During the week the boys kept a bright lookout for Jackets and bees' nests which, when found, were reserved for next Sunday's sport, to be then beseiged and stormed.

These nests contained such swarms as the writer has never seen elsewhere.

Since the writer left the Island, over a half century ago, he has lived near large forests, where naturally the rotten fallen logs, stumps and underbrush afforded thousands of suitable places for these nesters to rear their young, but in all these years he has seen but one nest of these bees, and that was a small one in the deep swamp. They seem to pair here (Coinjock) like birds, get into an old post by boring a hole therein, and rear an offspring or two. Yellow Jackets are less so, but they generally have only a small flock in their nests here. Bumblebees, here then, are not gregarious' but rear their families like birds. On Knotts' Island seventy years ago it was quite different with both bees and jackets, for their swarms were prodigious. I have two hats filled from one nest, on this Island, of comb, bee bread and young bees; the cups are large, the honey of a greenish tint. Some people has said this honey was poisonous and would make one blind after eating too much of it. I have never seen such effect, but have seen a boy sick after eating too freely of it. This large quantity spoken of above, came out of an old manure heap of straw and soil in the woods.

There may have been several reasons for the large swarms on the Island in those days. Probably the first and natural one is that having there a smaller number of suitable places of abode, they must of necessity have a large number of occupants; or, it may be that the various smaller tribes all preferred the most suitable habitation, but since none might be able to obtain it without fighting, perhaps to annihilation, they compromised by occupying the desired abode jointly. Lastly, it may be that they united under a single military leader in mutual defence against the common enemy--the boys. Who knows?

The next Sunday after the nests were found, the crowd of boys were on the ground ready for the fight. The mode of procedure was this: Each boy procured a pine bush, save one, who acted as puncher and was armed with a long pole from fifteen to twenty feet long for that purpose. One half armed with bushes would gather around the nest, bushes erect, while the puncher was stationed at the farther end of his pole, the other end at the nest. The momentous martial question rang out from the puncher: "Are you ready?" Yes would be the invariable answer. The puncher punched a little way from the exit hole; the jackets or bees would swarm out for fight; the invaders would bear down with bushes swiftly and hard, until the bushmen stung sharply, would have to retreat to a pine or papaw thicket in order to brush off the yellow jackets or lose themselves from the hundreds that were on them or following them in the retreat. At the same time, the reserve bushmen took the places of the retreaters, and continued the assault, while the retreating forces rid their hair, collars and pants legs of the dead and wounded enemy, and counting the number of stings. After this they were ready to renew the battle and to relieve the reserve.

Woe to him who said enough--a coward.

If the fort was very strong and well manned, it would often take hours to subdue it, and when done, it was at the cost of many wounds inflicted by the defenders, for with them it was victory or death. They were often found up pants leg, at the last gasp, still stinging.

BILL WATERFIELD.

Bill Waterfield was a chum of mine, an inoffensive boy, and if an emergency arose at one of these battles requiring grit and sticking qualities, Bill was right there; he would tackle fire when the other boys were lagging. If on the eve of battle, lagging did appear the boys would often suggest that some one perform a rushing feat a particular deed of daring; and it was considered a pressing necessity in order to inspire the storming party with patriotism during the emergency of that day. I knew Bill well in this respect and so did the other boys, for his reputation on this line of work was already made. In order to break him of his headlong recklessness and to curb this his only decidedly foolish quality, we often got him into some very hot places.

Everything being favorable for the storming of a fort of yellow Jackets, especially when a large swarm was in evidence; and scouting parties from the fort already thrown out as feelers and pickets around the full nest; whose occupants in war-like array with wings akimbo, were ready for the assault, then one would say: "There is no one on Knotts' Island bold enough to stand over that jacket's nest when fully aroused, till the puncher counts ten." Another: "No, no, no one can stand that." The writer was almost always puncher. Then the crowd of boys would look at me knowingly, and I would say: "Gentlemen, I know there are but few who would venture to perform such a daring feat; but, sirs, say what you may, I do know there is a boy even here that will do it." Bill during this chat would stand the soldier-head erect, face to the front, and towards me. All the boys pretended to doubt what I had said and to feel assured I should fail in the selection. Bill's shoulders now were shooting up to his ears and down again in quick succession, ready to be named, for he knew I would name him. Who is he? Rang out from the crowd. Pointing my index finger toward Bill, I said with great emphasis: "There he is, there is he, gentlemen, who can and will do it. I know my man, gents." By this time Bill had his jacket off--ready. I liked Bill as a brother and did not wish him badly stung; and, as poke, I was determined to count ten quickly. The rule was, the venturer was not to wade in until the jackets were fully aroused and swarming out. The stump that the nest was under was densely crowded. A blow with a large club was laid on that stump, the puncher put in good work, and the hundreds of yellow-jackets circled around like a cyclone. "Ready." Bill jumped squarely upon the nest. Bill, seemingly, was covered with the stingers. At the word ten," Bill ran to and through the near-by papaw thicket and then rolled over and over in the cow-vines adjoining it; this was the usual mode of getting clear of and killing the jackets that stuck on. Bill came back and testified that he had not received a sting.

In the meantime two outer jacket pickets, seeing the apparent cause of all this great todo-tearing up their nest came up spinning spirally around the pole, singing in rhythmic cadence to the tune of a swarm of gallinipper mosquitos. Finding the object of their search--zeet' One pierced the poker over the eye, the other on the wrist. The puncher and one other were the only ones stung on this occasion, except Bill--maybe; you know what he said.

Bill and I were playmates and were together daily. At the joint blacksmith shop of Mac Beasley and John Cotton, we were often employed to bring coal and water and were paid for the service; but when not wanted we often received a fo' pence to leave and get out of the way. With this money we bought horse cakes, candy and apples of old aunt Tamar Dawley.
 

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