Edd carried a gun, a small black tin bucket, and a package which he gave to Lucy to put in her knapsack.

  “Ma reckoned you’d like somethin’ to eat,” he explained.

  So they set off across the lane, through the strip of woods, and out into the sorghum-field. Lucy experienced an unaccountable embarrassment. She felt like a callow girl taking her first walk with a boy. She did not feel at all at her ease in this riding garb, though the freedom of it had never been so manifest. She was guilty of peering round to see if any of the Denmeades were in sight, watching them cross the field. She could not see anyone, which fact helped a little. Then she did not discover her usual fluency of speech. Finding herself alone with this stalwart bee hunter, facing a long day in the wilderness, had turned out to be something more than thrilling. Lucy essayed to throw off the handicap.

  “What’s in your little black bucket?” she inquired. “Honey. I burn it to make a sweet, strong smell in the woods. That shore fetches the bees.”

  “What’s the gun for?”

  “Wal, sometimes a bear smells the honey an’ comes along. Bears love sweet stuff, most of all honey.”

  “Bears! In broad daylight?” ejaculated Lucy.

  “Shore. One day not long ago I had four bears come for my honey. Didn’t have no gun with me, so I slipped back an’ hid. You should have seen the fun they had stickin’ their noses an’ paws in my bucket of honey. They stole it, too, an’ took it off with them.”

  “You won’t leave me alone?” queried Lucy fearfully.

  “Wal, if I have to I’ll boost you up into a tree,” drawled Edd.

  “I wonder if this is going to be fun,” pondered Lucy. Suddenly she remembered the proclivity for playing tricks natural to these backwoods boys. “Edd, promise me you will not try to scare me. No tricks! Promise me solemnly.”

  “Aw, I’m shore not mean, Lucy,” he expostulated. “Fun is fun an’ I ain’t above little tricks. But honest, you can trust me.”

  “I beg your pardon. That about bears — and boosting me up into a tree — somehow flustered me a little.”

  Soon they crossed the clearing to the green wall of cedars and pines. Here Edd led into a narrow trail, with Lucy at his heels. His ordinary gait was something for her to contend with. At once the trail began to wind down over red earth and round the head of rocky gullies, choked with cedars, and downward under a deepening forest growth.

  Lucy had never been on this trail, which she knew to be the one that led over the Rim. She thrilled at the thought of climbing to the lofty summit of that black-fringed mountain mesa, but she was sure Edd would not put her to that ascent without a horse. The low hum which filled her ears grew into the roar of a brawling brook.

  “Bear track,” said her guide, halting to point at a rounded depression in the dust of the trail. Lucy saw the imprint of huge toes. Her flesh contracted to a cold, creeping sensation. “That old Jasper went along here last night. Reckon he’s the bear that’s been killin’ our little pigs. Pa shore will be rarin’ to chase him with the hounds.”

  “Edd! Is there any danger of our meeting this old Jasper, as you called him?” inquired Lucy.

  “Reckon not much. Shore we might, though. I often run into bears. They’re pretty tame. Hope we do meet him. I’d shore have some fun.”

  “Oh, would you? I don’t believe it’d be very funny for me,” declared Lucy.

  “Wal, in case we do, you just mind what I say,” concluded Edd.

  Somehow his drawling confidence reassured her, and she reverted again to the pleasurable sensations of the walk. The trail led down into a deep gorge, dense with trees large and small, and along a wildly boulder-strewn stream bed, where the water roared unseen through its channel. Here towered the lofty silver spruces, so delicate of hue and graceful in outline. The sunlight filtered through the foliage. Everywhere Lucy gazed were evidences of the wildness of this forest, in timber and rock and windfalls, in the huge masses of driftwood, in the precipitous banks of the stream, showing how the flood torrents tore and dug at their confines.

  Lucy did not see a bird or squirrel, nor hear one. But as to the latter the roar of rushing water would have drowned any ordinary sound. Gradually the trail left the vicinity of the stream and began a slight ascent, winding among beds of giant boulders covered with trailing vines. Lucy was particularly struck by the almost overpowering scent of the woodland. It appeared dominated by the fragrance of pine, but there was other beside that spicy tang. Through the woods ahead she caught glimpses of light and open sky. Then Edd halted her.

  “I hear turkeys cluckin’,” he whispered. “Hold my bucket, an’ keep right close to me, so you can see. Walk Injun, now.”

  Lucy complied instinctively, and she was all eyes and ears. She could not, however, give undivided attention to the scene in front and at the same time proceed noiselessly. Edd walked slower and stooped lower as the trail led round a corner of thicket toward the open. Lucy saw a long narrow clearing, overgrown with small green cedars and patches of sumach shining red and gold in the sunlight. At the same instant she saw something move, a white and brown object flashing low down. Edd swiftly rose. The gun cracked so suddenly that Lucy was startled. Then followed a tremendous flapping of wings. Huge black and grey birds flew and sailed out of the clearing into the woods, crashing through the foliage. Next Lucy heard a loud threshing in the brush just in front, and a heavy thumping. Both sounds diminished in volume, then ceased.

  “Wal, I reckon you’ll have turkey for dinner to-morrow,” said Edd, looking to his gun. “Did you see them before they flew?”

  “I saw a flash. Oh, it went swiftly! Then you shot, and I saw them rise. What a roar! Did you kill one?” replied Lucy excitedly.

  “I shore did. It was a good shot. He was rarin’ to get out of here,” said Edd, as he walked forward through the patch of sumach.

  Lucy followed him to the open place where lay a beautiful wild turkey, its shiny plumage all ruffled and dishevelled, its wings wide, its gorgeous bronzeawl-white tail spread like a huge fan. Lucy was astonished at the variety and harmony of the colours. This wild bird was as beautiful as a peacock.

  “Gobbler, two years old,” said Edd. “Just fine for eatin’. I’ll hang him up in the shade an’ get him on our way home. Shore it’s risky, though, because there’s cats and lions around.”

  He carried the turkey into the edge of the woods, where Lucy heard him tramping around and breaking branches. When he emerged again he led her to the upper end of this clearing, meanwhile telling her that his father had years before cut the timber and tried to cultivate the ground. It had not been a successful venture. A tiny stream of water ran through the upper end, making smooth, deep holes in the red clay. Edd pointed out deer and turkey tracks, with muddy water in them. He followed the stream to its source in a spring at the head of the clearing. A small, shallow basin full of water, weeds, and moss lay open to the sun.

  “Wal, here’s where we start,” announced Edd enthusiastically. “Listen to the hum of bees.”

  The air seemed murmurous and melodious with the hum of innumerable bees. What a sweet, drowsy summer sound! Lucy gazed all around.

  “Oh, I hear them! But where are they?” she cried.

  “Wal, they’re flyin’ around, workin’ in the tops of these pine saplings,” replied Edd.

  “Do they get honey up there?” queried Lucy in amaze.

  “They shore get somethin’,” replied Edd. “If you go climbin’ round pine trees an’ get your hands all stuck up with pitch an’ sap you’ll think so, too. I reckon bees get somethin’ in these pines to help make their wax...Now look down along the edge of the water. You’ll see bees lightin’ an’ flyin’ up. I’ve watched them hundreds of times, but I never made shore whether they drank, or diluted their honey, or mixed their wax with water.”

  “Well! Who’d have thought honeybees so interesting?...Yes, I see some. Will they sting me?”

  “Tame as flies,” returned Edd easily.

  Trustingly Lucy got down on hands and knees, and then lay prone, with her face just above the water. Here, at a distance of a foot, she could see the bees distinctly. At once she noted several varieties, some yellow and black, which she knew to be yellow-jackets, some fuzzy and brown like the tame honeybee, and a few larger, darker. As she leaned there these wilder bees flew away.

  Edd knelt to one side and pointed at the bees. “The yellow ones are jackets, an’ she shore hates them.”

  “She! Who’s she?” queried Lucy.

  “Wal, I call the wild bees she. Reckon because I’ve caught an’ tamed queen bees. Shore that’s some job.”

  “I remember now. You told me in rainy season the yellow-jackets fought and killed the wild bees and stole their honey. These yellow bees are the ones...They’re pretty, but they’re mean-looking.”

  “Hold still,” said Edd suddenly. “There’s a wild bee, the kind I’m goin’ to line to-day. He lit by that little stone.”

  “I see him,” whispered Lucy.

  “Wal, now look close. Is he drinkin’ or movin’ his legs in the water? You see he’s just at the edge. Look at his knees. See the little yellow balls? That’s wax.”

  “How funny!” said Lucy, laughing. “Why, his legs look deformed, burdened with those balls! Where does he carry his honey?”

  “I never was shore, but I reckon in his mouth. Some bee hunters think the yellow balls are honey. I never did. It tastes like wax.”

  “It’s beeswax. I know what that is. But where does the bee use it?”

  “Shore you’ll see that when I cut down a bee tree.”

  Apart from Lucy’s great sympathy with the singular passion this wild bee hunter had for his calling she was quite fascinated on her own account. It needed very little to stimulate Lucy’s interest, especially in a problem or mystery, or something that required reason, study, perseverance to solve. She was getting acquainted with bees. The yellow-jackets were lively, aggressive, busy-body little insects that manifestly wanted the place to themselves. The wild bees had a very industrious and earnest look. At the approach of yellow-jackets they rose and flew, to settle a little farther away. Lucy espied bees all along the edge of the water. The big one Edd had called her attention to flew away, and presently another took its place. Lucy wished for a magnifying glass, and told Edd that if they had one they could tell exactly what the bee was doing there.

  “By George!” ejaculated Edd, in most solemn rapture. “Shore we could. I never thought of that. Wal, I never even heard of a glass that’d magnify. Where can we get one?”

  “I’ll fetch you one from Felix.”

  “Lucy, I reckon I don’t want you to go, but I’d shore love to have that kind of a glass.”

  “Why don’t you want me to go?” asked Lucy gaily.

  “It’s hard to say. But I’m not so shore. Reckon Mertie will have a grand time. You’re awful good to take her. But won’t she get her head full of notions about clothes an’ city boys?”

  “Edd, you’re worrying a lot, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “Haven’t you faith in me? I’m going to satisfy Mertie’s passion for pretty things. Once in her life! And I’m going to see that Bert Hall goes with us.”

  Lucy raised on her elbows to mark the effect of this statement upon her companion. For once his stoicism was disrupted. He seemed thunderstruck. Then his dark face beamed and his grey eyes shone with the piercing light Lucy found hard to face.

  “Wal! — Who in the world’s ever goin’ to make up to you for your goodness?”

  “Edd, it’s not goodness exactly,” returned Lucy, somewhat affected by his emotion. “It’s not my welfare work, either. I guess I’ll get more out of it than Mertie and Bert. Real happiness, you know.”

  “Shore. But I know what I think.”

  Lucy dropped back to study the bees. A number of the wild species had settled down right under her eyes. They were of different sizes and hues, and the very smallest carried the largest balls of wax on his knees. She strained her eyes to see perfectly, and was rewarded by sight of an almost imperceptible motion of both their heads and legs.

  “Edd, I believe they drink and wet their wax. Both. At the same time.”

  “Wal, shore I’ve reckoned that often. Now get up an’ watch me line a bee.”

  This brought Lucy to her feet with alacrity. Edd’s voice sounded a note entirely at variance with his usual easy, cool, drawling nonchalance. About most things he was apparently indifferent. But anything pertaining to his beloved bee hunting touched him to the quick.

  “Now, you stand behind me an’ a little to one side,” he directed. “An’ we’ll face toward that far point on the Rim. Eagle Rock we call it. Most of the bees here take a line over there.”

  Suddenly he pointed. “See that one?”

  Though Lucy strained her eyes, she saw nothing. The wide air seemed vacant.

  “Don’t look up so high,” he said. “These bees start low. You’ve shore got to catch her right close...There goes another.”

  “I’m afraid my eyes aren’t good,” complained Lucy, as she failed again.

  “No. Keep on lookin’. You’ll line her in a minute.”

  Just then Lucy caught sight of a tiny black object shooting over her head and darting with singularly level, swift flight straight away. It did not appear to fly. It swept.

  “Oh, Edd, I see one!...He’s gone.”

  “Shore. You’ve got to hang your eye on to her.”

  Lucy caught a glimpse of another speeding bee, lost it, and then sighted another. She held this one in view for what seemed an endless moment. Then having got the knack of following, she endeavoured to concentrate all her powers of vision. Bee after bee she watched. They had a wonderful unvarying flight. Indeed, she likened them to bullets. But they were remarkably visible. No two bees left the water-hole together. There was a regularity about their appearance.

  “Wal, you’re doin’ fine. You’ll shore make a bee-hunter,” said Edd. “Now let’s face west awhile.”

  Lucy found this direction unobstructed by green slope and red wall. It was all open sky. A line of bees sped off and Lucy could follow them until they seemed to merge into the air.

  “Why do some bees go this way and some that other way?” she queried.

  “She belongs to different bee trees. She knows the way home better than any other livin’ creature. Can’t you see that? Straight as a string! Reckon you never heard the old sayin’, ‘makin’ a bee line for home.’”

  “Oh, is that where that comes from?” ejaculated Lucy, amused. “I certainly appreciate what it means now.”

  “Now shift back to this other bee line,” instructed Edd. “When you ketch another, follow her till you lose her, an’ then tell me where that is. Mark the place.”

  Lucy made several attempts before she succeeded in placing the disappearance of a bee close to the tip of a tall pine on the distant ridge.

  “Wal, that’s linin’ as good as ever Mertie or Allie,” asserted Edd, evidently pleased, and he picked up his gun and bucket. “We’re off.”

  “What do we do now?” queried Lucy.

  “Can’t you reckon it out?”

  “Oh, I see! We’ve got the bee line. We follow it to that pine tree where I lost the last bee.”

  “Right an’ exactly,” drawled Edd.

  “Oh — what fun It’s like a game. Then where do we go?”

  “Wal, I can’t say till we get there.”

  “We’ll watch again. We’ll sight more bees. We’ll get their line. We’ll follow it as far as we can see — mark the spot — and then go on,” declared Lucy excitedly.

  “Lucy, your granddad might have been a wild-bee hunter,” said Edd, with an approving smile.

  “He might, only he wasn’t,” laughed Lucy. “You can’t make any wild-bee hunter of me, Edd Denmeade.”

  “Shore, but you might make one of yourself,” drawled Edd.

  Lucy had no reply for that. Falling in behind him as he headed across the clearing, she pondered over his words. Had they been subtle, a worthy response to her rather blunt double meaning, or just his simplicity, so apt to hit the truth? She could not be sure, but she decided hereafter to think before she spoke.

  Edd crossed the clearing and plunged into the forest. As he entered the timber Lucy saw him halt to point out a tree some distance ahead. This, of course, was how he marked a straight line. Lucy began to guess the difficulty of that and the strenuous nature of travelling in a straight line through dense and rugged forest. She had to scramble over logs and climb over windfalls; she had to creep through brush and under fallen trees; she had to wade into ferns as high as her head and tear aside vines that were as strong as ropes.

  They reached the bank above the roaring brook. As Edd paused to choose a place to get down the steep declivity, Lucy had a moment to gaze about her. What a wild, dark, deep glen! The forest monarchs appeared to mat overhead and hide the sun. Boulders and trees, brook and bank, all the wild jumble of rocks and drifts, and the tangle of vines and creepers, seemed on a grand scale. There was nothing small. The ruggedness of nature, of storm and flood, of fight to survive, manifested itself all around her.

  “Wal, shore if you can’t follow me you can squeal,” shouted Edd, above the roar of the brook.

  “Squeal! Me? Never in your life!” replied Lucy, with more force than elegance. “If I can’t follow you, I can’t, that’s all. But I’ll try.”

  “Reckon I didn’t mean squeal as you took it,” returned Edd, and without more ado he plunged in giant strides right down the bank.

  Lucy plunged likewise, fully expecting to break her neck. Instead, however, she seemed to be taking seven-league-boot-steps in soft earth that slid with her. Once her hands touched. Then, ridiculously easily, she arrived at the bottom of the forty-foot embankment. Most amusing of all was the fact that Edd never even looked back. Certainly it was not discourtesy, for Edd was always thoughtful. He simply had no concern about her accomplishing this descent.

  Crossing the brook had more qualms for Lucy, and when she saw Edd leap from one slippery rock to another she thought it was a good thing she had been put on her mettle. Edd reached the other side without wetting a foot. Lucy chose boulders closer together, and by good judgment, added to luck, she got safely across, though not without wet boots.