FOR several years Lancaster and I had been managing a rather large apiary in southern Ontario. In 1900 we tried the experiment of establishing an "out-apiary" in the wild country northeast of Toronto.

      The forest had all been "lumbered off" and the ground burned over, and from the charred earth had sprung miles of raspberry bushes and crimson fireweed, growing in an almost impenetrable tangle over and among the half-burned roots and logs and trunks. All this furnished thousands of acres of bloom, that lasted from June till frost, and there were no bees to gather the nectar.

      The country was quite unsettled, and we had to ship our bees by express and then haul them eight miles from the railway over a corduroy road; but the experiment was a success from the start. Out of our fifteen hives that year we sold one hundred and twenty-five dollars' worth of beautiful comb-honey.

      We had now more than a hundred hives on the spot, and this backwoods apiary had become the larger half of our business. We usually went up together in early spring to unpack the bees, and then one of us camped near the hives during the summer, to harvest the crop. It was generally Lancaster who did this, for his management had proved much more successful than mine, although he disliked camp life, cared nothing for the woods, and took no interest in any plant that did not produce honey. But he was a born apiarist.

      It was near the end of July last year when I received an unexpected telegram from him:

      "Apiary half-ruined. Come up at once."

      I went up by the next train, much alarmed, and reached our station at about two o'clock. As I walked over the eight miles of logging road, I was much relieved to see that neither tornado nor forest fire had passed that way.

      The apiary stood a long way back from the road and upon a gentle slope, where we had cleared a little island in the jungle of vines and weeds. Everywhere else the ground was tangled with the raspberry bushes and the tall fireweed, now in glorious bloom.

      As I came within sight of our ranch, I perceived my partner rushing frantically about among the hives, and at my first glance it seemed to me that every colony must be swarming at once. The air was clouded with bees.

      Lancaster came running to meet me, but I could make out little from his breathless explanations. I put on an extra veil and gloves and went down to the hives. The apiary was hardly "half-ruined," but the spectacle was enough to depress any bee-keeper.

      Ten or fifteen hives were upset, smashed and splintered. They had been tiered up three or four supers each, full of delicate comb-honey, which was crushed into a dripping mass. Over the ruins crawled the homeless bees, and wherever honey had been spilled there was a seething swarm of the insects. They were furiously excited, and pounced upon us as soon as we came near, but we had to disregard stings.

      Whenever bees obtain access to honey, thus exposed, they become greatly excited over the plunder, and usually end by raiding and robbing one another's hives.

      Lancaster had done what he could, but robbing was already going on merrily. There was a pitched battle in progress at the entrance of almost every hive between the assailants and the defenders.

      I think that I never saw bees so infuriated. They attacked us in clouds when we approached, clustered against the veils, flew into the burning smokers, tried to crawl up our sleeves and trouser-legs, and stung impartially at everything they touched.

      In spite of this opposition, we filled up the entrances of the still standing hives with wet grass, scooped up all the spilled honey and bits of comb, and in an hour or two the disturbance was greatly diminished. Most of our own bees had ceased raiding, although still full of wrath; but there were a great many strange black bees about, that must have come from bee-trees in the woods. Against these we could do nothing but wait for nightfall.

      I now demanded explanations of the mishap, but to my surprise I found that Lancaster could tell me little. All he knew was that on rising that morning he had found the hives wrecked, and had rushed on his bicycle to telegraph for help. He suspected that it was the work of thieves, probably of some camping party of roughs from town, for we had no neighbors within four miles.

      We examined the wrecked hives carefully. A great deal of the honey and comb was missing. The boards of the hives seemed to have been wrenched or split apart, and the thin section-boxes looked as if they had been chewed. I already suspected the identity of the robber, and when I found long claw-marks across the boards I felt sure I was right. There was only one animal, wild or tame, that was capable of such a feat — the honey-loving bear.

      Bears, as well as deer, were not uncommon thereabouts, but we had never tried to find either. But now that bruin had found as, it was certain that he would return to renew so sweet an acquaintance.

      Lancaster had a double-barreled shotgun in his tent, which I think he had never fired. I took the bicycle, rode four miles to the nearest settler's cabin, and borrowed his rifle, with a magazine full of cartridges. We decided to lay an ambush that night.

      Daylight lasts late in that latitude and season, and at nine o'clock it was hardly twilight. Some of the bees were still flying about, not yet recovered from their excitement. We selected a screened nook on the hillside, where we could overlook the whole establishment, lay down in the middle of a clump of woods, and waited for night.

      Darkness seemed never coming. Long before dusk had fallen a big white moon rolled up over the burned woods, flooding the wilderness with clear light.

      This illumination kept the agitated bees restless, and we could see them hovering thickly about their entrances, while the homeless ones crawled and buzzed wretchedly over their ruined hives.

      I did not expect the bear to return, if he came at all, before midnight. Lancaster and I were both tired, and the night was warm. Soon I found my eyelids drooping. Again and again I roused myself and punched Lancaster with my elbow, but I must have dozed, after all, although I never seemed to lose consciousness of the dark trees and vines and the white hives in the moonlight.

      But suddenly, with a shock of excitement, I became aware of a dark object moving among the hives. At the first glimpse I took it for a large hog, but as my vision and my brain cleared, I recognized the shuffling gait and dark fur of our honey thief.

      Lancaster was breathing heavily. I put my hand over his mouth and punched him, smothering his startled ejaculation. The bear had made a leisurely inspection, sniffing at hive after hive, till he seemed to find one that pleased him, when he reared up and clawed off the three supers with a single easy gesture. This sight must have wrung Lancaster's heart, for he jumped up and let fly one barrel of his shotgun. The range was about fifty yards, and it is not likely that he did much damage; but the bear made a leap aside and stood glancing about uncertainly. Fearing that he would get away, I sighted at his neck and fired.

      The bear reared up and fell over backward with a snort, upsetting another hive. We both ran toward him; and my companion, supposing him to be done for, ran up almost to arm's length and discharged his other barrel. He was so near that he missed completely, and blew the side out of the next hive, whereupon he began to belabor the struggling animal over the head with his gun-butt.

LANCASTER TOOK TO FLIGHT, WITH THE ENEMY IN CLOSE PURSUIT.

      I shrieked a warning. The bear, with an aggrieved yelp, clutched the gun-stock in his teeth, and I heard it crunch like a shaving. Lancaster recoiled, astonished, and the bear managed to regain his feet, and made a lunge which my partner barely escaped. I fired again and missed, and Lancaster took to flight, with the enemy in close pursuit.

      I ran after them. The bear limped, holding up one forefoot, but still displayed such agility that my fellow apiarist had all he could do to maintain his lead.

      Our cleared space was only about fifty yards square. Lancaster apparently had set his heart on reaching a large blackened pine, standing among the bushes. He did not seem to know that a black bear climbs trees with about the same facility as a cat. He plunged into the tangled weeds, tripped immediately, and went down out of sight with a terrified howl.

      I fired again and shouted to distract the bear's attention. I think I missed, but I turned him. He wheeled about and charged straight at me, obviously "mad clear through."

      I tried to aim coolly at the white mark on his chest, but the shot went wide. But for the bear's wound I never could have escaped. As it was, I just dodged his rush, and in my turn I made for the tree where Lancaster was already perched.

      It was full of stubby dead branches, and as easy to climb as a ladder. I was stung on the cheek as I clambered up, and I saw Lancaster wildly fanning the air with his hands, but for the moment I was concerned only to get my legs up and out of danger. I was obliged to drop the rifle, but I got safely into the tree, and only realized the folly of my act when I saw the bear rise up against the trunk to climb.

      The bear tried hard to scramble up, but, to our unspeakable relief, he could not quite make it. His damaged fore leg crippled him, and the tree was covered with a crust of charcoal, which gave him no clawhold. He persevered for a long time, and it was only after a score of futile experiments that he gave it up and lay down in the bushes, alternately licking his wound and glancing resentfully at us up above him.

      Meanwhile the bees that had accompanied us in our flight forced themselves upon our notice. Both of us had lost our hats, and the insects had settled on our heads and faces and necks, crawling about inquisitively and stinging at every opportunity. Lancaster suffered worse than I did, for, unlike most bee-keepers, he had never become hardened to stings.

      We could see the swarms on the bear, too, but he was armored in hide and hair. We tried to wrap our coats about our heads, but it was not successful. The venomous little creatures seemed to discover the smallest loophole, and I had a dozen crawling about under my clothing. I was in mortal terror of being stung in the eyes, but I contrived to protect them.

      The pain became agonizing; it was almost unendurable. I swatted all over from the scores of tiny poisoned punctures, and the effect upon us of tile incessant attack was maddening, and really beyond any possible description. We could not move. We were standing on short dead branches and holding on to the charred trunk, and it seemed that it could hardly be worse to be clawed by the bear. There was really a certain danger that we might be stung to death, and I began to feel a rising dizziness and nausea from the amount of poison I had taken. I had to hold hard to avoid falling.

      "I can't stand this!" exclaimed Lancaster. "I'd rather fight the bear!" But I did not think that be really meant it.

      There was no use in fighting the bees. We could only cower and wait for the stings.

      "I simply can't stand this!" wailed poor Lancaster, five minutes later; and the next moment he slid past me and jumped, wisely choosing the side most remote from the bear. As he struck the ground he stumbled and fell, and I expected to see him instantly mangled.

      The bear rose stiffly but alertly. Instead of making for his enemy, he stood quite still, trembling violently, it seemed to me, and shaking his head with a sort of moan. Lancaster righted himself and rushed off through the bushes toward the tent. But there seemed no longer any danger. The bear began to sway as he stood, and slowly slipped to his knees, and then over upon his side.

      I ventured to jump as Lancaster had done. The animal paid no attention. With some trepidation I ventured near enough to regain my rifle, and fired a heavy bullet into his skull at close range. But he did not stir, and was no doubt already dead.

      We spent the night chiefly in applying hot water to our wounds. In spite of these efforts, we were a pair of terrible objects the next morning, but the subsequent pain was not nearly so great, for some reason, as I have often suffered from far fewer stings.

      I was obliged to stay in the woods for a week before I again became presentable for civilized society.

      When we came to examine the stiffened corpse of the bear, we found him lying in a great pool of coagulated blood. My first bullet appeared to have cut a large vein or artery in his shoulder, so that he had been slowly bleeding to death as he kept guard upon us under the tree. He was in poor fur, and his skin was so smeared with blood that it was not worth taking off. From a sense of poetic justice we ate a few slices from his hams, but the meat was tough. In fact, we got little return from his carcass for the hundred dollars' worth of bees and honey he had destroyed. But the apiary remained undisturbed for the rest of that season.