"I had to. I nearly twisted my neck off following their circles. I'm no owl."
I sat down near by and we watched a few more go, while others began to arrive.
"That dab of honey did the work," said Jonathan. "We might as well begin to follow up their line now."
Waiting till there were a dozen or more in the box, he gently slid on the glass cover, laid a paper over it to darken it, and we set out. Ten minutes' walking brought us past the big chestnut and out to a little clearing. Jonathan set the box down on a big rock where it would show up well, laid a handkerchief beside it, drew off the glass, and crouched. A bunch of excited bees burst out and away, without noticing their change of place. "They'll never find their way back there," said Jonathan regretfully; "they'll go straight back to the Sharon lot."
But there were others in the box, still feeding, who had not been disturbed by the move, and these he touched with honey drops. They staggered off, one by one, orienting themselves properly as they rose, and taking the same old line off to the westward. This was disappointing. We had hoped to see them turn back, showing that we had passed their home tree. However, there was nothing to do but sit and wait for them. In six minutes they began to come back, in twos and threes—evidently the honey drops on their shoulders had told the hive a sufficiently alluring story. Again we waited until the box was well filled with them, then closed it and went on westward. Two more moves brought us to a half-cleared ridge from which we could see out across country. To the westward, and sadly near, was the end of the big woods and the beginning of pastures and farmland.
Jonathan scrutinized the farms dotting the slopes. "See that bunch of red barns with a white house?" he said "That's Bill Morehead's. He keeps bees. Bet we've got bees from his hive and they'll lead us plumb into his back yard."
It did begin to seem probable, and we took up our box in some depression of spirits. Two more stops, the bees still perversely flying westward, and we emerged in pastures.
"Here's our last stop," said Jonathan. "If they don't go back into that edge we've just left, they're Morehead's. There isn't another bit of woods big enough to hold a bee tree for seven miles to the west of us."
There was no rock to set the box on, so we lay down on the turf; Jonathan set the box on his chest, and partly slid the cover. He had by this time learned the trick of making the bees, even the excited ones, come out singly. We watched each one as she escaped, circle above us, circle, circle against the clear blue of the afternoon sky, then dart off—alas!—westward. As the last one flew we sat up, disconsolately, and gazed across the pasture.
"Tame bees!" muttered Jonathan, in a tone of grief and disgust. "Tame bees, down there in my old woodlots. It's trespass!"