CHAPTER XXIV.
BORROWED FOR A BEE HUNT We were eating breakfast one morning late in August that summer when through an open window a queer, cracked voice addressed the old Squire: "Don't want to disturb ye at your meals, Squire, but I've come over to see if I can't borry a boy to hark fer me." It was old Hughy Glinds, who lived alone in a little cabin at the edge of the great woods, and who gained a livelihood by making baskets and snowshoes, lining bees and turning oxbows.

In his younger days he had been a noted trapper, bear hunter and moose hunter, but now he was too infirm and rheumatic to take long tramps in the woods.
The old Squire went to the door.

"Come in, Glinds," he said.
"No, Squire, I don't believe I will while ye're eatin'.

I jest wanted to see if I could borry one of yer boys this forenoon.

I've got a swarm of bees lined over to whar the old-growth woods begin, and if I'm to git 'em I've got to foller my line on amongst tall trees and knock; and lately, Squire, I'm gettin' so blamed deaf I snum I can't hear a bee buzz if he's right close to my head! So I come over to see if I could git a boy to go with me and hark when I knock on the trees." "Why, yes, Glinds," said the old Squire, "one of the boys may go with you.