Still he kept his valise packed, but the end of his
life's journey came before he was ready to go West again.
Hiram, as you know, came to live with me at Slabsides during
the last years of his life. He had made a failure of it on the
old farm, after I had helped him purchase it; nearly everything
had gone wrong, indoors and out; and he was compelled to give it
up. So he brought his forty or more skips of bees to West Park
and lived with me, devoting himself, not very successfully, to
bee-culture. He loved to "fuss" with bees. I think the money he
got for his honey looked a little more precious to him than other
money, just as the silver quarters I used to get when a boy for the
maple sugar I made had a charm and a value no quarters have ever
had in my eyes since.
That thing in Hiram that was so appealed to by his bee-culture, and
by any fancy strain of sheep or poultry, is strong in me, too, and
has played an important part in my life. If I had not taken it out
in running after wild nature and writing about it I should probably
have been a bee-man, or a fancy-stock farmer. As it is, I have
always been a bee-lover, and have usually kept several swarms.
Ordinary farming is prosy and tiresome compared with bee-farming.
Combined with poultry-raising, it always had special attractions
for me.
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