upon the way I cannot tell you, for, in all my life, I have not traveled
so far as these three children went long before they were one year old.
They went, in fact, way to the land where the insects live that are so
hard and beautiful and gemlike that people sometimes use them for
jewels. These are called "Brazilian beetles," and you can tell by that
name where the Pipers spent the winter, though it may seem a very far
way for a young bird to go, with neither train nor boat to give him a
lift.
Not even tired they were, from all accounts, those little feather-folk;
and why, indeed, should they be tired? A jaunt from a northern country
to Brazil was not too much for a healthy bird, with its sure breath and
pure rich blood. There was food enough along the trail--they chose their
route wisely enough for that, you may be sure; and they were in no great
haste either going or coming.
"Coming," did I say? Why, surely! You didn't think those sandpipers
_stayed_ in Brazil? What did they care for green gem-like beetles, after
all? The only decorations they ever wore were big dark polka dots on
their vests. Perhaps they were all pleased with them, when their old
travel-worn feathers dropped out and new ones came in. Who can tell?
They had a way of running their bills through their plumage after a
bath, as if they liked to comb their pretty feathers.
Be that as it may, there was something beneath their feathers that
quickened like the heart of a journeying gypsy when, with nodding heads
and teetering tails, they started again for the north.
Did they dream of a bank where the blue-bells grew, and a shore spiced
with the fragrance of wild mint?
No one will ever know just how Nature whispers to the bird, "Northward
ho!" But we know they come in the springtime, and right glad are we to
hear their voices.
So Peter Piper, Junior, came back again to the shore of Nearby Island.
And do you think Sandy and Pan walked behind him for company, calling,
"Peep," one to another? And do you think Mother Piper and Father Peter
showed him the way to Faraway Island at sun-down, and guarded him o'
nights? Not they! They were busy, every one, with their own affairs, and
Peter would just have to get along without them.
Well, Peter could--Peter and Dot. For of course he was a grown-up
sandpiper now, with a mate of his own, nodding her wise little head the
livelong day, and teetering for joy all over the rocks where the red
columbine grew.
[Illustration: _The spot she teetered to most of all._]
The spot she teetered to most of all was a little cup-shaped hollow high
up on the border of the ledge, where the sumachs were big as small trees
and where the sweet fern scented the air. The hollow was lined tidily
and softly with dried grass, and made a comfortable place to sit, no
doubt. At least, Dot liked it; and Peter must have had some fondness for
it, too, for he slipped on when Dot was not there herself. It just
fitted their little bodies, and there were four eggs in it of which any
sandpiper might well have been proud; for they were much, much bigger
than most birds the size of Dot could ever lay. In fact, her little body
could hardly have covered them snugly enough to keep them warm if they
had not been packed just so, with the pointed ends pushed down into the
middle of the rather deep nest.
The eggs were creamy white, with brown spots splashed over them--the
proper sort of eggs (if only they had been smaller) to tuck beneath a
warm breast decorated with pretty polka dots. But still, they must have
been her very own, or Dot could not have taken such good care of them.
Because of this care, day by day the little body inside each shell grew
from the wonderful single cell it started life with, to a many-celled
creature, all fitted out with lungs and a heart and rich warm blood, and
very slender legs, and very dear heads with very bright eyes, and all
the other parts it takes to make a bird. When the birds were all made,
they broke the shells and pushed aside the pieces. And four more capable
little rascals never were hatched.
Why, almost before one would think they had had time to dry their down
and stretch their legs and get used to being outside of shells instead
of inside, those little babies walked way to the edge of the river, and
from that time forth never needed their nest.
And look! the fluffy, cunning little dears are nodding their heads and
teetering their tails! Yes, that proves that they must be sandpipers,
even if we did have doubts of those eggs. Ah! Dot knew what she was
about all along. The size of her eggs might fool a person, but she had
not worried. Why, indeed, should she be troubled? Those big shells had
held food-material enough, so that her young, when hatched, were so
strong and well-developed that they could go wandering forth at once.
They did not lie huddled in their nest, helplessly begging Peter Piper
and Mother Dot to bring them food. Not they! Out they toddled, teetering
along the shore, having picnics from the first--the little gypsy babies!
Tabby did not catch any of them, though one night she tried, and gave
Dot an awful scare. It was while they were still tiny enough to be
tucked under their mother's feathers after sundown, and before they
could manage to get, stone by stone, to Nearby Island. So they were
camped on the shore, and the prowling cat came very near. So near, in
fact, that Mother Dot fluttered away from her young, calling back to
them, in a language they understood, to scatter a bit, and then lie so
still that not even the green eyes of the cat could see a motion. The
four little Pipers obeyed. Not one of them questioned, "Why, Mother?" or
whined, "I don't want to," or whimpered, "I'm frightened," or boasted,
"Pooh, there's nothing here."
Dot led the crouching enemy away by fluttering as if she had a broken
wing, and she called for help with all the agony of her mother-love.
"Pete," she cried, "Pete," and "Pete, Pete, Pete!"
No one who hears the wail of a frightened sandpiper begging protection
for her young can sit unmoved.
Someone at the Ledge House heard Dot, and gave a low whistle and a quick
command. Then there was a dashing rush through the bushes, that sounded
as if a dog were chasing a cat. A few minutes later Dot's voice again
called in the dark--this time, not in anguish of heart, but very cosily
and gently. "Pete-weet?" she whispered; and four precious little babies
murmured, "Peep," as they snuggled close to the spotted breast of their
mother.
So it happened that two sons and two daughters of Peter Piper, Junior,
played and picnicked and bathed by the river. The one who had first
pipped his eggshell was named Peter the Third, for his father and his
grandfather, and a finer young sandpiper never shook the fluff of down
from his head or the fringe from his tail, when his real feathers pushed
into their places.
What his brother and sisters were named, I never knew; and it didn't
matter much, for their mother called them all "Pete."
[Illustration: _Dallying happily along the river-edge._]
Peter the Third and the others grew up as Pan and Peter and Sandy had
grown, dallying happily along the river-edge, and as happily accepting
the guidance of their mother, who made her slow flight from Faraway
Island every now and then, usually so low that her spotted breast was
reflected in the clear water as she came, the white markings in her
wings showing above and below.
Of course, as soon as the season came for their migration journey, the
four of them started cheerfully off with Peter and Dot, for a leisurely
little flight to Brazil and back--to fill the days, as it were, with
pleasant wanderings, from the time the hummingbird fed at the feast of
the cardinal flower in late summer, until he should be hovering over the
columbine in the spring.
IV
GAVIA OF IMMER LAKE
Once upon a time, it was four millions of years ago. There were no
people then all the way from Florida to Alaska. There was, indeed, in
all this distance, no land to walk upon, except islands in the west
where the Rocky Mountains are now. That is the only place where the
country that is now the United States of America stuck up out of the
water. Everywhere else were the waves of the sea. There were no people,
even on the Rocky Mountain Islands. None at all.
No, the creatures that visited those island shores in those old days
were not people, but birds. Nearly as large as men they were, and they
had teeth on their long slender jaws, and they had no wings. They came
to the islands, perhaps, only at nesting-time; for their legs and feet
were fitted for swimming and not walking, and they lived upon fish in
the sea. So they dwelt, with no man to see them, on the water that
stretched from sea to sea; and what their voices were like, no man
knows.
A million years, perhaps, passed by, and then another million, and maybe
another million still; and the birds without wings and with teeth were
no more. In their places were other birds, much smaller--birds with
wings and no teeth; but something like them, for all that: for their
feet also were fitted for swimming and not walking, and they, too,
visited the shore little, if at all, except at nesting-time, and they
lived upon fish in the water.
And what their voices were like, all men may know who will go to the
wilderness lakes and listen; for, wonderful as it may seem, these second
birds have come down to us through perhaps a million years, and live
to-day, giving a strange clear cry before a storm, and at other times
calling weirdly in lone places, so that men who are within hearing
always say, "The loons are laughing."
Gavia was a loon who had spent the winter of 1919-1920 on the Atlantic
Ocean. There had hardly been, perhaps, in a million years a handsomer
loon afloat on any sea. Even in her winter coat she was beautiful; and
when she put on her spring suit, she was lovelier still.
She and her mate had enjoyed the sea-fishing and had joined a company of
forty for swimming parties and other loon festivities; for life on the
ocean waves has many interests, and there is never a lack of
entertainment. The salt-water bathing, diving, and such other activities
as the sea affords, were pleasant for them all. Then, too, the winter
months made a chance for rest, a change from home-duties, and a freedom
from looking out for the children, that gave the loons a care-free
manner as they rode the waves far out at sea.
[Illustration: Immer Lake.]
Considering all this, it seems strange, does it not, that when the
spring of 1920 had gone no further than to melt the ice in the northern
lakes, Gavia and her mate left the sea and took strong flight inland.
What made them go, I cannot explain. I do not understand it well enough.
I do not really know what urges the salmon to leave the Atlantic Ocean
in the spring and travel up the Penobscot or the St. John River. I never
felt quite sure why Peter Piper left Brazil for the shore where the
blue-bells nod. All I can tell you about it is that a feeling came over
the loons that is called a migration instinct; and, almost before Gavia
and her mate knew what was happening to them, they had flown far and far
from the Ocean, and were laughing weirdly over the cold waters of Immer
Lake.
The shore was dark with the deep green of fir trees, whose straight
trunks had blisters on them where drops of fragrant balsam lay hidden in
the bark. And here and there trees with white slender trunks leaned out
over the water, and the bark on these peeled up like pieces of thin and
pretty paper. Three wonderful vines trailed through the woodland, and
each in its season blossomed into pink and fragrant bells. But what
these were, and how they looked, is not a part of this story, for Gavia
never wandered among them. Her summer paths lay upon and under the water
of the lake, as her winter trails had been upon and under the water of
the sea.
Ah, if she loved the water so, why did she suddenly begin to stay out of
it? If she delighted so in swimming and diving and chasing wild
wing-races over the surface, why did she spend the day quietly in one
place?
Of course you have guessed it! Gavia was on her nest. She had hidden her
two babies among the bulrushes for safety, and must stay there herself
to keep them warm. They were not yet out of their eggshells, so the only
care they needed for many a long day and night was constant warmth
enough for growth. They lay near each other, the two big eggs, of a
color that some might call brown and some might call green, with
dark-brown spots splashed over them.
[Illustration: _Two babies, not yet out of their eggshells, hidden among
the rushes._]
The nest Gavia and her mate had prepared for them was a heap of old wet
reeds and other dead water-plants, which they had piled up among the
stems of the rushes until it reached six inches or more out of the
water. They were really in the centre of a nest island, with water all
about them. So, you see, Gavia was within splashing distance of her
fishing-pool after all.
She and her mate, indeed, were in the habit of making their nests here
in the cove; though the two pairs of Neighbor Loons, who built year
after year farther up the lake, chose places on the island near the
water-line in the spring; and when the water sank lower later on, they
were left high and dry where they had to flounder back and forth to and
from the nest, as awkward on land as they were graceful in the water.
Faithful to her unhatched young as Gavia was, it is not likely that she
alone kept them warm for nearly thirty days and nights; for Father Loon
remained close at hand, and would he not help her with this task?
Gavia, sitting on her nest, did not look like herself of the early
winter months when she had played among the ocean waves. For her head
and neck were now a beautiful green, and she wore two white striped
collars, while the back of her feather coat was neatly checked off with
little white squarish spots. Father Loon wore the same style that she
did. Summer and winter, they dressed alike.
Yes, a handsome couple, indeed, waited that long month for the birth of
their twins, growing all this time inside those two strong eggshells. At
last, however, the nest held the two babies, all feathered with down
from the very first, black on their backs and gray shading into white
beneath.
Did I say the nest held them? Well, so it did for a few hours. After
that, they swam the waters of Immer Lake, and their nest was home no
longer. Peter Piper's children themselves were not more quick to run
than Gavia's twins were to swim and dive.
I think, perhaps, they were named Olair; for Gavia often spoke in a very
soft mellow tone, saying, "Olair"; and her voice, though a bit sad, had
a pleasing sound. So we will call them the two Olairs.
They were darlings, those baby loons, swimming about (though not very
fast at first), and diving out of sight in the water every now and then
(but not staying under very long at the beginning). Then, when they were
tired or in a hurry, they would ride on the backs of Gavia and Father
Loon: and they liked it fine, sailing over the water with no trouble at
all, just as if they were in a boat, with someone else to do the rowing.
Oh, yes, they were darlings! Had you seen one of them, you could hardly
have helped wanting to cuddle him. But do you think you could catch one,
even the youngest? Not a bit of it. If you had given chase in a boat,
the wee-est loon would have sailed off faster yet on the back of his
father; and when you grew tired and stopped, you would have heard, as if
mocking you, the old bird give, in a laughing voice, the _Tremble Song:_
"O, ha-ha-ha, ho!--O, ha-ha-ha, ho!--
O, ha-ha-ha, ho!--O, ha-ha-ha, ho!--"
If you had tried again a few days later, the young loon would have been
able to dive and swim by himself out of sight under water, the old ones
giving him warning of danger and telling him what to do.
But no child chased the two Olairs and no lawbreaker fired a shot at
Gavia or Father Loon. They had frights and narrow escapes in plenty
without that; but those were of the sorts that loons get used to century
after century, and not modern disasters, like guns, that people have
recently brought into wild places. For the only man who dwelt on the
shore of Immer Lake was a minister.
Because he loved his fellow men, this minister of Immer Lake spent part
of his days among them, doing such service to the weak of spirit as only
a minister can do, who has faith that there is some good in every
person. At such times he was a sort of servant to all who needed him.
Because he loved, also, his fellow creatures who had lived in the
beautiful wild places of this land much longer than any man whatsoever,
he spent part of his days among them. At such times he was a sort of
hermit.
Then no handy trolley rumbled by to take him on his near way. No train
shrieked its departure to distant places where he might go. There was no
interesting roar of mill or factory making things to use. There was no
sociable tread of feet upon the pavement, to give him a feeling of human
companionship.
But, for all that, it was not a silent world the minister found at Immer
Lake. On sunny days the waves, touching the rocks on the shore, sang
gently, "Bippo-bappo, bippo-bappo." The trees clapped their leaves
together as the breezes bade them. The woodpeckers tapped tunes to each
other on their hollow wooden drums. The squirrels chattered among the
branches. At dawn and at dusk the thrushes made melodies everywhere
about.
On stormy nights the waves slapped loudly upon the rocks. The branches
whacked against one another at the mighty will of the wind. The thunder
roared applause at the fireworks the lightning made. And best of all,
like the very spirit of the wild event, there rang the strange, sweet
moaning _Storm Song of the Loon_:--
"A-a-ah l-u-u-u-u-u-u' la. A-a-ah l-u-u-u-u-u-u' la.
A-a-ah l-u-u-u-u-u-u' la. A-a-ah l-u-u-u-u-u-u' la."
The minister of Immer Lake liked that song, and he liked the other
music that they made. So it was that he sat before his door through many
a summer twilight, and played on his violin until the loons answered
with the _Tremble Song_:--
"O, ha-ha-ha, ho! O, ha-ha-ha, ho!
O, ha-ha-ha, ho! O, ha-ha-ha, ho!"
Then they would swim up and up, until they floated close to his cottage,
feeding unafraid near by, while he played softly.
Often, when Gavia and her mate were resting there or farther up the
lake, some other loon would fly over; and then Father Loon would throw
his head way forward and give another sort of song. "Oh-a-lee'!" he
would begin, with his bill wide open; and then, nearly closing his
mouth, he would sing, "Cleo'-pe''-a-rit'." The "Oh" starts low and then
rises in a long, drawn way. Perhaps in all the music of Immer Lake there
is nothing queerer than the _Silly Song of Father Loon_:--
"Oh-a-lee'! Cleo'-p''-a-rit', cleo'-pe''-a-rit', cleo'-per''-wer-wer!
Oh-a-lee'! Cleo'-p''-a-rit', cleo'-pe''-a-rit', cleo'-pe''-wer-wer!"
Such were the songs the two Olairs heard often and again, while they
were growing up; and they must have added much to the interest of their
first summer.
Altogether they had endless pleasures, and were as much at ease in the
water as if there were no more land near them than there had been near
those other young birds that had teeth and no wings, four million years
or so ago. Their own wings were still small and flipper-like when, about
the first of August, they were spending the day, as they often did, in a
small cove. They were now about two-thirds grown, and their feathers
were white beneath and soft bright brown above, with bars of white spots
at their shoulders. They had funny stiff little tails, which they stuck
up out of the water or poked out of sight, as they wished. They swam
about in circles, and preened their feathers with their bills, which
were still small and gray, and not black like those of the old birds.
After a time Gavia came swimming toward them, all under water except her
head. Suddenly Father Loon joined her, and they both began diving and
catching little fishes for the two Olairs. For the vegetable part of
their dinner they had shreds of some waterplant, which Gavia brought
them, dangling from her bill. Surely never a fresher meal was served
than fish just caught and greens just pulled! No wonder it was that the
young loons grew fast, and were well and strong. After the twins were
fed, Gavia and Father Loon sank from sight under the water, heads and
all, and the Olairs saw no more of them for two hours or so, though they
heard them now and then singing, sometimes the _Tremble Song_ and
sometimes the _Silly Song_.
They were good children, and did not try to tag along or sulk because
they were left behind. First they dabbled about and helped themselves,
for dessert, to some plant growing under water, gulping down rather
large mouthfuls of it. Then they grew drowsy; and what could have been
pleasanter than going to sleep floating, with the whole cove for a
cradle?
You could never guess how those youngsters got ready for their nap. Just
like a grown-up! Each Olair rolled over on one side, till the white
under-part of his body showed above water. Then he waved the exposed leg
in the air, and tucked it away, with a quick flip, under the feathers of
his flank. Thus one foot was left in the water, for the bird to paddle
with gently while he slept, so that he would not be drifted away by the
wind. But that day one of the tired water-babies went so sound asleep
that he didn't paddle enough, and the wind played a joke on him by
shoving him along to the snaggy edge of the cove and bumping him against
a log. That was a surprise, and he woke with a start and swam quickly
back to the middle of the cove, where the other Olair was resting in the
open water.
While their children were napping, Gavia and Father Loon went to a
party. On the way, they stopped for a bit of fishing by themselves.
Gavia began by suddenly flapping around in a big circle, slapping the
water with wing-tips and feet, and making much noise as she spattered
the spray all about. Then she quickly poked her head under water, as if
looking for fish. Father Loon, who had waited a little way off, dived a
number of times, as if to see what Gavia had scared in his direction.
[Illustration: _While their children were napping, Gavia and Father Loon
went to a party._]
Then they both dove deep, and swam under water until they came near the
four Neighbor Loons, who had left their two families of young dozing,
and had also come out for a good time.
When Father Loon caught sight of his four neighbors, he sang the _Silly
Song_, after which the six birds ran races on the water. They all
started about the same time and went pell-mell in one direction, their
feet and wings going as if they hardly knew whether to swim or fly, and
ending by doing both at once. Then they would all stop, as suddenly as
if one of them had given a signal, and turning, would dash in the
opposite direction, racing to and fro again and again and again. Oh! it
was a grand race, and there is no knowing how long they would have kept
it up, had not something startled them so that they all stopped and sang
the _Tremble Song_, which sounds like strange laughter. They opened
their mouths quite wide and, wagging the lower jaw up and down with
every "ha," they sang "O, ha-ha-ha, ho!" so many times that it seemed as
if they would never get through. And, indeed, how could they tell when
the song was ended, for every verse was like the one before?
Then all at once they stopped singing and began some flying stunts. A
stiff breeze was blowing, and, facing this, they pattered along, working
busily with wings and feet, until they could get up speed enough to
leave the water and take to flight. Though it was rather a hard matter
to get started, when they were once under way they flew wonderfully
well, and the different pairs seemed to enjoy setting their wings and
sailing close together around a large curve. They went so fast part of
the time that, when they came down to the surface of the water again,
they plunged along with a splash and ploughed a furrow in the water
before they could come to a stop.
Of course, by that time they were hungry enough for refreshments! So
Gavia went off to one side and stirred the water up as if she were
trying to scare fish toward the others, who waited quietly. Then they
all dived, and what their black sharp-pointed bills found under water
tasted good to those hungry birds.