Produced by Susan Skinner, Ross Wilburn and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
WOODSIDE
[Illustration: THE VISIT TO THE WATCH-DOG.
_Page 13._]
Thomas Nelson and Sons,
_LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK._
[Illustration: THE ARRIVAL AT GRANDPAPA'S.
_Page 10._]
WOODSIDE
OR,
_Look, Listen, and Learn._
BY
Caroline Hadley,
AUTHOR OF "CHILDREN'S SAYINGS," "STORIES OF OLD,"
"STORIES OF THE APOSTLES,"
ETC. ETC.
London:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
1902
"And Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying: 'Here is a story-book
Thy Father has written for thee.
"'Come wander with me,' she said,
'Into regions yet untrod,
And read what is still unread
Of the manuscripts of God.'
"And he wandered away and away
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe."
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
Contents.
I. GRANDPAPA'S HOUSE, 9
II. LISTENING IN THE WOODS, 17
III. TOM'S BIRDS' EGGS, 27
IV. JACK AND THE GARDENER, 36
V. HIVING THE BEES, 47
VI. WASPS AND THEIR WAYS, 58
VII. CHARLEY FOSTER'S PETS, 66
VIII. A TALK WITH AUNT LIZZIE, 80
IX. AFTER THE RAIN, 95
X. THE SIX CLOSED DOORS, 105
List of Illustrations.
THE ARRIVAL AT GRANDPAPA'S, _Frontispiece_
THE VISIT TO THE WATCH-DOG, _Vignette_
THE VISIT TO THE PONY, 13
TOM SHOWING THE REDBREAST'S EGGS, 29
JACK AND THE THRUSH'S NEST, 36
REYNARD HARD PUSHED, 45
CHARLEY FOSTER'S COLLECTION, 68
THE TEA ON THE LAWN, 82
WOODSIDE.
I.
_GRANDPAPA'S HOUSE._
"Now for the dear, dear country,
Its trees and meadows fair,
Its roses, cowslips, violets,
Whose sweetness fills the air.
"'Tis there we hear the music
Of lark's and blackbird's song,
And merry little finches,
Singing the whole day long."--C. H.
One bright spring day, not so very long ago, three little children
arrived at their grandfather's house. They had come to pay a long visit,
as their parents were travelling abroad for two or three months.
Now grandpapa lived less than twenty miles from London, yet his house
was quite in the country,--indeed you might have thought that it was a
hundred miles away from any town,--and it was called Woodside.
You may be sure that Jack, Mary, and Annie--for those were the names of
the children--thought the change from London most delightful.
Jack was the eldest--that is why I have put his name before those of his
sisters--and he was ten years old. Mary was the next in age, and she was
nearly nine; while Annie, the youngest, was seven.
On the day they arrived they felt very quiet, all was so strange after
London; besides, they were busy unpacking their toys and picture-books,
and in finding places for all their treasures in the rooms grandmamma
had set apart for them.
They went to bed early too, and never once woke till their nurse called
them in the morning. At first they felt sorry it was time to get up, but
when Jane drew up the blinds, and they saw the bright sunshine and the
clear blue sky, they made haste to dress, so that after breakfast was
over they might go out of doors.
Each of them had visited at Woodside several times before, but they had
not been all together there at the same time. They knew very well how
many interesting things there were to see out of doors, and they hoped
that there would be something new. There was sure to be a difference
among the animals and flowers.
The old house looked the same as they drove up to it, with its twenty
oak trees in a semi-circle and the gates in the middle. There was the
same watch-dog, Lion; and on the parlour hearth-rug, lying curled up in
the sunshine, lay Smut, grandmamma's large black cat.
A very respectable old gentleman was Smut, with his sleek, glossy coat;
but he stood too much on his dignity ever to play. The children coaxed
him and patted him; yet he took no notice, he just curled himself round
and went to sleep again.
A proud old cat was Smut; he would never touch food or milk in the
kitchen. His food was put on a plate for him out of doors, and he had
his milk in a saucer in the parlour. When he was out of doors, he always
came in again by the front door, never at the back.
The children soon spied something new in the shape of a long-haired
kitten, whose fur was gray and soft. She was bright and lively, and was
very pleased to play with the children; for Smut would never take any
notice of her, or play with her one bit: so she and the children became
very good friends, and had many a game together.
After breakfast was over, grandmamma told the children they might put on
their hats and go out of doors. They did not need to be spoken to twice.
First of all they had a run round the garden, peeped into the
greenhouse, and said "How do you do?" to the gardener. But they did not
stop long among the lovely spring flowers, for they were in such haste
to see the animals.
[Illustration: THE VISIT TO THE PONY.
_Page 13._]
Jack said, "We must pay our first visit to the pony;" so away they went
to the stable.
The pony was very sober and steady, and, I am sorry to add, rather lazy;
so the children did not get much fun out of him. He lifted up his head
and gave a little neigh to Jack, for he seemed to remember him; and then
he went on eating his hay in the most unconcerned manner.
They then went to see the large dog in the yard. Lion was very glad to
see them. He harked with delight, wagged his tail, rattled his chain; in
fact he seemed as if he would break away from it, in his eagerness to
meet the children.
"Lion is ever so much nicer than the pony," they said.
The fact was, the pony had not much work to do, and his chief thoughts
were about his hay and his corn and his nice warm stable. Now Lion,
although he was generally chained to his kennel, had to watch for
others. He was always listening to hear if any one came upon the
premises who had no business there; and he barked so loudly that tramps
and idle people thought it best to go away. He always welcomed the
gardener and the servants, and especially his master, whenever they came
to see him; so that every one about the place would give a pat or a word
to the friendly dog whenever they passed that way.
"Now let us go and see the fowls," said Mary.
On the right hand side of the drive up to the house was a wide strip of
grass planted with shrubs. Here, standing back, were some wire
enclosures inside of which were some choice broods of chickens.
The girls could have stopped here "for hours," they said, watching the
little chickens, that looked like balls of white or yellow or gray down
running about or hiding under their mothers' wings.
However, most of the fowls were in the orchard, close by which was the
hen-house. Fancy what a pretty sight that orchard was this sunshiny
spring morning! How alive with different sorts of fowls running hither
and thither--black, and gray, and speckled; old motherly hens, and pert,
lively young ones; while the cocks strutted about and crowed one against
another. Then a hen would come out of the hen-house, where the nests
were, telling all the world, by her loud, proud cackling, that she had
laid an egg. What noise there was then, for cocks and hens would all
join in chorus. Some of the hens seemed to get together to have a quiet
chat, as if they were talking over their family affairs; about which
they did not always seem to agree, if you might judge by their noise.
By this time grandpapa had finished reading his newspaper and came to
the children. He took them to the cow-house to see the new calf, and he
lifted Annie up to let her stroke it; but the mother looked so fierce
that they did not care to stay long there. Then they went into the yard
to see the pigs. The little pigs looked so funny running about the
large, clean sty, as if they loved the bright sunshine and liked to play
about in it. But when they fed they would put their feet in the trough,
and this was not very mannerly of them.
By the time the children had paid a visit to all the old places they
were getting rather tired, and then they went back to the house.
II.
_LISTENING IN THE WOODS._
"I hear the blackbird telling
His love-tale to his mate;
And the merry skylark swelling
The choir at 'heaven's gate.'
The cuckoo away in the thicket
Is giving his two old notes;
And the pet doves hung by the wicket
Are talking with ruffled throats.
The honey-bee hums as he lingers
Where shadows on clover heads fall;
And the wind with leaf-tipped fingers,
Is playing in concert with all."
ELIZA COOK.
Now grandpapa's house, Woodside, stood on the side of a wood; in fact
there was only a grassy road between the gates and the wood itself.
Such a wood! with large old elms and oaks and other trees. In the more
open spaces were trees and bushes of hawthorn, now completely covered
with white blossom, the pretty May-bloom. There too grew primroses,
violets, wild hyacinths, besides a long list of other wild flowers,
ferns, and feathery green moss.
One fine day grandmamma took the children herself across the road into
the wood. She sat down in one of the open spaces upon the trunk of a
fallen tree, while the children played at hide-and-seek among the bushes
or picked the wild flowers.
By-and-by they came back to grandmamma, who was reading while they were
playing about, and said, "Grandmamma, will you tell us about papa when
he was a little boy?"
Grandmamma took off her spectacles, shut her book, and the children sat
down quite close to her, on the grass at her feet.
Then she began:--"When your father and your uncle and aunts, were about
as old as you are now, they came with me into this very place one summer
day.
"After they had played awhile they came to me, and I said to them,
'Children, what do you hear?'
"'Hear, mother?' they said; 'why, nothing in particular. What _is_ there
to hear?'
"'Well,' I said, 'now all of you shut your eyes and listen, and don't
speak till I tell you.'
"After a short time I told them to open their eyes; and I asked John,
who was the eldest, what he had heard.
"'First of all I heard the birds singing, then I noticed that there were
different sorts of birds singing: I heard the blackbird, the thrush, the
little finches, and the warblers--I could not tell you how many; some of
them singing as if they could not make sound enough, and others sung a
low song, with twitterings and chatterings all to themselves. Some
seemed calling to birds a long way off; then I heard those other birds
answer, but the sound was so faint that I should not have heard it at
all if we had not been so still. I was trying to catch a faint sound of
a bird some distance down the wood, which sounded like the coo of the
wood-pigeon, when you said, "Open your eyes."'
"Then I turned to Harry--your father, children--and he said, 'Of course
I heard the birds, but I thought, I can hear them any day; I shall
listen for all sorts of odd sounds. I heard the distant rumble of a
farmer's waggon, and the cows lowing at Brown's farm; every now and
again I heard the sound of the village blacksmith's hammer, the faint
puffing of a train, a man's footsteps coming through the wood, and the
voices of boys--after birds' nests, I suppose.'
"'Well, Lizzie, what did you hear?' I asked, turning to one of the
girls.
"'I heard the wind moving very gently among the trees, making a soft
rustling noise. I could scarcely believe in the difference there is
between this quiet sound and the roaring of the wind in a storm. Then I
heard the wild bee's hum, and the little tiny noises made by the small
creatures that live in the wood. I heard our gardener sharpening his
scythe, and the trickling of the brook in the hollow.'
"'Now, little Fanny, tell us what you heard.'
"'I heard the hens cackling and calling to their chickens. I thought I
heard our dog bark; but all was so warm, and still, and sleepy, that I
felt as if I should go to sleep too if I kept my eyes shut much longer.
I heard the birds though, and a great bumble-bee that flew by when our
eyes were shut.'
"'Now, children,' I said, 'you have all heard something, and yet a
little while ago you told me there was nothing particular to hear; nor
is there, if you hear without listening.'"
Here grandmamma stopped awhile, then, looking at the grandchildren at
her feet, said there was a poet once who wrote about a little girl
called Lucy. She lived among all the beautiful things that are to be
seen in the country, and she loved them dearly. The poet thought how, as
she grew up, she would be yet more and more charmed by them, and that
loving all grand and beautiful natural objects would make her charming.
Among other things he said,--
"She shall lean her ear
In many a secret place,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face."
"How can sound show itself in a face, grandmamma?" asked Jack.
"Supposing you heard a loud, sudden scream, you would be startled and
frightened by the cry; if you heard a tremendous clap of thunder, you
might look a little frightened too, but you would also look solemn and
still as you heard the grand sound; but you would have quite another
look if you were lying on your back under a shady tree some calm summer
evening, listening to the low song of the birds, and to the many sounds
that are almost silence."
"Cuckoo! cuckoo!"
"O grandmamma, there's the cuckoo!" cried all the children at once.
"Yes; there are a great many cuckoos about here. They say it is only the
male bird that calls 'Cuckoo,' that the female simply makes a chattering
sound."
"Did you ever see a cuckoo, grandma?"
"No, never a live bird, only one stuffed. I will tell you a story of how
I heard one once. It was about five-and-twenty years ago. I wanted some
primroses for a nosegay. I used to pick the long feathery moss that
grows in these woods and put the primroses among it. I ran across the
road outside of our gates--for I could run in those days--and soon
filled my basket with as many primroses as I wanted. As I was standing
under a large tree, I heard all at once, exactly over my head, a loud,
gruff cry of 'Cuckoo.' I was so startled, the cry was so near, that I
thought it must be a rude man, and I dropped all my primroses and ran
back to the gates.
"Then I thought, 'How foolish of me to be frightened; it is the 18th of
April, the right time for the cuckoo to come back to England from the
warm country where he has been all the winter,--of course it is a real
cuckoo.' So I went back and picked up my primroses, but I heard no more
of that cuckoo.
"I told my children when I came indoors about my adventure; and how they
did laugh at their mother for being frightened at a bird.
"I shall always think, though, that that particular cuckoo must have
caught a bad cold on his long journey to England, or soon after his
arrival, for his voice sounded as if he had a sore throat."
"Now children," said grandmamma, rising from her seat, "it is time we
walked homewards."
As they came near to the house they saw Smut sitting on the door-step,
waiting patiently to be let in at the front door.
Within a short distance of the house was a brook, almost hidden in
places by overhanging bushes and long reedy grass. Then it flowed into
more open ground; but it was very quiet in its flow, for the bed was
soft and not stony.
Of course the next day the children set off for this brook, to listen to
its "murmuring sound." Jack lay down upon the ground and leaned his
head over the brook, thinking he could hear better in that fashion. Mary
said she should sit down by a bend in the stream and be comfortable, for
she was sure she could not listen well if she were afraid of rolling
into the water; while little Annie sat by her sister's side, holding her
hand and shutting her eyes.
If you had seen those children then, you would have wondered what they
were doing, they were so serious and intent; but by the quiet look upon
their faces they seemed to enjoy the music of the softly-flowing stream.
So low was the sound, that you would hardly have noticed it if you had
not been thinking about it.
Often during this visit they would have games at "harking," as they
called it; for they said, "We may as well hear as much as we can, as our
father and uncle and aunts did when they were children." They would shut
their eyes for some minutes, and then they would tell each other what
they had heard. I can tell you their ears grew very sharp with all this
practice; for, like other children, they had their quiet moods, when
under the lofty forest trees or in the garden nooks they would listen,
not for fun but for enjoyment.
III.
_TOM'S BIRDS' EGGS._
"The goldfinch, and blackbird, and thrush,
Are brimful of music and glee;
They have each got a nest in some bush,
And the rook has built his on a tree."
BERNARD BARTON.
About a mile off, at the other end of the wood, was a village, which
joined an old town so closely that they seemed to be only one place.
The old town was quiet now; but it had been a very busy place many years
ago, in the old coach days. I cannot tell you how many coaches daily ran
through it, or changed horses at the different inns, on their way from
London to towns in distant parts of England.
Now the railway had stopped every coach, and in the valley, through
these very woods, the trains rushed along, panting and puffing as if
they were running a race with Time.
Fortunately, the trains ran through a tunnel at this spot, so the beauty
of the woods was not disturbed.
There was a large green belonging to the village, on the edge of which
lived the children's aunt Lizzie, who had married a doctor. She had two
children--Tom, who was eleven years old, and Katey, who was nine. They
went to school daily in the adjoining town, so they were unable to see
much of their cousins, excepting upon half-holidays, as it was now
school time.
But you must not suppose that Jack and his sisters did nothing but play
during this long visit. As soon as they had settled down, grandmamma
engaged a young lady to come to teach them for about two hours every
morning. Woodside was too far from the town for the children to go to
school with their cousins. When they were at home they went to a
kindergarten school, where they learned in the wisest and pleasantest
fashion.
[Illustration: TOM SHOWING THE REDBREAST'S EGGS.
_Page 29._]
The children always looked forward to the half-holidays, when they
either went up to their cousins' home, or Tom and Katey came down to
them.
One Saturday afternoon, when they went to the green, Tom showed them his
collection of birds' eggs. He kept them in shallow boxes full of bran,
so that they should not get broken, for he was very careful over them.
Tom's mother told him never to take more than one egg from each nest,
unless there were a great many, as there are in wrens' nests, so that
the mother bird might not grieve.
"Please show us a robin redbreast's egg," said little Annie.
Tom took two or three from under the bran, and showed her the eggs,
which were yellowish-gray mottled with red-brown.
"Mrs. Redbreast has not nearly so red a breast as Robin," he said.
"I suppose you have plenty of sparrows' eggs," said Mary, "they are such
common birds."
"Yes; here they are. They are rather large for the size of the bird;
they are spotted and streaked all over with gray and brown."
"What a lovely pale greenish-blue egg that is!" exclaimed Mary.
"Yes, that it is," said Tom; "and it belongs to a dear little brown
bird--the hedge-sparrow. It is not at all the same kind of bird as the
house-sparrow, for it is one of the warblers. It is a prettier bird, and
has prettier eggs than the common sparrow. He builds his nest very
early, before the hedges are covered with leaves; so his nest often gets
stolen. He is one of the birds that stay in England all through the
winter.--These speckled eggs of a bluish-gray belong to the linnet,
which has a very sweet song, although not very powerful.--These belong
to the chaffinch; they, you see, are greenish-purple spotted with
brown. See here! I have a nest made by this bird."
"It is perfectly lovely," said Mary.
"It is, indeed; it is one of the most beautiful of all the birds'
nests--such a nice round shape, and so firm that it does not easily fall
to pieces. Inside it is lined with hair and feathers, and downy things,
which make it ever so soft. Just put your finger inside, Annie, and feel
it. Outside it is made of moss, fine dry grass, and wool, all matted
together, and covered all over with the lichen which grows on the trunks
and branches of trees. It is often very difficult to find this bird's
nest, it looks so exactly like the part of a tree."
"Have you a blackbird's egg?" asked Jack. "I know his note, for it is
clear and louder than that of most of the other birds."
"Yes, here are some. You see they are of a bluish-green colour, with
dark blotches; and very pretty they are too.--Those blue eggs with a few
black spots on them belong to the thrush. You must have heard the
thrushes singing about grandpa's garden; there are plenty of them
there."
"I'm afraid you haven't a cuckoo's egg, Tom," said Annie.
"I am so lucky as to have one, Annie. It is very small for the size of
the bird, and not particularly pretty. You see it is a dull-looking egg,
whitish, with pale-brown markings. This particular egg was taken from
the nest of a hedge-sparrow; but cuckoos' eggs have been found in the
nests of many other birds--robin's, and skylark's, and chaffinch's,
linnet's, blackbird's, and wren's, and many more besides."
"Why does not the cuckoo build a nest for herself?" asked Annie.
"Nobody seems to know why she doesn't; but there's the fact. When the
cuckoo has laid an egg, she carries it in her wide, gaping mouth, and
puts it into the nest of another bird that she has chosen for it. When
the egg is hatched, the young cuckoo grows so fast that he wants all the
nest to himself. He turns the other young birds that have been hatched
with him out of the nest, and the true parents of these little birds
have to spend all their time in feeding the cuckoo. It takes a great
deal to feed him, because he grows so fast, and is so much larger than
they are. They don't seem to mind it though.--Those pale-green eggs with
dark-brown spots belonged to a rook's nest in the elm-tree at the bottom
of the garden. There's a curious story about those rooks down there, for
they have not been there long. There is an old rookery belonging to the
Rectory close by our house; and one day the rooks from there came to our
elm-tree. It was in the spring. At last they came frequently, and
chattered, and cawed, and flew round and round, as if they did not know
what to do about building their nests in it. By-and-by their visits
ceased, and they built their nests as usual in the Rectory trees. That
very summer, during one still night, a large branch, almost a third of
the elm-tree, fell to the ground. The rooks seemed to know that the
tree was not safe, and so they would not build in it. That was two years
ago; and this spring they have begun to build, and there are several
nests now in our elm-tree. It is most interesting to watch the ways of
rooks; they seem to have a lot of business on hand. There is another
rookery in the town, in the garden of Mrs. Cross, a friend of my
mother's. Rooks always leave the town rookeries for the country as soon
as their young ones are able to fly. Now Mrs. Cross noticed that her
rooks, after they had gone to the fields, always came back each morning
quite early to look after their nests. They stayed a little while to
talk over matters; then they flew back again to the fields. One very
stormy morning she noticed that instead of the whole flock coming and
alighting, one solitary rook ventured through the wind and rain, flying
round and round the trees without settling, and then flew back again to
the others to give his report that all was right in the old home."
"What clever birds they must be!" said Mary.
"They are," said Tom. "There are lots of stories about rooks, but what I
have told you happened under our very eyes.--I have a sparrow-hawk's egg
here, white, spotted with brown. It was given to my father by a man for
me. There are not many of these birds about here."
"Oh," said Jack, "I wish I could get a collection of birds' eggs!"
"It is almost too late in the season now," said Tom. "Still, you might
get some from late nests. I can spare you some from mine, to make a
beginning. I know a young fellow, who lives about a half-mile off, who
has a large collection of eggs. We'll go and see him one Saturday
afternoon. He is sure to have some to give away, for he is always adding
to his store, and he is very good-natured."
IV.
_JACK AND THE GARDENER._
"Oh! fie upon you, little birds,
To eat up _all_ our cherries!
Why don't you go into the woods
And dine upon the berries?"--C. H.
A few days after Tom had shown his cousins his collection of birds'
eggs, Jack, as he was coming away from a visit to Lion, passed by the
end of the potting-shed. The gardener was in there, and he called out,
"Master Jack, I've got something for you in here."
Jack went into the shed, and the gardener fumbled about on a shelf till
he found what he was looking for.
"There," he said, "is a thrush's nest; I thought you'd like it. I took
it out of one of the trees in the orchard. It has got four pretty eggs
in it."
[Illustration: JACK AND THE THRUSH'S NEST.
_Page 36._]
"Oh," said Jack, "how splendid! What a treasure! It does seem a shame,
though, to take it from the birds."
His delight soon got the better of his scruples, especially when he
heard the gardener say,--
"There are too many birds about here already. Missus does encourage them
so, that they are as bold as possible. I can tell you, Master Jack, who
gets most of the cherries. It is not us that does; it's them birds,
especially the thrushes and blackbirds. I'm up early, and I see; and I
hear 'em too before I'm up. There they are, at the fruit as soon as 'tis
light. They have their breakfasts hours before you get yours. One
wouldn't grudge them a few cherries now and again; but to clear the
trees as they do is downright greediness, I say. And I wouldn't be hard
on them for taking a few currants, for we have plenty of them; but they
just go and strip off the largest and reddest of them, and leave the
stalk hanging, and that's all that's left of a fine bunch. Then as to
the pease--you like pease, don't you, Master Jack? your grandpa's
uncommon fond of 'em--well, I have to sow the pease pretty thick, or,
I'll warrant ye, we shouldn't have a tidy row come up at all. I have to
dodge about with netting and scarecrows to keep what we do get; for I
hate a patchy row, I do. Last winter was a very cold season. I don't
know how you found it in London, Master Jack, but here there was a long
hard frost for three weeks. We'd had a good deal of rain; then it turned
to snow, and froze and snowed again till the snow lay pretty thick all
over the ground. Then it cleared up, and the sun shone; but the sun
hasn't much power at that time of the year, so it did not melt the snow.
It was bitter cold by day, and worse at night. The birds that eat grubs
and insects could not get any food at all. So your grandma had a big
lump of fat put into a piece of coarse netting, and it was hung up in a
likely place--the long branch of a tree--where the birds could get well
at it. You should have seen the poor creatures pecking away! It was soon
gone, and we had to put more lumps into the net before the frost went. I
thought to myself it was almost a pity to try to save their lives; it
was just a natural way of getting rid of a lot of them. They do say that
dying by cold is an easy way--it's like going to sleep; so I'm not
wishing any great harm to the little things. And now, Master Jack, how
do you think these birds paid back your grandma for all her kindness?
Why, as soon as ever the frost was gone, and the weather became warmer,
and the yellow crocuses came into bloom, if these very birds, or some of
them at least, did not slit the flowers all to pieces with their
bills--that's what _they_ did. The ground was covered with bits of
flowers.--Do you know Mrs. Jones who lives on the green, Master Jack?"
"No," he said; "I don't."
"Well, she's a great friend of your grandma's; but she is not
over-strong, and doesn't get out in the winter. She likes to have the
birds about her, and she fed them on her lawn with crumbs and pieces;
and her fine bed of crocuses in front of her windows was just spoiled.
It was mostly the yellow ones that they tore to shreds; and the
primroses too--there was hardly one fit to pick. The starlings and the
sparrows were the worst; they did a lot of mischief."
"Oh," said Jack, "perhaps they were after insects, or something they
wanted to eat. I don't believe they _meant_ to do any harm."
"Perhaps not," said the gardener; "but the crocuses were spoiled all the
same. You know, Master Jack, I'm about the place summer and winter, and
I see a lot. Now, if there's one thing more than another that I hate
about a garden, it's cats. They do trample down things and spoil the
beds. As this house is lonesome rather, we don't get much of that pest,
I'm glad to say; and then Smut is not a sociable cat. But I'll tell you
of a curious thing that happened to him one day. There was a pair of
thrushes who had built their nest in the laurel hedge at the bottom of
the garden next to the field. You know, Master Jack, there's a broad
gravel path along the garden side of the hedge. One day, just as the
young birds were able to get out of the nest, the young cat at my
cottage close by walked into this garden, where, of course, she'd no
business; but there she was in that gravel path, and she saw one of the
birds and caught it. I saw her with it. The thrushes scolded her, flew
at her with a sharp, angry cry, and puss was soon off the premises. The
next day, Mr. Smut was walking along this gravel path, enjoying the
sunshine in a quiet way, never thinking of birds, for he's a deal too
lazy to put himself out of the way to catch anything. I've tried him
with a mouse, but he never put out a paw to touch it. He blinked at it
in the most unconcerned way, and didn't show the least bit of interest
in it. Well, as I said, Smut was walking along, when out flew the
thrushes from the hedge, swooped down upon him, pounced on his back,
pecked his head, and screeched at him, till poor Smut was quite dazed.
They fairly chased him out of that part of the garden. You would have
laughed to have seen sober old Smut take to his legs as fast as he could
run. The robins, too, soon afterwards began the same game, and would
stand and scold within two or three yards of the cat, if he was asleep
in the garden. I have often seen them sit just over him, and scold him
till he woke up and came indoors. As to the gravel path by the thrushes'
nest, Smut never came into that path again all the summer through.
Smut's a deal too particular," added the gardener; "but I have heard of
another cat that was almost as bad. The house-maid told me that in one
of her places there was a fine tabby cat, or rather a good-sized kitten,
which would never eat anything in the kitchen, and was so particular in
his ways that he was called 'Sir Thomas.' At dinner time he had a trick
of jumping up as quick as lightning just when any one was going to put
his food into his mouth with his fork. He would give the fork a knock
with his paw, so that the meat tumbled off; which he ate before one
could see what had happened! Such behaviour was not to be borne; so Sir
Thomas was always turned out of the room at dinner time. He was a good
mouser, and foraged well for himself out of doors. One day he ate some
poisoned meat, at least it was supposed he did so. He became so thin,
and his fur came off; so he had to be killed, and that was the end of
Sir Thomas."
"I hope poor Smut won't come to any harm," said Jack. "I should have
liked to see the birds chasing him, though. I wonder the thrush wasn't
afraid of getting on to a cat's back."
"Why, the bird was safe enough; Smut couldn't reach it, and he was
almost frightened out of his senses. You know animals, when they have
their young to take care of or their lives to defend, can do things
which seem contrary to their nature. Birds don't make their perches on
cats' backs, except for very good reasons.
"I heard of a dreadful thing that happened once," said the gardener,
lowering his tone. "There was a cat--it was a half-wild one--and some
boys had a dog that was very fond of worrying cats. They set this dog on
to the poor cat, expecting to see a fight. But puss made a clean jump on
to the dog's back, and fixed herself there. Lifting up first one front
paw, then the other, she beat and scratched the dog's head terribly. The
boys then wanted to get the dog away, but they durst not touch either of
them--the cat would have flown at them; besides, they were cowards, as
cruel people always are. Then a gentleman came up, and he got a
pitchfork, and secured the poor beasts, and they were both killed. At
least the dog was, for certain. Now that's a fact," said the gardener.
[Illustration: REYNARD HARD PUSHED.
_Page 45._]
"I can tell you another curious thing," added he; "it's about a fox this
time. It didn't happen anywhere about here, but in a part of the
country where there's a deal of hunting going on. This poor fox was
being hunted, and away he went through woods, over ploughed land and
meadows, the pack of hounds and the huntsmen in full cry after him, when
they came to a small village. Up the street ran the fox, the dogs at his
heels, when he saw the open door of a house and ran inside, up the
stairs, and crouched under a cot where a little child lay fast asleep!
The mistress of the house saw the fox rush in, and she instantly shut
the front door, as she knew she would have the whole pack of hounds in
her house. As it was, two dogs, a little in front of the others, rushed
past her through the hall into the kitchen, then into the yard; so they
at once shut the kitchen door, and the dogs just missed the fox. There
was a sight all round the house; the dogs were just mad to get in, and
trampled down the flower-beds--for there was no keeping them out of the
front garden--making such a yelling and barking as you never heard. At
last one of the huntsmen came into the house, caught the fox, and
carried him away in a bag. The next day a gentleman sent his gardener to
put the garden straight again, after the dogs; but the crocuses, which
were just showing nicely for bloom, were quite spoiled. They sent the
fox's brush--that's his tail, you know--to the mistress. I've been
inside this very house, and seen where the fox went to hide himself.
It's not the way of the creatures that live in the woods to come into
houses, but the poor fox was hard drove; he was.
"But now, Master Jack, I've finished my job in this shed, and I must
go."
V.
_HIVING THE BEES._
"Busy bee, busy bee, where do you go?"--
"To meadows and gardens whose sweets I know;
Filling my baskets with spoils from the flowers,
Working hard for the hive in sunny hours."--C. H.
In a sunny corner of the kitchen garden stood a row of bee-hives. Many a
time did the children stand to watch the busy workers, flying out of the
hive to gather honey from the flowers, either to feed the bees or to
store it into cells for future use.
They would watch them returning laden, not only with honey, but with
pollen, the yellow dust found in the inside of flowers.
Bees get covered with this powder while they are sucking the honey out
of the flowers; and they carefully brush it off their bodies with their
hairy legs, make it into lumps, and then place it in a curious kind of
basket or pocket which every bee has in the middle of each of its hind
legs. The children often saw the bees with these yellow lumps piled up
so high that it seemed a wonder they did not fall off. And so they might
have done, had it not been for the fringe of long hairs at the edge of
the basket, which, by making a kind of lid, kept the precious load safe.
They watched the bees fly into the hive, but they could not see what
happened next and what became of their treasure.
Shall I tell you?
First of all, other bees come to help them to unload; then those that
are hungry eat the honey; and what is not wanted is stored away in the
cells which those that stay at home are making.
But how do they get the wax for their cells? It does not grow in
flowers.
No; they make it out of honey which they retain instead of storing. It
comes while the bees are quiet; and many bees hang together for a long
time while the wax is forming. It then oozes out in thin flakes on their
bodies; and this they knead till it is soft enough to build with.
They bring home from the fields something besides pollen and honey; it
is a gummy substance which they get from the buds of trees. They use it
with the wax, partly as a varnish and partly to make it stronger. They
mend up broken places with it, and it answers the purpose of cement.
They use their cells for three things: to store honey, to store bee
bread, and others are used to rear the young bees,--nurseries, in fact.
Bees have a great deal to do besides getting honey and building their
cells. They have their young ones to take care of. As soon as an egg is
hatched they feed the grub with great care; and in about ten days it
wants no more food, but spins a kind of web round itself, and lies quite
still for about ten days more, when it comes out a bee, ready for work.
Only one bee lays eggs. She is the queen and the mother of all the
others. She is a good deal larger than they are, and they all obey her.
One day about the end of May, just as the children's lessons for the
morning were over, they heard the gardener come into the hall to tell
their grandpapa that one of the hives had swarmed.
"Oh! what is that?" they cried. "Do tell us; do let us go and see."
"Wait a little, wait a little," said grandpapa. "It means that the hive
won't hold all the bees any longer; there are too many of them in it,
and the old queen bee has left it, with some thousands of her subjects,
to a young queen that will now reign in her stead."
"We must see about a new hive for her, gardener."
"Yes, sir; we have it all ready. Bob is waiting with it in the garden
now."
Bob was the young man who milked the cow, and minded the pony and the
pigs and fowls.
"Oh, do let us go too," cried all the children.
"I must hear what grandmamma says," said grandpapa. "It won't do for any
of you to get stung, you know."
Just then grandmamma came into the hall to see what all the commotion
was about.
The three children turned to her and said, "Do let us go to see the bees
put into their new hive."
"Where have they swarmed?" asked grandmamma.
"On to a plum-tree, ma'am, quite close to the hives," said the
gardener.--"I don't think the little ones will come to any harm if you
will let them go," he added, when he saw their eager looks.
"Well," said grandmamma, "there really is no danger, if you will all
keep perfectly still. It is easy to hive them from a branch, but needs
a great deal more care if they swarm upon the ground. If any bees should
settle on you, you must let them stay till they fly off of their own
accord. If you try to brush them off, they will be nearly sure to sting
you."
"I am almost afraid to let little Annie go, lest she should be
frightened."
"I will take care of Annie," said grandpapa.--"You won't be afraid in my
arms, will you, my little pet, even if some bees do settle on you? Yes,
yes, you shall come," he said; for he could not bear to have her
disappointed.
"If they cover me," said Jack, "I won't touch one of them!"
So all but grandmamma started off for the garden; and sure enough there
was hanging from one of the lower branches of the plum-tree a huge bunch
of bees; it was wonderful how they managed to keep together.
"They'll hive easy," said the gardener.
Bob held the new hive directly under the cluster of bees, and the
gardener gently shook the bough on which it was hanging, when the bees
fell into it. Numbers, however, flew about hither and thither in a state
of great commotion.
"Don't be frightened, Annie dear," said grandpapa; "they won't hurt
you--keep quite still."
A few bees settled on Jack and Mary, many more on the gardener and Bob,
but only two or three on grandpapa and Annie, for he was a little
farther off than the others.
By-and-by all the bees flew away into the hive after their queen, and no
one was stung. The hive was then placed upon a board on the ground and
left there.
In the evening, when all was quiet, the gardener took up the hive and
set it by the side of the other bees.
After the children had gone back to the house, Mary asked grandmamma why
she did not come to see the bees hived.
"My dear, it is no new sight to me. Why, I hived the very first swarm we
ever had myself."
"_You_ hived them, grandmamma? Do tell us about it."
"It was a year or two after we were married, and a friend had given us a
hive of bees in the spring. They swarmed one sunny day when your
grandpapa had gone to London, and the only man handy was the gardener.
He had not been with us long, and he stayed but a very short time, as he
did not suit us.
"I saw the swarm myself hanging on to a red-currant bush, and I asked
the gardener if he could hive the swarm. He said he didn't know anything
about bees, and he didn't care to meddle with them.
"I didn't care to ask for any help from him, so I went into the kitchen
and said to one of the servants, 'Ann, would you be afraid to help me
hive the bees, for they have swarmed?'
"'Not at all, ma'am,' she said.
"So I told her to draw a pair of stockings over her hands and arms, and
to tie a thin shawl over her head and neck; then, when she was ready, we
went into the garden."
"What did you put on, grandma?"
"Nothing special. I was vexed at the gardener's cowardice, and I really
did not feel afraid, so I went just as I was. I well remember the dress:
it was muslin, with large open sleeves, so that my arms were bare. I did
not even wear a hat!
"Ann held the hive, and I shook the bees into it. We were both of us
covered with bees that settled on us, as they did on the gardener and
Bob this morning. We let them take their own time to fly off from us,
and neither of us was stung.
"Bees are very curious creatures; they seem to have their likes and
dislikes as well as other beings.
"My grandfather kept bees; but he was obliged to get rid of them, for
they would sting my grandmother whenever she went into the part of the
garden where they were kept. No one ever knew the reason of this."
Bees keep the inside of their hives very clean. If a bee dies, they turn
it out; or if anything like a snail, for instance, crawled in, which
would be too large for them to push out, they would completely cover it
over with wax.
Here grandpapa came into the room and said, "That was a strong swarm of
bees that we have just hived; first swarms generally are."
"How many bees do you think there were, grandpapa?" asked Jack.
"I should say about five thousand. A well-stocked hive will hold from
fifteen to twenty thousand bees. We may expect another swarm from that
same hive in a week or ten days; but it won't be worth so much as this
one."
"Did you ever hear the old rhyme, children?
"A swarm of bees in May
Is worth a load of hay;
A swarm of bees in June
Is worth a silver spoon;
But a swarm in July
Is not worth a fly."
"Why not?" asked Annie.
"Because it is smaller and weaker, and it is later in the year, so they
have not such a long time to get honey to keep them through the winter.
They will generally die off, if they are not fed."
"Suppose the queen dies, what do the bees do then, grandpapa?"
"They are greatly concerned; they run about the hive touching every bee
they meet with their little horns or feelers. Then, when all the bees
know of their loss, they set to work to feed one of the grubs in the
royal cells with a particular kind of food, and a young queen after due
time makes her appearance. They take great care of her, and obey her as
they did the old queen."
VI.
_WASPS AND THEIR WAYS._
"An elegant shape is yours, Sir Wasp,
And delicate is your wing;
Your armour is brave, in black and gold;
But we do not like your sting."--C. H.
The next morning Jack went to see how the new hive had settled, and he
found everything going on as usual. The bees were very busy, flying in
and out, and working hard to build the cells of their new home.
The gardener was working near, and he said, "Master Jack, did you ever
see a wasp's nest?"
Jack shook his head.
"Well, now, if you come into my cottage, I'll show you one this evening.
It's not a very good one, for it got broken digging it out of the ground
in one of the garden paths. We'd been terribly plagued with wasps for
weeks, and it was some time before we could find the nest. We watched
them go into a hole in the ground; so one evening when they'd all gone
to bed we got some pitch and brimstone, and laid them with some lighted
sticks on the top of the hole. The wasps woke up, and came out to see
what was going on; but they were smothered by the brimstone smoke, and
were soon done for. The next day we dug out the nest.
"Wasps are great pests, Master Jack, I can tell you. They are very fond
of honey, and they go into the bee-hives to steal it, especially when
the mornings and evenings get cool, and the bees are not watching at the
holes of their hives, because they've gone inside to keep themselves
warm.
"The wasps spoil a lot of fruit. If there's one peach finer than
another, they know it; and as for the plums, green-gages in particular,
why, they are as mad after them as the birds are for the cherries. What
with the caterpillars and slugs being after the vegetables, and the
birds and the wasps making such havoc with the fruit, I wonder sometimes
how we ever get any for ourselves."
"There always seems plenty of fruit and vegetables, though," said Jack.
"Well, yes," said the gardener, "maybe. The birds do help us with
caterpillars and slugs, I'm bound to own; and then we are always on the
look-out to destroy wasps: and as to the birds, I dodge them with
netting; and sometimes we take the nests out of the fruit-trees, as much
as to tell them to go elsewhere."
That evening Jack went into the gardener's cottage and saw the wasp's
nest. It looked like the cells of bees made in whity-brown paper.
"What is it made of?" asked Jack; "it isn't wax."
"Well, I've heard that the wasp, which has very strong jaws, bites bits
of wood off posts and rails, and moistens them by chewing them into a
kind of paper, and then makes a comb of it like what you see here."
"I wish I had seen this wasp's nest taken."
"No, Master Jack; why, you'd be in bed at that time: besides, I don't
suppose your grandmamma would have let you go, even if you had been
here, for you might have been stung. It's rather a touchy job, is taking
a wasp's nest,--very different from hiving bees; we give them a home,
but we take one from the wasps.
"If the queen bee falls into the new hive, the bees are right
enough--they are sure to go where she is; but the wasps are naturally
angered and frightened at being suffocated out of their home. So, I say,
keep clear of wasps' nests; those jobs are best done on the quiet."
"Was anybody stung when this nest was taken?"
"Yes, your grandma was. She's naturally curious about such things, and
came with your grandpa to see the sight. One half-stupified wasp
settled on her hair, and she didn't know it; but after she got back to
the house it revived a bit and moved, and she, not knowing what it was,
touched it, and it stung her badly on the top of her head. I don't think
wasps will sting unless they are touched; but they are such creepy
things that you don't always know where they are, and you are apt to
touch them without meaning to do so."
The next morning at breakfast Jack was talking about the wasp's nest
that he had seen on the evening before at the gardener's cottage.
Grandma remarked, "There is a kind of wasp called the mason wasp, which
bores holes several inches deep in sand-banks. The inside of this long
narrow passage is covered with a gummy paste which the wasp makes with
her mouth. Here she lays her eggs, and then brings some green
caterpillars into the holes, ready for the young wasps to eat when they
come out of the egg. Then she closes the holes by a ball of sand, so
that nothing can get in to eat the young grub. Sometimes these wasps
choose a brick wall instead of a sand-bank for their eggs.
"A friend of mine watched one of these wasps in a wall in her garden.
She saw the wasp go into a small round hole in the mortar between the
bricks. After a few minutes she walked out of the hole, turned round,
and went in again backwards. There she stayed, her little horns and
bright eyes being all that could be seen of the wasp. My friend tried to
make the wasp come out of the hole, but nothing could move her; so then
she had to go away, but not before she had put a mark by the spot.
"The next morning she went back to the wall and found the wasp had gone,
and had carefully and cleverly covered up her hole with what looked like
mortar.