raight for
that chestnut."

"What are you lying down for?" I asked.

"I had to. I nearly twisted my neck off following their circles. I'm no
owl."

I sat down near by and we watched a few more go, while others began to
arrive.

"That dab of honey did the work," said Jonathan. "We might as well begin
to follow up their line now."

Waiting till there were a dozen or more in the box, he gently slid on
the glass cover, laid a paper over it to darken it, and we set out. Ten
minutes' walking brought us past the big chestnut and out to a little
clearing. Jonathan set the box down on a big rock where it would show
up well, laid a handkerchief beside it, drew off the glass, and
crouched. A bunch of excited bees burst out and away, without noticing
their change of place. "They'll never find their way back there," said
Jonathan regretfully; "they'll go straight back to the Sharon lot."

But there were others in the box, still feeding, who had not been
disturbed by the move, and these he touched with honey drops. They
staggered off, one by one, orienting themselves properly as they rose,
and taking the same old line off to the westward. This was
disappointing. We had hoped to see them turn back, showing that we had
passed their home tree. However, there was nothing to do but sit and
wait for them. In six minutes they began to come back, in twos and
threes--evidently the honey drops on their shoulders had told the hive a
sufficiently alluring story. Again we waited until the box was well
filled with them, then closed it and went on westward. Two more moves
brought us to a half-cleared ridge from which we could see out across
country. To the westward, and sadly near, was the end of the big woods
and the beginning of pastures and farmland.

Jonathan scrutinized the farms dotting the slopes. "See that bunch of
red barns with a white house?" he said "That's Bill Morehead's. He keeps
bees. Bet we've got bees from his hive and they'll lead us plumb into
his back yard."

It did begin to seem probable, and we took up our box in some depression
of spirits. Two more stops, the bees still perversely flying westward,
and we emerged in pastures.

"Here's our last stop," said Jonathan. "If they don't go back into that
edge we've just left, they're Morehead's. There isn't another bit of
woods big enough to hold a bee tree for seven miles to the west of us."

There was no rock to set the box on, so we lay down on the turf;
Jonathan se