_There is nothing I wouldn't do for a bee--a reasonable bee_
Matters did not go so well in the living-room. It was not because the
old walls were more irregular there than elsewhere--I could negotiate
that--it was those pesky bees. Reshingling the sides of the house had
closed their outlets, and they had now found a crevice somewhere around
the big chimney and were pouring in and out, whizzing and buzzing around
the room by the hundred, clinging to the windows in droves, a maddening
distraction on a hot afternoon to a man with his head tipped back, in
the act of laying a long, flimsy strip of wall-paper on a wavy, billowy
old ceiling. They were no longer vicious and dangerous--they were only
disorganized and panic-stricken. A hundred times a day I swept
quantities of them from the windows and released them to the open air.
It was no use to shut the doors, for there still were pecks of them
between the floor and ceiling, and these came pouring out steadily,
while those that I had dismissed hurried back again as soon as they
could get their breath. I began to think we had met disaster in this
unexpected quarter--that those persistent little colonists were going to
dispossess us altogether.
Old Nat and I had tried smoking them with sulphur, which had quieted
them temporarily while the men were shingling, but it had in no way
discouraged them. In fact, I think there is nothing that will discourage
a bee but sudden death, and that seems a pity, for in his proper sphere
he is one of our most useful citizens.
He is so wise, so wonderfully skilled and patient. I have read
Maeterlinck's life of him, and there is nothing I would t do for a
bee--a reasonable bee--one that would appreciate a little sound advice.
That's just the trouble--a bee isn't built that way. He is so smart and
capable, and such a wonder in most things, that he won't discuss any
matter quietly and see where he is wrong and go his way in peace. Those
bees thought that, just because they had found a hole in the outside of
an old house, it was their house, and if anybody had to move it wouldn't
be they. I explained the situation over and over and begged them to go
away while the weather was still warm and the going good, but they just
whizzed and raged around the rooms and sickened me with their noise and
obstinacy.
When Elizabeth and the Joy came up, school matters being arranged, we
decided, among other things, to evict those bees. There was just one way
to do it, Westbury said, which was to saw through the floor up-stairs
and take them out. He thought there would be some honey. We did not
count much on that; what we wanted was to be rid of the pests forever. I
sent word to our carpenter, and Henry Jones came one morning with his
saws.
In a corner of the upper room where we had heard a great buzzing he
bored a hole through the flinty oak floors. I had the smoker ready and
pumped the sulphur fumes in pretty freely. Then he began to saw. He had
gone only a little way when he said:
"My saw is running in honey."
Sure enough, it was coated with the clear sticky substance, which
certainly did not make it run any easier. By hard work he managed to cut
across two of the wide boards, and through them again, adjoining the
next joist. When he was ready to lift out I pumped a new supply of smoke
into the holes, then rather gingerly we pried up the pieces.
What a sight it was! Covered by a myriad of stupefied bees was layer
upon layer of pure honey, the frightened insects plunging into the
cells, filling themselves with their own merchandise, as is their habit
when alarmed. Lazarus, a small colored assistant whom we had recently
acquired, peered in cautiously (the sulphur fumes being still
suggestive, with a good many bees flying), and I sent him for something
to put the honey in--something large, I said--a dishpan.
But Elizabeth had no great faith in our bee investigations, or she may
have been inclined to discount Lazarus. She sent a porcelain dish, which
I filled with a few choice pieces.
"Tell her this is just a sample, and to send the dishpan."
But still she thought either I or Lazarus was excited, and sent only an
agate stew-pan, which I also filled.
"Take it down, Lazarus, and tell her that we still need the dishpan."
So then at last it came up, and we filled that, too.
We were not through, however. There was a heavy buzzing near the center
of the room, and again we bored and smoked and sawed, and presently
uncovered another swarm, with another surplus stock, this time a
wash-boiler full, most of it fine and white, though some of the pieces
were discolored, showing age. Elizabeth left her occupations and came up
to investigate. Our old house had proven a regular honey-mine. We had
enough for an indefinite period, and some for the neighbors. I suppose
if we had left an outside hole for those bees they would have gone on
multiplying and eventually would have packed our floors and walls solid
full of honey, and we should have had, in truth, "the very sweetest
house in all the world."
I confess we felt sorry for those poor bees. A quantity of them refused
to leave the premises and persisted on squeezing into the house if a
door or window was left open. A clot of them formed on an old
fence-post--around their queen, perhaps--and would not go away, though
they knew quite well we had hardened our hearts against them and would
not relent. If I had it to do over again I would bring down an old hive
made from a hollow log, which we found up in the attic, and put into it
some honey and some comb and invite them to set up business again in a
small way. But my wounds were too fresh. They had daubed some of my new
paper, driven me nearly frantic with their commotion, and stung me in
several localities. The old fence-post was quite loose. In the evening I
softly lifted it out, carried it to a remote place, and left it, just as
any other heartless person would drop an unwelcome kitten. When I passed
that way the following spring they were gone.
A last word about our papering. To this day I am proud of the job and
don't wish to dismiss it in any casual way. I left our square "best"
room till the last; it made a dramatic ending.
I believe I have not mentioned before that I washed down the old plaster
with a solution of vinegar (a remnant from one of Uncle Joe's barrels)
in order to kill the lime, which, Westbury said, was bad for the
sticking qualities of the paste. Perhaps I made my solution a bit too
strong for the "best"-room walls, or it may be that the plaster there
was different--I don t know. I know that I worked till nearly midnight
to get done, Elizabeth holding a pair of lamps, and that when we came
down next morning to admire our beautiful green walls by daylight, they
were no longer green--at least, not solidly so, not definitely so. What
seemed to us at first a sorrowful mottled complaint in yellow had
every-where broken through, and I had the sickening feeling that my work
was wasted and must be done over. But presently Elizabeth said,
reflectively:
"It isn't so bad just as it is."