Now we have recourse to
the same tactics we employed before, and move along the ridge to
another field to get our cross line. But the bees still go in almost
the same direction they did from the corn stout. The tree is then
either on the top of the mountain or on the other or west side of it.
We hesitate to make the plunge into the woods and seek to scale those
precipices, for the eye can plainly see what is before us. As the
afternoon sun gets lower the bees are seen with wonderful distinctness.
They fly toward and under the sun and are in a strong light, while the
near woods which form the background are in deep shadow. They look
like large luminous motes. Their swiftly vibrating, transparent wings
surround their bodies with a shining nimbus that makes them visible for
a long distance. They seem magnified many times. We see them bridge
the little gulf between us and the woods, then rise up over the
tree-tops with their burdens, swerving neither to the right hand nor to
the left. It is almost pathetic to see them labor so, climbing the
mountain and unwittingly guiding us to their treasures.
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