THE SECRET OF THE SNAKE GUARD
The coils that were wound about Stripes’ throat loosened. The snake
dropped and lay still. Only its crooked tail kept wriggling.
“It’s dead,” thought Stripes. “It will never hurt another bird. But it’s
bitten me. Now I’ll die, too.” And he licked his bite, wondering how
soon that would happen.
He felt terribly hurt, because you know he didn’t fight on his own
account; he was fighting for the kind little mate of Coquillicot, the
Thrasher. You wouldn’t think the birds would forget a thing like that,
would you? Well, they didn’t. Even the meadowlarks, who had been chasing
him just a few minutes before, felt terribly ashamed of themselves.
Still, nobody went to help him.
They had a reason. I told you that when the fight began the captain of
the Kingbird Guard flew up into the very top of the tallest tree and
began to whistle, “Whee-oo-wheet!” over and over again. It was a shrill,
exciting noise, like fire engines make, or patrol wagons—a sort of
clear-the-track-for-help whistle. He was calling the bird’s own Snake
Guard, and he was calling her in the biggest sort of a hurry. And of
course everyone else had to keep under cover so she’d see right off
where she was wanted.
She was called in a hurry, and that’s the way she came. The kingbird
captain saw a wee black speck, far up in the clouds, begin to drop. Down
it flew. But before ever it reached Stripes Skunk that wee black speck
was a big brown bird.
The bird was close behind him. Her wings were half closed, just wide
enough to steer by. She had fallen, like a shooting star, out of the
sky. When she spread out her wings and tail to stop herself, just as she
reached the ground, the wind roared in her feathers.
Stripes raised his head. He saw the big hooked beak, the strong curved
claws of a hawk reach down. “These birds are just bound to kill me,” he
thought. “This one is big enough. Even Bob White won’t dare to stop it.”
All the same, he wished Bob would try. He was tired of fighting all
alone.
But the hawk was only reaching for the earth. She gave the snake a
shake, cocked her eye knowingly at Stripes, and said, “Whee-ee! but that
must have been a fight!”
Stripes lifted his nose from his paws. He couldn’t help feeling proud to
be spoken to like that. “It certainly was,” he answered.
The hawk nodded. “I put that crook in his tail three years ago,” she
explained. “He was a clawful then. He’s bigger now. I ought to have been
here to help you. You’re feeling a little tired. Suppose I tear him up a
bit and you eat some. How does that sound?”
“He’s bitten me. I’m just waiting to die,” said Stripes. “I don’t feel
like eating.”
“Broken sticks and addled eggs!” exclaimed the hawk, grinning. “Didn’t
you know he wasn’t that kind of a snake? He can only choke you. Do you
mean to say that you’d fight a great big snake like that thinking it
could kill you if it bit you?”
Stripes Skunk looked more proudly than ever at the long stretch of crook
tailed snake that lay between them. “I didn’t fight it on purpose,” he
explained. “It was bothering a bird. And I was trying to be friends with
them. The bird it was bothering was the only one besides the quails
who’d trust me. So of course I tried to kill it. I’ve killed lots of
little ones, but I didn’t know how big this one was till I got hold of
it. It did the queerest things.” Stripes craned his neck about. It felt
pretty stiff where the snake had been choking him.
“Cac, cac!” chuckled the hawk. “I might have known you weren’t a regular
snake killer by the size of your claws. Mine are twice as long. And much
sharper, too. You spoil the edges of yours walking along the ground.”
“I know I do,” said Stripes. “A young bobcat showed me his once—he was
afraid to eat me. They’re ’most as nice as yours. He has little slits in
his paws where he hides them. But they’re no use for digging.”
“Who wants to dig?” teased the hawk. “You talk like a kingfisher. I
chased one once and he hid in the end of a hole he was digging. Such a
place for a bird!” Her red-brown eyes were sparkling.
“Well, I want to,” Stripes argued. “Digging is the quickest way in the
world to catch a mess of fieldmice.”
“Do you eat them, too?” she exclaimed. “So do I. But that wasn’t what
the kingfisher was after; he never touches fur.”
Stripes cocked his head, considering her. She was really very handsome.
Her brown feathers gleamed with purple in the sun. They were beautifully
marked with black and white when you saw them close by, and she had four
narrow bands across her tail. Just now her face was pert and interested,
but he knew it could look really wicked if she clicked that big curved
beak at you. “Hm!” he answered, knowingly. “I think maybe that
kingfisher was very sensible.”
This seemed to amuse her. She laughed again, in her noisy hawk way. Then
she stepped over beside him. “I’ll tell you a joke,” she whispered.
“They call me a hen hawk—and I don’t eat feathers! Very few of us
wide-winged hawks who soar do it at all. It’s those sneaky round-winged
fellows with tails too narrow for soaring who make a bad name for the
family. They’re always hiding and pouncing out on some one. But birds
are such fools, you know, lots of them never learn the difference.”
“Well, you wear such awful claws,” Stripes began.
“At your service,” said the hawk.
“Any time you need them. Just send word by a kingbird. But you don’t
need me any longer just now.” And off she flew.
All the birds had been still as death while the hawk was talking to
Stripes Skunk. Even the kingbirds and Coquillicot the Thrasher stayed
hidden. But before the hawk was twenty wing-beats away, they came
bursting from every bush and tree, calling and singing to him. And the
meadowlarks, who had just been so sure he had robbed a nest of theirs,
were so apologetic! But the voice he was listening for was that of
Coquillicot’s slim little wife. Just wasn’t she grateful!
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here in time,” said Stripes sadly. “He had eggs
in him. I felt them breaking when he choked me.”
“But they weren’t mine,” she cheeped joyfully. “Not a single one.”
“They were ours,” mourned the meadowlarks. “That’s why we’re so ashamed
of ourselves for picking at you. But we’ll pay back. We’ll help you take
care of Tommy Peele’s potato patch for ever and ever.”
Maybe that didn’t make Stripes happy! For if he could have their help to
fight the potato bug army he was sure he could stay for ever and ever in
Tommy Peele’s woods and fields.
Stripes was just going to dance a bit of the tickle out of his toes, the
way he did when Tommy Peele made him happy, when Coquillicot the
Thrasher flew out of the thorn tree. He’d been hiding away all by
himself while he composed a triumph song—and that’s the biggest
compliment any bird can pay you.
Coquillicot perched right over Stripes Skunk’s head, folded his tail
straight up and down, tucked his wings under it, and began in a low,
mysterious voice:
Pit-pit—pirra-whit!
What rustling form passes
Where nests in the grasses
The wife of Coquillicot?
Churr-churr—who’s there?
Form slim, head so grim,
Glides where shadows are dim
For eggs of Coquillicot!
(He began to act out her terror as he sang.)
Chaik, Chaik, a snake!
Peeping, upleaping,
She flutters, loud cheeping
Her fear. But an ear
Is pricked up to hear
What perils Coquillicot!
(Here his fluttering of fear changed to a ring of joy.)
Quit, quit, think of it!
He’ll quail in each scale.
Writhe his terrified tail,
Flee his fastest, but faster
Can dash the snake’s master
Defending Coquillicot!
Queree, can you see?
Fang to jaw, coil to claw,
Watch him fall by the paw
Of the brave snake-harrier.
The wavy-tailed warrior
Friend of Coquillicot!
Pirra-pirra-pirra-cheree-e!
He ended on a high ringing note that set every bird cheering at the very
top of its voice. And the catbird, who can talk any bird tongue, began
translating it to some of the summer visitors who couldn’t catch it at
all. You can hear them still doing it, any time you listen to them.