It is a good eye that holds fast to the bee till it is fairly off.
Sometimes one's head will swim following it, and often one's eyes are
put out by the sun. This bee gradually drifts down the hill, then
strikes away toward a farm-house half a mile away, where I know bees
are kept. Then we try another and another, and the third bee, much to
our satisfaction, goes straight toward the woods. We could see the
brown speck against the darker background for many yards. The regular
bee-hunter professes to be able to tell a wild bee from a tame one by
the color, the former, he says, being lighter. But there is no
difference; they are both alike in color and in manner. Young bees are
lighter than old, and that is all there is of it. If a bee lived many
years in the woods it would doubtless come to have some distinguishing
marks, but the life of a bee is only a few months at the farthest,
and no change is wrought in this brief time.

Our bees are all soon back, and more with them, for we have touched
the box here and there with the cork of a bottle of anise oil, and this
fragrant and pungent oil will attract bees half a mile or more. When
no flowers can be found, this is the quickest way to obtain a bee.

It is a singular fact that when the bee first finds the hunter's box
its first feeling is one of anger; it is as mad as a hornet; its tone
changes, it sounds its shrill war trumpet and darts to and fro,
and gives vent to its rage and indignation in no uncertain manner.
It seems to scent foul play at once. It says, "Here is robbery;
here is the spoil of some hive, may be my own," and its blood is up.
But its ruling passion soon comes to the surface, its avarice gets the
better of its indignation, and it seems to say, "Well, I had better
take possession of this and carry it home." So after many feints and
approaches and dartings off with a loud angry hum as if it would none