A DAY IN THE DEEP WOODS. 135 
among tangled twigs, exposed to the gaze of ants, 
centipedes, scorpions and what not, and calmly 
munched the waxen cells, expressing from those hex- 
agonal receptacles their delicious burden of honey, by 
a process the most primitive, but also the most satis- 
factory, known to man. 
As I sat there a picture of sweet endeavor, Me- 
yong prepared to descend, and brought with him as he 
swung down, hand under hand, a cloud of bees, who, 
attracted by the cargo of honey in the spathes and by 
my sweet countenance, left the boy and traveled in my 
direction. Entangled as I was in the meshwork of 
branches, I furnished a scene for the hardened Me- 
yong, who, still smarting from recent stings, was a 
most joyful witness of my discomfiture. 
Though never an apt scholar in mathematics, I 
learned a lesson from the bees that day, and described, 
as accurately as the nature of the ground would allow, 
a bee-line for camp. I think the most stupid student 
in school would be able to understand that a straight 
line was the “shortest distance between two points,” 
with a swarm of angry bees after him thirsting for his 
blood; especially, when at one of those points was 
safety, and at the other bees. 
In the afternoon I went out hunting and was success- 
ful, bringing back several pigeons. Meyong mean- 
while had not been idle, for he had, ready-cooked, the 
cabbage of a mountain palm, and two hideous grubs 
nicely browning over the coals. Now we had veg- 
etables, meat and honey, but there was no utensil for 
dipping out the latter from the troughs. 
“Come wiz me,” said Meyong. 
I went with him a few rods to a clump of bamboos 
