“To take care of the bees.”
“To take care of the bees, Pauline? What do they do to them? You talk as if bees had to be fed and watered like so many cows.”
“Not like cows exactly, Molly; but they do have to be fed and watered. Mr. Wasson sows alfalfa for them to make honey from when the wild sage blossoms are gone. There’s Mr. Wasson now, in front of the house.”
They were approaching a small cottage which stood alone on a ranch. Before the house were rows of square redwood boxes, and Mr. Wasson was bending over one of these boxes. He was thin and dark, and had long gray hair, and heavy, arched eyebrows, which reminded Molly of little birch canoes turned upside down.
“Good-morning, Mr. Wasson,” said Pauline, walking up to him.
The man straightened himself with a quick jerk.
“Oh! it’s the cap’n’s little girl, is it? Plagued if you didn’t ’most scare me out of a year’s growth.”
Pauline and the others laughed in concert, for Mr. Wasson was exceedingly tall.
“This is Molly Rowe,” said Pauline affably; “and this is her brother Kirke. They’re visiting at our camp, and Paul and I have brought them to see the ranch.”
“Always pleased to have folks come, particularly young folks.—Mother,” Mr. Wasson glanced over his shoulder and shouted,—“Hello, mother, here’s company!”