Now and again we came to an old tree that looked as if it were hollow near the top.

On every such tree old Hughy knocked loudly with the axe, crying, "Hark, boy! Hark! D'ye hear 'em?
D'ye see any come out up thar ?" At times he drew forth his "specs" and, having adjusted them, peeped and peered upward.

Like his ears, the old man's eyes were becoming too defective for bee hunting.
In that manner we went on for at least a mile, until at last we came to Swift Brook, a turbulent little stream in a deep, rocky gully.

Our course led across the ravine, and while we were hunting for an easy place to descend I espied bees flying in and out of a woodpecker's hole far up toward the broken top of a partly decayed basswood tree.
"Here they are!" I shouted, much elated.
Old Hughy couldn't see them even with his glasses on, they were so high and looked so small.

He knocked on the trunk of the tree, and when I told him that I could see bees pouring out and distinctly hear the hum of those in the tree he was satisfied that I had made no mistake.
When bee hunters trace a swarm to a high tree they usually fell the tree; to that task the old man and I now set ourselves.