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212 box. When we were far enough afield, some unwary bee was lifted from its goldenrod revel and imprisoned in the box, where one of the empty combs had been filled from the bottle for her special delectation. Like a worthy bee, she began to fill at once; meanwhile, the stake was pushed into the ground and the box placed upon it, the cover removed, and we all retired for a little distance to watch. When the bee finally lifted herself and our honey into the air, we gave her closest attention. To make sure of the exact position of her bonanza, she always arose in a spiral, each circle being larger than the one before, and finally turned the spiral in a certain direction. When she suddenly darted away with almost the speed of a bullet, it was always the eyes of our father, blue as the sky against which the bee was outlined, that detected her direction; for young eyes, however keen, counted little against trained eyes in this competition.

Then there always followed a time of anxious waiting for the return of the bee. Meanwhile we stretched out on the dry sod in the sun and listened to the chirping of the crickets, or the sweet notes of the meadow larks and idly watched a hawk circle on even pinions above our heads; or we told stories of other days of successful bee-hunting. If the bee returned within fifteen minutes, all was well and we were confident that the tree was distant not much more than a mile. But if we had to wait a half hour we usually caught other bees and started over again, hoping to find some nearer colony. If our first