Upon this he turned abruptly away, but came back
and with fine courtesy shook my hand.
"You see," he said, "I am a busy man, Mr. Grayson--and a happy man."
So he set off down the road, and as he passed my house he began singing
again in his high voice. I walked away with a feeling of wonder, not
unmixed with sorrow. It was a strange case!
Gradually I became really acquainted with the bee-man, at first with the
exuberant, confident, imaginative, home-going bee-man; far more slowly
with the shy, reserved, townward-bound bee-man. It was quite an
adventure, my first talk with the shy bee-man. I was driving home; I met
him near the lower bridge. I cudgeled my brain to think of some way to
get at him. As he passed, I leaned out and said:
"Friend, will you do me a favour? I neglected to stop at the
post-office. Would you call and see whether anything has been left for
me in the box since the carrier started?'"
"Certainly," he said, glancing up at me, but turning his head swiftly
aside again.
On his way back he stopped and left me a paper. He told me volubly about
the way he would run the post-office if he were "in a place of suitable
authority."
"Great things are possible," he said, "to the man of ideas.
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