Part 17

When you have him in the lower part of your box, pull out the slide, and he will seek the glass with your first prisoner. Push in the slide, and you are ready for the third bee. When you have caught five you would better stop, for if you carry bees too long in the box they will refuse to work. Take the box to the staff. Put a piece of comb in the lower half. Turn on some of the mixture, then close the box. Pull out the slide, and cover the glass with coat, hat, or hand. Look every minute to see if the bees have gone down to the honey. When they are down, open the box gently, and stand back. As soon as a bee is full he will drop off the box and swing to and fro, until he thinks that he has fastened the spot in his memory. Then he will begin to circle, to find landmarks, to guide him to the hive. His circles will increase in size and height, and he will soon be lost to the eye. It is not worth while to try to follow the bee's flight at this stage. After he has made two or three trips he will drop off the box, and go directly to the hive. He has got his landmarks now. Other bees from the hive will soon be hunting along the line, for the first bees tell their mates of the find. If there is only a small amount of honey a few bees will seek it. Enough bees will come to remove the honey in two days. If there is a large amount Bee Hunting of honey about all the working bees in a swarm will turn out. I have taken a basket of comb from strained honey on to a bee-line, and have had two quarts or more of bees on the comb at a time. I could walk slowly along the line, and the bees would come and go as readily as if I was stationary. It is a good plan to hang up a newspaper, or a flag of some kind, near the box. Some hunters claim that the bees will find the box by scent, so use the anise bag.

We will now return to the bee-box. There is a lot said about a bee-line, which is supposed to be a straight line, but the fact is, the bee flies in a wavy line. He drops off the box and starts for the hive, swinging from side to side of an imaginary straight line. The swings will cover about thirty feet, but it is an easy matter to strike a centre. A bee can be seen for a long distance after he leaves the box. Suppose you are on a hill, overlooking, to the westward, a valley covered with trees, and your bees go into, or over, the woodland. Take out the honeycomb and leave it on the staff. If the box is sticky with honey, clean it with moss or leaves. Now catch five bees as before. Take them north sixty rods or more on a right angle line if possible. Place your box on a boulder or stump, and let the bees go as before. Before leaving the staff, take a good look along the line the bees are following. If you can locate a tall tree on the west side of the swamp so you may know it again, you will find it useful. When the bees get to work on the new line look for your tall tree. If the bees go to the right of the tree, the hive is not in the valley. The only thing to do now is to move to the other side of the valley if there is open land, and proceed just as you did at first. If the hills beyond the valley are wooded, you will have to follow your first line. If you can find the tall tree, it would be a good plan to go to it and set the compass, and begin to bush a path along the line. As you progress on the line, hunt all the trees on each side. If you can find an open spot anywhere, set up your staff and box. You might find that the bees were returning on the line, then you would know that you had passed the hive. If bees enter a piece of woods, and there is an open spot beyond, they can be started from the open spot to decide if they turn back or go on. It is unnecessary for me to go further into the details of lining. It is a poor hunter that cannot overcome obstacles that spring up in his way. When the tree is located, trouble begins. There are two ways of taking up the honey. One way is to plug the hole where the bees enter the tree, and then cut or bore a hole near the ground and insert the nose of an old tea-kettle filled with burning brimstone. The next day the bees will be dead, and the honey will be cool to handle. This is the method pursued by market hunters. I never took kindly to the method. Another method followed is to put on gloves, and for the head a straw hat with wide brim. Cover the hat with mosquito-netting long enough to be buttoned under the coat. This will prove a good protection against stinging. Tie the trousers legs at the ankles, and you are ready to begin. While cutting down the tree you will have no trouble if the tree is large and the hole high up. After the tree is down, you will have to cut into the honey and split off the outside wood. The moment a blow is struck over the honey the bees will pile on to you. You will have to brush them off, or you cannot see to chop. When the store is fully exposed, the bees will give up, and will begin to load with honey. Then they are harmless, and will not sting unless jammed. As soon as the bees give up, you may remove your protection, roll your sleeves up, sit on the tree and help yourself to the choice bits. You need not feel nervous if bees are flying all about you. The fight is all out of them as soon as the honey is exposed.

I forgot to say that when the first blow of the ax falls, after the tree is down, the fierce roar which the bees make would frighten a nervous person out of his senses. I have seen strong men cringe, and I can remember cases where fright led to flight.

Some persons are so nervous that they will not face the bees without protection. A friend that lived near my farm in Maine, came to me one morning with the story of a wild swarm of bees, which he had not been able to find, although he had at one time a line to the hive. We started out to find this swarm the twelfth day of September. The eighth was noted for wind, and thousands of forest trees had been turned up by the roots. We found some bees near a highway. They went due west into or over a bad swamp. The swamp was nearly two miles wide, with a bog on the west. The bog bordered Pickerel Pond on the south. We took some bees around the swamp to the open bog. We found that the bees kept on to the westward to a pine ridge. After hunting two hours, I found the hive. The tree was a pine, two feet through near the ground. The gale had broken it where the bees entered and so the part with the honey in it was on the ground. About a peck of bees had clung to the top of the stub. The ground around the tree was black with bees. The tree had split open and honey was slowly running out and dropping on to the pine needles. There were over two hundred pounds of honey in that tree when standing. The bees that were carrying away honey were mostly from tame swarms, but the woods were full of bees hunting for the store. I called my friend, and while he was coming I chopped out the honey. I did not disturb the comb, only to break off some to eat. The next day we returned in a team which we left in a clearing to the north and about one and a half miles from the honey. My friend was mortally afraid of bees. He swore that they would follow him into the house and sting him. I worked on the honey, filling buckets without protection. As it was a warm day, I worked bare-armed. The bees were completely harmless. My friend had on a close veil and two pairs of gloves, and all I could say had no effect. He swore the bees would sting him to death if he should remove his veil. He could not eat honey, and he was a great honey fiend. I would eat the best I could find before him, and chaff him all the time. At last he could stand it no longer. He took a sheet of well-filled comb and started up the hill. It was his idea to get away from the bees, where he could remove his gloves and veil and enjoy a feast.

Inside of five minutes I was startled by a succession of yells that appeared to extend in a line from the top of the hill to the swamp. Shortly a doleful voice called to me from the swamp. I went down and found my friend up to his hips in water. He wanted me to go up the hill and find his gloves and veil. I tried to have him come out, but he claimed that the bees had stung him until he was nearly blind. He told such a pitiable story that I believed him and hunted up his lost property. When he came to the edge of the swamp, I could not see anything that looked like stings on his face, and told him so. He had got his gloves and veil, so he simply grinned. When he undertook to eat his honey on the hill, bees that were hunting for honey had found him, and buzzed about his ears until he was completely demoralized with fear. They would not sting any one. My friend could have worked unprotected, just as I did, but his nerves would not permit it.

There is another method of bee hunting which I must describe, or my article would be incomplete. This method is pursued late in the season, when bees cannot be found on flowers. Pressed comb is burned to attract the bees. Take some of this comb to the woods, where there is likely to be a swarm, and make a fire. Heat two or three flat rocks, and use one at a time, sizzling the comb. Have honey handy so the bees will find it when they follow the scent of the burning comb to the spot. This method is successful early in the season some years.

XIV.

TINY

In the series of nature studies, published in Forest and Stream's natural history columns, Tiny was briefly introduced to the public. Tiny is a red squirrel, the son of Bismarck. The latter was a grizzled old warrior, the hero of many a fierce battle. Why he gave the cabin dooryard to Tiny is one of the mysteries of squirrel life. He had held it against all squirrels, red or gray, for ten years, and now gave it over to Tiny to have and to hold, without reserve.

A return to Bismarck's life history may throw some light on this peculiar transaction.

Bismarck's family, April, 1900, consisted of a wife and four children. Mrs. Bismarck, at that time, left her children to the care of her husband, while she made a new nest in which to rear another family. It was Bismarck's duty to finish the education of the young squirrels and to marry off the daughters to young males of another family, and to locate his sons on territory which they would ever after own, and for which they would fight to the death.

Tiny was not half so big as his only brother. Perhaps that was the reason why Bismarck favored him, and brought him to the dooryard. It was an unusual act, for Bismarck insisted that his sons should remain on the territory upon which he had located them.

When Tiny had acquired full possession, he proved to be a "chip of the old block." His motto, "No trespass," was impartially enforced. He raced his brother, sisters, father, mother, as well as strangers, out of the dooryard, and fiercely attacked any squirrel that did not depart after the first warning. It was laughable to see Bismarck, the grizzled old warrior, run as if for life when caught trespassing by Tiny. When Tiny approaches through the tree-tops and finds a Squirrel in the dooryard, he stops and sounds his war-cry. This cry is long drawn out, and is something like the buzzing of an old wooden clock when running down and striking the hours. After this warning, he makes a rush for the interloper, and if he catches him the fur flies.

Tiny had a lively experience with a wharf-rat. The rat was a monster. What caused him to take to the woods is a mystery. Probably he was a rat Christopher Columbus, and had started out to discover a new world.

When he found my dooryard he seemed satisfied. From a rat's standpoint it proved to be "a land flowing with milk and honey."

Wheat, corn, meat, bird-seeds, with no bloodthirsty human being to make life miserable. After two days of feasting the big fellow disappeared, to appear again three days later with a mate. Doubtless the sly old rogue thought that he was able to support a family on the fortune he had discovered in the woods.

I trapped the small rat, but found the big one too crafty to enter a trap.

At first the rat did his foraging in the night-time, so Tiny had no chance to make his acquaintance. Later he became bold enough to feed in the daytime, which, in the end, brought him in contact with Tiny. I was talking to some visitors from one of the big summer hotels, telling them the history of the rat, while he was eating from a loaf of bread in the dooryard, when I heard Tiny's war-cry. I told my visitors to look out for a hot time. Tiny ran out on a limb about six feet above the rat, and told him in vigorous squirrel language that he was a thief and a robber. The rat looked up, wondering what the angry little animal could be, that was talking in an unknown tongue, and pounding the pine-limb with his hind feet. It never entered his head to be afraid of such an insignificant foe. Tiny ran down the tree-trunk, landing on the ground not four feet from the rat. The latter stood on his hind feet and squealed a warning.

A lady visitor urged me to drive the rat away. "Rats are great fighters," said she. "The poor little squirrel will be killed." I offered to bet on the squirrel, but before she could answer, the fight was on. Tiny caught the rat by the neck. For a few seconds all that could be seen was something brown whirling in a cloud of pine-needles. The rat soon found that his little foe was a cyclonic fighter, and he made desperate efforts to escape. He dragged Tiny to a stone wall, leaving a trail of blood behind. When he entered the wall, Tiny let go and returned to the bread and coolly proceeded to eat his dinner, none the worse for his fierce battle.

The rat did not return. He either died from the effects of Tiny's savage bites, or, if he survived, left in disgust.

Tiny was not always full of fight. He formed a friendship for a young towhee-bunting after a singular encounter. The bunting was eating from a loaf of bread, which was staked down in the dooryard, when Tiny appeared. The squirrel thought that the bird would run away, but instead, the latter set its wings and lowered its head in preparation for battle. Tiny was astonished. He sat up, folded his forepaws on his breast, and looked on the gamy little bunting with wide-eyed wonder. The bunting soon turned to the bread. Tiny brought his forepaws down hard on the ground, evidently to frighten the bird. Again the plucky little bunting set its wings and lowered its head. Again Tiny sat up and looked the little fellow over. This time there was a comical expression on the face of the squirrel that said as plain as words could tell that he appreciated the situation. That he admired the pluck of the bunting was evident by his action. He crept quietly to the opposite side of the loaf of bread, and allowed the bunting to eat unmolested. After this the two would eat together whenever they chanced to be in the dooryard at the same time.

Tiny did not allow other buntings near his food, and I thought he would forget his bird friend when the buntings returned in the spring migration, but not so. He knew his friend at once, and chuckled some kind of a greeting, while the bunting said something in bird language that seemed to my ears to express joy.

The red squirrel is quick-witted and full of resources. If new and unusual conditions confront him he is equal to the occasion. I have had proof of this hundreds of times.

I will relate one instance: I feed hemp-seed to the birds. The red squirrels and chipmunks are fond of the seed, and unless I stand guard, will manage to get the lion's share. The chipmunks stuff their pouched cheeks, and would carry away a bushel every day if it was fed to them.

When Tiny is present, no squirrel or chipmunk dares to meddle with the food. He does not molest the birds, and I really think that he knows that the seeds belong to them.

Last fall I placed a wire netting over a shallow box, so the birds could pick out seeds, while the squirrels could not get their noses through the mesh. The chipmunks were puzzled, and one after another gave up in disgust, to fall back on bread and corn. When Tiny found the box he got mad all through. He crowded his nose against the wire netting, biting savagely meanwhile. I laughed, and Tiny instantly stopped his efforts and looked in my direction. All at once he got the idea into his head that I had blocked his game, and had caused the trouble. In three bounds he landed on the trunk of a pine-tree, and running to a limb just over my head, he told me in wicked squirrel language just what he thought of me. In his anger he pounded the limb with his hind feet, stopping now and then to charge down the tree-trunk, as if he were about to attack me.

After ten minutes of this hot work he became quiet, except a sob, which he uttered from time to time. Finding that I would not help him, he returned to the box. He tried the wire a short time, then sat up and folded his paws across his breast and fell into a brown study. Like a flash he came out of his trance, grasped the box, and turned it completely over, then he began to eat, saying something to me, while he jerked his tail in a defiant manner. After this, whenever he found seed in the box, he quickly turned them out. For a week or more I allowed him to have his way. I wanted my visitors to see how cute the little scamp could be on a pinch. Later I drove stakes across the box to hold it down. I returned one day to find that Tiny had managed to dig a hole beneath the box, and had gnawed through the bottom. I tried another scheme for the purpose of testing the intelligence of the squirrel. I stretched a cord between two trees, and half-way suspended a box open at the top. Tiny saw the birds eating from the box, and he quickly understood that it was another device of mine to outwit him. He ran up one of the trees, and tried the limbs that hung over the box. He soon found a slender limb that would bend under his weight and let him into the box. After he had used this highway several days I cut the limb away.

When Tiny found a fresh stub instead of a limb, he understood what it meant. He knew that I was the guilty one, and he swore at me, if a squirrel can swear, for twenty minutes. His next move was to investigate the line where it was attached to the trees. He thought he could reach the box over the line, and started out. When about a foot from the tree, the line turned, and Tiny jumped to the ground. He tried this three times, and met with failure. The fourth time, when the line turned, he clung to it and made his way to the box, hand over hand. I thought he deserved a reward for his continued effort and intelligence, so since then I allow him to eat from the box whenever he feels like it.