“You know what an Apiary is, Isaac, of course?”
I was sitting in the bee-master’s cottage, opposite to him, in an arm-chair, which was the counterpart of his own, both of them having circular backs, diamond-shaped seats, and chintz cushions with frills. It was the summer following that in which Jem and I had tried to see how badly we could behave; this uncivilized phase had abated: Jem used to ride about a great deal with my father, and I had become intimate with Isaac Irvine.
“You know what an Apiary is, Isaac?” said I.
“A what, sir?”
“An A-P-I-A-R-Y.”
“To be sure, sir, to be sure,” said Isaac. “An
appyary” (so he was pleased to pronounce it), “I should be familiar with the name, sir, from my bee-book, but I never calls my own stock anything but the beehives. Beehives is a good, straightforward sort of a name, sir, and it serves my turn.”
“Ah, but you see we haven’t come to the B’s yet,” said I, alluding to what I was thinking of.
“Does your father think of keeping ’em, sir?” said Isaac, alluding to what he was thinking of.
“Oh, he means to have them bound, I believe,” was my reply.