Wanderings in the Wilderness.--A Bee-Hunt.--Sunrise.--The
Fox-Squirrel.--The Blue-Jay.--The Gopher.--The
Partridges.--Wild Geese, Ducks, and Cranes.--Blackbirds and
Meadow-Larks.--Venison's Account of the Bees' Domestic
Economy.--How Venison found what he was in Search of.--Honey
Secured.--After Reflections.
Venison Styles and myself, as I have stated, had now become intimate.
Together we scoured the woods and streams, in pursuit of fish and game.
There was a kind of rustic poetry about the old man that fascinated my
soul. His thoughts and feelings had been drawn from nature, and there was a
strange freshness and life about everything he said and did. He was as firm
and fiery as a flint; and the sparks struck out of him were as beautiful.
Winds and storms, morn's early dawn, the hush of evening, the seasons and
all their changes, had become a part of him--they had moulded and kept him.
They played upon him like a breeze upon a harp. How could I help loving
him?
Before daybreak, one morning in October, Venison, myself, his honey-box,
and axes, set out "a bee-hunting," as he called it. It was in the beautiful
and inspiring season of Indian summer, a season that lingers long and
lovely over the forests of the west. There had been a hard, black frost
during the night, and the great red sun rose upon it, shrouded in smoke.
We were soon deep in the heart of the wilderness, tramping over the fallen
leaves, and pushing forward to where the "bees were thick a-workin',"
according to Venison.
As the sun rose higher and higher, the leaves began, all around, to thaw,
and detach themselves from the trees, and silently settle to the ground.
There stood the yellow walnut, the blood-red maple, side by side with the
green pine and the spruce. Ten thousand rainbows were interlaced through
the tops of the trees, and now and then a sharp peak shot up its pile of
mosaic into the sky.
Not a sound was heard around us till morning's dawn. The tranquillity was
oppressive. The mighty wilderness was asleep. Everything felt as fixed and
awful as eternity. The vast extent of the wooded waste, reaching thousands
of miles beyond, on, and on, and _on_, filled with mountains, lakes, and
streams, lying in solitary grandeur, as unchanged as on the day the
Pyramids were finished, overwhelmed the imagination. And then the future
arose upon the mind, when all this will be busy with life--when the present
will be history, referred to, but not remembered--when the present
population of the globe will have been swept from the face of it, and
another generation in our place, playing with the toys that so long amused,
and which we, at last, left behind us.
But as day dawned, and morning began to throw in her arrows of gold about
our feet, the wilderness began to wake up. A fox-squirrel shot out from his
bed in a hollow tree, where he had been lodging during the night; and
scampering up a tall maple, he sat himself down, threw his tail over his
back, and broke forth with his _chick-chick-chickaree, chickaree,
chickaree_!--making the woods ring with his song.
"Look at him," exclaimed Venison; "he's as sassy as ever. If I had my
rifle, I'd knock the spots off that check coat of his'n; I'd larn him to
chickaree old Venison."
This squirrel, very common in some of the north-western states, is one of
the largest and most beautiful of its species. He is dressed in a suit of
light-brown check, and may be seen, in warm, sunny days, cantering over the
ground, or running through the tree-tops. He is a very careful and a very
busy body. I have often watched him, as he sat bolt upright in a hickory,
eating nuts, and throwing the shucks on the ground, with all the gravity of
a judge. During the fall, he hoards up large quantities of stores. He hulls
his beech-nuts, selects the fairest walnuts, picks up, here and there, a
few chestnuts, and packs everything away in his castle with the utmost
care; and, as Venison says, "the choppers in the winter have stolen bushels
on 'em!"
While our squirrel was singing his morning psalm, a crow, just out of his
bed, went sailing along above us, with his "caw! caw!" and settled on a
tree nearby. "Caw! caw!" he screamed again, looking down curiously at the
squirrel, as much as to say, "Who cares for _your_ music!" Then out hurried
another squirrel, and another, breaking forth with joy, until the crow,
fairly drowned out, spread his wings and soared away. Venison says, "Them
crows can smell gunpowder, and that fellow know'd we hadn't any, when he
lit so near us."
A blue-jay then commenced a loud call from a distant part of the forest. He
is one of the birds that lingers behind, and braves the blasts of winter.
He was flitting about in a tree-top, and had just commenced his day's
work. How gaudily Nature has dressed this bird! How he shines, during
spring and summer! All the shades, and touches, and tinges of blue flow
over his gaudy mantle; and how orderly and lavishly they are strown over
him. But the blue-jay is a dissolute kind of a fellow, after all--"neither
more nor less than a thief," Venison says. His shadowy dress fades with the
leaf, and after strutting about during the warmer months, making a great
display of his finery, he "runs down," at last, into a confirmed loafer.
Groups of them may be seen in the winter, drudging around among the
withered bushes, and scolding like so many shrews.
Then out popped the little _gopher_, that finished piece of stripe and
check, that miner, who digs deep in the ground. He, too, had left his
mansion, and come to greet the morn. A troop of quail marched along, headed
by their chief. Who does not love the quail? She is associated with early
childhood and household memories. Her voice rings through the past. We
heard it sounding over our better years. What a rich brown suit she wears,
cut round with Quaker simplicity! what taste and neatness about it! It was
she that long ago went forth with the reapers, and piped for them her
sunrise psalm, "_More wet! More wet!_" and she will stay here with us
during the winter, and traverse, with her caravan, all day, the desert
wastes of snow. Venison says he "don't never kill a quail--it ain't
right--but he don't know why."
The partridges, all around, commenced rolling their drums, and every little
while, one would whirr past our heads, and die away in the distance. The
whole wood-pecker family began _their_ labor. He who wears a red velvet
cap, silk shawl, and white under-clothes, was boring away in a rotten tree,
to find his breakfast; and he kept hitching around, and hammering, without
regarding or caring for our presence. The rabbit, with ears erect, sat
drawn up in a heap, quivering with fear, as he gazed upon us.
At last we reached the bank of the river, and Venison said, "We had better
sit down, and take our reck'ning." Here was one of the most beautiful
pictures of still life ever painted by Nature. The river wound away like a
silver serpent, until it was lost in a bank of Indian summer haze, and it
gurgled and dashed through the aisles of the forest, like a dream through
the silent realms of sleep. It lay, half sunshine, half shadow, and the
shadow was slowly creeping up a tall cliff on the opposite shore, as the
day advanced, counting, as it were, the moments as they passed. Afar down
it, I was amused as I watched a flock of wild geese. They were about a
hundred in number, sleeping upon the water, in a glassy cove, their heads
neatly tucked under their wings. An old gander, who had been appointed
sentinel, to keep watch and guard, was doing the best he could to perform
his duty. He stood upon one leg, and he grew so drowsy, several times, that
he nearly toppled over, to his great consternation, and the danger of his
charge. But rousing up, and taking two or three pompous strides, and
stretching his neck to its utmost, with a very wise look, he satisfied
himself that all was right, and that he was not so bad a sentinel, after
all.
Near by this sleeping community, where a ripple played over a cluster of
rocks, a flock of ducks were performing their ablutions. Now they were
diving, now combing out their feathers, now rising and flapping their
wings, now playing with each other, when the leader blowing a blast on his
trumpet, they rose gracefully from their bath, and forming themselves into
a _drag_, went winnowing up the river to their haunts far away.
A sand-hill crane, hoisted up on his legs of stilts, his clothes gathered
up, and pinned behind him, was leisurely wading about, spearing fish for
his breakfast. A dozy, stupid-looking kingfisher sat upon a blasted limb
just over him, looking as grave as a country justice engaged in the same
business. A bald eagle came rushing down the stream like an air-ship, his
great wings slowly heaving up and down, as if he had set out upon an
all-day's journey. A muskrat ferried himself over from one side to the
other, urgent upon business best known to himself. A prairie-wolf came down
to the water's edge, gave a bark or two, and taking a drink, turned back
the way he came.
How many birds had left the wilderness for other climes! The blackbirds,
those saucy gabblers, who spent the summer here, feeding upon wild rice,
departed a month ago. I saw their bustle and preparation. They were days
and days getting ready for their journey. The whole country around was
alive with their noise. They sang, and fretted. They seemed to be out of
all kind of patience with everybody and everything--to have a kind of spite
against Nature for driving them off. All the trees about the marshes were
loaded, and some were singing, some complaining, some scolding; but having
finally completed their arrangements, all of a sudden they left. And the
meadow-lark, that came so early with her spring song--she who used to sit
upon the waving grass, and heave herself to and fro, in so ecstatic and
polite a manner, as her melody rose and fell--she, too, is gone.
But about _hunting bees_. Venison informed me that here was the spot where
he should "try 'em--that he didn't know nothin' about his luck;" that "bees
were the knowingest critters alive"--that they lived in "the holler trees,
all around us." He said "they had queens to govern 'em"--that they had
"workers and drones"--that "everything about 'em was done just so, and if
any of 'em broke the laws, they just killed 'em, and pitched 'em
overboard." This, he said, he had "seed himself; he had seed a reg'lar bee
funeral." He "seed, once, four bees tugging at a dead body, drawing it on
the back, when they throw'd it out of the hive, and covered it over with
dirt." And then they have "wars," he says, and "gin'rals," and "captins,"
and "sogers," and "go out a-fightin', and a-stealin' honey;" they are very
"knowin' critters, and there is no tellin' nothin' about 'em."
Venison took the little box he had brought with him, which was filled with
honey, and, opening its lid, placed it on a stump. He then rambled around
the woods until he found a lingering flower that had escaped the frost,
with a honey-bee upon it. This he picked, bee and all, and placed on the
honey. Soon the bee began to work and load himself; and finally he rose in
circles, winding high in the air, and suddenly turning a right angle, he
shot out of sight.
"Where has he gone?" inquired I.
"Gone hum where he lives," answered Venison, "to unload his thighs and tell
the news."
In a few moments, three bees returned, filled themselves, and departed;
then six; then a dozen, until a black line was formed, along which they
were rushing both ways, empty and laden, one _end_ of which was lost in the
forest.
Venison and myself then started on a trot, with our eyes upward, to follow
this living line; and after having proceeded a quarter of a mile it became
so confused and scattered that we gave it up, and returned.
"What now?" I inquired.
"I'll have 'em! I'll have 'em!" he replied. "They can't cheat old Venison.
I've hunted the critters mor-nor forty years, and I allers takes 'em when I
tries. I'll draw a couple of more sights on 'em."
Venison took two pieces more of honey, and placed one on each side of his
box. The bees followed him and commenced their work. Very soon, instead of
one, he had three lines established, his line of honey forming the base of
a triangle, while the bees were all rushing to its point, on each side of
this triangle, and through its middle.
This, of course, was a demonstration. Venison and myself followed up again,
and, sure enough, we "had 'em," as he predicted. There they were, roaring
in the top of a great oak, like thunder, coming in and going out, wheeling
up and down through the air as though some great celebration was going on.
It seemed that the whole hive of workers must have broken forth to capture
and carry away Venison's honey-box.
"Will they sting?" inquired I.
"Some folks say they will," he replied. "If they hate a man they'll follow
him a mile; and nobody knows who they hate and who they don't, until
they're tried."
"Where's the honey?" I inquired again.
"Well, that's the next thing I'm arter;" and Venison put his ear to the
trunk of the tree to ascertain in what part of it they were "a-workin'." He
listened a while, but "they warn't low down, he know'd, for he didn't hear
'em hummin'." He thought the honey was "out the way, high up somewhere." So
at the tree he went with his axe, and in half an hour the old oak--older,
probably, than any man on the globe--came down with a crash that roused up
all the echoes of the wilderness.
Upon an examination, the honey was, probably, Venison thought, packed away
in a hollow of the tree, about fifty feet from the ground, as a large
knot-hole was discerned, out of which the bees were streaming in great
consternation. So he severed the trunk again, at the bottom of the hollow,
and there it was, great flakes piled one upon another, some of which had
been broken by the fall of the tree, and were dripping and oozing out their
wild richness.
"That's the raal stuff," exclaimed Venison; "something 'sides bees-bread."
Venison had brought nothing with him to hold his honey, and I was a little
curious to know how he would manage. He cut the tree again above the knot.
During his labor the bees had settled all over him. His hands, face, and
hair were filled, besides a circle of them that were angrily wheeling about
his head. But he heeded them not, except by an occasional shake, which was
significant of pity rather than rage.
"Now," said Venison, when his work was finished, the tree cut, the
knot-hole stopped, and the whole turned upside down, "that's what I call a
nat'ral bee-hive, and we'll just stuff in a little dry grass on the top,
and then I'll be ready to move."
[Illustration: A BEE HUNT.
"That's the raal stuff," exclaimed Venison; "something 'sides bees'-bread."
Page 62.]
"Move!" I exclaimed, "move! You don't expect _ue_ will carry home a _tree_,
do you?"
"Two or three on 'em, I s'pect. Venison allers gets as much as that."
Venison was right. Before noon, half a dozen hives were captured and ready
for removal. I confess, after the excitement was over, that I began to grow
quite serious over my forenoon's labor. I sat down to rest myself, and the
very solemnity of the wilderness produced a sober train of thought. A
south-west breeze sprang up loaded with the dying breath of the
fall-flowers. It was blowing down the leaves around me, and piling them up
in gorgeous drifts. Like an undertaker around the remains of the dead, it
was quietly tearing down the drapery, and preparing the year for its
burial. A haze overspread everything, and the distance was mellow, the
objects indistinct, and the whole landscape seemed swimming, as we
sometimes see it in a dream. The trees were covered with haze; and a canoe,
on its way down, appeared to be hung up in the air; the birds were hazy;
and, looking about me, I appeared to be sitting in a great tent of haze.
The squirrels were clattering through the trees, and throwing down the
nuts; the partridges were drumming; the rabbits rustling through the dry
leaves; the water-fowl hurrying through the air; and the crickets, those
melancholy musicians, were piping a low, dirge-like strain to the golden
hours of autumn as they passed away.
I thought I could hear the great heart of Nature beat with measured and
palpitating strokes; could feel the pendulum of Time swinging back and
forth.
But I said I was rather sober. There stood our six bee-hives, and clinging
to each in large clusters were its inhabitants, who had been driven forth
by us to brave a pitiless winter. We had destroyed six cities, and banished
their people; six cities, six governments of law and order. Cities laid out
in lanes, and streets, and squares; cities of dwelling-houses and castles;
cities filled with all sorts of people; all castes in society. There were
the queen and her palace; the drones and their castles; and the serf, or
day-laborer, and his hut; and there, sitting upon her throne, the sovereign
swayed as mighty a sceptre, tyrannized over as great a people, in her
opinion, as any human despot. She undoubtedly bustled about, talked large,
swelled up herself with her importance, boasted of her blood, of her divine
right to rule (certainly divine in her case), just as all earthly princes
do. There she projected plans of war, marshalled her forces, and stimulated
their courage with inflammatory appeals. She talked about her house as the
royal line, as the French used to about the Bourbons. And then a lazy
aristocracy had been broken up by us; we had turned hundreds of drones
adrift, and according to the modern definition, drones must be aristocrats;
that is, they did no work, and lived upon the labor of others. They were,
in all probability, just like all other aristocratic drones. They lounged
about the hive in each other's company; had an occasional uproar at each
other's table; turned out to take the morning air, and slept after dinner.
They probably advised in all matters of public policy, and cried every day,
"Long live the Queen." I did not care much about the drones, however. But
we had turned the poor day-laborer out of doors; he who rose with the sun,
and went forth to work while the dew was yet tying on the flowers. We had
humbled the pride of six cities, and brought it to the dust. Is it strange
that I felt sober?
But Venison broke my musing by informing me that it was "about time to
cakalate a little about getting our honey home, and he guessed he'd go and
rig up a raft, and float the cargo down."
And soon a raft was constructed of flood-wood, and bound together with
green withes, the honey rolled aboard, two long poles prepared to be used
to guide the craft, and away we glided, followed by a long train of bees,
who had been despoiled, and who streamed along after us, until the shadows
of evening arrested their flight, and parted them and their treasure
forever.