XII
As the Bee Flies
Jonathan had taken me to see the "bee tree" down in the "old John Lane lot." Judging from the name, the spot must have been a clearing at one time, but now it is one of the oldest pieces of woodland in the locality. The bee tree, a huge chestnut, cut down thirty years ago for its store of honey, is sinking back into the forest floor, but we could still see its hollow heart and charred sides where the fire had been made to smoke out the bees.
"Jonathan," I said, "I'd like to find some wild honey. It sounds so good."
"No better than tame honey," said Jonathan.
"It sounds better. I'm sure it would be different scooped out of a tree like this than done up neatly in pound squares."
"Tastes just the same," persisted Jonathan prosaically.
"Well, anyway, I want to find a bee tree. Let's go bee-hunting!"
"What's the use? You don't know a honeybee from a bumblebee."
"Well, you do, of course," I answered, tactfully.