XXII
THE NARROW ESCAPE OF VELVET WINGS
“Whir, whir, whir,” sounded the swish of many silken wings. The swallows
had arrived from the South; thousands of them there were, long winged
and dusky brown, with faintly russet breasts. So full of joyous bustle
they were over their arrival, “cheep, cheep, cheeping,” making a great
clamor as they separated into colonies, seeking to locate for the
summer. The old red barn seemed to invite them; in fact, two colonies
had a regular pitched battle over its possession, until at last the
stronger band drove away the weaker, and took possession of the coveted
spot. They swarmed into the old barn through small windows high in its
peak, chattering together as they selected building sites, many of them
hastily using last season’s mud-caked foundations. So great a
disturbance did the swallows make in the silence of the dim, old barn
that they disturbed and finally awakened many who had not aroused
themselves from their winter’s torpor and sleep.
Far up in a distant peak of the barn, in a certain dim corner, where a
great rafter lapped, forming a secluded sort of shelf, there hung,
stretched across the corner, an unusually large cobweb curtain. The old
gray spider who had spun the web had abandoned his web when cold weather
came, and crawled down into the warm hay. Gradually thick dust collected
upon the web curtain, and well it did, because back of it, upon the
wide, dusty beam it covered, lay two torpid things, resembling nothing
so much as two round balls of brown fur.
The strident chatter of the swallows had penetrated the small round ears
of the two fur balls, perhaps, or it might have been the light from a
stray yellow sunbeam, which at a certain hour of each day had a way of
filtering through a crack and warming their retreat. At any rate, one of
the torpid things began to slowly undo itself; a small, mouse-like head
appeared first, having round, delicate ears of membrane, which appeared
rather too large for its head. Its eyes, when it opened them, were
exactly like two black-jet beads, and its rather wide, pink mouth was
liberally armed with tiny, saw-like teeth, which the fur ball showed as
it yawned sleepily, stretching itself, and spreading out its wings, to
which were attached by a thin membrance its forearms and legs. Then,
fully awake, it plunged straight through the cobweb curtain, tearing it
apart from end to end, and sending back a sharp, encouraging squeak to
the smaller fur ball to follow.
Of course the two ridiculous fur balls were just the bat family, and
lifelong tenants of the old red barn, as everybody knows. The smaller,
more timorous bat, soon followed her mate from behind the web curtain
and joined him upon the broad beam. But so clumsy and half awake was she
that the very first thing she did was to make a misstep and go pitching
off the high beam into space. She landed upon the hay, fortunately, and
then began the funniest sight. Did you ever chance to see a bat when it
attempted to walk? They seldom use their feet, and when they do it is a
droll sight.
As soon as Mrs. Bat recovered from her dizzy fall, she put forth one
wing and a hind leg and began to walk toward a beam, for strangely
enough she could not fly from so low an elevation, but must climb some
distance in order to launch herself properly into the air. Hitching and
tumbling along she finally reached a beam, and clutching it she began to
climb it head downward, exactly as a woodpecker does. Then, having
reached the desired height, she whirled away, and landed finally beside
her mate.
The barn was a very silent place. The rasping of its rusty latch always
gave ample time for all its little wild tenants to get under cover, so
usually all you heard when you entered would be the hidden, lonely trill
of a cricket or a faint, stealthily rustle in the hay.
Upon a broad beam far up over the loft where the oat straw was stored,
lived rather an exclusive family, that of the barn owl. You would never
have dreamed they were there, so well did the brown feathers of the owls
blend in with the dimness of the shadows. Under the grain bins, far down
below, lived a large colony of fat rats, while in among the dried clover
raced and romped shoals of field-mice who wintered there. But there was
another, a new tenant, feared and shunned by all the others. He came
from no one knew where, exactly; still the farmer’s boy might have
explained, for he had lost a pet ferret.
The ferret was an ugly creature to look upon, its body long and snaky,
and covered with yellowish-white, rather dirty-looking fur; its
movements were sly and furtive, and somehow always struck terror to
every tenant of the barn whenever they saw him steal forth. All winter
the ferret had been there, and the hay was literally honeycombed with
its secret tunnels, and woe to anything which happened to cross its evil
trail.
Each evening soon after twilight the swallows would return to the barn
from their raids, and when the shadows grew quite dusky, far down
beneath them, then the bats and the barn owl family would launch
themselves out into the night.
“Squeak, squeak,” ordered the big male bat; then like two shadows they
would flit silently off upon their velvety wings. All during the early
part of the night they chased gnats and bugs, because they invariably
got their best pickings before midnight, for after that time insects
were harder to find because most of them crawl beneath sheltering
leaves, as the night wanes, to get away from the heavy, drenching dew,
or hide from their enemies before daylight overtakes them. Before the
dim shadows began to lift, the bats and owls had returned, usually, but
the bat family did not retire again behind their cobweb curtain; instead
they hung themselves by their wing claws head downward from their beam,
folding their wings closely over their beady eyes, and thus they would
sleep all day.
Warmer days came, and livelier times were stirring among the tenants of
the barn. Far up on her own beam Mrs. Barn Owl tended and fed two young
downy owlets faithfully. Of course the owl mother knew the beam to be
quite a safe spot for baby owls, but somehow she distrusted the skulking
old ferret, whom she occasionally caught sight of; besides, rats
sometimes climb beams, and once, before the owl eggs had hatched,
something had stolen one egg; so that is really why there were but _two_
owlets instead of three.
The swallows were the busiest tenants imaginable, for each nest now held
a circle of gaping, hungry mouths to feed. All day long, and far into
twilight, the swallows were whirring incessantly, in and out. But up in
the secret corner, partially hidden by the torn cobweb curtain, clung
Mrs. Bat herself, and if you could only have peeped beneath one of her
wings you might have seen the dearest little mite of a bat, with eyes of
jet, clinging close to its mother’s breast as she folded it tenderly
beneath her wing. There the helpless little creature stayed, close to
its mother, until it became older and stronger, for among all the tiny,
fur-bearing animals there is no little mother more considerate of her
young than the bat. And rather than leave the little furry thing all
alone upon the great beam when she had to go off for food, as she could
not carry it _beneath_ her wing in flight, she would make a kind of
little basket cradle by spreading out her wing, and thus the baby bat
would ride with his mother, clinging close to her back with his wing
hooks and tiny teeth, and he never fell from the wing basket nor was he
afraid.
When the young owlets were out of the pin-feather stage they began to go
out with the old ones. But once when they were left behind, sitting
huddled together upon their beam, when the mother owl came back only one
small, chuckle-faced owlet remained. Hunt as she might, the robber had
left no clue behind. However, her suspicions centered upon the sly old
ferret and she took to watching his movements more than ever. There she
would sit, sullen and revengeful, far up among the shadows and beams,
with her one owlet. She frequently saw the sinuous, snake-like body of
the ferret creep forth, and even caught the sound of his peculiarly
hateful hiss when he encountered anything in his path. Once, in a great
fury she swooped clear down to the barn floor after her enemy, but she
got there a second too late. The sly creature had heard the swish of the
owl’s wings when she left the beam, and caught a fleeting glimpse of her
blazing yellow eyes, so he hastily slid into the nearest runway, and the
owl flew back to her beam defeated; but she never forgot, she simply
waited.
More and more bold became the raids of the hateful old ferret. He robbed
the swallows’ nests; frequently you might see his dirty-white, sinuous
body stealing across some high beam, creeping, creeping, warily arching
his back, holding his snaky head high, one foot gathered up, looking for
an unguarded nest; then, if he found one, he would arch his snaky neck
over the edge of the nest and suck every egg.
Velvet Wings, the young bat, grew very fast. He foraged for himself now,
for his wings were as broad and fleet as his mother’s. Sometimes,
however, he made a clumsy start and so got many a fall. So one night as
he started forth he fell fluttering and squeaking and protesting, until
with a soft thud he landed far below upon the barn floor. Completely
stunned Velvet Wings lay there, his wings outspread and helpless, his
little heart beating so hard it shook his whole body. Of course he saw
nothing, so did not notice the peaked snout of the sly old ferret as he
peered inquisitively forth from his lair in the haymow to see what the
soft thud might be. The next instant the ferret had Velvet Wings in his
cruel mouth, but instead of devouring him at once he began to have some
fun with the poor bat, tossing it in the air, then pouncing upon it as
it fell, mauling it as a cat does a mouse, pinning its wings down with
both fore feet. A second more and Velvet Wings would have been lost, but
that second was not allowed the ferret; for far up among the brown
rafters a pair of great, blazing yellow eyes had been watching, and like
a rocket from above fell the old mother owl, clear to the barn floor.
“Swish, swish,” went her great wings, as she buried her talons in the
back of the dirty-white fur coat. With a twist of his snaky, supple
body, the ferret managed to free himself a second from that awful
clutch, and arching its back, it began to slip away. But the owl was too
quick; landing upon the ferret’s back, she took another, firmer hold and
bore him, struggling and snarling, aloft.
Down through the center of the old barn a broad sunbeam entered. It left
a long bar of light through the dimness of the dusky place. The barn
was strangely silent, hushed, but many bright eyes had witnessed the
tragedy and were watching to see the end, but all that they finally saw
was just a few wisps of white fur, which came floating lazily down
through the bar of light. It appeared not unlike floating thistle-down,
but it had come from the owl’s nest, and was the last they ever saw of
their enemy, the sly old ferret.
Up there in the dim shadows of the old red barn you’ll find them all,
and should the yellow beam of sunlight happen to dance across their dark
hiding-place, you may plainly see the bat family. There they all hang
through the day, looking for all the world like a row of small velvet
bags, their bright eyes shrouded by their soft wings as they sleep, head
downward; while off in quite another corner, perched upon her own dusty
beam, drowses the brave barn owl and her one chuckle-headed owlet.
[Illustration: NEMOX, THE CRAFTY ROBBER OF THE MARSHES]
XXIII
NEMOX, THE CRAFTY ROBBER OF THE MARSHES
Nemox, the fisher, who lived in the hollow of a great pine tree, in the
depths of the marsh country, lay stretched out flat upon a lofty limb of
his home tree, intently watching a clumsy black figure which shuffled
through the aisles of the pines far beneath him.
He thought the black, shadowy figure must be Moween, the black bear, but
not feeling quite certain about it, Nemox peeked down over the limb
curiously, hanging over as far as he dared, keeping his position upon
the limb by digging his claws in deeply. His eyes sparkled maliciously
and cunningly as he made sure that it actually was Moween herself. Then
he knew she had come straight from her den up on Porcupine Ridge to
forage for food, because down below, on the needle-strewn floor of the
forest, Moween knew she could find plenty of prey for the taking. Close
hidden beneath the low-hanging branches of the spruce bush, she
sometimes came across a frightened partridge, and the roots of the
pines were simply riddled with rabbit burrows. One might always rout out
a sleepy hedgehog or two, if there chanced to be nothing better, for
Moween knew the secret of avoiding its terrible quills and searching out
the creature’s weak spot, without injury to her own snout. So while
Moween rummaged about, waddling in and out among the bushes, snuffing
and grunting as she threw over a rotting log with her great, padded
foot, Nemox, the crafty one, continued to watch her and think deeply.
Very well he knew that the old mother bear had left her two innocent,
furry little cubs back in her den, up on the side of the mountain.
Nemox, the fisher, in one of his cat-like rambles, had run across them
one day, just outside their door, cuffing each other about, and rolling
over each other like kittens, as their mother watched them fondly. Well
Nemox knew that the two cubs were still too young to follow their mother
long distances, or down the steep ledges, so of course, he reasoned,
they must be at home, alone and unprotected, this very minute.
Instantly Nemox had made his plans, and while the little black mother
bear had buried her whole head in a hollow log, hoping to find honey,
Nemox began to slide and claw himself down out of the pine tree, being
careful, of course, to climb down upon the far side that Moween should
not spy him. Then, like a fleet shadow, he slipped off through the thick
underbrush, and following the wide swath of the mother bear’s trail, he
set out for her den.
Everybody knows that Nemox, the fisher, is the craftiest, most savage
and powerful fighter of his age in the marshes, and most of his kindred
feared him, giving him a wide berth. Nemox belonged to the cat family,
and was sometimes called “the black cat of the woods.” Sinuous of body
and not unlike his cousin the weasel, only larger, he could readily leap
forty or fifty feet, and always landed, cat-like, upon his prey. To all
this was added great knowledge of woodcraft, and reasoning powers, for
the clever fisher had easily studied out the fact that the bear had left
her cubs unprotected. No wonder then that the fisher was reckoned as a
terror of the marsh country, for it took the craftiest of the wild to
outwit him.
In and out between the rocky ledges and tall ferns, always heading for
the bear’s den, traveled Nemox, and just as he drew near the spot where
the little mother bear had cleverly hidden her den, he came right upon
the little cubs, who were just outside the entrance of the den, and lay
rolling over each other, having a regular frolic, cuffing at a swarm of
black butterflies which fluttered about the milkweed blossoms. But the
pretty sight of the round, furry babies of Moween at play did not for an
instant touch the cruel heart of the fisher, who merely bared his sharp
teeth as he hid behind a convenient blackberry bush watching them.
With twitching tail and whiskers, cat-like, the fisher began to creep
stealthily toward his prey, flattening his lithe body and keeping out of
sight as he crept nearer and nearer the innocent cubs. A swift dart, and
he shot straight through the air and launched himself upon one of the
cubs, while the other one sat up in amazement and began to whimper like
a frightened child. Soon Nemox was busy with tooth and nail over the
limp carcass of the cub, when suddenly his keen ear caught the sound of
a stealthy pad, pad, pad; so light a footstep it was that no one but
Nemox could have heard it. Instantly, fearing the return of the mother
bear, Nemox left the wounded cub, for he had no notion of letting
Moween, the angry mother, catch him at his cruel work, as well Nemox
knew that with one blow of her great paw, armed with its lance-like
claws, she could strike him to earth. He realized he would be no match
for her unless he chanced to catch her napping.
So the fisher drew off, watching his chances from a safe distance, for,
if the truth were known, Nemox was, in some respects, unless cornered,
cowardly. He slunk into the shadow of a dark ledge, where his dark fur
blended so well with the gloom that he remained completely concealed. He
realized that he had taken himself off just in time, for the next
instant the tall brakes were thrust aside; but instead of the mother
bear making her appearance, who should peer out but Eelemos, the fox.
Very cautiously the fox came forth from the bushes, and peered out in
rather surprised fashion upon the scene before him; the badly wounded
cub, and the other one, who still whimpered and whined helplessly,
crying for its mother. Now the fox chanced to be very hungry, and the
sight of the wounded cub tempted him. So he crept warily forward, his
yellow eyes all agleam, and so intent was the fox upon the coming feast
that he paid no attention to the other cub’s little whine of joy and
recognition as a great, black, furry bulk fairly tore its way through
the thick jungle. Mad with rage and fear Moween’s little red eyes
flashed with anger as she caught sight of the fox and her wounded cub,
and with one great bound she was upon him, growling terribly, and then,
before the fox could even defend himself, the mother bear had laid him
low, and soon all that remained of the proud, sly fox was just a
battered red pelt, and a bedraggled, limp brush. Then Moween went back
to attend to the little wounded cub, uttering low whines of distress,
and lapping it tenderly, trying to revive it.
All this time, Nemox, the fisher, was peering out at her from a crack in
the ledge, and he had seen the awful fate of Eelemos, the fox, and was
very thankful he had got away from the den just in time. Now the fisher
had not chanced to select the best spot for his hiding-place, for back
inside of the ledge was the home of Unk-Wunk, the hedgehog, who had been
asleep inside all the time, curled up in a round ball, until, finally,
Nemox had so crowded him that he became impatient and suddenly unrolling
himself, just to teach the intruder better manners, he gave him a smart
slap across his sneaky pointed snout with his dreadful quilly tail.
Nemox was so taken by surprise that, stifling his angry snarls so the
mother bear might not hear him, he sneaked back home to the pine
forest, his snout full of sharp quills, and spent most of the night
spitting crossly and trying to pull them out of his burning flesh.
Next morning, bright and early, Nemox started off hunting once more. He
climbed many trees looking for game, but in vain; he even found no
partridges roosting down in lower branches, as usual, for already they
had left their nightly haunts. At last Nemox reached the foot of a giant
hackmatack tree, and right in the top of its branches he spied a great
loose bundle of leaves and twigs.
“Ah,” thought Nemox, “the hawks have a young family up there, or
possibly there are eggs in the nest; so much the better,” for Nemox
loved eggs almost more than a young hawk. Very hungry was Nemox by this
time, so he began to climb the tree. At last he reached a limb where he
could peer into the nest. He was thankful that the old hawks were away,
for there were eggs in the nest. Nemox knew he must hasten, for a
brooding hawk is never long away from her eggs. Flattening himself close
to the limb Nemox crawled to it, and had just sampled one egg, when with
a sudden, wild rush of whirling wings, the mother hawk landed right upon
his back, digging her sharp talons into his quivering flesh, as he
snarled and spit and tore in her grasp. Finally, with a swift twist of
his agile body, Nemox managed to reach the throat of the hawk, and in
spite of the beating wings, which nearly thrashed the breath from his
body, Nemox clung and clung to the hawk’s throat, until they both fell
to earth. And then Nemox had his first decent meal in days, and
afterward he climbed up to the nest and finished off the eggs, which he
did not forget.
Now high above the nest of the hawk, and over toward the lake, stood a
lonely hemlock tree, its limbs broken off by storm after storm. Upon the
summit of this tree Quoskh, the great blue heron, came year after year
to build her nest and raise her brood. From her high nest, where she sat
brooding the young herons, now just out of their pin-feather age, the
mother heron could plainly look down upon her neighbor the hawk, and saw
all the terrible tragedy which took place. She saw the dark, slim body
of Nemox, the robber of the marshes, as he battled with the mother hawk,
and then the end of it all. Quoskh, the heron, was afraid for her own
young, so much so that for a long while afterward she dreaded to leave
them alone long enough to fly off after food. Soon, however, they
became large enough to fly to the lake with her, and she was glad. But
Quoskh never forgot about the hateful fisher, and always hoped that some
day she might get the best of him.
Right in the heart of the marsh-land lay Black Lake. Spread out like a
sheet of molten lead it lay, its lonely waters walled about by thick
jungles of sedge and cattails; a desolate spot, seldom visited by man,
but known and haunted by all the kindred of the wild. You might trace
their well-worn trails through the swamp on all sides. Here came Moween,
the black bear, and her one cub, for the other she had lost. The sharp
teeth of Nemox had done their work. On the edge of the lake Unk-Wunk,
the porcupine, loved to loaf, digging out lily roots, and toward night,
when shadows crept over the water, Nemox, the fisher, would sneak down,
hoping to trap some little wild thing.
One day about twilight, when the little herons were half-grown, a large
colony of herons came to the lake. It was approaching time for their
annual colonizing plans, and they always meet and talk it over. Down
they flocked in droves, on wide azure wings, calling to each other their
lonely salute, “Quoskh, quoskh.” And after standing on the pebbly shore
solemnly upon one foot, for a while, at a signal they all began to dance
a most fantastic sort of a dance, which is called “the heron dance.”
Many were the curious eyes watching the strange dance of the herons.
Among them was Nemox, the fisher, who almost forgot to hide himself, so
taken up in watching the herons was he. However, as he watched them a
sudden, fascinating odor came to his nostrils, and he forgot everything
else--it was catnip.
Soon he reached the bed of catnip, all silvery green leaves, sparkling
with dew. He nibbled and ate, until finally, overcome completely by the
fascinating odor, he simply lay down and rolled about, purring like a
cat for sheer delight. He felt dreamy and care-free. But just as he was
enjoying himself supremely, down floated the wide wings of Quoskh, the
great blue heron, and with two stabs of her sword-like beak she had
blinded Nemox, and with her wings beaten the breath completely out of
his body.
Then, triumphantly, the heron spread her great blue wings and flew off
into the twilight, calling “quoskh, quoskh, quoskh” to her mate across
the silence of the marshes.
[Illustration: THE KEEPER OF TAMARACK RIDGE]
XXIV
THE KEEPER OF TAMARACK RIDGE
Solomon of old was wise and old in years. So too was Solomon, the old
gray lynx, the keeper of Tamarack Ridge. Crafty and cruel too was this
Solomon, and feared and dreaded by most of his wild neighbors on the
ridge, and also by all the dwellers of the swamp below the ridge.