by Ralph Moody
I had gotten up, and Grandfather and I both stood looking up at the little hole that was the doorway of the bees’ nest. After a few minutes, he half whispered, “’Tain’t right, Ralphie . . . ’Tain’t right, I s’pose . . . I and you a-using their gift from the Almighty agin ’em . . . sighting ’em down by the straight line of their flight.” He stood for a few minutes more, then went on, “We ain’t doing ’em no harm. Just fetching ’em home so’s we can watch after ’em enduring the winter . . . Most prob’ly the Almighty made ’em a purpose to sweeten the victuals of His children . . . Gorry! Ain’t nothing better’n new honey on a hot biscuit.”
There was a deep shadow in the woods, but as we stood there, a thin shaft of golden sunlight streamed through an opening in the leaves and lighted Grandfather’s face. When it touched his eyes, he jumped, almost as though it had hurt him. “Gorry sakes alive!” he sang out. “Time flies! Must be getting nigh onto evening!” He looked quickly up and down the trunk of the tree. “By fire,” he said, “I cal’late that’ll take the longest ladder in the barn. Come on, Ralphie! Come on! I and you’ll have to stir our stivvers if we’re to get ’em hived afore night falls.” He hurried off toward the house, and called back to me, “Fetch the hosses! Fetch the hosses, Ralphie, whilst I go get the bee trappings ready.”
When I went back to the plow, the yella colt had the harness pretty well tangled up. It might have taken me fifteen minutes to straighten it out, drive to the barn, and hitch the horses to the stone drag. By that time, Grandfather had dragged the long ladder out of the barn, and wood punk smoking in an old iron kettle; a white beehive, bellows, veils, and gloves laid out on the yard wall.
“What in time and tarnation you been dawdling around for?” Grandfather shouted, as I pulled up to the foot of the wall. “Time flies! Time flies! Can’t fetch bees out of a tree in the dark! Here! Haul this tarnal ladder down, and hook it fast whilst I fetch the trappings. There she be! There she be, Ralphie! Let’s get a-going, and your old grampa’ll learn you how to fetch home a swarm of lost bees.”
The nearer we came to the bee tree, the more I worried. The nest was nearly thirty feet above the ground, I had no idea how to get bees out of it, and I could remember too much about what had happened when Millie tried to get them out of the apple tree. Whenever I’d try to ask Grandfather anything about it, he’d chuckle a little, and say, “You just mark your old grampa; he’ll show you how to fetch ’em down in jig time.”
We could only take the team as far as the lower end of the high stony field. The sun was behind the woods on the high ridge, and as I unhitched, Grandfather kept snapping, “Let be! Let be! Time flies!” All the time he was snapping at me, he kept blowing air into the smudge kettle with a little bellows. By the time I was finished, he had a smoke column that rose as high as the tree tops.
The long ladder was awkward to carry through the thick woods and stand up against the bee tree. Half a dozen times, when we got caught in the undergrowth or wedged tight between trees, Grandfather called me careless and heedless, but at the same time, he seemed excited and happy. I was worried because the top of it didn’t reach up to the bee hole by three feet, but when I tried to tell Grandfather it wouldn’t be safe, he only yapped, “’Tain’t nothing! ’Tain’t nothing! Leave your fretting and go to fetching the stuff. First off, fetch the hive and rope, and stir your stivvers. I cal’late to get ’em hived enduring twilight.”
When I came back, Grandfather had made a little foundation of rocks for the hive at the foot of the tree. He didn’t let me stop to help him place it, but hurried me right back for the rest of the trappings. “Take care you don’t trip with that tarnal smudge kettle,” he called after me. “Leaves is dry. Be all-fired easy to burn the woods down. Stir your stivvers, Ralphie! Daylight’s wasting!”
I hurried as much as I could on the way out, but I was awfully careful when I brought the smudge kettle back. From Grandfather’s having blown the punk, the kettle, bail and all, was hotter than Tophet. Even through a doubled glove, it burned my hand. I didn’t dare set it down among the dry leaves, and every time it touched my leg it felt as if I’d fallen on a hot stove. Between trying to juggle a couple of bee hats, the gloves, the bellows, hammer and nails, and keep the kettle away from my legs, I probably did look as if I was dancing. When I was fifty yards from the tree, Grandfather called, “Quit your playing! Quit your playing! Fetch them bellows and my bee hat. Time and tarnation! Why don’t you hurry?”
He was standing at the foot of the ladder, had passed the rope around the trunk of the tree, through the back of his suspenders, and tied a running noose in the end of it. All the time I’d been bringing the stuff in, I’d been telling myself I wasn’t going to let Grandfather see how scared I was to climb that ladder after the bees. But it never occurred to me that he might be going to do it himself. The minute I saw him standing there, I knew that was what he was planning, and I got the same feeling in my stomach that you have sometimes when an elevator goes down quickly. Before I even stopped to think, I hollered, “No! No! I’m going up after them.” And my voice sounded just the way my stomach felt.
Instead of being mad because I hollered at him, Grandfather’s voice was as mild as milk. “Why, Ralphie,” he said, “you ain’t scairt ’bout your old grampa falling, be you? Thunderation! Father clim ladders whenst he was ten years older’n I be. It’s all in knowing how. Now fetch me my bee gloves and hat, and get your’n on. Twilight’s a-falling.”
I put on my gloves, pulled the netting sleeves up over my arms, and crammed the hat tight onto my head, with the bee veil hanging down around my shoulders. I’d hardly finished when Grandfather said, “Hand me the bellows, Ralphie! I’m a-going up, and you follow after with the smudge kettle.” He hadn’t put his bee hat on, but squeezed it under one arm, along with the bellows. With both hands, he flipped the rope a couple of feet up the far side of the tree trunk, stepped up two rungs on the ladder, and flipped the rope again. When his feet were just above my head, he looked down, and said, “Keep leaning in close agin the ladder, Ralphie. You’ll have a hard chance with only one free hand for hanging on.” Then he flipped the rope again, and went on.
It was hard enough to handle the hot kettle on the ground, but ten times worse on the ladder. Besides being hot, it was belching smoke like a chimney, and the chokiest smoke I ever had to breath. We got along all right till Grandfather reached the top of the ladder. When his face was just about level with the bee hole, he knotted the rope so that he could lean back against it with both hands free. I heard a bee buzz, and looked up just in time to see it light on the bottom of the little hole in front of Grandfather’s face, then disappear. He took the bellows out from under his arm, but left his bee hat squeezed there tight. Without it on, I was sure he’d be stung to death but, before I could speak, he whispered, “Histe the kettle up here, so’s I can get at it, Ralphie. Higher! Higher! Shin on up here and take a-holt on my leg so’s you can histe it higher.”
Grandfather had both feet braced on the top rung of the ladder, and was leaning back a couple of feet against the tight loop of rope. I was so afraid his feet would slip, or that the rope would come untied, that I was shaking all over. And I didn’t dare grab hold of him for fear of throwing him off balance. I’d only hesitated a few seconds when he whispered, “Take a-holt! Take a-holt, Ralphie! Don’t be scairt; I ain’t a-going to let you fall. Histe it up high a minute.”
My arm was shaking like the legs of a frightened dog, but I hooked it around Grandfather’s knee and climbed up a couple more rungs. Then I held the hot kettle as high as I could while he sucked the bellows full of smoke. His leg, under my arm, was as steady as if it had been a limb of the tree. I knew from it, that he was neither afraid of falling, nor of the bees stinging his bare face. Just knowing it made me stop shaking, and I didn’t even wince when the kettle burned my arm a little as I held it up to him. After the bellows were filled with smoke, he held it tight to the bee hole and squeezed slowly. Then, quick as a flas
h, he poked the empty bellows into the top of his trousers, and said, “Go down, Ralphie! Go down! That’ll fetch ’em.”
As soon as I was down a few rungs, I leaned against the ladder and looked up at Grandfather. He’d swiped the bee hat out from under his arm, and was holding the open end of the veil around the little hole as the bees streamed out. There were still more bees coming out of the hole after the veil had become a sackful. I’d been so interested that I’d forgotten to go down any farther. Grandfather closed the mouth of the veil and slacked his rope off enough to let it slip a foot or so. “Go on down, Ralphie! Go on down!” he told me. “Your old grampa’s got ’em. Cal’late the queen’s somewheres in the hat.”
When he was far enough down to hook his free arm around the ladder rung, Grandfather untied the safety rope and let it fall. All around him, the air was thick with bees, but he seemed to pay no attention to them as he came slowly rung by rung. As his foot reached the ground, he let out a long breath, and half whispered, “There, by gorry, Ralphie! Guess we showed ’em what kind of logs makes wide shingles.” He lifted the cover, and dumped part of the bees into the hive. Then he knelt, placed the throat of the veil before the stoop of the beehive, and stepped back.
“Sit you down, Ralphie,” he said, as he stepped over to a big stump. “Sit you down with your old grampa and let’s mark ’em for a spell. Happen I got the queen on the inside, they’ll all follow her in.”
The sun had gone down. The sky, through the branches of the trees, was still bright blue, but twilight was spreading through the woods. A thrush, from somewhere toward the meadow, sang her evening song. Frogs tuned their fiddles in the swale along the brook. From higher up the ridge, a crow cawed three, evenly spaced, harsh notes. They were gone for a moment. Then, when the woods across the valley echoed them back, there was music in them. Listening to the twilight sounds, I’d forgotten all about the bees till Grandfather whispered, “Curious . . . bees. Mark how they’re a-piling up in front the hive?” After sitting quiet a few minutes, he went on. “Was all men as respecting of the Almighty as bees is of their queen, there’d be no call for neither jails nor courthouses.”
“Why didn’t they sting you when you went up there without your bee veil on?” I asked him.
“Gorry! Why would they?” he asked. “It’s the cool of evening, and I wa’n’t scairt of ’em. Bees won’t generally sting you lest you’re scairt. Cal’late they smell the scare on you, same as a dog does.” Then his voice rose a little. “By fire, she’s in, Ralphie! Mark how they ’pear to be flowing acrost the threshold. ’Twon’t be long! ’Twon’t be long now till we can nail ’em up and fetch ’em home.”
18
I Meet Annie
WITH no bees to hunt, Grandfather nearly drove the yella colt and me crazy. Instead of coming to the high field only for an hour in the mornings, he’d show up half a dozen times a day. I’d no more than get the colt settled down from one fit of rearing and balking, till Grandfather would come back, take the plow out of my hands, and get everything all mixed up again. I couldn’t do anything to please him, and once when I happened to mention strawberries, he shouted, “Don’t you never durst to let me hear you say strawb’ries again! How many times do I have to tell you this is hay land? Ain’t never been nothing else since Father cleared it. Strawb’ries! Great Thunderation! Garden sass!”
Grandfather even yelled at Old Bess till she’d follow along behind him with her belly almost dragging on the ground. Millie couldn’t please him any better than I could. Saturday evening, she came out to the tie-up while I was milking, and she was boiling mad. “What in tunket got into Thomas off to encampment is more’n I know,” she blurted. “’Cepting for them first few days when you come back, he ain’t been fit to live with nobody. Never seen the beat of it in all my born days! Squawking about his victuals! Hiding off in his room to write letters he’s scairt to let a body see! Running out to pass ’em to the mail carrier ’sted of posting ’em in the box! What does he think I be, a snooping busybody?”
“Maybe he’s getting sick again,” I said.
“Sick! Hmff! Ain’t no more sicker than I be!” Then she grabbed up the milk bucket and hurried out of the tie-up.
Sunday didn’t start off very well. Millie and Grandfather were both cross at breakfast. As I’d come in from the morning chores, I stubbed my toe on the back-pantry doorsill, and spilled nearly half the milk on the floor. Grandfather called me heedless, clumsy, and woolgathering, and Millie called me everything he didn’t think of. Before I took the cows to pasture, I decided to stay away from the house till supper time. I went to my room and slipped a few sheets of writing paper, some envelopes, and a pencil into the front of my shirt. The Astrachan apples were turning red on the tree in the corner of the orchard, so I climbed the lane wall and filled my pockets. Then, when I got to the pasture, I went hunting for a good place to do a little letter writing myself.
Grandfather’s hidden field was really two fields, shaped like an hourglass. It was down beyond the maple grove and the hemlock woods, and was entirely walled in by tall pines. Long ago, it had been a hayfield, but it was run-out. The bars were always down, and it was part of the pasture. The roadway that led to it was nothing but an overgrown set of wheel tracks through the woods. I decided the hidden field would be a good place for writing, and started following along the wheel ruts. I’d gone as far as the hemlock woods, just beyond the sugarhouse at the edge of the maples, when I noticed a flat table of gray stone farther up the hill. I remembered Grandfather’s telling about the granite outcropping, so I climbed up to see what it was like.
It was a beautiful place for writing. A solid ledge of gray-blue granite crowned the highest point on the farm. The top of the ledge was almost as flat and smooth as though it had been planed, and was as large as the foundation of a good-sized house. On the west, it seemed to swell out of a hedge of junipers. At the north were the maples, a few white birches, and, rising above them, the great green dome of the three oaks that grew from a single stump. To the east, the ledge broke off in irregular steps to the top of the hemlock-covered hillside. And southward, the thick tops of young pines billowed away like a tossing green sea to meet their older brothers at the edge of the hidden field.
I’d promised to write Mother and Uncle Levi. When I’d slipped the paper into the front of my shirt, I’d been going to tell them that Grandfather wasn’t sick any longer, that I couldn’t do anything to please him, and that I thought I’d better come home right away. Sitting there on the steps, with the ledge for a table, and the smell of juniper and pine and hemlock in the air, I couldn’t seem to find the words I wanted to write.
I took an apple out of my pocket, and began eating it while I thought about what I was going to say. The seeds were just turning brown and the juice was tart. It squirted every time my teeth bit through the red skin. The core was still pretty good-sized when a squirrel began scolding at me from a limb of the nearest maple tree. I asked him if he thought his name was Thomas, but he only flipped his tail and ducked away to the far side of the tree trunk. Then, from first one side of the trunk and then the other, he would stick his head out and scold some more.
I had all day, so there was no hurry about the letters. I put a stone on the paper, and took the apple core over to the maple. I laid it on the ground, three or four feet from the near side of the trunk, then went back to lie on the ledge and see how long before the squirrel would dare come down for it. I don’t think it was a question of daring at all. I think it was flirting. One minute, he would pop his nose out from behind the tree trunk, not more than two feet above the ground, cock his head on one side, then the other; blink his eyes, and chatter. The next minute, he would scold at me from a branch forty feet above the ground, flip his tail and bark, as if he were daring me to come up and try to catch him.
I didn’t make a sound or move a muscle, but lay there on my stomach, watching the little fellow. I don’t know how long I’d lain there, but the squirrel had been up a
nd down the tree a dozen times when the tone of his chattering changed, and he stopped paying any attention to me. He would run out a little way on the big limb that reached toward the hemlocks, scold crossly, snap his tail hard, then scurry back and flatten himself against the far side of the trunk—but in plain sight from where I was lying.
There was only the faintest breath of breeze moving. I couldn’t be sure from what direction it came, so I wet a finger on my tongue, held it up in front of my face, and watched to see which side would dry first. It was the side toward the hemlocks; toward the spot the squirrel had been watching and scolding at. I was downwind from it, and no animal hiding there could scent me. I’d seen a red fox one evening when I went for the cows, and was pretty sure he was somewhere there in the hemlocks, and that the squirrel had seen him.
I bellyhooked carefully toward the hemlock edge of the outcropping, and then my heart began pounding. Annie Littlehale was standing behind a hemlock trunk, peeking around it, and watching the squirrel tree. She wasn’t more than twenty-five yards from me, her black hair rippled in a cascade over her shoulders, and her face was the prettiest I had ever seen. It wasn’t white like Millie’s, and it wasn’t tanned dark like mine, but was light golden brown—and there was a glow of red in her lips and her cheeks. As I watched her, with my chin pressed close against the granite, she drew her lips back from her teeth, and made a ticking sound at the squirrel. They were as white and gleaming as a rift of snow caught in the folds of a brown oak leaf.