“A honey-tree” was a fortunate discovery at any time, for it meant a store of delicious wild honey. It was, as in this case, usually a partially decayed tree where the wild bees had swarmed, and where stores of honey were concealed. Sometimes the bees had filled the cavities of the tree so full that they were forced to desert it and find new quarters; but it was evident that here they were very busy indeed.
“They will have to be smoked out,” decided Rebby, who had often heard her father tell of the way in which such stores were captured. “I wish I could do it, and get some honey for dinner,” she exclaimed aloud.
“Well, why not?” she heard someone say from behind her, and she turned quickly to find Paul Foster, looking so much like an Indian boy in his fringed leggins and feathered cap that it made her jump quickly.
“I came up-stream in my canoe after salmon,” he explained, “and I have speared three beauties; I saw you from across the stream, so I paddled over. You’ve made a great find,” and he nodded toward the old stump.
“Could we smoke out the bees and get some honey, Paul?” Rebby asked eagerly. She and Paul were nearly of an age, and Paul was a friendly boy, always ready to make bows and arrows or toy boats for his little sister and her girl playmates.
“I don’t see why not,” he responded, as if smoking out a hive of wild bees was a very usual undertaking; “but I haven’t a flint and steel,” he added.
“I have, in my basket,” declared Rebecca; and in a few minutes Paul and Rebecca had gathered a mass of sticks and grass, heaping it a short distance from the stump.
“Mustn’t get a blaze, only a heavy smoke,” said Paul as he struck the flint and steel together, and carefully sheltered the spark which the dry grass instantly caught.
At the sight of the smoke Mr. Weston came running from the mill, and with his assistance the bees were speedily disposed of.