University of Virginia Library

3. III.
SUSIE AND THE BEES.

“That there 's my darter, and them 's the bees,” said
Mr. Thornton.

“What! that thing in the tree?” said I, using my eye-glass.
“It looks like a shocking bad hat!

“That 's the swarm stuck on to the limb,” said Mr.
Thornton. “We 'll have Susie to thank if we save 'em.
She heard 'em flying over, and run out with the dinner-bell
and called 'em.”

“Called 'em to dinner?” I said, absent-mindedly.

“Ringing the bell called 'em down, till bimeby they lit
on that tree. A swarm 'll gen'ly come to such noises.
And Susie 's a master-hand to look arter bees.”

“What 's she doing up on the ladder there?”

“She 's cutting off the limb. It 's curi's,” said Mr.
Thornton, with fatherly pride, “bees never tech her,
though she goes right in among 'em. Sting me, though;
so I keep a little back. Susie's mother, Mr. Blazay!”

At that a freckled, good-natured woman, who stood at a
little distance from the tree, with her arms rolled up in a
calico apron, took them out to shake hands with me, and
rolled them up again.

“What are these little negro boys doing?” I inquired.

“Nigger boys! Ho! ho! ho!” laughed the paternal
Thornton.

“Them 's our little boys, sir,” said the maternal Thornton,
with an amused smile. “What you see is veils tied
over their faces to keep the bees from stinging on 'em.
That 's George Washington holding the ladder for Susie;
and that 's Andrew Jackson tending the clo'es-line.”

“This is the second swarm Susie has stopped this
season,” said Mr. Thornton. “Both wild swarms from
the woods, prob'bly. We consider it quite a prize.”

“Hive of bees in May, wuth a ton of hay; hive of bees
in June, wuth a silver spoon; hive of bees in July, not
wuth a fly. That 's the old adage,” smiled Mrs. Thornton.

“But Susie has good luck with her bees, let 'em swarm
when they will,” said Mr. Thornton.

“Look out down there!” cried a clear, shrill, feminine
voice from the tree.

The fibres of the bough began to crack; and somewhat
to my alarm I saw the great, black, hat-like mass swing
down, as if about to fall to the ground. But I soon perceived
that it was secured by the rope, which was passed
over a limb above, and then down to Andrew Jackson's
hand, who stood looking up through his veil, waiting for
orders. Susie severed the bark and splinters that still
held the branch, then dropped her little handsaw on the
grass.

“Now, Jackson!” Slowly the boy payed out the line,
and slowly the bough descended with its burden. “Hold
on, Georgie!” Georgie held on, and down the ladder came
Susie.

Animated, agile, red as a rose, she ran to her bees, I
regarding her meanwhile with anxious interest. Taking
hold of the bough where it hung, she ordered Andrew
Jackson to “let it come,” lowered it almost to the
ground and shook it. The bees fell off in great bunches
and clusters, which burst into buzzing, crumbling,
crawling multitudes on the grass, — wave on wave dark
surging. George Washington stood ready with a bee-hive,
which he clapped over the living heap. And the job was
done.

“There, father!” cried Susie, merrily, “what are you
going to give me for that? Hive of bees in June —”

She stopped, seeing me.

“You shall have your silver spoon,” said Mr. Thornton.
“This is Mr. Blazay, Susie.”

Determined to perform my part with becoming gallantry,
I advanced. Unluckily, I am tall. My bow was lofty;
the bough of the tree was low. Before I could take off
my hat it was taken off for me. Attempting to catch it,

I knocked it like a ball straight at Susie's head. She
dodged it, and it fell by the bee-hive. At that the Father
of his Country rushed to the rescue, and brought it back
to me with the air of a youngster who expects a penny for
his services.

I was finishing my bow to Susie, when I observed a
number of swift, zigzag, darting insects circling about us.

“Stand still and they won't hurt ye,” said George Washington,
handing me my hat. “Make 'em think you 're a
tree!”

I assumed the rôle accordingly, — rooted myself to the
spot, — held my tall trunk erect, — kept my limbs rigid, —
and, I am confident, appeared verdant enough to deceive even
a bee. In that interesting attitude I looked as unconcerned
as possible, grimaced at Susie, said what a delightful
orchard it was, and felt a whizzing, winnowing sensation
in my foliage, otherwise called hair.

“There 's a bee!” screamed Andrew Jackson.

The General was right, — there was a bee. I began to
brush.

“Don't ye stir!” shouted Washington. “That 'll only
make him mad! Keep jest as still!”

It was easy for the First President to stand there, with
his face veiled, and promulgate that theory. But I was n't
up to it. I found myself stirring my stumps involuntarily.
I dropped my hat and stepped in it. The bee whizzed
and winnowed; I flirted and brushed. Then came a
poignant thrill! The assassin had his poisoned dagger
in me.

The sublime Washington continued to shout, “Keep
still, keep jest as still!” But already my movements had
quite dispelled the illusion that I was a tree, and the darting
and dinning about my ears became terrific. I endeavored
to smile calmly at Susie, and talk as became a man

of my politeness and dignity. But it was no use. Panic
seized me. I stamped, I swung my crushed hat, I took to
my heels. I ran like a Mohawk; and I should never,
probably, have stopped running until I reached a railroad
train, had not the same destiny that brought me to Shoemake
conspired to keep me there by casting a dead branch
in my way. In giving my head a brush I neglected the
brush at my feet. They became entangled in it, and I
sprawled my six feet of manly dignity ingloriously on the
turf.