Joe-Dad's
Bee Tree
AN EPISODE if?
I IN WOODS
► AND WATER J
I EXPLOITS <
► j
£ By <
r Eraest McGaifey 1
112 Author ofVoemj of 3
| Gun and Hod. Etc. 2
i t; I
(Copyright, by Joseph li. lk> w les.
"See that," said old Joe-Dad, as he
Tose from the skiff and peered into the
surrounding timber. "Mmm," went on
the ancient "pusher," "I reckon they's
a bee-tree round here somewhere's.
How'd some honey taste on them
llap-jacks we're bavin' at camp?"
"W£ve got plenty o' rope," said the
■"piudpr," knocking the ashes out of
hi^^nort-stemmed pipe, "and two good
traes. We may have to build a
"smudge," and agin mebby we won't
have to."
"You must have been an interested
party in some bee scrape, Joe," was
Ely answer.
"Fur awhile, fur awhile," was the
""pusher's" response. "Yes, I reckon
I was about the most pizenousl.v inter
•ested feller in a chunk o' rope that
ever happened into the timber."
"Why, that sounds like a story, Joe,"
said I, "tell me about it."
"Well," begun Joe-Dad, it was this
a-wa.v. I was young, an' 1 wuz green
as to bees. I wuz the best climber
nt'Xt to a squirrel that ever shinned
up a saplin'. I'd lived in the woods,
an' jit 1 wuz so busy huntin' an ilsli
"" /S ' '
THE RCPE! HOLLERS I.
In' that I'd never been huntin' fer
bee trees more'n four or five times."
"So one night oyer comes Hob Early
to the cabin, an' he's got a bee tree
sighted that's plumb full o' honey to
liear him tell it, an' nothin'll do but 1
fer him an' pap to git out after it
next mornin.' Hut the old man's got
n line o' traps he's got to 'run,' au'
he says fer me togo 'long 'ith Hob.
So bright an' soon the next mornin'
:iob an' me's pinted fer this here bee
ree. Hob's got an ax, I've got an ax,
n' Hob's carryin' a long rope."
"What's the rope fer, Bob," sez I.
"Jist to hang ourselves ef we miss
ndin' that bee tree," says Bob.
"I didn't say nothin' to that, fer I
iew Hob Early was raised on bees,
112 that he wasn't packin' that quoil
rope fer fun."
"An" so perty soon we got to a clear
down in the timber, an' Hob took
(quint through the bresh, an' at last
sez, 'straight out from this here
to'rds the river.' So we starts to
|igh through the awfuilest tangle
ever seen. Huck-bresh, black
•y briers, pieces o' swamp, old logs
the devil's own mix-up o' wood an'
>r. Finally old Hoi) halts clost.
le river, an' lookin' up at the edge
tn openin' in the woods he sez
le hit fer, here she is.' "
ken T squinted up, an' there was
biggest and slickest sycamore I
'\ver seen, no branches low down,
forty feet or so there
/ ouirrible big dead limb stickin'
tha the main trunk. An' from
goirt'rnb you could see the bees
•Tha comin' out, an' says Hob,
••Ttioncy.'"
etickl\ another good-sized limb
dead <vni the tree ciost to the
goin' t\nerly I sez, How're we
gyratno'this here honey? That
to climWtough a gi'ey squirrel
climb ity a man, he couldn't
rain-bow. y j,e could climb a
"Bob no,
Vtliin' but jist kep'
flggerin' 'roun, an' then lio soz, 'We'll
fell that thar saplin' so'st. it'll fall
acrost the dead limb,' sez he, 'an' ef
it don't bust, her down, one o' us 'll
have to climb the saplin' an' cut away
the limb."
"So Ilob an' me lays our axo3 into
the saplin' an' when the saplin' is
about ready to go. Hob throws the
rope over one of it's limbs an' hitches
to a tree close up so'st the saplin's
bound to come down on the dead
limb. Well, sir, down comes Mr. Sap
lin square across the dead limb a few
feet from the big sycamore itself. But
it didn't bust the limb. Some o' the
bees they come out but. went back
agin', an' Bob an' me we jist stood an'
looked."
" 'lt's a case o' climb,' sez he.' "
Now bein' that I wuz nacherly the
beat climber in the world, I allows I'll
go up. Bob sez 'Cut. her off as near
the butt as you kin, an' I'll sling you
the rope up after the limb busts off,
an' you kin tie her to the green limb
you'll be standin' on, throw down your
ax an' slide down the rope. I'll cut
loose from the green limb with a
couple o' bullets an' there you are.'"
"So I ties the ax tight, to me an' up
I goes. It wuzn't very hard, an' I
gets up to the spot in a few minutes.
Then 1 unties the ax an' begins chop
pin' on the dead limb. 1 hadn't got
her half off when the weight o' the
saplin weakens the limb an' it tears
off an' fall:!, takin' with it the heft o'
the honey, but leavin' about seven
bushels o' bees at the butt o' t.he limb
an' along on one side o' the limb
where it had fetched loose from. Well,
that looked all right, but in about
three seconds thf> bees appinted a
committee to investigate. Something
like twelve or fifteen thousand bees
wuz on this committee, an' the first
thing they did to me wuz to jist sting
me once for good luck. 'The rope,' hol
lers 1, an' then I sliet my mouth an'
eyes fer fear the bees'd start in on
me there. They cert'ny did sting me
awful. 1 thought I'd fall off'n the
limb. I wuz skeered to try to slide
down the sycamore, cuz I'd a dropped
forty feet an' broke my neck certain.
The saplin' o' course had none with
the dead limb, an' thar I wuz forty
feet up in the crotch, an' gittin' stung
at the rate o' six hundred stingers a
second."
"Well, Hob, he jist nacherly gits
the rope untied from the saplin' as
soon as he kin, an' quoils her up an'
sends it across the limb so's 1 ketch
It the first sling. Hut by that time
I'JJJ one big bunch o' pizen from them
stings, an' partickler my head and
neck. Pears like they mostly settled
on my back, an' the back o' my neck,
an' when I got the rope, they sort o'
shifted an' commenced to sting my
hands."
"Well, sir, 1 didn't lose any time
gittin' a hitch to the limb with that
rope an' when I slid down her I cert'ny
perty near set fire to it 1 went down
so tarnation quick."
"Talk about PAIN! Why I was jist
the painfullest feller in the woods.
Hob grabbed me the minute 1 lit, an'
be had a big gob o' honey in his
hands. He rubbed that honey into the
stings, an' I want to say right here
that in two hours 1 wuz all right,
though I wuz some sore. Hut the
honey took the pizon out, an' after a
couple o' days I wouldn't a knowed
I'd a-been stung at all. But lawz-a
me, I'll never furgit settin' up thar
a hundred feet from the ground, cr
say forty feet, an' gettin' peppered by
them Lees."
"An' so you see ef It hadn't a-heen
fer the rope we had along, I'd a bad
to jump an' break my neck er stuck
thar tell them bees had jist nacherly
stung me plumb off'n the limb."
"After I'd got shet a little o' the
pain, by Hob rubbin' in the honey, he
sez to me, 'What do you think of a
I rope in raid in' a bee tree?' "
"Ami what did you say to that, Joe-
Dad?" was my inquiry.
"I sez tlie next time I goes after a
bee tree, I 'lowed I'd pack a ladder,
if they wuzn't no objections."
RELIVING HIS WAR DAY 3.
Old Soldier Camps Before Hie Fire In
Falrmount Park.
What Is the secret of the magic
power of a crackling fire to conjure
up memories of days that are dead?
The answer to this abstruse question
may be left to psychologists. Few will
deny that a crackling fire has such
power. In the leaping sparks and the
reddening logs one finds that stimulus
to muse and to meditate in moods that
range from melancholy to merriment.
This, in brief, is the line of thought
that obsesses Maj. James H. Work
man, a civil war veteran, who recently
determined to become a hermit. In
the winter of life his mind harked
back to the days of battle and sudden
death. He longed once more for the
alluring freedom of the simple life of a
Maj. James H. Workman in Camp Again.
soldier. He determined to live once
more, as nearly as possible, the l|fe
of his soldier days by camping in the
open, beside a roaring lire, to prepare
his own meals, to bid defiance to cold j
and wet and, in imagination at least,'
to campaign again with Sherman and
Grant.
Had the old soldier been friendless
and alone ho might have buried him
self permanently in some secluded
spot and reveled in his campfire
dreaming until "taps" sounded for the
last time. Hut the major is blessed
with a devoted wife and a host of:
friends, and no one would listen to his 1
suggestion that he retire to the woods j
to end his days with the birds and the j
squirrels for companions. So he com-1
promised by pitching his camp in an
out-of-the-way ravine in Pairmount |
park, Philadelphia, says the New York !
Tribune, where he is as completely off j
th«» beaten track as he would be in the |
wilderness. The park authorities hu-1
mored the old soldier's whim.
Joyfully the major selected his
campground, in a picturesque spot,
where the trees shelter him to some
extent from the wind, and here he can
be found, no matter how severe the
weather.
AN INSPIRING SIGHT.
The Fighting on Lookout Mountain
and the Charge Up Mission Ridge.
I carried a gun and took an active
part in both battles of Lookout Moun
tain and Mission Ridge, writes a cor
respondent of the National Tribune,
being in Carlin's First brigade, First
division, Fourteenth corps, which was
the extreme right of Thomas' line in
the valley facing Missionary ridge,
from which position I watched the ad
vance of Hooker's men as they drove
the confederates around the north face
of Lookout mountain. The lines on
the side of the mountain were occa
-1 /* v"I
"Hooker's Men Drove the Confeder
ates Around the Face of Lookout
Mountain."
sionally obscured by the lowering
clouds. But Hooker's brave men were
running out of ammunition, and our
brigade, being the nearest, was or
dered to his assistance, carrying an
extra lot of < iti-iridges. We climbed
directly up the steep sides, and were
in time to assist in the final charge, as
darkness closed over the scene. The
confederates fell back, abandoning the
mountain during the night, a fact we
lid net discover until nest nioruing. It
The major will first offer the visitor
a cup ot coffee. He never forgets
that every time a halt was made In
•war time coffee, the great recuperator,
was In requisition. Tne coffee he bolls
over the blazing logs In true camp
style. If you catch him at meal time
he will offer you a share of the con
tents of his haversack, another habit
he acquired in the days of the '6os.
He Is not hermit of the kind that shuns
society. The campfire was what the
old soldier craved. The more visitors
he lias to his open-air home the better
pleased he is. Hut the veteran is per
fectly contented when alone. He re
clines for hours on a park bench that
he has moved to the spot. Behind this
he has Improvised a wind shield, and
in the little clearing in front he makes
his log Are. Lying thus he gazes
steadily into Lie blaze, dreaming of
the old stirring days of the war, living
once more in the halcyon time when
life was like wine that bubbles and
sparkles in the glass. The musing old
soldier sees in the blaze the figures of
men in blue leaping to the charge, he
catches the glint of steel as the yelling
lines clash and hears the sound of
cannon as the artillery gets to work.
In the same magic element the ma
jor conjures up the dark days he spent
in Libby prison, the scenes of carnage
In the many battles In which his regi
ment, Rush's Lancers, took part. From
the heart of the fire sad faces rise to
greet him once more. Some are
marred and red with wounds. He sees
them as he last saw them, lying dead
or dying on a hundred battle fields.
Old comrades of the camp and the
field, fellow veterans of the Grand
Army who have preceded him into the
beyond, privates, captains, majors,
colonels, a great army of them, they
rise up before the old man, as he
muses in front of his campfire, salute
him gravely and pass upward with the
smoke.
The soldier hermit says he will live
by his campfire all the winter, no mat
ter what the weather. Although he
hasn't been heard to say so, those who
know him believe he would be quite
happy in the thought of being found
dead by the fire in the ravine, for in so
dying his last hours would be softened
by the presence of his comrades of the
days when the lancers fought for the
union. The old man's glazing eyes
would see them to the last, coming out
of the heart of the fire to salute him
gravely, this time not to pass upward
with the smoke, but to form his body
guard into the other world.
was not long before we saw the glori
ous old stars and stripes being waved
from the very highest point above the
palisades. Never was there a more
inspiring sight, which was cheered
again and again by the boys in blue,
who were each personally and deeply
interested in our success. I expected
we would now view the charge on Mis
sion ridge, which we instinctively felt
was the next move. From our ele
vated position we could see the line
of blue stretched northward up the
valley for miles, facing the ridge,
while on the ridge and along the west
foot extended the lines of gray, in
trenched, awaiting our movements.
Hut we were destined to take an active
part in that fierce charge. Our bri
gade was formed after eating a hasty
breakfast of hardtack and coffee,
marched back down the mountain's
side and took our former place on the
right of Thomas' line. Our line then
charged double-quick acrvss the plain
under a musketry fire from the con
federate infantry, and the artillery
that lined the top of the ridge. It
sermed like advancing into the jaws
of hell. But that was an array of
seasoned veterans; no halt or waver.
The confederate line at the foot of the
ridge could not stand iJ, but clambered
back and tried to form and make a
stand behind some earthworks halt
way up. This was now the moment
and the place where the boys took
matters into their own hands; each
was his own thinking general, and
with one impulse followed with a yell,
and kept the rebel line on a run to the
top and over on the other side, it
was a soul-inspiring sight, on reaching
the top, to view the whole confederate
army in precipitous flight down the
other side, followed by a plentiful
shower of loyal musket balls.
Hooker did well, but his part wa3
confined to the storming of Lookout,
it was Thomas' brave old Army of the
Cumberland that drove the confeder
ate army up, over and beyond the
ridge, and which so nlarued Gen.
Grant by their spontaneous ch&rg'e up
the ridge without orders.
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