University of Virginia Library

1. THE OAK OPENINGS.

1. CHAPTER I.

Watts' Hymns for Children.

We have heard of those who fancied that they beheld a
signal instance of the hand of the Creator in the celebrated
cataract of Niagara. Such instances of the power of sensible
and near objects to influence certain minds, only
prove how much easier it is to impress the imaginations
of the dull with images that are novel, than with those that
are less apparent, though of infinitely greater magnitude.
Thus, it would seem to be strange, indeed, that any human
being should find more to wonder at in any one of the phenomena
of the earth, than in the earth itself; or, should specially
stand astonished at the might of Him who created the
world, when each night brings into view a firmament studded
with other worlds, each equally the work of His hands!

Nevertheless, there is (at bottom) a motive for adoration,
in the study of the lowest fruits of the wisdom and power
of God. The leaf is as much beyond our comprehension
of remote causes, as much a subject of intelligent admiration,
as the tree which bears it: the single tree confounds
our knowledge and researches the same as the entire forest;
and, though a variety that appears to be endless pervades
the world, the same admirable adaptation of means to
ends, the same bountiful forethought, and the same benevolent

wisdom are to be found in the acorn, as in the
gnarled branch on which it grew.

The American forest has so often been described, as to
cause one to hesitate about reviving scenes that might possibly
pall, and in retouching pictures that have been so frequently
painted as to be familiar to every mind. But God
created the woods, and the themes bestowed by his bounty
are inexhaustible. Even the ocean, with its boundless
waste of water, has been found to be rich in its various
beauties and marvels; and he who shall bury himself with
us, once more, in the virgin forests of this wide-spread
land, may possibly discover new subjects of admiration, new
causes to adore the being that has brought all into existence,
from the universe to its most minute particle.

The precise period of our legend was in the year 1812,
and the season of the year the pleasant month of July,
which had now drawn near to its close. The sun was already
approaching the western limits of a wooded view,
when the actors in its opening scene must appear on a
stage that is worthy of a more particular description.

The region was, in one sense, wild, though it offered a
picture that was not without some of the strongest and most
pleasing features of civilization. The country was what
is termed “rolling,” from some fancied resemblance to the
surface of the ocean, when it is just undulating with a
long “ground-swell.” Although wooded, it was not as the
American forest is wont to grow, with tall straight trees
towering towards the light, but with intervals between the
low oaks that were scattered profusely over the view, and
with much of that air of negligence that one is apt to see
in grounds, where art is made to assume the character of
nature. The trees, with very few exceptions, were what
is called the “burr oak,” a small variety of a very extensive
genus; and the spaces between them, always irregular,
and often of singular beauty, have obtained the name of
“openings;” the two terms combined giving their appellation
to this particular species of native forest, under the
name of “Oak Openings.”

These woods, so peculiar to certain districts of country,
are not altogether without some variety, though possessing
a general character of sameness. The trees were of very

uniform size, being little taller than pear trees, which they
resemble a good deal in form; and having trunks that rarely
attain two feet in diameter. The variety is produced by
their distribution. In places they stand with a regularity
resembling that of an orchard; then, again, they are more
scattered and less formal, while wide breadths of the land
are occasionally seen in which they stand in copses, with
vacant spaces, that bear no small affinity to artificial lawns,
being covered with verdure. The grasses are supposed to
be owing to the fires lighted periodically by the Indians in
order to clear their hunting-grounds.

Towards one of these grassy glades, which was spread
on an almost imperceptible acclivity, and which might have
contained some fifty or sixty acres of land, the reader is
now requested to turn his eyes. Far in the wilderness as
was the spot, four men were there, and two of them had
even some of the appliances of civilization about them.
The woods around were the then unpeopled forest of Michigan,
and the small winding reach of placid water that
was just visible in the distance, was an elbow of the Kalamazoo,
a beautiful little river that flows westward, emptying
its tribute into the vast expanse of Lake Michigan.
Now, this river has already become known, by its villages
and farms, and railroads and mills; but then, not a dwelling
of more pretension than the wigwam of the Indian, or
an occasional shanty of some white adventurer, had ever
been seen on its banks. In that day, the whole of that fine
peninsula, with the exception of a narrow belt of country
along the Detroit river, which was settled by the French as
far back as near the close of the seventeenth century, was
literally a wilderness. If a white man found his way into
it, it was as an Indian trader, a hunter, or an adventurer in
some other of the pursuits connected with border life and
the habits of the savages.

Of this last character were two of the men on the open
glade just mentioned, while their companions were of the
race of the aborigines. What is much more remarkable,
the four were absolutely strangers to each other's faces,
having met for the first time in their lives, only an hour
previously to the commencement of our tale. By saying
that they were strangers to each other, we do not mean that

the white men were acquaintances, and the Indians strangers,
but that neither of the four had ever seen either of the
party until they met on that grassy glade, though fame had
made them somewhat acquainted through their reputations. At the moment when we desire to present this group to the
imagination of the reader, three of its number were grave
and silent observers of the movements of the fourth. The
fourth individual was of middle size, young, active, exceedingly
well formed, and with a certain open and frank expression
of countenance, that rendered him at least well-looking,
though slightly marked with the small-pox. His
real name was Benjamin Boden, though he was extensively
known throughout the north-western territories by the sobriquet
of Ben Buzz—extensively as to distances, if not
as to people. By the voyageurs, and other French of that
region, he was almost universally styled le Bourdon, or the
“Drone;” not, however, from his idleness or inactivity, but
from the circumstance that he was notorious for laying his
hands on the products of labour that proceeded from others.
In a word, Ben Boden was a “bee-hunter,” and as he was
one of the first to exercise his craft in that portion of the
country, so was he infinitely the most skilful and prosperous.
The honey of le Bourdon was not only thought
to be purer and of higher flavour than that of any other
trader in the article, but it was much the most abundant.
There were a score of respectable families on the two
banks of the Detroit, who never purchased of any one else,
but who patiently waited for the arrival of the capacious
bark canoe of Buzz, in the autumn, to lay in their supplies
of this savoury nutriment for the approaching winter. The
whole family of griddle cakes, including those of buckwheat,
Indian, rice and wheaten flour, were more or less dependent
on the safe arrival of le Bourdon, for their popularity
and welcome. Honey was eaten with all; and wild honey
had a reputation, rightfully or not obtained, that even rendered
it more welcome than that which was formed by the
labour and art of the domesticated bee.

The dress of le Bourdon was well adapted to his pursuits
and life. He wore a hunting-shirt and trowsers, made
of thin stuff, which was dyed green, and trimmed with
yellow fringe. This was the ordinary forest attire of the

American rifleman; being of a character, as it was thought,
to conceal the person in the woods, by blending its hues
with those of the forest. On his head Ben wore a skin
cap, somewhat smartly made, but without the fur; the
weather being warm. His moccasins were a good deal
wrought, but seemed to be fading under the exposure of
many marches. His arms were excellent; but all his martial
accoutrements, even to a keen long-bladed knife, were
suspended from the rammer of his rifle; the weapon itself
being allowed to lean, in careless confidence, against the
trunk of the nearest oak, as if their master felt there was
no immediate use for them.

Not so with the other three. Not only was each man
well armed, but each man kept his trusty rifle hugged to
his person, in a sort of jealous watchfulness; while the
other white man, from time to time, secretly, but with great
minuteness, examined the flint and priming of his own
piece. This second pale-face was a very different person
from him just described. He was still young, tall, sinewy,
gaunt, yet springy and strong, stooping and round-shouldered,
with a face that carried a very decided top-light in
it, like that of the notorious Bardolph. In short, whiskey
had dyed the countenance of Gershom Waring with a tell-tale
hue, that did not less infallibly betray his destination,
than his speech denoted his origin, which was clearly from
one of the states of New England. But Gershom had
been so long at the North-West as to have lost many of
his peculiar habits and opinions, and to have obtained substitutes.

Of the Indians, one, an elderly, wary, experienced warrior,
was a Pottawattamie, named Elksfoot, who was well
known at all the trading-houses and “garrisons” of the
North-Western Territory, including Michigan as low down
as Detroit itself. The other red man was a young Chippewa,
or O-jeb-way, as the civilized natives of that nation
now tell us the word should be spelled. His ordinary appellation
among his own people was that of Pigeonswing;
a name obtained from the rapidity and length of his flights.
This young man, who was scarcely turned of five-and-twenty,
had already obtained a high reputation among the
numerous tribes of his nation, as a messenger, or “runner.”

Accident had brought these four persons, each and all
strangers to one another, in communication in the glade
of the Oak Openings, which has already been mentioned,
within half an hour of the scene we are about to present
to the reader. Although the rencontre had been accompanied
by the usual precautions of those who meet in a
wilderness, it had been friendly so far; a circumstance that
was in some measure owing to the interest they all took in
the occupation of the bee-hunter. The three others, indeed,
had come in on different trails, and surprised le Bourdon
in the midst of one of the most exciting exhibitions of his
art—an exhibition that awoke so much and so common an
interest in the spectators, as at once to place its continuance
for the moment above all other considerations. After
brief salutations, and wary examinations of the spot and
its tenants, each individual had, in succession, given his
grave attention to what was going on, and all had united in
begging Ben Buzz to pursue his occupation, without regard
to his visiters. The conversation that took place was
partly in English, and partly in one of the Indian dialects,
which luckily all the parties appeared to understand. As
a matter of course, with a sole view to oblige the reader,
we shall render what was said, freely, into the vernacular.

“Let's see, let's see, stranger,” cried Gershom, emphasizing
the syllable we have put in italics, as if especially
to betray his origin, “what you can do with your tools.
I've heer'n tell of such doin's, but never see'd a bee lined
in all my life, and have a desp'rate fancy for larnin' of all
sorts, from 'rithmetic to preachin'.”

“That comes from your puritan blood,” answered le
Bourdon, with a quiet smile, using surprisingly pure English
for one in his class of life. “They tell me you puritans
preach by instinct.”

“I don't know how that is,” answered Gershom,
“though I can turn my hand to anything. I heer'n tell;
across at Bob Ruly (Bois Brulé[1] ) of sich doin's, and

would give a week's keep at Whiskey Centre, to know
how t'was done.”

“Whiskey Centre” was a sobriquet bestowed by the
fresh-water sailors of that region, and the few other white
adventurers of Saxon origin who found their way into that
trackless region, firstly on Gershom himself, and secondly
on his residence. These names were obtained from the
intensity of their respective characters, in favour of the beverage
named. L'cau de mort, was the place termed by
the voyageurs, in a sort of pleasant travesty on the cau de
vie of their distant, but still well-remembered manufactures
on the banks of the Garonne. Ben Boden, however, paid
but little attention to the drawling remarks of Gershom
Waring. This was not the first time he had heard of
“Whiskey Centre,” though the first time he had ever seen
the man himself. His attention was on his own trade, or
present occupation; and when it wandered at all, it was
principally bestowed on the Indians; more especially on
the runner. Of Elk's foot, or Elksfoot, as we prefer to
spell it, he had some knowledge by means of rumour; and
the little he knew rendered him somewhat more indifferent
to his proceedings, than he felt towards those of the Pigeonswing.
Of this young red-skin he had never heard; and,
while he managed to suppress all exhibition of the feeling,
a lively curiosity to learn the Chippewa's business was
uppermost in his mind. As for Gershom, he had taken his
measure at a glance, and had instantly set him down to be,
what in truth he was, a wandering, drinking, reckless adventurer,
who had a multitude of vices and bad qualities,
mixed up with a few that, if not absolutely redeeming,
served to diminish the disgust in which he might otherwise
have been held by all decent people. In the meanwhile,
the bee-hunting, in which all the spectators took so much
interest, went on. As this is a process with which most
of our readers are probably unacquainted, it may be necessary
to explain the modus operandi, as well as the appliances
used.

The tools of Ben Buzz, as Gershom had termed these
implements of his trade, were neither very numerous nor
very complex. They were all contained in a small covered
wooden pail, like those that artisans and labourers are

accustomed to carry for the purposes of conveying their
food from place to place. Uncovering this, le Bourdon
had brought his implements to view, previously to the moment
when he was first seen by the reader. There was a
small covered cup of tin; a wooden box; a sort of plate,
or platter, made also of wood; and a common tumbler, of
a very inferior, greenish glass. In the year 1812, there
was not a pane, nor a vessel, of clear, transparent glass,
made in all America! Now, some of the most beautiful
manufactures of that sort, known to civilization, are abundantly
produced among us, in common with a thousand
other articles that are used in domestic economy. The
tumbler of Ben Buzz, however, was his countryman in
more senses than one. It was not only American, but it
came from the part of Pennsylvania of which he was himself
a native. Blurred, and of a greenish hue, the glass
was the best that Pittsburg could then fabricate, and Ben
had bought it only the year before, on the very spot where
it had been made.

An oak, of more size than usual, had stood a little remote
from its fellows, or more within the open ground of
the glade than the rest of the “orchard.” Lightning had
struck this tree that very summer, twisting off its trunk at
a height of about four feet from the ground. Several fragments
of the body and branches lay near, and on these the
spectators now took their seats, watching attentively the
movements of the bee-hunter. Of the stump Ben had made
a sort of table, first levelling its splinters with an axe, and
on it he placed the several implements of his craft, as he
had need of each in succession.

The wooden platter was first placed on this rude table.
Then le Bourdon opened his small box, and took out of it
a piece of honey-comb, that was circular in shape, and
about an inch and a half in diameter. The little covered
tin vessel was next brought into use. Some pure and
beautifully clear honey was poured from its spout, into the
cells of the piece of comb, until each of them was about
half filled. The tumbler was next taken in hand, carefully
wiped, and examined, by holding it up before the eyes of
the bee-hunter. Certainly, there was little to admire in it,
but it was sufficiently transparent to answer his purposes.

All he asked was to be able to look through the glass in
order to see what was going on, in its interior.

Having made these preliminary arrangements, Buzzing
Ben — for the sobriquet was applied to him in this form
quite as often as in the other — next turned his attention
to the velvet-like covering of the grassy glade. Fire had
run over the whole region late that spring, and the grass
was now as fresh, and sweet and short, as if the place were
pastured. The white clover, in particular, abounded, and
was then just bursting forth into the blossom. Various
other flowers had also appeared, and around them were
buzzing thousands of bees. These industrious little animals
were hard at work, loading themselves with sweets;
little foreseeing the robbery contemplated by the craft of
man. As le Bourdon moved stealthily among the flowers
and their humming visiters, the eyes of the two red men
followed his smallest movement, as the cat watches the
mouse; but Gershom was less attentive, thinking the whole
curious enough, but preferring whiskey to all the honey on
earth.

At length le Bourdon found a bee to his mind, and
watching the moment when the animal was sipping sweets
from a head of white clover, he cautiously placed his blurred
and green-looking tumbler over it, and made it his
prisoner. The moment the bee found itself encircled with
the glass, it took wing and attempted to rise. This carried
it to the upper part of its prison, when Ben carefully introduced
the unoccupied hand beneath the glass, and returned
to the stump. Here he set the tumbler down on the platter
in a way to bring the piece of honey-comb within its
circle.

So much done successfully, and with very little trouble,
Buzzing Ben examined his captive for a moment, to make
sure that all was right. Then he took off his cap and
placed it over tumbler, platter, honey-comb and bee. He
now waited half a minute, when cautiously raising the cap
again, it was seen that the bee, the moment a darkness like
that of its hive came over it, had lighted on the comb, and
commenced filling itself with the honey. When Ben took
away the cap altogether, the head, and half of the body of
the bee was in one of the cells, its whole attention being

bestowed on this unlooked-for hoard of treasure. As this
was just what its captor wished, he considered that part of
his work accomplished. It now became apparent why a
glass was used to take the bee, instead of a vessel of
wood or of bark. Transparency was necessary in order to
watch the movements of the captive, as darkness was necessary
in order to induce it to cease its efforts to escape,
and to settle on the comb.

As the bee was now intently occupied in filling itself,
Buzzing Ben, or le Bourdon, did not hesitate about removing
the glass. He even ventured to look around him,
and to make another captive, which he placed over the
comb, and managed as he had done with the first. In a
minute, the second bee was also buried in a cell, and the
glass was again removed. Le Bourdon now signed for his
companions to draw near.

“There they are, hard at work with the honey,” he said,
speaking in English, and pointing at the bees. “Little do
they think, as they undermine that comb, how near they
are to the undermining of their own hive! But so it is
with us all! When we think we are in the highest prosperity
we may be nearest to a fall, and when we are poorest
and humblest, we may be about to be exalted. I often
think of these things, out here in the wilderness, when I'm
alone, and my thoughts are actyve.”

Ben used a very pure English, when his condition in life
is remembered; but, now and then, he encountered a word
which pretty plainly proved he was not exactly a scholar.
A false emphasis has sometimes an influence on a man's
fortune, when one lives in the world; but, it mattered little
to one like Buzzing Ben, who seldom saw more than half
a dozen human faces in the course of a whole summer's
hunting. We remember an Englishman, however, who
would never concede talents to Burr, because the latter
said, à l' Amèricaine, Európean, instead of Européan.

“How hive in danger?” demanded Elksfoot, who was
very much of a matter-of-fact person. “No see him, no
hear him—else get some honey.”

“Honey you can have for the asking, for I've plenty of
it already in my cabin, though it's somewhat 'arly in the
season to begin to break in upon the store. In general,

the bee-hunters keep back till August, for they think it
better to commence work when the creatures,”—this word
Ben pronounced as accurately as if brought up at St.
James', making it neither `creatur” nor `creatoore'—“to
commence work when the creatures have had time to fill
up, after their winter's feed. But I like the old stock, and,
what is more, I feel satisfied this is not to be a common
summer, and so I thought I would make an early start.”

As Ben said this, he glanced his eyes at Pigeonswing,
who returned the look in a way to prove there was already
a secret intelligence between them, though neither had
ever seen the other an hour before.

“Waal!” exclaimed Gershom, “this is cur'ous, I'll allow
that; yes, it's cur'ous—but we've got an article at Whiskey
Centre that'll put the sweetest honey bee ever suck'd, altogether
out o' countenance!”

“An article of which you suck your share, friend, I'll
answer for it, judging by the sign you carry between the
windows of your face,” returned Ben, laughing; “but
hush, men, hush. That first bee is filled, and begins to
think of home. He'll soon be off for Honey Centre, and
I must keep my eye on him. Now, stand a little aside,
friends, and give me room for my craft.”

The men complied, and le Bourdon was now all intense
attention to his business. The bee first taken had, indeed,
filled itself to satiety, and at first seemed to be too heavy
to rise on the wing. After a few moments of preparation,
however, up it went, circling around the spot, as if uncertain
what course to take. The eye of Ben never left it,
and when the insect darted off, as it soon did, in an air-line,
he saw it for fifty yards after the others had lost sight of it.
Ben took the range, and was silent fully a minute while he
did so.

“That bee may have lighted in the corner of yonder
swamp,” he said, pointing, as he spoke, to a bit of low
land that sustained a growth of much larger trees than
those which grew in the “opening,” “or it has crossed the
point of the wood, and struck across the prairie beyond,
and made for a bit of thick forest that is to be found about
three miles further. In the last case, I shall have my
trouble for nothing.”

“What t'other do?” demanded Elksfoot, with very obvious
curiosity.

“Sure enough; the other gentleman must be nearly
ready for a start, and we'll see what road he travels. 'T is
always an assistance to a bee-hunter to get one creature
fairly off, as it helps him to line the next with greater sartainty.”

Ben would say actyve, and sartain, though he was above
saying creatoore, or creatur'. This is the difference between
a Pennsylvanian and a Yankee. We shall not stop, however,
to note all these little peculiarities in these individuals,
but use the proper or the peculiar dialect, as may happen
to be most convenient to ourselves.

But there was no time for disquisition, the second bee
being now ready for a start. Like his companion, this insect
rose and encircled the stump several times, ere it
darted away towards its hive, in an air-line. So small was
the object, and so rapid its movement, that no one but the
bee-hunter saw the animal after it had begun its journey in
earnest. To his disappointment, instead of flying in the
same direction as the bee first taken, this little fellow went
buzzing off fairly at a right angle! It was consequently
clear that there were two hives, and that they lay in very
different directions.

Without wasting his time in useless talk, le Bourdon now
caught another bee, which was subjected to the same process
as those first taken. When this creature had filled
itself, it rose, circled the stump as usual, as if to note the
spot for a second visit, and darted away, directly in a line
with the bee first taken. Ben noted its flight most accurately,
and had his eye on it, until it was quite a hundred
yards from the stump. This he was enabled to do, by
means of a quick sight and long practice.

“We'll move our quarters, friends,” said Buzzing Ben,
good-humouredly, as soon as satisfied with this last observation,
and gathering together his traps for a start. “I must
angle for that hive, and I fear it will turn out to be across
the prairie, and quite beyond my reach for to-day.”

The prairie alluded to was one of those small natural
meadows, or pastures, that are to be found in Michigan,
and may have contained four or five thousand acres of open

land. The heavy timber of the swamp mentioned, jutted
into it, and the point to be determined was, to ascertain
whether the bees had flown over these trees, towards which
they had certainly gone in an air-line, or whether they had
found their hive among them. In order to settle this material
question, a new process was necessary.

“I must `angle' for them chaps,” repeated le Bourdon;
“and if you will go with me, strangers, you shall soon see
the nicest part of the business of bee-hunting. Many a
man who can `line' a bee, can do nothing at an `angle.”'

As this was only gibberish to the listeners, no answer
was made, but all prepared to follow Ben, who was soon
ready to change his ground. The bee-hunter took his way
across the open ground to a point fully a hundred rods distant
from his first position, where he found another stump
of a fallen tree, which he converted into a stand. The
same process was gone through with, as before, and le
Bourdon was soon watching two bees that had plunged
their heads down into the cells of the comb. Nothing
could exceed the gravity and attention of the Indians, all
this time. They had fully comprehended the business of
“lining” the insects towards their hives, but they could
not understand the virtue of the “angle.” The first bore
so strong an affinity to their own pursuit of game, as to be
very obvious to their senses; but the last included a species
of information to which they were total strangers. Nor
were they much the wiser after le Bourdon had taken his
“angle;” it requiring a sort of induction to which they
were not accustomed, in order to put the several parts of
his proceedings together, and to draw the inference. As
for Gershom, he affected to be familiar with all that was
going on, though he was just as ignorant as the Indians
themselves. This little bit of hypocrisy was the homage
he paid to his white blood; it being very unseemly, according
to his view of the matter, for a pale-face not to
know more than a red-skin.

The bees were some little time in filling themselves. At
length one of them came out of his cell, and was evidently
getting ready for his flight. Ben beckoned to the spectators
to stand farther back, in order to give him a fair

chance, and, just as he had done so, the bee rose. After
humming around the stump for an instant, away the insect
flew, taking a course almost at right angles to that in which
le Bourdon had expected to see it fly. It required half a
minute for him to recollect that this little creature had gone
off in a line nearly parallel to that which had been taken
by the second of the bees, which he had seen quit his original
position. The line led across the neighbouring prairie,
and any attempt to follow these bees was hopeless.

But the second creature was also soon ready, and when
it darted away le Bourdon, to his manifest delight, saw
that it held its flight towards the point of the swamp, into,
or over which two of his first captives had also gone. This
settled the doubtful matter. Had the hive of these bees
been beyond that wood, the angle of intersection would
not have been there, but at the hive across the prairie.
The reader will understand that creatures which obey an
instinct, or such a reason as bees possess, would never
make a curvature in their flights without some strong motive
for it. Thus, two bees taken from flowers that stood
half a mile apart, would be certain not to cross each other's
tracks, in returning home, until they met at the common
hive: and wherever the intersecting angle in their respective
flights might be, there would that hive be also. As
this repository of sweets was the game le Bourdon had in
view, it is easy to see how much he was pleased when the
direction taken by the last of his bees gave him the necessary
assurance that its home would certainly be found in
that very point of dense wood.