And now the grass of the forest turned fast from green to yellow, the
blossom faded off the heather, and the leaves of the woods turned to
gold and to russet and to brown, and fluttered down to the kind earth
which had raised them up in the spring. The nights too grew chillier
and chillier; but the Hind and Calf did not mind that, for their coats
only grew the thicker and warmer to protect them. But what was far
more terrible was the hideous roaring that continued all night long in
all quarters of the moor. It was some days before the Calf found out
what it was, for his mother seemed always dreadfully frightened unless
he were well hidden away. But once when she had left him for a short
time snugly tucked away on a combe's side, he saw a great Stag come
down the combe driving a little herd of half a dozen Hinds before him.
The Calf was astonished at the sight of him, for the Stag was quite
different now from any that he had seen in the summer. The glossy
coat was gone, and the great round body was lean, ragged, and tucked
up, and stained with half-dried mud. His neck again was twice its
usual size and looked still bigger under its great shaggy mane; and
his face was not noble and calm, but fierce and restless and furrowed
by two deep dark lines, so that altogether he was a most
disreputable-looking old fellow.
Presently he stopped at a little boggy spot by the water's side; and
there he reared up, and plunging his great antlers into the ground he
tore it up, and sent the black mire flying over his head. Then he
threw himself down into the bog and rolled in it and wallowed in it,
churning it up with horn and hoof, like a thing possessed. At last he
got up, all dripping and black, and stretching out his great neck,
till the hair of his mane hung straight and lank with the black drops
running from it, he roared and roared again with a voice so terrible
and unearthly that the Calf in his hiding-place shook with fright. And
no wonder, for I think that even you will be startled the first time
that you hear a big Stag belling.
Very soon an answering roar came from a distance, and another Stag,
as thin and fierce-looking as the first, but not quite so big, came
belling up the combe. And the great Stag left the Hinds and went
forward to meet him, looking very stately and grand. For he walked on
tip-toe, loftily and slowly, with his head thrown back, and his chin
high in air, while his eyes rolled with rage, and his breath spurted
forward in jets of steam through the cold, damp air, as he snorted
defiance. Then presently both Stags dropped their heads and made for
each other; and they fought with locked horns, shoving and straining
and struggling, backward and forward and round and round, till the
smaller Stag could fight no longer but turned and fled limping away,
with the blood flowing from a deep thrust in his flank. Then the great
Stag threw up his head and belled again with triumph, and huddling the
Hinds together once more, he drove them on before him.
For three weeks and more this roaring and fighting continued; for
Deer, you must know, put all the quarrelling of the year into a single
month; which sounds like a curious arrangement, but may after all be
better than that of certain other creatures, which fight the whole
year round. All this while the Calf's mother kept him carefully out of
the way of stags; but none the less he had visitors. For one day a
little brown bird with a long beak came flapping rather crookedly up
the combe as if uncertain whither to go next, and then suddenly making
up her mind, came down and lighted in front of the Calf's very nose.
He was a little astonished, but his mother gave the little bird her
kindest glance and said:
"Welcome back to Exmoor, Mistress Woodcock. How have you fared this
dry summer, and what passage had you over the sea?"
And the little bird answered with somewhat of a foreign accent and in
rather a sad voice, "I am safe and sound, my lady Hind, for we had
good weather; but there were a few that started before me, and are not
yet come, and I greatly fear that they were blown into the sea by a
storm. And the summer was so dry that many springs failed, and many
times I had to catch up my chicks and carry them one by one to new
feeding-grounds over the pine-forests and across the blue fiords. Ah!
you think much of Exmoor, but you have never seen Norway, where your
highest hills would be lost among our mountains, and your broadest
streams a trickle beside our rivers. We do not duck and dive there, my
lady Hind; we fly high and straight, and chirp for joy in our flight,
but in this grey England we have not the heart to chirp." And rising
with a _flip flap_ of her wings she flew silently and sadly away.
At length one day the Hind said: "Son, it is time for you to see some
more of your relations." So they set out together; and as they went
they passed by all the places which the Calf had known so well when he
was but a few weeks old. But they saw no deer, and when they looked
about for the Greyhen they could not see her either; nor would they
have heard anything of them, if the Hind had not bethought her of
going to see old Bunny. And they found her as usual sitting in front
of her bury, looking quite happy and comfortable, with her head a
little on one side.
"Why, my lady, you'm quite a stranger," she said when they greeted
her. "Lady Yeld and Lady Ruddy was axing for 'ee but two days agone,
and says they, 'Tell her we'm going to Dunkery'; and that's where
you'm going, I reckon, my lady. And Lady Ruddy's Calf is grown
wonderful, and a sweet, pretty little thing she is, but not so pretty
as yours, my lady. Look to mun, now, in his little brown coat, a
proper little buty. 'Tis just what I was saying to the old
Greyhen--let's see, what day was it?--well, I don't rightly mind the
day, but says I, 'Neighbour, her ladyship's little son--'"
"But where is the Greyhen gone, Bunny?" said the Hind.
"Well, I don't rightly know, my lady," answered Bunny. "She comed to
me a good whiles back, and she saith, 'Neighbour, the men's been here
shooting again, and I shall go.' But it was a good whiles back; I
think 'twas when I was rearing my fourth family,--for I have had two
more families since I seed your ladyship last, aye, and fine ones too.
And I've got a new mate, my lady. You mind my Bucky, my lady, he that
was always lying out--well, he went out one day and he never comed
home again, and I reckon the weasels catched mun. He was a good mate
was the old Bucky, but he was the half of a fule--that I should say
so--wouldn't never mind what I told mun. And what was I to do, my
lady? So I tooked another mate. 'Twas not a long courting, for he
comes to me, and, saith he--"
"But where did you say that the Greyhen was gone?" asked the Hind,
kindly.
"I think Clog's Down was the place that she said, my lady. But, bless
your life, she'll come back here, you may depend. For she's getting
up an old bird, my lady,--"
"And there's no place like home, Bunny," said the Hind.
"Aye," said Bunny, "and that's just what I was saying only yesterday
to the old Woodcock when she comed telling to me about Norway. 'Get
along with 'ee and your Norwayses,' I says; 'isn't Exmoor good enough
for 'ee? Many's the fine brood of Woodcocks that I've seen reared on
Exmoor, without never crossing the sea. Look at me,' I says; '_I_
don't go crossing the sea, and look to the broods I've reared.' And
now, let me think, how many broods is it?--"
But she took such a long time counting, that, though the Hind was
longing to hear, they were obliged to bid her good-day and go on their
way. Besides, to tell truth, the Calf was so much pleased when he
heard her speak of his brown coat that he was dying to find some one
to whom he could show it. And in the very first water that they
crossed he saw the little Salmon come hurrying towards them, and
called out to them, "Come and look at my brown coat."
But they answered all together, "Come and look at our silver jackets.
We've got our silver jackets, we've got our silver jackets! And the
rain will come down to-night, and we'll be off to the sea
to-morrow--hurrah!" And they leaped out of the water and turned head
over tail with joy, taking no more notice of the Calf's brown coat
than if it had been a rag of green weed.
So he passed on with his mother, a little disappointed, and away from
the yellow grass of the forest to the brown heather of Dunkery. And
there the heath was full of great stones, unlike any ground that he
had ever travelled over before, so that he had to be careful at first
how he trod. But he soon found that it was easy enough for him after
he had gone a little distance; and his mother led him slowly so that
he should have time to learn his way. So on they went to the very top
of the ridge, and there where the heather and grass grow tuft by tuft
among the brown turf-pits, in the heart of the bog, they found a herd
of Deer. Such a number of them there were as he had never dreamed of.
Great Stags, with three and four on top, like those that he had seen
fighting, were lying down, four and five together, in perfect peace,
and younger Stags with lighter heads and fewer points, and
Two-year-olds, proud as Punch of their first brow-antlers, and
Prickets, ever prouder of their first spires than the Two-year-olds,
and a score or more of Hinds, nearly all of them with Calves at foot;
and standing sentry over all was old Aunt Yeld.
"Come along, my dears," she said patronisingly, "the more the merrier.
You'll find a few dry beds still empty in the wet ground, where Ruddy
and her Calf are lying; but I warn you that you will have to move
before nightfall."
So they went, and found Ruddy and her Calf and lay down by them, for
you may be sure that mothers and Calves had a great deal to say to
each other. But as the evening began to close they heard a faint, low,
continuous hum from the westward, and all the hinds with one accord
left the bog, and went down into a deep, snug, sheltered combe,
clothed thick with dwarf oak-coppice, while the stags went to their
own chosen hiding-places. Soon the hum grew louder and louder, and
presently the rain began to fall in heavy drops, as the little Salmon
had foretold (though how they could foretell it, I know no more than
you); and then the hum changed to a roar as the Westerly Gale came up
in all his might and swept across the moor. And presently an old
Dog-Fox came in and shook himself and lay down not far from them on
one side, and a Hare came in and crouched close to them on the other,
and little birds driven from their own roosting-places flew trembling
into the branches above them; but not one dared to speak except in a
whisper, and then only to say, "What a terrible night!" For all night
long the gale roared furiously over their heads and the rain and scud
flew screaming before it; and once they heard something whistle over
their heads, crying wildly in a voice not unlike a sea-gull's, "Mercy,
mercy, mercy!" Then the little stream below them in the combe began to
swell and pour down fuller and fuller; and all round the hill a score
of other little streams swelled likewise, and came tearing down the
hill, adding their roar to the roar of the gale; so you may be sure
that the Salmon had a fine flood to carry them down to the sea.
When the Deer moved out in the morning they found the rain and wind
raging as furiously as ever, and the air full of salt from the spray
of the sea; and a few hundred yards to leeward of the combe they came
upon a little sooty Sea-bird, quite a stranger to them, lying gasping
on the ground. The poor little fellow could only say, "Mercy, mercy,
where is the sea, where is the sea? Where are my brother Petrels?"
Then he flapped one little wing feebly, for the other had been dashed
by the gale against a branch and broken, and gasped once more and lay
quite still; nor, though the deer gazed at him for long, did he ever
speak or move again. So when they had fed, the deer moved back to the
shelter of the combe and lay down there once more; and as the morning
grew the rain ceased, though the wind blew nearly as hard as ever. But
it was still a good hour before noon when the Hare suddenly jumped up
and stole out of the combe. A minute after her the Fox stood up,
listened for a moment, and stole out likewise, and almost directly
after him the deer all sprang to their feet; for they heard the deep
note of the hounds and saw their white bodies dashing into the combe
full of eagerness and fire. And if any one tells you that it is
incredible that Deer, Fox, and Hare should all be lying together as I
have said, you may tell him from me that I saw them with my own eyes
leave the combe one after another by the same path, on just such a
wild morning as I have described.
The deer moved quickly on to the hill and began to run away together;
but presently Aunt Yeld, and Ruddy and her Calf, and our Hind and her
Calf separated from the rest, and went away at a steady pace, for as
old Aunt Yeld said, "No hound can travel fast over Dunkery stones."
And, indeed, so fond was the old lady of these stones that, when she
got to the edge of them, she turned back over them again and took
Ruddy with her. But our Hind and her Calf moved away a mile or two
towards the forest, and finding no hounds in chase of them stopped and
rested.
But after half an hour or more Aunt Yeld came galloping up to them
alone, very anxious though not the least tired, and said, "I can't
shake them off. Come along quick!" Then they found that the hounds
were hard at their heels, and away they went, in the teeth of the
gale, at their best pace. And the Calf kept up bravely, for he was
growing strong, but they were pressed so hard that presently Aunt Yeld
left them and turned off by herself. Then by bad luck some of the
hounds forsook her line for that of his mother and himself, and drove
them so fast that for the first time in their lives they were obliged
to part company, and he was left quite alone. So on he ran by himself
till he came to a familiar little peat-stream, which was boiling down
over the stones like a torrent of brown ale; and in he jumped and ran
down, splashing himself all over. Before he had gone down it fifty
yards he felt so much refreshed that he quite plucked up heart, so he
followed the water till it joined a far bigger stream, crossed the
larger stream, climbed up almost to the top of the opposite side of
the combe, and lay down.
And when he had lain there for more than an hour he saw Aunt Yeld
coming down to the water two or three hundred yards above the place
where he lay, with her neck bowed and her grey body black with sweat,
looking piteously tired and weak. She jumped straight into the flooded
water and came plunging down; and only a few minutes behind her came
the hounds. The moment that they reached the water some of them leaped
in and swam to the other side, and they came bounding down both banks,
searching diligently as they ran. Then he saw Aunt Yeld stop in a deep
pool, and sink her whole body under the water, leaving nothing but her
head above it. She had chosen her place cunningly, where the bank was
hollowed out and the water was overhung by a little thorn bush that
almost hid her head from view. And he watched the hounds try down and
down; and he now saw that two horsemen were coming down the combe's
side after them, the men bending low over their saddles, hardly able
to face the gale, and the horses with staring eyes and heaving flanks,
almost as much distressed as Aunt Yeld herself. The men seemed to be
encouraging the hounds, though in the howling of the wind he could
hear nothing.
But the pack tried down and down by themselves, till at last they came
to the place where Aunt Yeld was lying; and there two of them stopped
as if puzzled; but she only sank her head a little deeper in the water
and lay as still as death, with her ears pressed back tight upon her
neck. Then at last the hounds passed on, though they were loth to
leave the spot, and followed the bank down below her. But presently
the Calf became aware, to his terror, that some of them were pausing
at the place where he himself had left the water, and, what was more,
were unwilling to leave it. And then a great black and tan hound
carried the line very, very slowly a few yards away from the bank up
the side of the combe, and said, "Ough!" and the hounds on the
opposite side of the stream no sooner heard him than they jumped in
and swam across to him; so that in half a minute every one of them was
working slowly up towards his hiding-place. He was so much terrified
that he hardly knew whether to lie still or to fly; but presently the
black and tan hound said "Ough!" once more with such a full, deep,
awful note that he could stand it no longer, but jumped up at once and
bounded up over the hill.
And then every hound threw up his head and yelled in a way which
brought his heart into his mouth, but he was soon out of their view
over the crest of the hill, and turning round set his head backward
for Dunkery. And as he went he saw the horsemen come struggling up the
hill, trying to call the hounds off, but unable to catch them. But he
soon felt that he had not the strength to carry him to Dunkery, so he
swung round again with the gale in his face, and then by great good
luck he caught the wind of other deer, and running on found that it
was Ruddy and her Calf.
By the time that he had joined them the men had stopped the hounds,
and were taking them back to try down the water again after Aunt Yeld.
But you may be sure that Aunt Yeld had not waited for them. On the
contrary, she had made the best of her time, for she had run up the
big water again, and turned from it up a smaller stream, and having
run up that, was lying down in the fervent hope that she was safe.
And safe she was; for as luck would have it the wind backed to the
south-east and began blowing harder than ever, with torrents of rain,
so that after another hour the Calf saw horsemen and hounds travelling
slowly and wearily home, as drenched and draggled and miserable as a
deer could wish to see them. And a little later his mother came and
found him, and though she too was terribly tired, she cared nothing
about herself in the joy of seeing him. Then after a time Aunt Yeld
came up too and joined them, and quite forgetting that it was not at
all like a stag to be soft-hearted, she came up to him and fondled
him, and said, "My brave little fellow, you have saved my life
to-day." So they made their way to the nearest shelter and curled up
together to keep each other warm, banishing all thought of the day's
adventures in their joy that they were safe.