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Mr. and Mrs. Nutcracker were as respectable a pair of squirrels as ever
wore gray brushes over their backs. They were animals of a settled and
serious turn of mind, not disposed to run after vanities and novelties,
but filling their station in life with prudence and sobriety. Nutcracker
Lodge was a hole in a sturdy old chestnut overhanging a shady dell,
and was held to be as respectably kept an establishment as there was
in the whole forest. Even Miss Jenny Wren, the greatest gossip of the
neighborhood, never found anything to criticise in its arrangements, and
old Parson Too-whit, a venerable owl who inhabited a branch somewhat more
exalted, as became his profession, was in the habit of saving himself
much trouble in his parochial exhortations by telling his parishioners in
short to “look at the Nutcrackers” if they wanted to see what it was to
live a virtuous life. Everything had gone on prosperously with them, and
they had reared many successive families of young Nutcrackers, who went
forth to assume their places in the forest of life, and to reflect credit
on their bringing-up,—so that naturally enough they began to have a very
easy way of considering themselves models of wisdom.
But at last it came along, in the course of events, that they had a
son named Featherhead, who was destined to bring them a great deal of
anxiety. Nobody knows what the reason is, but the fact was, that Master
Featherhead was as different from all the former children of this worthy
couple as if he had been dropped out of the moon into their nest, instead
of coming into it in the general way. Young Featherhead was a squirrel
of good parts and a lively disposition, but he was sulky and contrary
and unreasonable, and always finding matter of complaint in everything
his respectable papa and mamma did. Instead of assisting in the cares
of a family,—picking up nuts and learning other lessons proper to a
young squirrel,—he seemed to settle himself from his earliest years into
a sort of lofty contempt for the Nutcrackers, for Nutcracker Lodge,
and for all the good old ways and institutions of the domestic hole,
which he declared to be stupid and unreasonable, and entirely behind
the times. To be sure, he was always on hand at meal-times, and played
a very lively tooth on the nuts which his mother had collected, always
selecting the very best for himself; but he seasoned his nibbling with so
much grumbling and discontent, and so many severe remarks, as to give the
impression that he considered himself a peculiarly ill-used squirrel in
having to “eat their old grub,” as he very unceremoniously called it.
Papa Nutcracker, on these occasions, was often fiercely indignant, and
poor little Mamma Nutcracker would shed tears, and beg her darling to
be a little more reasonable; but the young gentleman seemed always to
consider himself as the injured party.
Now nobody could tell why or wherefore Master Featherhead looked upon
himself as injured and aggrieved, since he was living in a good hole,
with plenty to eat, and without the least care or labor of his own; but
he seemed rather to value himself upon being gloomy and dissatisfied.
While his parents and brothers and sisters were cheerfully racing up and
down the branches, busy in their domestic toils, and laying up stores for
the winter, Featherhead sat gloomily apart, declaring himself weary of
existence, and feeling himself at liberty to quarrel with everybody and
everything about him. Nobody understood him, he said;—he was a squirrel
of a peculiar nature, and needed peculiar treatment, and nobody treated
him in a way that did not grate on the finer nerves of his feelings.
He had higher notions of existence than could be bounded by that old
rotten hole in a hollow tree; he had thoughts that soared far above the
miserable, petty details of everyday life, and he _could_ not and _would_
not bring down these soaring aspirations to the contemptible toil of
laying up a few chestnuts or hickory-nuts for winter.
“Depend upon it, my dear,” said Mrs. Nutcracker solemnly, “that fellow
must be a genius.”
“Fiddlestick on his genius!” said old Mr. Nutcracker; “what does he _do_?”
“O nothing, of course; that’s one of the first marks of genius. Geniuses,
you know, never can come down to common life.”
“He eats enough for any two,” remarked old Nutcracker, “and he never
helps gather nuts.”
“My dear, ask Parson Too-whit; he has conversed with him, and quite
agrees with me that he says very uncommon things for a squirrel of his
age; he has such fine feelings,—so much above those of the common crowd.”
“Fine feelings be hanged!” said old Nutcracker. “When a fellow eats
all the nuts that his mother gives him, and then grumbles at her, I
don’t believe much in his fine feelings. Why don’t he set himself about
something? I’m going to tell my fine young gentleman, that, if he doesn’t
behave himself, I’ll tumble him out of the nest, neck and crop, and see
if hunger won’t do something towards bringing down his fine airs.”
But then Mrs. Nutcracker fell on her husband’s neck with both paws, and
wept, and besought him so piteously to have patience with her darling,
that old Nutcracker, who was himself a soft-hearted old squirrel,
was prevailed upon to put up with the airs and graces of his young
scape-grace a little longer; and secretly in his silly old heart he
revolved the question whether possibly it might not be that a great
genius was actually to come of his household.
The Nutcrackers belonged to the old established race of the Grays, but
they were sociable, friendly people, and kept on the best of terms with
all branches of the Nutcracker family. The Chipmunks of Chipmunk Hollow
were a very lively, cheerful, sociable race, and on the very best of
terms with the Nutcracker Grays. Young Tip Chipmunk, the oldest son, was
in all respects a perfect contrast to Master Featherhead. He was always
lively and cheerful, and so very alert in providing for the family, that
old Mr. and Mrs. Chipmunk had very little care, but could sit sociably
at the door of their hole and chat with neighbors, quite sure that Tip
would bring everything out right for them, and have plenty laid up for
winter.
Now Featherhead took it upon him, for some reason or other, to look down
upon Tip Chipmunk, and on every occasion to disparage him in the social
circle, as a very common kind of squirrel, with whom it would be best not
to associate too freely.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Nutcracker one day, when he was expressing these
ideas, “it seems to me that you are too hard on poor Tip; he is a most
excellent son and brother, and I wish you would be civil to him.”
“O, I don’t doubt that Tip is _good_ enough,” said Featherhead,
carelessly; “but then he is so very common! he hasn’t an idea in his
skull above his nuts and his hole. He is good-natured enough, to be
sure,—these very ordinary people often are good-natured,—but he wants
manner; he has really no manner at all; and as to the deeper feelings,
Tip hasn’t the remotest idea of them. I mean always to be civil to Tip
when he comes in my way, but I think the less we see of that sort of
people the better; and I hope, mother, you won’t invite the Chipmunks at
Christmas,—these family dinners are such a bore!”
“But, my dear, your father thinks a great deal of the Chipmunks; and it
is an old family custom to have all the relatives here at Christmas.”
“And an awful bore it is! Why must people of refinement and elevation be
forever tied down because of some distant relationship? Now there are our
cousins the High-Flyers,—if we could get them, there would be some sense
in it. Young Whisk rather promised me for Christmas; but it’s seldom now
you can get a flying squirrel to show himself in our parts, and if we are
intimate with the Chipmunks it isn’t to be expected.”
“Confound him for a puppy!” said old Nutcracker, when his wife repeated
these sayings to him. “Featherhead is a fool. Common, forsooth! I wish
good, industrious, painstaking sons like Tip Chipmunk _were_ common. For
my part, I find these uncommon people the most tiresome; they are not
content with letting us carry the whole load, but they sit on it, and
scold at us while we carry them.”
But old Mr. Nutcracker, like many other good old gentlemen squirrels,
found that Christmas dinners and other things were apt to go as his wife
said, and his wife was apt to go as young Featherhead said; and so, when
Christmas came, the Chipmunks were not invited, for the first time in
many years. The Chipmunks, however, took all pleasantly, and accepted
poor old Mrs. Nutcracker’s awkward apologies with the best possible
grace, and young Tip looked in on Christmas morning with the compliments
of the season and a few beech-nuts, which he had secured as a great
dainty. The fact was, that Tip’s little striped fur coat was so filled up
and overflowing with cheerful good-will to all, that he never could be
made to understand that any of his relations could want to cut him; and
therefore Featherhead looked down on him with contempt, and said he had
no tact, and couldn’t see when he was not wanted.
It was wonderful to see how, by means of persisting in remarks like
these, young Featherhead at last got all his family to look up to him
as something uncommon. Though he added nothing to the family, and
required more to be done for him than all the others put together,—though
he showed not the smallest real perseverance or ability in anything
useful,—yet somehow all his brothers and sisters, and his poor foolish
old mother, got into a way of regarding him as something wonderful, and
delighting in his sharp sayings as if they had been the wisest things in
the world.
But at last old papa declared that it was time for Featherhead to settle
himself to some business in life, roundly declaring that he could not
always have him as a hanger-on in the paternal hole.
“What are you going to do, my boy?” said Tip Chipmunk to him one day. “We
are driving now a thriving trade in hickory-nuts, and if you would like
to join us—”
“Thank you,” said Featherhead; “but I confess I have no fancy for
anything so slow as the hickory trade; I never was made to grub and delve
in that way.”
The fact was, that Featherhead had lately been forming alliances such
as no reputable squirrel should even think of. He had more than once
been seen going out evenings with the Rats of Rat Hollow,—a race
whose reputation for honesty was more than doubtful. The fact was,
further, that old Longtooth Rat, an old sharper and money-lender, had
long had his eye on Featherhead as just about silly enough for their
purposes,—engaging him in what he called a speculation, but which was
neither more nor less than downright stealing.
Near by the chestnut-tree where Nutcracker Lodge was situated was a large
barn filled with corn and grain, besides many bushels of hazelnuts,
chestnuts, and walnuts. Now old Longtooth proposed to young Featherhead
that he should nibble a passage into this loft, and there establish
himself in the commission business, passing the nuts and corn to him as
he wanted them. Old Longtooth knew what he was about in the proposal,
for he had heard talk of a brisk Scotch terrier that was about to be
bought to keep the rats from the grain; but you may be sure he kept his
knowledge to himself, so that Featherhead was none the wiser for it.
“The nonsense of fellows like Tip Chipmunk!” said Featherhead to his
admiring brothers and sisters. “The perfectly stupid nonsense! There he
goes, delving and poking, picking up a nut here and a grain there, when
_I_ step into property at once.”
“But I hope, my son, you are careful to be honest in your dealings,” said
old Nutcracker, who was a very moral squirrel.
With that, young Featherhead threw his tail saucily over one shoulder,
winked knowingly at his brothers, and said, “Certainly, sir! If honesty
consists in getting what you can while it is going, I mean to be honest.”
Very soon Featherhead appeared to his admiring companions in the
height of prosperity. He had a splendid hole in the midst of a heap of
chestnuts, and he literally seemed to be rolling in wealth; he never came
home without showering lavish gifts on his mother and sisters; he wore
his tail over his back with a buckish air, and patronized Tip Chipmunk
with a gracious nod whenever he met him, and thought that the world was
going well with him.
But one luckless day, as Featherhead was lolling in his hole, up came two
boys with the friskiest, wiriest Scotch terrier you ever saw. His eyes
blazed like torches, and poor Featherhead’s heart died within him as he
heard the boys say, “Now we’ll see if we can’t catch the rascal that eats
our grain.”
Featherhead tried to slink out at the hole he had gnawed to come in by,
but found it stopped.
“O, you are there, are you, Mister?” said the boy. “Well, you don’t get
out; and now for a chase!”
And, sure enough, poor Featherhead ran distracted with terror up and
down, through the bundles of hay, between barrels, and over casks;
but with the barking terrier ever at his heels, and the boys running,
shouting, and cheering his pursuer on. He was glad at last to escape
through a crack, though he left half of his fine brush behind him,—for
Master Wasp the terrier made a snap at it just as he was going, and
cleaned all the hair off of it, so that it was bare as a rat’s tail.
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Poor Featherhead limped off, bruised and beaten and bedraggled, with the
boys and dog still after him; and they would have caught him, after all,
if Tip Chipmunk’s hole had not stood hospitably open to receive him. Tip
took him in, like a good-natured fellow as he was, and took the best of
care of him; but the glory of Featherhead’s tail had departed forever. He
had sprained his left paw, and got a chronic rheumatism, and the fright
and fatigue which he had gone through had broken up his constitution,
so that he never again could be what he had been; but Tip gave him a
situation as under-clerk in his establishment, and from that time he was
a sadder and a wiser squirrel than he ever had been before.