I saw him on the
street in town. Harriet pointed him out, else I should never have
recognized him: a quiet, shy, modest man, as different as one could
imagine from the singer I had seen so often passing my farm. He wore
neat, worn clothes; and his horse stood tied in front of the store. He
had brought his honey to town to sell. He was a bee-man.
I stopped and asked him about his honey, and whether the fall flowers
had been plenty; I ran my eye over his horse, and said that it seemed to
be a good animal. But I could get very little from him, and that little
in a rather low voice. I came away with my interest whetted to a still
keener edge. How a man has come to be what he is--is there any discovery
better worth making?
[Illustration: "HE USUALLY CAME IN THE EVENING"]
After that day in town I watched for the bee-man, and I saw him often on
his way to town, silent, somewhat bent forward in his seat, driving his
horse with circumspection, a Dr. Jekyll of propriety; and a few hours
later he would come homeward a wholly different person, straight of
back, joyous of mien, singing his songs in his high clear voice, a very
Hyde of recklessness. Even the old horse seemed changed: he held his
head higher and stepped with a quicker pace.
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