Mr. and Mrs. Nutcracker were as respectable a pair of squirrels as
ever wore gray brushes over their backs. They lived in Nutcracker
Lodge, a hole in a sturdy old chestnut tree overhanging a shady dell.
Here they had reared many families of young Nutcrackers, who were
models of good behavior in the forest.
But it happened in the course of time that they had a son named
Featherhead, who was as different from all the other children of the
Nutcracker family as if he had been dropped out of the moon into
their nest. He was handsome enough, and had a lively disposition,
but he was sulky and contrary and unreasonable. He found fault with
everything his respectable papa and mama did. Instead of helping with
up nuts and learning other lessons proper to a young squirrel,--he
sneered at all the good old ways and customs of the Nutcracker Lodge,
and said they were 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 best for himself. But he
seasoned his nibbling with much grumbling and discontent.
Papa Nutcracker would often lose his patience, and say something
sharp to Featherhead, but Mamma Nutcracker would shed tears, and beg
her darling boy to be a little more reasonable.
While his parents, brothers, and sisters were cheerfully racing up
and down the branches laying up stores for the winter, Featherhead
sat apart, sulking and scolding.
“Nobody understands me,” he grumbled. “Nobody treats me as I deserve
to be treated. Surely I was born to be something of more importance
than gathering a few chestnuts and hickory-nuts for the winter. I am
an unusual squirrel.”
“Depend upon it, my dear,” said Mrs. Nutcracker to her husband, “that
boy is a genius.”
“Fiddlestick on his genius!” said old Mr. Nutcracker; “what does he
_do_?”
“Oh, nothing, of course, but they say that is one of the marks of
genius. Remarkable people, you know, never come down to common life.”
“He eats enough for any two,” said old Nutcracker, “and he never
helps gather nuts.”
“But, my dear, Parson Too-Whit, who has talked with Featherhead, says
the boy has very fine feelings,--so much above those of the common
crowd.”
“Feelings be hanged,” snapped 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 doesn’t he do 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 toward bringing down his fine airs.”
“Oh, my dear,” sobbed Mrs. Nutcracker, falling on her husband’s neck
with both paws, “do be patient with our darling boy.”
Now although the Nutcrackers belonged to the fine old race of the
Grays, they kept on the best of terms with all branches of the
squirrel family. They were very friendly to the Chipmunks of Chipmunk
Hollow. Young Tip Chipmunk, the oldest son, was in all respects a
perfect contrast to Master Featherhead. Tip was lively and cheerful,
and very alert in getting food for the family. Indeed, Mr. and Mrs.
Chipmunk had very little care, but could sit at the door of their
hole and chat with neighbours, quite sure that Tip would bring
everything out right for them, and have plenty laid up for winter.
“What a commonplace fellow that Tip Chipmunk is,” sneered Featherhead
one day. “I shall take care not to associate with him.”
“My dear, you are too hard on poor Tip,” said Mrs. Nutcracker. “He is
a very good son, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt he’s good enough,” said Featherhead, “but he’s so
common. He hasn’t an idea in his skull above his nuts and Chipmunk
Hollow. He is good-natured enough, but, dear me, he has no manners!
I hope, mother, you won’t invite the Chipmunks to the Thanksgiving
dinner--these family dinners are such a bore.”
“But, my dear Featherhead, your father thinks a great deal of the
Chipmunks--they are our relatives you know,” said Mother Nutcracker.
“So are the High-Flyers our relatives. If we could get them to come
there would be some sense to it. But of course a flying squirrel
would never come to our house if a common chipmunk is a guest. It
isn’t to be expected,” said Featherhead.
“Confound him for a puppy,” said old Nutcracker. “I wish good,
industrious sons like Tip Chipmunk _were_ common.”
But in the end Featherhead had his way, and the Chipmunks were not
invited to Nutcracker Lodge for Thanksgiving dinner. However, they
were not all offended. Indeed, Tip called early in the morning to pay
his compliments of the season, and leave a few dainty beechnuts.
“He can’t even see that he is not wanted here,” sneered Featherhead.
At last old papa declared it was time for Featherhead to choose some
business.
“What are you going to do, my boy?” he asked. “We are driving now a
thriving trade in hickory nuts, and if you would like to join us----”
“Thank you,” said Featherhead, “the hickory trade is too slow for me.
I was never made to grub and delve in that way. In fact I have my own
plans.”
To be plain, Featherhead had formed a friendship with the Rats of Rat
Hollow--a race of people whose honesty was doubtful. Old Longtooth
Rat was a money-lender, and for a long time he had had his eye on
Featherhead as a person silly enough to suit the business which was
neither more nor less than downright stealing.
Near Nutcracker Lodge was a large barn filled with corn and grain,
besides many bushels of hazelnuts, chestnuts and walnuts. Now old
Longtooth told Featherhead that he should nibble a passage into the
loft, and set up a commission business there--passing out nuts and
grain as Longtooth wanted them. He did not tell Featherhead a certain
secret--namely, that a Scotch terrier was about to be bought to keep
rats from the grain.
“How foolish such drudging fellows as Tip Chipmunk are!” said
Featherhead to himself. “There he goes picking up a nut here and a
grain there, whereas I step into property at once.”
“I hope you are honest in your dealings, my son,” said old Nutcracker.
Featherhead threw his tail saucily over one shoulder and laughed.
“Certainly, sir, if honesty means getting what you can while it is
going, I mean to be honest.”
Very soon Featherhead seemed to be very prosperous. He had a splendid
hole in the midst of a heap of chestnuts, and he seemed to be rolling
in wealth. He lavished gifts on his mother and sisters; he carried
his tail very proudly over his back. He was even gracious to Tip
Chipmunk.
But one 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. Featherhead’s heart died within him as he heard
the boys say, “Now we’ll see if we can catch the rascal that eats our
grain.”
Featherhead tried to slink out of the hole he had gnawed to come in
by, but found it stopped.
“Oh, you are there, are you, Mister?” cried the boy. “Well, you don’t
get out, and now for a chase.”
And sure enough poor Featherhead ran with terror up and down through
the bundles of hay. But the barking terrier was at his heels, and
the boys shouted and cheered. 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 Featherhead was
squeezing through. Alas! all the hair was cleaned off so that it was
as bare as a rat’s tail.
Poor Featherhead limped off, bruised and beaten, with the dog
and boys still after him, and they would have caught him if Tip
Chipmunk’s hole had not stood open to receive him. Tip took the best
of care of him, but the glory of Featherhead’s tail had gone forever.
From that time, though, he was a sadder and a wiser squirrel than he
ever had been before.