and snags, re- 

 sembled the scalp-bordered hunting-shirt of an Indian 

 warrior. His inexpressibles were nothing to speak of. 

 Enough certainly remained to swear by; so it is not 

 necessary to say much concerning so little. His shirt 

 was of Nature's manufacture — the same he was born 

 with — and tanned to a fine lasting colour. Buckskiri 



