University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE BEE HUNT. — MARGARET GOES FARTHER INTO NATURE.
— SHE SINS AND REPENTS. — THE MASTER.

The next morning, Chilion and Margaret, joined by
Obed, started on a bee-hunt. Obed was to remain with
them till the chase was over, when Margaret promised to
aid him in collecting plants for his mother. They took
with them honey, leather mittens for the hands, screens for
the face, brimstone and other requisites. They entered the
woods lying to the south of the Pond, an unlimited range,
extending in some directions many miles. The honey
being placed on a stump, several bees, springing up as it
were from vacuity, laded themselves with the fatal bait, and
darted off. Our hunters pursued, watching the course of
their flight, and were conducted by the unconscious guides
to their own abode, a partially decayed tree. A few
strokes of the axe brought it crashing to the ground. It
was a more difficult task to possess themselves of the honey.
The outraged and indignant insects spurted out from their
nest like fire; their simultaneous start, their mixed and
deepened huzz, their thousand wings beating as for life,
made a noise not unlike a distant waterfall, or the hidden
roar of an abyss. The persecutors speedily covered
their faces and hands, and waited for the alarm to subside.
Margaret said she thought they would not hurt her, as
those at the Widow's did not. It is said there are some
persons whom bees never sting. She kindled the brimstone
each side of the tree. The bees within, called out

by a rap on the trunk, and those without, flying and crawling
about their nest, fell dead in the smoke. Chilion cut
a passage to the cavity where the comb lay. Margaret,
looking in, and seeing the beautiful chambers of these sylvan
operatives seemed struck with remorse. She had
eaten honey and honey-comb. She had seen bees, but
she never had associated the two together in such a
touching, domestic and artistical sense. She saw the bees
lying dead in heaps. She had killed them. Some not quite
dead, lay on their backs, their feet convulsed and arms
quivering. Others were endeavoring to stretch their wings.
She could render back no life; she could set not a muscle in
motion; she could re-form not a filament of a wing. They
would visit her flowers no more; their hum would blend
never again with the sounds she loved to hear. Whether
the reflections of the child were just of this sort, order
and proportion, we are not told. The bees were dead, and
she was sad. She had seen dead squirrels, raccoons, partridges,
pigeons. But they were brought in dead; she had
not killed them. What is the child's first sense of death?
She would have given all her little heart was worth, could
she restore the life she had so thoughtlessly taken, and see
them again busy, blithe, happy about her house. Tears ran
down her cheeks, the unconscious expiation of Nature to
the Infinite Life. Chilion and Obed were apparently too
much occupied to notice her agitation, nor would she have
dared to speak to them of what she felt.

The tall gawky form of Obed went before through the
woods. The lad's trousers, through which penetrated his
lean dry shanks, gave him a semblance to a peasant of
Gascony on stilts. His shovel hat skewed on this side and
that, and bobbed up and down among the branches. It was,
as we might say, a new scene to Margaret. She had never

gone so far into the forest before. She was susceptible in
her feelings, and fresh as susceptible. The impression of
the bees somewhat abated, though its remembrance could
never be stifled. The woods, — where Adam and Eve
enjoyed their pastime and sought their repose; where the
Amorites and Assyrians learned to pray, and the Israelites
to rebel; where all ancient nations found materials for
sacrifice and offering; where Hertha, the Goddess of the
Angles, had her lovely residence; where the Druids
“thought every thing sent from Heaven that grew on the
oak;” the religion and worship of the old Germans, Italians
and Gauls; where Pan piped, the Satyrs danced, the
Fauns browsed, Sylvanus loved, Diana hunted, and Feronia
watched; whence Greek and Saracen, Pagan and Christian
derived architecture, order, grace, capitals, groins,
arches; whence came enchantment and power to Shakspeare,
Milton, Wordsworth, Scott, Cooper, Bryant, Titian,
Claude, Allston; where “the stately castle of the feudal
lord reared its head, the lonely anchorite sang his evening
hymn, and the sound of the convent bell was heard,” and
the fox and stag-hunter pursued their game; where Robin
Hood and his merry men did their exploits, and king Rufus
was slain; the enlivenment and decoration of the Feast of
Tabernacles, May-day, Whitsuntide, Christmas; the ward
of dryads, the scene of fairy revels, and Puck's pranks,
the haunt of bul-beggars, witches, spirits, urchins, elves,
hags, dwarfs, giants, the spoorn, the puckle, the man in the
oak, will-o'-the-wisp; the opera-house of birds, the shelter
of beasts, the retreat of mosquitoes and flies; where sugar
was made, and coal burnt; where the report of the rifle
was heard, and the stroke of the axe resounded; the home,
manor, church, country, kingdom, hunting-ground and
burial place of the Indian; the woods, green, sweet-smelling,
imparadisaical, inspiring, suggestive, wild, musical,
sombre, superstitious, devotional, mystic, tranquilizing; —
these were about the child and over her.

That we must know in order to know, that we must feel
in order to feel, was a truth Margaret but little realized.
She was beginning to know and to feel. Could the Immortal
Spirit of the Woods have spoken to her?—but she was not
prepared for it; she was too young; she only felt an
exhilarating sensation of variety, beauty, grandeur, awe.
She leaped over roots, she caught at the spray above her
head, she hid herself in thickets, she chased the birds. Yet
with all that was new about her, and fitted to engross her
vision, and supplant her recent sorrowful impressions, there
seemed a new sense aroused, or active within her, an
unconscious instinct, a hidden prompting of duty; she trod
with more care than usual; a fly, beetle, or snail, she
turned aside for, or stepped protectingly over; she would
not jostle a spider's web.

“It won't hurt ye,” said Obed. “It brings good
weather.”

“I know that,” replied Margaret, “but I don't want to
kill it.

Obed was homely and clever, as we have said, simple
and trusting. He never argued a point with Margaret; he
was glad to have her help him, and glad to help her. He
held back the low branches for her to pass, he assisted her
over slippery trunks, he lifted her across the narrow
deep stream of Mill Brook. He brandished his spade, and
said he would keep off the snakes; Margaret replied that
she was not afraid of them. They came to a sunny glade in
the woods, tufted with black and white moss, shaded by
huckle-berry shrubs, and sown with checker-berries, whose
fruit hung in round crimson drops, and little waxen flowers

bloomed under the dark shining leaves. Margaret sat down
and ate the sweet berries and their spicy leaves. The
shadows of the forest vibrated and flickered on the yellow
leaf-strewed earth and through the green underwood; the
trunks of the trees shot up, in straight, rough, tapering
stems clear through to the sky.

This particular patch of woods was of great age, and the
trees were very large, and the effect on Margaret's mind
was like that of a child going into St. Peter's church at
Rome. But there were no bronze saints here to look down
on her; a red squirrel, as she came in sight, raised a loud
shrill chattering, a singular mixture of contempt, welcome
and alarm. She made some familar demonstrations towards
the little fellow, and he, like a jilt, dropped a nut into her
face. She saw a brown cat-headed owl asleep, muffled in
his dark feathers and darker dreams, and called Obed's
attention to it.

“That's an owl,” cried the startled lad; “it's a bad sign;
Marm says it will hurt.”

“No,” replied Margaret; I've seen them on the Butternut
a good many times.” Knowing that as Obed never
reasoned so he could never be persuaded, Margaret joined
him in leaving the ominous vicinage.

“That's saxifax,” said her companion, striking his spade
into the roots of a well-known shrub. “It's good teu chaw;
the Settlers eats it—take it down, and they'll give ye ribbons
and beads for it.” Wisping the top together, and
bending it over, he bade Margaret hold on, while he proceeded
with the digging. The light black mould was
removed, and the reddish damp roots disclosed. “Taste
on't,” he said, “it's good as nutcakes.” Margaret loitered,
wandered, attracted by the flowers she stopped to pick.
“Marm won't let us,” said Obed, “them ant yarbs, they

won't doctor, the Settlers won't touch them. Margaret,
whether convinced or not, yielded, and ran on before,
apparently the most anxious to discover the plants desired.

“That's um!” cried Obed.

Margaret was bounding through a wet bog, springing
from one tussock of sedge to another. She, too, had espied
it, and in sight of its beauty and novelty forgot every thing
else. It was a wake-robin, commonly known as dragonroot,
devil's ear, or Indian turnip. Margaret broke off the
flower, which she would have carried to her nose.

“Don't ye taste on't!” exclaimed Obed, “it's orful
burnin; put it in the basket.” So the plant, flower and all,
were deposited with the rest of their collection.

It was time to go home. They had reached the edge of
the woods whence they started.

“That's him!” cried Margaret, clapping her hands.

“It's the Master!” echoed Obed, quite disconcerted.

There appeared before them a man, the shadow of whom
they had seen among the leaves, about fifty years of age,
and dressed in the full style of the times, or we should say
of his own time, which dated a little earlier than that of
Margaret. He wore a three-cornered hat, with a very
broad brim tied with a black ribbon over the top. His
coat, of drab kerseymere, descended in long, broad, square
skirts, quite to the calves of his legs. It had no buttons in
ront, but in lieu thereof, slashes, like long button holes,
and laced with silk embroidery. He had on nankeen
small-clothes, white ribbed silk stockings, paste knee and
shoe buckles, and white silk knee-bands. His waistcoat,
or vest, was of yellow embossed silk, with long skirts or
lappels, rounded and open at the bottom, and bordered
with white silk fringe. The sleeves and skirts of his coat
were garnished with rows of silver buttons. He wore ruffle

cuffs that turned back over his wrists and reached almost to
his elbows; on his neck was a snow-white linen plaited
stock, fastened behind with a large silver buckle, that glistened
above the low collar of his coat. Under his hat appeared
a gray wig, falling in rolls over his shoulders, and
gathered behind with a black ribbon. From his side depended
a large gold watch-seal and key, on a long gold
chain. He had on a pair of tortoise-shell bridge spectacles.
A golden-headed cane was thrust under his arm. This was
Mr. Bartholomew Elliman, the Schoolmaster, or the Master,
as he was called. He was tall in person, had an aquiline
nose, and a thin face.

“Ha, my Hamadryad!” said he, addressing Margaret;
“salutem et pacem; in other words, how do you do, my girl
of the woods?”

“Pretty well, thankee,” replied Margaret.

“I thank you, Sir,” said he, amending her style of expression.

“I forgot,” she added, “pretty well, I thank you, Sir.”

He nodded to Obed, who stood aloof in awkward firmness;
besides there were signs of uneasiness or displeasure
on the faces of both.

“How came the Pond Lily in the woods?” said he.

“I am after herbs,” replied Margaret; “and I have
some flowers too,” added she, taking off her hat.

“Flowers, have you? You are a noble specimen of
foliacious amfractuosity — a hortus siccus of your hat!
Would I could send you and your flowers across the waters
to my friend, Mr. Knight, the great botanist, nox semperlucens.”

“He shan't hurt Molly,” interrupted Obed. “He 'll
drown her, he 'll pull her teu pieces. Marm says he spiles
every thing. He wants to pitch Molly into the Pond.”

“Don't be alarmed, my glandulous champion, no harm
shall come to this fair flower.”

“He 'll git um all, Molly; don't ye let him have any.”

“I tell you,” responded the Master, “Margaret is a
flower; she is my flower.”

“She an't a flower,” rejoined Obed, “she 's Pluck's
Molly.”

Obed became quite excited, and spake with more than
his customary freedom. It needs perhaps to be explained,
that Master Elliman and the Widow Wright were somewhat
at odds. He was in pursuit of science, she of gain.
They took a common track, plants and flowers; their ends
essentially diverged. They frequently encountered, but
they could never agree. Margaret herself was another
point of issue, the Widow being jealous of the child's attachment
to the Master. The impression that Obed on the
whole derived, was, that he was an evil-disposed person,
and one whose presence boded no good to Margaret.

The Master proceeded in the examination of the flowers
Margaret gave him.

“I have another one,” said she; and thrusting her hand
into Obed's basket, drew out the wake-robin.

“An Arum!” said the Master, “the very thing I have
been written to upon.”

“Tan't yourn, Molly; it's Marm's,” said Obed, seizing
the flower and replacing it in the basket.

Here was, indeed, a mistake. Margaret had unreflectingly
given the flower to Obed to carry, at the same time
thinking it belonged to herself. She did not know the
value attached to it by Obed, whose mother had enjoined
him to get one if possible, for some particular purpose of
her own. At last she said, —

“I can get more; I know where they grow.”

“Can you, can you?” said the Master, “their habitat is
sphagnous places, what you call swamps. It is impossible
for me to reach them. Stultiloquent yarb-monger!” he
broke out, speaking of or to Obed; “son of a helminthic
android! you ought to be capistrated.”

“That's hocuspocus, Molly,” said the lad: “Marm says
'tis. He 'll hurt ye, he 'll hurt ye.”

“I will get some for both of you,” said Margaret; “I
will go to-morrow.”

“You don't know the way,” rejoined Obed, “snakes 'll
bite ye; there's painters in the woods, and wild cats, and
owls.”

“I 'll take Bull with me,” answered Margaret.

This allusion to the dog renewed Obed's trouble. He
feared his mother, who he thought would not wish the
Master should have the flower; he dreaded the dog, he
disliked the Master, he loved Margaret; he was in a quandary.
He stammered, he tried to laugh, he put his hand
on Margaret's head, he yerked up his trousers, he looked
into his basket. He leaned against a tree, and dropped his
face upon his arm. Margaret ran to him, and took hold of
his hand. “Don't cry Obed,” she said; “poor Obed, don't
cry.”

The Master, seeing the extremity of affairs, told Margaret
not to care, that he presumed she would be able to get
the flower for him, and took her hand to lead her away.
She clung to Obed, or he to her, wholly enveloping her
little hand, wrist and all, in his great fist. Thus linked,
sidling, skewing, filing as they could through the trees and
brush, they soon emerged in the road. The Master went
on with them to the house, and Obed continued his course
homeward. Master Elliman was evidently not a stranger
to the family. His visit seemed welcome. Even the hard

muddy features of Hash brightened with a smile as he entered.
The dry, pursed mouth of the mother yielded
a pleasant salutation. Chilion offered the best chair.—
Pluck was always merry. Margaret alone for the moment,
contrary to her general manner, appeared sorrowful.