TEDDY BEAR'S BEE TREE
They were exploring the high slopes of the farther shore of
Silverwater. It had been an unusually long trip for the Babe's short
legs, and Uncle Andy had considerately called a halt, on the pretext
that it was time for a smoke. He knew that the Babe would trudge on
till he dropped in his tracks before acknowledging that he was tired.
A mossy boulder under the ethereal green shade of a silver birch
offered the kind of resting place--comfortable yet unkempt--which
appealed to Uncle Andy's taste; and there below, over a succession of
three low, wooded ridges, lay outspread the enchanting mirror of the
lake. Uncle Andy's pipe never tasted so good to him as when he could
smoke it to the accompaniment of a wide and eye-filling view.
The Babe, who had squatted himself cross-legged on the turf at the foot
of the boulder, would have appreciated that superb view also, but that
his eager eyes had detected a pair of brown rabbits peering out at him
inquiringly from the fringes of a thicket of young firs.
"Perhaps," he thought to himself, "if we keep very still indeed,
they'll come out and play."
He was about to whisper this suggestion cautiously to Uncle Andy, when,
from somewhere in the trees behind them, came a loud sound of
scrambling, of claws scratching on bark, followed by a thud, a grunt,
and a whining, and then the crash of some heavy creature careering
through the underbrush. It paused within twenty or thirty paces of
them in its noisy flight, but the bushes were so thick that they could
not catch a glimpse of it.
The rabbits vanished. The Babe, startled, shrank closer to his uncle's
knee, and stared up at him with round eyes of inquiry.
"He's in a hurry, all right, and doesn't care who knows it!" chuckled
Uncle Andy. But his shaggy brows were knit in some perplexity.
"Who's _he_?" demanded the Babe.
"Well, now," protested Uncle Andy, as much as to say that the Babe
ought to have known that without asking, "you know there's nothing in
these woods big enough to make such a noise as that except a bear or a
moose. And a moose can't go up a tree. You heard that fellow fall
down out of a tree, didn't you?"
"Why did he fall down out of the tree?" asked the Babe, in a tone of
great surprise.
"That's just what I--" began Uncle Andy. But he was interrupted.
"Oh! _Oh_! It's stung me!" cried the Babe shrilly, jumping to his
feet and slapping at his ear. His eyes filled with injured tears.
Uncle Andy stared at him for a moment in grave reproof. Then he, too,
sprang up as if the boulder had suddenly grown red-hot, and pawed at
his hair with both hands, dropping his pipe.
"Gee! I see why he fell down!" he cried. The Babe gave another cry,
clapped his hand to his leg where the stocking did not quite join the
short breeches, and began hopping up and down on one foot. A heavy,
pervasive hum was beginning to make itself heard.
"Come!" yelled Uncle Andy, striking at his cheek angrily and ducking
his head as if he were going to butt something. He grabbed the Babe by
one arm and rushed him to the fir thicket where the rabbits had been.
"Duck!" he ordered. "Down with you--flat!" And together they crawled
into the low-growing, dense-foliaged thicket, where they lay side by
side, face downwards.
"They won't follow us in here," murmured Uncle Andy. "They don't like
thick bushes."
"But I'm afraid--we've brought some in with us, Uncle Andy," replied
the Babe, trying very hard to keep the tears out of his voice. "I
think I hear one squealing and buzzing in my hair. _Oh_!" And he
clutched wildly at his leg.
"You're right!" said Uncle Andy, his voice suddenly growing very stern
as a bee crawled over his collar and jabbed him with great earnestness
in the neck. He sat up. Several other bees were creeping over him,
seeking an effective spot to administer their fiery admonitions. But
he paid them no heed. They stung him where they would--while he was
quickly looking over the Babe's hair, jacket, sleeves, stockings, and
loose little trousers. He killed half a dozen of the angry crawlers
before they found a chance to do the Babe more damage. Then he pulled
out three stings, and applied moist earth from under the moss to each
red and anguished spot.
The Babe looked up at him with a resolute little laugh, and shook
obstinately from the tip of his nose the tears which he would not
acknowledge by the attentions of his handkerchief or his fist.
"Thank you _awfully_," he began politely. "But _oh_! Uncle Andy, your
poor eye is just dreadful. Oh-h-h!"
"Yes, they _have_ been getting after me a bit," agreed Uncle Andy,
dealing firmly with his own assailants, now that the Babe was all
right. "But this jab under the eye is the only one that matters.
Here, see if you can get hold of the sting."
The Babe's keen eyes and nimble little fingers captured it at once.
Then Uncle Andy plastered the spot with a daub of wet, black earth, and
peered over it solemnly at the Babe's swollen ear. He straightened his
grizzled hair, and tried to look as if nothing out of the way had
happened.
"I wish I'd brought my pipe along," he muttered. "It's over there by
the rock. But I reckon it wouldn't be healthy for me to go and get it
just yet!"
"What's made them so awful mad, do you suppose?" inquired the Babe,
nursing his wounds and listening uneasily to the vicious hum which
filled the air outside the thicket.
"It's that fool bear!" replied Uncle Andy. "He's struck a bee tree too
tough for him to tear open, and he fooled at it just long enough to get
the bees good and savage. Then he quit in a hurry. And we'll just
have to stay here till the bees get cooled down."
"How long'll that be?" inquired the Babe dismally. It was hard to sit
still in the hot fir thicket, with that burning, throbbing smart in his
ear and two little points of fierce ache in his leg. Uncle Andy was
far from happy himself; but he felt that the Babe, who had behaved very
well, must have his mind diverted. He fished out a letter from his
pocket, rolled himself, with his heavy pipe tobacco, a cigarette as
thick as his finger, and fell to puffing such huge clouds as would
discourage other bees from prying into the thicket. Then he remarked
irrelevantly but consolingly:
"It isn't always, by any means, that the bees get the best of it this
way. Mostly it's the other way about. _This_ bear was a fool. But
there was Teddy Bear, now, a cub over the foothills of Sugar Loaf
Mountain, and _he_ was _not_ a fool. When he tackled his first bee
tree--and he was nothing but a cub, mind you--he pulled off the affair
in good shape. I wish it had been _these_ bees that he cleaned out."
The Babe was so surprised that he let go of his leg for a moment.
"Why?" he exclaimed, "how could a cub do what a big, strong, grown-up
bear couldn't manage?" He thought with a shudder how unequal _he_
would be to such an undertaking.
"You just wait and see!" admonished Uncle Andy, blowing furious clouds
from his monstrous cigarette. "It was about the end of the blue-berry
season when Teddy Bear lost his big, rusty-coated mother and small,
glossy black sister, and found himself completely alone in the world.
They had all three come down together from the high blue-berry patches
to the dark swamps to hunt for roots and fungi as a variation to their
fruit diet. The mother and sister had got caught together in a
deadfall--a dreadful trap which crushed them both flat in an instant.
Teddy Bear, some ten feet out of danger, had stared for two seconds in
frozen horror, and then raced away like mad with his mother's warning
screech hoarse in his ears. He knew by instinct that he would never
see the victims any more; and he was very unhappy and lonely. For a
whole day he moped, roaming restlessly about the high slopes and
refusing to eat, till at last he got so hungry that he just _had_ to
eat. Then he began to forget his grief a little, and devoted himself
to the business of finding a living. But from being the most
sunny-tempered of cubs he became all at once as peppery as could be.
"As I have told you," continued Uncle Andy, peering at him with strange
solemnity over the mud patch beneath his swollen eye, "the blue-berries
were just about done. And as Teddy would not go down to the lower
lands again to hunt for other kinds of rations, he had to do a lot of
hustling to find enough blue-berries for his healthy young appetite.
Thus it came about that when one day, on an out-of-the-way corner of
the mountain, he stumbled upon a patch of belated berries--large,
plump, lapis-blue, and juicy--he fairly forgot himself in his greedy
excitement. He whimpered, he grunted, he wallowed as he fed. He had
no time to look where he was going. So, all of a sudden, he fell
straight through a thick fringe of blue-berry bushes and went sprawling
and clawing down the face of an almost perpendicular steep.
"The distance of his fall was not far short of thirty feet, and he
brought up with a bump which left him not breath enough to squeal. The
ground was soft, however, with undergrowth and debris, and he had no
bones broken. In a couple of minutes he was busy licking himself all
over to make sure he was undamaged. Reassured on this point, he went
prowling in exploration of the place he had dropped into.
"It was a sort of deep bowl, not more than forty feet across at the
bottom, and with its rocky sides so steep that Teddy Bear did not feel
at all encouraged to climb them. He went sniffing and peering around
the edges in the hope of finding some easier way of escape.
Disappointed in this, he lifted his black, alert little nose, and
stared longingly upwards, as if contemplating an effort to fly.
"He saw no help in that direction; but his nostrils caught a savor
which for the moment put all thought of escape out of his head. It was
the warm, delectable smell of honey. Teddy Bear had never tasted
honey; but he needed no one to tell him it was good. Instantly he knew
that he was very hungry. And instead of wanting to find a way out of
the hole, all he wanted was to find out where that wonderful smell came
from. If he thought any more at all of the hole, it was only to be
glad he had had the great luck to fall into it.
"From the deep soil at the bottom of the hole grew three big trees,
together with a certain amount of underbrush. Two of those were fir
trees, green and flourishing. The third was an old maple, with several
of its branches broken away. It was quite dead all down one side,
while on the other only a couple of branches put forth leaves. About a
small hole near the top of this dilapidated old tree Teddy Bear caught
sight of a lot of bees, coming and going. Then he knew where that
adorable smell came from. For though, as I think I have said, his
experience was extremely limited, his mother had managed to convey to
him an astonishing lot of useful and varied information.
"Teddy Bear had an idea that bees, in spite of their altogether
diminutive size, were capable of making themselves unpleasant, and also
that they had a temper which was liable to go off at half-cock.
Nevertheless, being a bear of great decision, he lost no time in
wondering what he had better do. The moment he had convinced himself
that the honey was up that tree, up that tree he went to get it."
"Oh!" cried the Babe, in tones of shuddering sympathy, as he felt at
his leg and his ear. "Oh! why _didn't_ he stop to think?"
Uncle Andy did not seem to consider that this remark called for any
reply. He ignored it. Stopping just at this critical point he
proceeded with exasperating deliberation to roll himself another fat
and clumsy cigarette. Then he applied fresh earth to both the Babe's
stings and his own. At last he went on.
"That tree must have been hollow a long way down, for almost as soon as
Teddy Bear's claws began to rattle on the bark the bees suspected
trouble and began to get excited. When he was not much more than
halfway up, and hanging to the rough bark with all his claws,
_biff_!--something sharp and very hot struck him in the nose. He
grunted, and almost let go in his surprise. Naturally, he wanted to
paw his nose--for _you_ know how it smarted!"
"I guess _so_!" murmured the Babe in deepest sympathy, stroking the
patch of mud on his ear.
"But that cub had naturally a level head. He knew that if he let go
with even one paw he would fall to the ground, because the trunk of the
tree at that point was so big he could not get a good hold upon it. So
he just dug his smarting nose into the bark and clawed himself around
to the other side of the tree, where the branches that were still green
sheltered him a bit, and there was a thick shadow from the nearest fir
tree, whose boughs interwove with those of the maple. Here the bees
didn't seem to notice him. He kept very still, listening to their
angry buzz till it had somewhat quieted down. Then, instead of going
about it with a noisy dash, as he had done before, he worked his way up
stealthily and slowly till he could crawl into the crotch of the first
branch. You see, that bear could learn a lesson.
"Presently he stuck his nose around to see how near he was to the bees'
hole. He had just time to locate it--about seven or eight feet above
him--when again _biff_! And he was stung on the lip. He drew in his
head again quick, I can tell you--quick enough to catch that bee and
smash it. He _ate_ it, indignantly. And then he lay curled up in the
crotch for some minutes, gently pawing his sore little snout and
whimpering angrily.
"The warm, sweet smell of the honey was very strong up there. And,
moreover, Teddy Bear's temper was now thoroughly aroused. Most cubs,
and some older bears, would have relinquished the adventure at this
point, for, as a rule, it takes a wise old bear to handle a bee tree
successfully. But Teddy Bear was no ordinary cub, let me tell you. He
lay nursing his anger and his nose till he had made up his mind what to
do. And then he set out to do it.
"Hauling himself up softly from branch to branch, he made no more noise
than a shadow. As soon as he was right behind the bees' hole he
reached around, dug his claws into the edge of it, and pulled with all
his might. The edges were rotten, and a pawful of old wood came. So
did the bees!
"They were onto him in a second. He grunted furiously, screwed his
eyes up tight, tucked his muzzle down under his left arm--which was
busy holding on--and reached around blindly for another pull. This
time he got a good grip, and he could feel something give. But the
fiery torture was too much for him. He drew in his paw, crouched back
into the crotch, and cuffed wildly at his own ears and face as well as
at the air, now thick with his assailants. The terrific hum they made
somewhat daunted him. For a few seconds he stood his ground, battling
frantically. Then, with an agility that you would never have dreamed
his chubby form to be capable of, he went swinging down from branch to
branch, whining and coughing and spluttering and squealing all the way.
From the lowest branch he slid down the trunk, his claws tearing the
bark and just clinging enough to break his fall.
"Reaching the ground, he began to roll himself over and over in the dry
leaves and twigs till he had crushed out all the bees that clung in his
fur."
"But why didn't the rest of the bees follow him? They followed this
other bear to-day!" protested the Babe feelingly.
"Well, they didn't!" returned Uncle Andy quite shortly, with his
customary objection to being interrupted. Then he thought better of
it, and added amiably: "That's a sensible question--a very natural
question; and I'll give you the answer to it in half a minute. I've
got to tell you my yarn in my own way, you know--you ought to know it
by this time--but you'll see presently just why the bees acted so
differently in the two cases.
"Well, as soon as Teddy Bear had got rid of his assailants he clawed
down through the leaves and twigs and moss--like _I_ did just now, you
remember, till he came to the damp, cool earth. Ah, how he dug his
smarting muzzle into it, and rooted in it, and rubbed it into his ears
and on his eyelids! till pretty soon--for the bee stings do not poison
a bear's blood as strongly as they poison us--he began to feel much
easier. As for the rest of his body--well, _those_ stings didn't
amount to much, you know, because his fur and his hide were both so
thick.
"At last he sat up on his haunches and looked around. You should have
seen him!"
"I'm glad I wasn't there, Uncle Andy," said the Babe, earnestly shaking
his head. But Uncle Andy paid no attention to the remark.
"His muddy paws drooped over his breast, and his face was all stuck
over with leaves and moss and mud--"
"_We_ must look funny, too," suggested the Babe, staring hard at the
black mud poultice under his uncle's swollen eye. But his uncle
refused to be diverted.
"And his glossy fur was in a state of which his mother would have
strongly disapproved. But his twinkling little eyes burned with wrath
and determination. He sniffed again that honey smell. He stared up at
the bee tree, and noted that the opening was much larger than it had
been before his visit. A big crack extended from it for nearly two
feet down the trunk. Moreover, there did not seem to be so many bees
buzzing about the hole."
The Babe's eyes grew so round with inquiry at this point that Uncle
Andy felt bound to explain.
"You see, as soon as the bees got it into their cunning heads that
their enemy was going to succeed in breaking into their storehouse,
they decided that it was more important to save their treasures than to
fight the enemy. It's like when one's house is on fire. At first one
fights to put the fire out. When that's no use, then one thinks only
of saving the things. That's the principle the bees generally go upon.
At first they attack the enemy, in the hope of driving him off. But if
they find that he is going to succeed in breaking in and burglarizing
the place, then they fling themselves on the precious honey which they
have taken so much pains to store, and begin to stuff their honey sacks
as full as possible. All they think of then is to carry away enough to
keep them going while they are getting established in new quarters.
The trouble with the fool bear who has got us into this mess to-day was
that he tackled a bee tree where the outside wood was too strong for
him to rip open. The bees knew he couldn't get in at them, so they all
turned out after him, to give him a good lesson. When he got away
through the underbrush so quickly they just turned on us, because they
felt they must give a lesson to somebody."
"_We_ didn't want to steal their old honey," muttered the Babe in an
injured voice.
"Oh, I'm not so sure!" said Uncle Andy. "I shouldn't wonder if Bill
and I'd come over here some night and smoke the rascals out. But we
can wait. That's the difference between us and Teddy Bear. He
wouldn't even wait to clean the leaves off his face, he was so anxious
for that honey, and his revenge.
"This time he went up the tree slowly and quietly, keeping out of sight
all the way. When he was exactly on a level with the entrance he
braced himself solidly, reached his right paw around the trunk like
lightning, got a fine hold on the edge of the new crack, and wrenched
with all his might.
"A big strip of half-rotten wood came away so suddenly that Teddy Bear
nearly fell out of the tree.
"A lot of bees came with it; and once more Teddy Bear's head was in a
swarm of little darting, piercing flames. But his blood was up. He
held onto that chunk of bee tree. A big piece of comb, dripping with
honey and crawling with bees, was sticking to it. Whimpering and
pawing at his face, he crunched a great mouthful of the comb, bees and
all.
"Never had he tasted, never had he dreamed of, anything so delicious!
What was the pain of his smarting muzzle to that ecstatic mouthful? He
snatched another, which took all the rest of the comb. Then he flung
the piece of wood to the ground.
"The bees, meanwhile--except those which had stung him and were now
crawling, stingless and soon to die, in his fur--had suddenly left him.
The whole interior of their hive was exposed to the glare of daylight,
and their one thought now was to save all they could. Teddy Bear's one
thought was to seize all he could. He clawed himself around boldly to
the front of the tree, plunged one greedy paw straight into the heart
of the hive, snatched forth a big, dripping, crawling comb, and fell to
munching it up as fast as possible--honey, bees, brood-comb, bee-bread,
all together indiscriminately. The distracted bees paid him no more
attention. They were too busy filling their honey sacks."
The Babe smacked his lips. He was beginning to get pretty hungry
himself.
"Well," continued Uncle Andy, "Teddy Bear chewed and chewed, finally
plunging his whole head into the sticky mess--getting a few stings, of
course, but never thinking of them--till he was just so gorged that he
couldn't hold another morsel. Then, very slowly and heavily, grunting
all the time, he climbed down the bee tree. He felt that he wanted to
go to sleep. When he reached the bottom he sat up on his haunches to
look around for some sort of a snug corner. His eyelids were swollen
with stings, but his little round stomach was swollen with honey, so he
didn't care a cent. His face was all daubed with honey, and earth, and
leaves, and dead bees. His whole body was a sight. And his claws were
so stuck up with honey and rotten wood and bark that he kept opening
and shutting them like a baby who has got a feather stuck to its
fingers and doesn't know what to do with it, But he was too sleepy to
bother about his appearance. He just waddled over to a sort of nook
between the roots of the next tree, curled up with his sticky nose
between his sticky paws, and was soon snoring."
"And did he ever get out of that deep hole?" inquired the Babe, always
impatient of the abrupt way in which Uncle Andy was wont to end his
stories.
"Of course he got out. He climbed out," answered Uncle Andy. "Do you
suppose a bear like that could be kept shut up long? And now I think
we might be getting out, too! I don't hear any more humming outside,
so I reckon the coast's about clear."
He peered forth cautiously.
"It's all right. Come along," he said. "And there's my pipe at the
foot of the rock, just where I dropped it," he added, in a tone of
great satisfaction. Then, with mud-patched, swollen faces, and crooked
but cheerful smiles, the two refugees emerged into the golden light of
the afternoon, and stretched themselves. But, as Uncle Andy surveyed
first the Babe and then himself in the unobstructed light, his smile
faded.
"I'm afraid Bill's going to have the laugh on us when we get home!"
said he.