It was a favorite sport with Billy, in the summer time, to hunt for bumble-bees' nests, and to "take them up," as the process of capturing them was called. Uncle Mike did not like to indulge the boy in this kind of sport. Perhaps he thought it a cruel and unfeeling kind of fun; and I know he had too kind a heart, to see a boy growing up in his family with a taste for cruelty to animals of any kind. At any rate, the danger connected with the sport was enough to condemn it in the mind of Mr. Marble.
He had forbidden Billy and his own children having any thing to do with the sport. Still, it seemed Billy found means to amuse himself, now and then, in a sly way, by taking up a bumble-bees' nest.
One day, Mr. Marble and his men were engaged in the meadow, raking hay and carting it into the barn. Billy was in the meadow, too, at work among the hay, raking after the cart, I presume, as that used to be the task always allotted to me when I was of his age. In a corner of the lot, at some distance from the place where Mr. Marble and his men were at work, there was a large bottle containing water—nothing but water, reader; there was no rum drank on Mr. Marble's farm. Billy was sent after the bottle. He was gone a good while—longer, Mr. Marble thought, than was necessary. The matter was examined, when it turned out that Billy had got into trouble with a nest of bumble-bees. He had discovered a nest of these wretches, it appears; and, the temptation to wage war against them being very strong, he had stopped a moment, just to take up the nest.
Poor fellow! It proved to be a taking in, instead of a taking up, and the taking in was on the other side. When he saw that the bumble-bees had outwitted him, he snatched up the bottle, which he had thrown down, and which was lying near, and ran, as fast as his legs would let him, towards the place where the men were at work. But the bees flew faster than he could run. It was a comic scene enough to see the fellow running at the top of his speed, and some fifty bumble-bees after him, once in a while giving expression to their feelings, by saluting him, in their peculiar way, in the face and on the neck. Didn't the poor fellow scream?
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But this was not the whole of the joke. Indeed, it was hardly the richest part of it. Mr. Marble, who saw what was going on, stood ready with his cart whip; and when Billy made his appearance, with a regiment of bumble-bees about his ears, he commenced beating him with the whip. Away ran the boy, and Mr. Marble chased him some half a dozen rods, and gave him about as many blows with the cart whip.
"There, you young rogue!" said Mr. Marble, as he turned to go back to his work again, "between me and the bumble-bees, I guess you have learned one good lesson thoroughly this afternoon. You will be a wiser boy, I think, after this. You will be a smarter one, I'm sure; at least, for a while."