The mead was deliciously sweet and mellow, but appeared
strong as brandy; my eyes reeled in my head, and my brain became
slightly dizzy. "Mead is a strong drink," said the old man, as he
looked at me, with a half smile on his countenance. "This is at
any rate," said I, "so strong, indeed, that I would not drink
another cup for any consideration." "And I would not ask you,"
said the old man; "for, if you did, you would most probably be
stupid all day, and wake the next morning with a headache. Mead is
a good drink, but woundily strong, especially to those who be not
used to it, as I suppose you are not." "Where do you get it?" said
I. "I make it myself," said the old man, "from the honey which my
bees make." "Have you many bees?" I inquired. "A great many,"
said the old man. "And do you keep them," said I, "for the sake of
making mead with their honey?" "I keep them," he replied, "partly
because I am fond of them, and partly for what they bring me in;
they make me a great deal of honey, some of which I sell, and with
a little I make some mead to warm my poor heart with, or
occasionally to treat a friend with like yourself." "And do you
support yourself entirely by means of your bees?" "No," said the
old man; "I have a little bit of ground behind my house, which is
my principal means of support.
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