The Bee Hunter

by George Harold Edgell

Arriving at the tree a council of war will follow as to how best to fell it. If you are wise, you will allow this decision to be made by your woodsmen. If possible, it should be felled so that the hole is on one side or on top. If possible, it should not be felled across boulders, as it is very desirable not to have the hole split. Sometimes a tree will be so leaning, however, that there is no choice in the matter, and one must do the best one can. While the woodsmen are chipping the trunk and beginning to saw, the hunter should gather moss, the fronds of ferns, or other stuff to plug the hole when the tree is brought down. As the saw bites deeper and the scarf widens, the top of the tree will begin to sway. Now is the time for the hunter to don his veil and gloves. Before putting on the veil, it is well to turn up the collar of one’s jacket. It is not even an act of supererogation to tie tightly some twine around one’s waist. I once had an ambitious bee crawl up under my jacket, down through the band of my trousers, up under my shirt and undershirt and sting me in the small of the back. For protection of the legs, nothing is better than a light pair of fisherman’s rubber boots. Failing them, tie the bottom of your trousers or dungarees tightly round the tops of your shoes. Do not wear low shoes. My companion did that the time we took up the ninety-seven pound tree. It was in a swamp and, in addition to the discomfort of wet feet, he found that a couple of dozen bees, stupefied by the smudge, fell into the water, revived, and relieved their feelings by swimming across to his ankles and stinging them. The next day his legs looked as though he had elephantiasis, and never thereafter could I get him to help me take up a bee tree. He could not seem to comprehend that the fault was his for wearing low shoes.

The cut deepens. The tree sways wider. It begins to heave, and one hears the first pistol-like reports of the cracking trunk. Slowly at first then with rapid momentum the tree falls with a thunderous roar. The axemen have snatched the saw from the cut and jumped back. The hunter rushes in, his hands full of moss, finds the aperture and plugs it before the bees can escape. At least he tries to. Sometimes he misses a subsidiary aperture, and some bees escape to enliven the proceedings. Sometimes the bole splits at the hollow and nothing can be done about that. Usually the hole can be plugged, and one can take one’s time preparing to open the hollow.

The woodsmen now put on their nets and gloves, if indeed they have not done so just before felling the tree. All debate as to whether the hollow extends above or below the hole, often a matter of guesswork. Then the saw comes into play again. The lumbermen cut deep scarves above and below the area where the honey is supposed to be. When rotten wood (and at times honey!) shows on the blade, one can be sure the hollow is entered. Then a wedge is placed at the base of one of the scarves and driven home with the sledge. Another, parallel to it, is driven in further down, and a third parallel at the lower scarf. As the wedges are driven home, the bole will split and a great section may be lifted off like a lid, exposing the honey and the bees. Of course, I am describing an ideal performance. Often the tree makes trouble, has to be sawed several times, and the opening enlarged with the axe. As the crack widens under the impact of the wedges, the bees pour out, and the fight is on. They will attack viciously, and one is aware of the ping of bees dashing themselves against the wire netting of the veil. If one has taken proper precautions, one is safe, though, to be honest, one usually gets stung once or twice in taking up the tree. Humans vary in susceptibility to bee stings. I am lucky in that they trouble me little, and usually the swellings are slight. On the other hand, my brother when once stung in the back of the hand, found his arm next morning thrice its normal size to the armpit. Those so constituted had better stop at home when a tree is taken up.

Once the fight is on it is well to get at the honey as soon as possible. Once the comb is well broken, the bees lose most of their fight. They will dash around in a bewildered way, bunch up on a bush, gorge themselves with spilled honey, and generally give evidence that the spirit of the hive is dead. Only a few doughty fighters will continue the battle. The comb will be in layers, up and down the length of the hollow, sometimes in pieces two or two and one-half feet long, with spaces between to admit the workers. In describing the equipment I neglected to add a large iron spoon and a couple of table knives. Usually it is necessary to cut the comb to get it into convenient sizes, and a good deal of honey will escape and run down into the hollow whence it can be spooned out and added to the spoil in the boiler. If a certain amount of chips, dead wood, and even dead bees and larvae are included, do not be disturbed. It will all be strained anyway. I have long since given up trying to save wild honey in the comb. When the last available drop is garnered, gather up your equipment and retreat. A hundred yards away and you are quite safe and can doff the nets and gloves that by this time are unbearably hot and sticky. Then you have your first taste of delicious honey.

Either wild honey is more tasty than the domestic variety or one’s exertions have made it seem so. My guests have always agreed that my wild honey is more aromatic than any one can buy. I imagine the answer is that strained wild honey is a blend, while domestic honey is generally of one variety. The taste of honey varies widely according to the flowers from which it is made. Clover honey, foolishly the most prized, is the most insipid. Golden rod honey is golden yellow and spicy. Buckwheat honey is, if anything, too pungent and heavy as molasses. The honey of Provence, made from wild thyme, has a special piney taste. In straining wild honey no attempt is made to separate the varieties, and the result is a blend, varying somewhat according to tree or season, but always more interesting than the domestic variety. Having sampled your honey and found it good, you can now go home and weigh your spoil. Unless, indeed, you have more than one tree to take up. I have taken up four in a day.

The rest is an epilogue. The straining of the honey is a matter for the distaff side. My wife makes large bags of cheesecloth, and the comb is broken up and introduced into these. They are then hung over pans in a warm kitchen. The honey drips slowly into the pans. One fears that a lot will be wasted, but not so. In thirty-six hours or more the comb will be dry beeswax, and the honey can be run off from the pans into glass jars. When sealed, the honey will keep indefinitely. After a while it will sugar into a kind of paste. I like this better for eating than the liquid variety, but if anyone disagrees, it is necessary only to place the jar in warm water for a while, and the honey will return to its liquid state.

So much for bee hunting and how it is done. This account has one virtue, perhaps only one: it is true. It is based on experience, and there is nothing in it that I have not done myself. I have relied on nothing that I have been told; there is no hearsay. I have made no attempt to discuss the life of the bee and the fascinating details of its domestic economy. For the curious in these matters, I recommend Maeterlinck’s Life of the Bees. I imagine what he says is true, but I cannot prove it by my own certain knowledge. It is certainly very beautiful and perhaps it is more important for a poet to make a thing beautiful than to make it true. These matters are not of my concern. For a more factual but equally fascinating account, I recommend Bees’ Ways by George de Clyver Curtis.

I have also tried very hard to avoid purple passages. It has not been easy. Bee hunting is one of the most fascinating of sports, and one could go on describing different illuminating episodes for many pages. The sport combines almost everything that is desirable. It is played out of doors. It requires exercise both of the muscles and the brain. It is a sport of brawn and of craft. It can be played alone. Moreover, it can be played at any tempo. Time was when I could scramble up and down Croydon Mountain like a squirrel and could push the pace. That I can no longer do, but I can move more slowly, consider more carefully, draw on the craft and knowledge of long experience and find as many trees as when I was young and impetuous. The sport is one of infinite variety, of suspense, disappointment, perseverance, and triumph. You go out into the fields. Before you is a wooded mountain with ten thousand trees. One of those trees is a bee tree. With a very simple equipment you set out to find it, pitting your skill and your knowledge against the wiles of probably the most intelligent insect in the world. You try. You fail. You try again. You succeed. Your ostensible object is honey. It is the least of your rewards. The reward is when, after hours or days of trial and error, your eye catches the flash of wings in the tree and once more you are able to say checkmate in one of the most difficult, complicated, and fascinating games in the world.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.