THE raccoon’s story was received with general
approbation; and the grandmother, in particular,
declared she had not passed so pleasant an
hour for a very long time. The good woman was
gradually becoming accustomed to her strange
visitors, and ventured to address them with a little
more freedom, though she still trembled and
clutched her knitting-needles tighter when she
heard the bear’s deep tones.
“It is really very good of you all,” she said,
“to take compassion upon my loneliness. Before
I came to this cottage I lived in a large town,
where I had many friends, and I find the change
very great, and the life here very solitary. Indeed,
if it were not for my dear little Toto, I
should lead quite the life of a hermit.”
“What is a hermit?” asked the bear, who had
an inquiring mind, and liked to know the meaning
of words.
“It is a crab,” said the parrot. “I have often
seen them in the West Indies. They get into the
shells of other crabs, and drive the owners out.
A wretched set!”
“Oh, dear!” cried the grandmother. “That is
not at all the kind of hermit I mean. A hermit
in this country is a man who lives quite alone,
without any companions, in some uninhabited
region, such as a wood or a lonely hillside.”
“Is it?” exclaimed the bear and the squirrel
at the same moment. “Why, then, we know one.”
“Certainly,” the squirrel went on; “Old Baldhead
must be a hermit, of course. He lives alone,
and in an uninhabited region; that is, what _you_
would call uninhabited, I suppose.”
“How very interesting! Where does he live?”
asked Toto. “Who is he? How is it that I have
never seen him?”
“Oh, he lives quite at the other end of the
wood!” replied the squirrel; “some ten miles or
more from here. You have never been so far, my
dear boy, and Old Baldhead isn’t likely to come
into our part of the wood. He paid us one visit
several years ago, and that was enough for him,
eh, Bruin?”
“Humph! I think so!” said Bruin, smiling
grimly. “He seemed quite satisfied, I thought.”
“Tell us about his visit!” cried Toto eagerly.
“I have never heard anything about him, and I
know it must be funny, or you would not chuckle
so, Bruin.”
“Well,” said the bear, “there isn’t much to
tell, but you shall hear all I know. _I_ call that
hermit, if that is his name, a very impudent
fellow. Just fancy this, will you? One evening,
late in the autumn, about three years ago, I was
coming home from a long ramble, very tired and
hungry. I had left a particularly nice comb of
honey and some other little things in my cave,
all ready for supper, for I knew when I started
that I should be late, and I was looking forward
to a very comfortable evening.
“Well, when I came to the door of my cave,
what should I see but an old man with a long
gray beard, sitting on the ground eating my
honey!” Here the bear looked around with a
deeply injured air, and there was a general murmur
of sympathy.
“Your course was obvious!” said the raccoon.
“Why didn’t you eat him, stupid?”
“Hush!” whispered the wood-pigeon softly.
“You must not say things like that, Coon! you
will frighten the old lady.” And indeed, the
grandmother seemed much discomposed by the
raccoon’s suggestion.
“Wouldn’t have been polite!” replied Bruin.
“My own house, you know, and all that. Besides,”
he added in an undertone, with an apprehensive
glance at the grandmother, “he was old,
and probably very—”
“Ahem!” said Toto in a warning voice.
“Oh, certainly not!” said the bear hastily,
“not upon any account. I was about to make the
same remark myself. A—where was I?”
“The old man was eating your honey,” said the
woodchuck.
“I only stood up on my hind legs.”
“Of course!” replied Bruin. “So, though I
would not have hurt him _for the world_” (with
another glance towards the grandmother), “I
thought there would be no harm in frightening
him a little. Accordingly, I first made a great
noise among the bushes, snapping the twigs and
rustling the leaves at a great rate. He stopped
eating, and looked and listened, listened and
looked; didn’t seem to like it much, I thought.
Then, when he was pretty thoroughly roused, I
came slowly forward, and planted myself directly
in front of the cave.”
“Dear me!” cried the grandmother. “How
very dreadful! poor old man!”
“Well now, ma’am!” said Bruin appealingly,
“he had no right to steal my honey; now had
he? And I didn’t hurt a hair of his head,” he
continued. “I only stood up on my hind-legs
and waved my fore-paws round and round like
a windmill, and roared.”
A general burst of merriment greeted this statement,
from all except the grandmother, who shuddered
in sympathy with the unfortunate hermit.
“Well?” asked Toto, “and what did he do
then?”
“Why,” said Bruin, “he crouched down in a
little heap on the ground, and squeezed himself
against the wall of the cave, evidently expecting
me to rush upon him and tear him to pieces;
I sat down in front of him and looked at him for
a few minutes; then, when I thought he had
had about enough, I walked past him into the
cave, and then he ran away. He has never made
me another visit.”
“No,” said the squirrel; “he went home to
his own cave at the other end of the wood, and
built a barricade round it, and didn’t put his nose
out of doors for a week after. I have a cousin
who lives in that neighborhood, and he told me
about it.”
“Have you ever been over there?” asked
Toto.
“Yes, indeed!” replied the squirrel, “hundreds
of times. I often go over to spend the day with
my cousin, and we amuse ourselves by dropping
nuts on the hermit’s head as he sits in front of
his cave. I know few things more amusing,” he
continued, turning to the grandmother, “than
dropping nuts on a bald head. You can make
bets as to how high they will go on the rebound.
Have you ever tried it, ma’am? sitting in a tree,
you know.”
“Never!” replied the grandmother with much
dignity. “In my youth it was not the custom
for gentlewomen to sit in trees for any purpose;
and if it had been, I trust I should have had more
respect for age and infirmity than to amuse myself
in the manner you suggest.”
The squirrel was somewhat abashed at this, and
scratched his ear to hide his embarrassment.
The pause which ensued gave the raccoon an
opportunity for which he had been waiting. He
addressed the grandmother in his most honeyed
accents:—
“Our ways, dear madam,” he said, “are necessarily
very different from yours. There must be
much in our woodland life that seems rough, and
possibly even savage, to a person of refinement
and culture like yourself. While we roam about
in the untutored forest” (“Hear! hear!” interrupted
the squirrel. “‘Untutored forest’ is
good!”), “you remain in the elegant atmosphere
of your polished home. While we fare hardly,
snatching a precarious and scanty subsistence from
roots and herbs, you, lapped in intellectual and
highly cultivated leisure, while away the hours by
manufacturing gingerbread and—a—jam.” The
raccoon here waved his tail, and gave Toto a look
whose craftiness cannot be described in words.
Toto took the hint. “Dear me!” he cried.
“Of course! how stupid of me! Grandmother, is
there any gingerbread in the house? My friends
have never tasted any, and I should like to give
them some of yours.”
“Certainly, my dear boy,” said the good old
lady; “by all means. I have just made some
this afternoon. Bring a good plateful, and bring
a pot of raspberry jam, too. Perhaps Mr. Coon
would like a little of that.”
Mr. Coon _did_ like a little of that. In fact, Mr.
Coon would have liked the whole pot, and would
have taken it, too, if it had not been for Toto,
who declared that it must be share and share
alike. He gave them each a spoon, and let them
help themselves in turn, observing the strictest
impartiality.
The feast seemed to be highly enjoyed by all.
“Well, Bruin, how do you like jam?” asked
Toto.
“Very much, very much indeed!” replied the
bear. “Something like honey, isn’t it, only entirely
different? What kind of creatures make it?
Butterflies?”
“Lady makes it herself, stupid!” muttered the
woodchuck, who was out of temper, having just
tried to get a spoonful out of turn, and failed.
“Didn’t you hear her say so? Butterflies never
make anything except butter.”
The little squirrel sat nibbling his gingerbread
in a state of great satisfaction. “Who’s to tell
the story next time?” he asked presently.
“Parrot,” answered the raccoon, with his mouth
full of jam. “Parrot promised ever so long ago
to tell us a story about Africa. Didn’t you,
Polly?”
The parrot drew herself up with an air of
offended dignity. “The gentlemen of my acquaintance,
Mr. Coon,” she said, “call me Miss
Mary. I am ‘Polly’ to a few intimates only.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the raccoon. “I beg your
pardon, Miss Mary. No offence, I trust?”
Miss Mary unbent a little, and condescended to
explain. “My real name,” she said, “is Chamchamchamchamkickeryboo;
but, not understanding
the subtleties of our African languages, I do
not expect you to pronounce that. ‘Miss Mary’
will do very well; though,” she added, “I _have_
been called Princess in happier days.”
“When was that?” inquired Toto. “Tell us
about it, Miss Mary.”
“No, no!” interrupted the bear. “No more
stories to-night. It is too late. We must be getting
home, or the owls will be after us.”
“To-morrow, then,” cried Toto. “Will you all
come to-morrow? Then we will hear the parrot’s
story.”
The animals all promised to come on the morrow,
and each in turn took leave of the grandmother,
thanking her for the treat they had had.
The bear, after making his best bow, led the way
towards the forest, followed by the raccoon, the
woodchuck, the squirrel, the parrot, and the wood-pigeon.
And soon the whole company disappeared
among the branches.