THE LITTLE DWELLERS IN THE MARSH
[Illustration: (unlabelled)]
As the guide finished his charming description of the southern
nightingale, he pointed out to them the marsh. It was a strange-looking
place, and Ethelda asked many questions concerning it. Why was it
dangerous to cross? Why must they skirt the marsh and go around it, as
they were doing? It was much the shorter way to cut right across it, but
instead, they walked miles out of their way to reach the other side.
Their guide assured them that the marsh was not so charming as it
looked. Down amid its dark cypresses, where the jagged palmetto fans and
latanier grew, and where the tall rushes and reeds were so fine that,
swaying softly under the breeze, they looked like moving water, but
water dyed in emerald and topaz tints—lurked many dangers. Rattlesnakes
and toads and deadly insects made it their home, and the ground was all
a quagmire, so that stepping on it they would sink deep in mud and
slime, and perhaps die there.
“Oh,” said the Princess, “how awful! Does nothing nice live there? Those
beautiful tiger-lilies and big purple passion-flowers bloom so
charmingly, surely there must be something there to enjoy them.”
“Well,” answered the guide, “the birds frequently nest there, and the
great pelicans and cranes hide in it; but beside them there are only
three respectable families that I know of who ever enter it.”
“Who are they?” asked Ethelda, deeply interested at once.
“Why, the first family I mean,” replied the Sun messenger, “is the
Crayfish family. Deep down in the black slime live this family, who
delight in digging and burrowing in the mud. They live in very black
dirt, but a happier family it would be hard to find. They are splendid
little housekeepers, too, and spend most of their mornings in their own
homes, trying to build up and beautify their houses, and they never
meddle with any one else. Any time of day you can see their bright eyes
peering out of their mud windows wonderingly. The Crayfish babies are
very tiny, and are carefully and tenderly watched. They never are
allowed to play with others, and cannot leave their mother’s side a
single minute until they are five years old. Indeed, they hold on to her
sides until that age. By that time they are considered grown, and can
care for themselves and choose their own friends. On this account,
perhaps, the Crayfishes don’t visit much, because with a dozen children
clinging to her the mother is hardly a welcome guest anywhere; the
Crayfishes have few friends in consequence. The Mud-Turtles, I believe,
are about their only callers, and only through them do they occasionally
hear of the outside world.”
“How comical!” laughed a pretty Moon maiden. “Now tell us about the
other families.”
“The head of the other family,” said the guide, “is very interesting
indeed. He is a queer little animal called Opossum; he looks like a rat,
but is larger than a cat. He spends the day lazily, sleeping among the
foliage of trees, or in hollows of their trunks or boughs. His fur is
nearly black, but little white patches about his face give him a most
wise appearance. He brought his family, consisting of a wife and sixteen
small babies, and started housekeeping on the edge of the swamp. The
babies are not as big as mice, but they are the sweetest little furry
things you ever saw. They cuddle up so nicely together, and just wait to
be fed. Of course Mother ’Possum has her hands pretty full watching and
caring for sixteen small children, so it devolves on the father to
provide food for them; and every night he runs around the country
looking for something to eat. He is really a devoted father, but he is
not fond of work; and how to feed a wife and sixteen babies without work
is a very hard problem to solve. So I am sorry to tell you Mr. ’Possum
often steals his food, that being the easiest way to get it, and nothing
appeals to him so strongly as a tender young chicken.
“Now, the third family dwelling in the marsh are the Raccoons. Mrs.
’Possum has a great contempt for this same neighbor of hers, and they
are not on very friendly terms. Mrs. ’Possum is a splendid housekeeper,
but Mrs. Raccoon cares nothing at all about her home. True, she builds
her house carefully in the topmost branches of a tree, but having done
that, she considers her duty ended, and seldom occupies it. ‘Any old
place is good enough to sleep in,’ she says; and just so she can find a
spot with water enough to moisten her food before eating it, she is
content. Therefore she wanders around, with the little Raccoons,
anywhere and everywhere, and when they get tired they just creep under
some old log and go to sleep. Of course Mother ’Possum, with her strict
ideas of housekeeping, thinks this careless habit no way to live or to
bring up children; but whenever Mrs. ’Possum reproaches Mrs. Raccoon
with being a slipshod housekeeper and a gadabout, Mrs. Raccoon
invariably replies, ‘Have you ever noticed how soft and fine my fur is,
and how many beautiful rings I wear on my tail?’—for she is awfully
vain. Then she flourishes her tail around, and whisking about, shows off
the pretty black and white rings she carries, to the best possible
advantage, until Mrs. ’Possum in disgust sends all the little ’Possums
scurrying away, fearing lest they become vain and worldly like the
Raccoons. But with the exception of the Raccoons and the Crayfishes, the
Opossum family own the big yellow and green marsh.”