"When he's sober," she said, "he seems to
be a steady, hard worker."
After that I desired more than ever to see deep into the life of the
strange bee-man. Why was he what he was?
And at last the time came, as things come to him who desires them
faithfully enough. One afternoon not long ago, a fine autumn afternoon,
when the trees were glorious on the hills, the Indian summer sun never
softer, I was tramping along a wood lane far back of my farm. And at the
roadside, near the trunk of an oak tree, sat my friend, the bee-man. He
was a picture of despondency, one long hand hanging limp between his
knees, his head bowed down. When he saw me he straightened up, looked at
me, and settled back again. My heart went out to him, and I sat down
beside him.
"Have you ever seen a finer afternoon?" I asked.
He glanced up at the sky.
"Fine?" he answered vaguely, as if it had never occurred to him.
I saw instantly what the matter was; the exuberant bee-man was in
process of transformation into the shy bee-man. I don't know exactly how
it came about, for such things are difficult to explain, but I led him
to talk of himself.
"After it is all over," he said, "of course I am ashamed of myself. You
don't know, Mr.
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