"You might claim some of Morehead's honey," I suggested, "since you've been feeding his bees. But, then," I reflected, "it wouldn't be wild honey, and what I wanted was wild honey."
We rose dejectedly, and Jonathan picked up the box. "Aren't you going to leave it for the bees?" I asked. "They'll be so disappointed when they come back."
"They aren't the only ones to be disappointed," he remarked grimly. "Here, we'll have mushrooms for supper, anyway." And he stooped to collect a big puff-ball.
We walked home, our spirits gradually rising. After all, it is hard to stay depressed under a blue fall sky, with a crisp wind blowing in your face and the sense of completeness that comes of a long day out of doors. And as we climbed the last long hill to the home farm we could not help feeling cheerful.
"Bee-hunting is fun," I said, "even if they are tame bees."
"It's the best excuse for being a loafer that I've found yet," said Jonathan; "I wonder the tramps don't all go into the business."
"And some day," I pursued hopefully, "we'll go again and find really wild bees and really wild honey."
"It would taste just the same, you know," jeered Jonathan.
And I was so content with life that I let him have the last word.