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A hot coal laid on a piece of comb, which rested on a cypress-knee,called the bees and gave Bill his first line.

A few hundred yards to the side, bees were allowed flight to their mainhive, giving the second line. At the angle of intersection the treewas found.

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CHAPTER IX

THE BEE HUNTER

SMITH loved solitude, when he could share itwith his friends. So he urged us to join himat his camp in the Big Cypress, which he

described as a land flowing with (tinned) milk and(wild) honey. He was fattening himself on venisonand wild turkey, wrote of bear and panther, recom-mended a 30.30 Winchester, a 12-bore pump-gunwith smokeless cartridges, and sent Bill, his "guide,philosopher and friend," to pilot us into his wilder-ness. We had long known Bill as an all-aroundhunter and trapper whose specialty was bee-hunting,and as a bee campaign was on our program we armedourselves with modern cameras and plate ammuni-tion, in place of the archaic weapons suggested byour friend, and with a compass, toothbrush and head-net each, together with some non-essential clothing,stowed ourselves away in Bill's skiff.

We threaded narrow channels that zizagged amongkeys of the Ten Thousand Islands, crossed wide,shallow bays with oyster bars over which the skiffhad to be dragged, passed through openings whichprojecting mangrove bushes had closed to the eye,poled up creeks so crooked that snakes lost their wayin them, until we reached Bill's shack, which was on

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the mainland. Here we exchanged the skiff for amule and cart. The water voyage had been dry, thejourney by land was mostly through water, overboggy prairie, between web-footed cypress treesstanding in pools of water, with occasional stretchesof sandy pine land. We made slow progress alongan invisible road, through a country which has beendescribed as "not wet enough for frogs, but mosttoo wet for folks." More frequently we carried thecart than rode in it. If we dodged the devil of abowlder on one side, we fell into the deep sea of amudhole on the other. When the low-hanging axlebrought up against a cypress knee and jarred theteeth out of our heads, we got out in the mud andboosted the cart over the trouble. Riding soon tiredus and we waded for a rest, waded and walked, untilnight came and we had covered only fifteen of thetwenty-three miles which lay between the shack wehad left and the camp we were bound for. Whenthe mule had been turned loose to forage for thistlesor such other delicacies as were available, Bill starteda fire with fat chunks of the pine that grew aroundus and cut the bud from a cabbage palmetto for oursupper. We made beds of palmetto fans, lay downunder the stars and listened to Bill's quaint stories ofhunting adventures, of curious facts which he hadlearned and happenings which he had seen; then,as he wandered into other fields, inviting polemicaldiscussion of religious dogmas which he had pickedup or invented, we glided into dreamless slumberfrom which we awakened to see Bill and the mule

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ready to strike the trail. The sun had not risenand I was troubled to get my bearings, for every pinetree looked like its neighbor, every cypress strandwas merely a replica of every other cypress strand,palmetto groups were alike as twins, expanses ofopen prairie bore to other expanses the mutual rela-tion of peas in a pod, yet Bill walked in front of themule, in a line that was straight, eight miles to Smithand his camp.

We were welcomed with a whoop to the campfirewith its pot of grits which we proceeded to assimilate,while Bill and his brother broiled big chunks of wildturkey for our three overdue meals. When the after-dinner pipe had been smoked, the wild turkeys inthe larder exhibited and post-mortems held after themanner of sportsmen, Bill put a coal from the fireon a piece of honeycomb which he laid on top of acurious up-thrusting growth called cypress knee,and before he had reached the end of his next storyseveral bees had followed up the trail of the smokinghoney and loaded themselves with the treasure trove.As they flew away, I failed to see whither, Bill saidthey were from two hives, one of which was fromsome tree almost due south from us and the otherin one about northeast. After watching the honeybait for a few minutes he said the hive to the southwas nearest. I asked him how he knew and he re-plied, "Bees get back sooner." I didn't believe him,but refrained from telling him so. He put the smok-ing bait in a little box with a sliding glass top inwhich he captured several bees. He then moved

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about a hundred yards to the east and released a beewhich took a course something west of south. Billsaid we would find the hive "in them cypress over 'nthat swamp 'bout a quarter off." We walked to theswamp and waded in, swerving from a bee line onlyto avoid impenetrable tangles and keep out of deepholes. Squirrels looked down on us from thebranches of tall trees, wading birds flew flabbily be-fore us and once Bill kicked aside a moccasin thatseemed about to strike. As we walked farther inthe swamp Bill moved more and more slowly, gaz-ing intently upward and studying the top of everybig tree. After we had gone a quarter of a mile heturned loose another bee which flew to the north.Bill said we had gone past the hive and asked mewhere my eyes had been. Then he exclaimed,"There it is!" and pointing out a big cypress aboutfifty yards away tried to make me see a knot-holefifty feet from the ground which he said was the doorto the hive. I told him that I could see the tree allright, that it might have a knot-hole, though it wouldtake a telescope to prove it, but as to seeing bees atthat distance it couldn't be done. He tried to showme the yellow stain of wax left around the hole bythe feet of the bees and promised me a view at shortrange the next morning.

We returned to camp and learned that Smith hadgone into the near-by hammock to find out what wasexciting his dog, which could still be heard barkingangrily. A little later we heard two shots from thethick woods where he had gone, followed by the

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savage barking of a very much agitated dog, whichBill said must be in a mix-up with a wild-cat. Oursurmising was cut short by the hunter's signal forhelp, two shots in quick succession followed by athird after a brief interval. Bill and his brotherstarted on a run in the direction of the sound andremained away so long that we were considering arelief expedition when "three men and a dog," cov-ered with mud and glory and bearing the carcass ofa panther that from tip to tip measured ninety-fourinches, returned to camp. Smith had followed hisdog into a thicket where he was barking at somethingwhich Smith supposed was a coon. When he foundhimself looking into the eyes of a panther thatcrouched on a limb twenty feet above him, he wasreminded unpleasantly of the fact that, instead of arifle, he held in his hand a fowling piece loaded withsmall shot. The time seemed long, as he stoodwithin a single bound of the most dangerous of wildanimals, with eyes fixed upon his, slowly feeling outbird cartridges from his gun and pressing shellsloaded with buckshot in their places, but there wassurely neither haste nor nervousness in the cautiousmotion that lifted the weapon to his shoulder, andwhen the flame streamed from it the sights were inaccurate alignment with the brain of the savage beast.The panther partly sprang and partly fell to theground, receiving a second shot which was fired fromprecaution rather than necessity. It isn't every daythat a hunter gets a panther, nor is it every hunterthat ever gets one, and we sympathized with Smith

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in his struggle to maintain before the campfire, aswe talked far into the night, the air of nonchalancewhich he at first assumed. But there was a fly inthe ointment of the Camera-man when he heard ofthe pose of the panther.

For the hunt of the next morning we arrayed our-selves in defensive armor of head-nets, padded gloves,coat sleeves tied at the wrists, and trousers at theankles. The professionals, Bill and his brother, with-out gloves or netting, attacked with axes the bigcypress, which the bees had homesteaded, but whenthe tree fell they protected themselves from theenraged insects by the smoke of burning palmettofans which they carried in their hands as they quicklyplugged up the front door of the bee habitation. Theywere not afraid of the bees, but were mindful of themonition of Mohammed and tied their camels beforetrusting them to God. The bee-hunters soundedthe trunk of the fallen tree with their axes and begansplitting off a big chip six feet long and. includingabout one-fourth of the circumference of the tree.Just before the axe broke through into the cavitywhere the bees were making merry music, Bill starteda smudge under the tree and within its friendly refugesplit off the chip and laid open the store of accumu-lated honey. The hunters retired, the bees swarmedforth filling the air with their angry buzzing and thehour of the Camera-man had come. He found thebees and the bees found him. There were crevicesin his armor, bare wrists, thinly covered sections ofsensitive skin and exposed spots, and the insects

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located them with accuracy. His head-net pre-vented accurate focusing and he tore it off; hecouldn't press the bulb with padded gloves so he laidthem aside, for otherwise the expedition would bea failure and it was better to return on his shieldthan without it. Thereafter the chivalrous bees liton his face and hands and crawled over them butnever again stung him. He photographed them, aswell as the honey-filled comb, of which full fiftypounds rested within the hollow of the cypress, builtthere in rows overlapping each other, arranged withan architectural skill worthy of their repute as theprimal geometricians. He photographed groups ofbees as they clustered on adjacent logs or cypressknees and contemplated the ruins of their heritage.When the Camera-man rested from his labors herefreshed himself with big mouthfuls of honeycomb,illustrating the economic policy of transferring goods"direct from the producer to the consumer." Afterthe bees had quieted down, the bee-hunters robbedthem of the property they had accumulated, tearingaway with bare hands great pieces of comb overwhich scores of bereaved bees were crawling andunconcernedly brushed aside the rightful owners asthey put their honey into big pails provided to containthe plunder. For hours after the destruction of theirhome many of the bees remained, crawling over thelog and mourning their misfortunes as they atecrumbs of scattered comb, while even a week latera few could still be found contemplating the ruins.

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among human kind. He confers his friendship onsome and extends enmity to others without discover-able reasons. In general, steady nerves and slowmotions will save one from trouble with bees evenwhen they light on his bare face and hands, but thereare persons for whom bees seem to have a reasonlessantipathy and whom they sting at sight.

In the frozen North, to rob a bee tree is often todestroy its population, but in this land of everlastingsummer with ever blooming flowers it only gives thecommunity a lesson, worthy of more extended appli-cation, on the folly of hoarding beyond one's needs.Bill told us of a bee tree which he had marked somemonths before, containing, he thought, a big lot ofhoney. He guided us three miles in a bee line,through swamp and forest, straight to the tree, onlyto find after felling it, that a colony of ants had fore-stalled us and robbed the bees with a thoroughnessthat left nothing to console their successors.

The life of the bee hunter is not strenuous alongmodern lines. Starting with a bit of honey and afew cartridges for his rifle, he will spend weeks in thewoods, living on the country, eating venison and wildturkey and sleeping under the stars. For his fewcivilized requirements of clothing, coffee, ammuni-tion and utensils he draws on his banks in the hollowtrees and the Big Cypress. You can go with himand find rest and zest in the great wilderness, if thetrue spirit of the campfire possesses you. He is yourpeer by virtue of his better knowledge of the thingsthat count in the primitive life you must lead. The

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Protected only by a little smoke the bee hunters take out the combwith bare hands.

Smith, in gloves and head-net, inspects the honey.

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wider your experience in the great world outside,the keener will be your enjoyment of the simplicityof his environment.

When Bill was struck by a rattlesnake, which sunkits fangs deep in his flesh, Smith, who happily waswith him, instantly put his lips to the wound andsucked out as much of the deadly venom as possible.For a time the issue was uncertain, yet in a few weeksBill was again tramping the woods and swamps asunconcernedly as if he had not so lately looked deepinto the eyes of Death.

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