to go to the other side of Grandfather Mountain. They were on the south
side now, you know, and they wanted to get to the north side.
The way is to go across a sheep pasture, and climb a fence, and go
across an old garden, or what once was a garden, and climb another
fence, and then you are in the wild woods, with a pretty winding path
in front of you and service trees overhead dropping down ripe red
berries for you to eat, if you go at the right time of year. Little
Mitchell and his lady were too late for the berries, but they went
along under the pretty service trees.
Well, you go on down the path into the deep, deep forest, with the
big old oaks and beeches and other trees about you, and the sunbeams
dancing in and out, making the forest all motley like the skin of a
leopard.
You go down steeper and steeper, until you come to the end of the path
and enter a road that runs at right angles to it.
It is a fearful road, full of loose stones and great rocks, such as you
find in the bed of a stream. Indeed, it is the dry bed of a stream, and
the stream itself, in another bed near by, is the very beginning of the
Linville River, and you keep having to cross over the river any way you
can, by jumping from stone to stone, and sometimes slipping off and
getting wet.
Sometimes this queer road runs right up the river bed; and then
you walk along the edge of it, along a winding path through the
rhododendrons.
There were some mountain people going along the road when Little
Mitchell and the lady got to it that day. There were a man, a boy,
a horse and wagon, and two young girls; and they were all walking,
because it was easier to walk than to go tilting and jolting and
jiggling over all those stones. Besides, the horse was not strong
enough to pull anything but the wagon over such a road, and so they
showed Little Mitchell’s lady how to get across the young Linville by
jumping on the stones.
Little Mitchell was asleep in his box, which of course the lady carried
as carefully as she could, so that he didn’t know nor care anything
about all this.
They went gayly along together, until they got to the house where
Little Mitchell’s lady was to stop. It was a wild place, close to the
great Grandfather Mountain; but it was very sweet, with the fresh air
and the tinkly stream across the road in front of the house.
The stream was not the Linville,—they had left that behind. It was
the beginning of the Watauga River, that flows in exactly the opposite
direction from the Linville, and has trout hiding in its pools.
The house stands on such a steep slope! You look out of the front
windows across the narrow Watauga valley, which is nothing but a gorge
here, and see the Grandfather Mountain rising up like a tremendous wall
all covered with trees.
[Illustration: LITTLE MITCHELL IN HIS BOX
“There he lay on his back, like a hot, tired, human little baby.” (Page
152)]
But back of the house, where the trees have been cut away, the steep
slopes are just covered with wild strawberries. Such big, sweet
berries! Why, they are as big as your thumb; mind, I say as big as
_your_ thumb, not as big as mine, which is quite another matter. But
anyway they are big enough. Of course there were none then,—it was too
late; but in the early summer I should like to see you climb that slope
without wetting your feet in strawberry juice! You couldn’t do it, they
are so thick. And sweet?—Well, you should just taste them!
Little Mitchell and his lady stayed all night in the house at the foot
of the strawberry slope, and the people who lived there were pleased,
for they knew Little Mitchell’s lady, and were glad to see him too.
They thought him the cunningest baby they had ever seen. He ran about
the room, and climbed on the table, and washed his face, and played
with his lady, and looked up the big stone chimney. He almost had
a mind to run up it; but his lady said no, so he ate his supper of
roasted chestnuts and fresh milk, and went to bed in his little box.
Next morning the woman who kept the house went with Little Mitchell and
his lady on a lovely walk over the mountains to where her mother lived.
When noon came, they were only half-way there; so they sat down on a
sweet mountain-side, to rest and eat, and Little Mitchell’s lady took
him out of his box and gave him sugar cooky and roasted chestnuts for
his dinner. She thought he could get along without milk now for a
little while, because it was so hard to carry it.
He had grown to be quite a squirrel by this time, and the lady thought
that perhaps he was old enough to care for himself, and would like
to be set free in the woods, which is the best home for the little
squirrel-folk, you know.
So she looked at him as he sat on her knee eating his chestnuts, which
he held in his funny little hands and nibbled very fast indeed. He
could sit up pretty well now, and yet he did look like such a baby!
Still, she thought perhaps she ought to let him go free; and here in
this wild spot, where there were no cats to catch him, was a good place.
So when he had finished his dinner she put him down on the ground near
a little tree, and then went back and sat down where she had been
before, some distance away.
What do you think Little Mitchell did now?
He looked around at the big, wild, lonely forest, and then at his dear
lady, and he ran and scrambled and scampered as fast as his little
legs could carry him,—not up the tree, oh no, indeed!—but straight
back to his lady. He climbed into her lap and stuck his head up her
sleeve, and seemed glad to be at home again.
You see, the little fellow was afraid, and no doubt it made him feel
very bad to think that maybe he was to be left there all alone.
But you may be sure the lady did not leave him after that. She tucked
him into his little box, where he curled right up and went to sleep;
and when they started on again, she carried along the box with Little
Mitchell in it.
After all, there were no sugar cookies and roasted chestnuts in the
woods for the little fellow.
They spent the night at the woman’s mother’s house, and next morning
Little Mitchell and his lady went on to Blowing Rock, which is several
miles away.
But it was a glorious walk,—first through the beautiful forest, and
then out into a corn-field where the cornstalks were rustling their
brown leaves in the breeze.
When they got to the corn-field, the lady took Little Mitchell out of
the box; the sun was warm, and she thought he would enjoy it,—for he
was getting too big now to stay shut up all day.
So she opened the box-cover and out popped Little Mitchell. He climbed
quickly up to her shoulder, and sat there and washed his face with his
hands very fast indeed.
He looked so cunning washing his face, that the lady always liked to
see him do it. First he would flatten his ears down close to his head,
then he would put his face into his two hands held close together, and
scrub very fast, rubbing all over his ears and back of them.
He did not lick his paws to moisten them, as a cat does, for he did not
seem to have much moisture in his little mouth. His tongue was very
small, and as soft as velvet. But when he wanted to wash his face,
now, what do you think he did? Why, he blew his nose hard into his
hands, and then washed away! What he got from his little nose was very
clean and watery, just as clean as what puss gets on her paws when she
licks them. Yes, it does seem strange to you, but that is the way the
squirrel-folk all do. If you were a squirrel, you would think it queer
to do any other way.
Well, Little Mitchell, out there in the corn-field, sat up on his
lady’s shoulder and washed his face until he was satisfied; then he
climbed all over her, up and down and around, clear down to the hem of
her dress.
She was afraid he would get a little too frisky, and jump down to the
ground and get lost; but, dear me! she needn’t have worried about
that. Jump down? He wouldn’t have left his lady that day among those
rustling cornstalks, not for the whole world. He just climbed about
for fun and exercise; but when the corn-leaves rustled, how scared he
was! He scrambled as fast as he could down the lady’s arm and up into
her coat-sleeve; and when she got him out, back he went as soon as a
corn-blade rustled near them.
“You must be hungry,” she said, when at last she had him cuddled up in
her hand. So she picked an ear of corn, and they sat down and pulled
off the husk and all the long soft silk that was inside, and Little
Mitchell had some of the kernels.
He took them in his little hands, one at a time, and looked up at his
lady out of his bright eyes with such a wise air! He turned the kernel
of corn over, and sniffed at it until he found the germ that lies in
one side,—the little thing that sprouts when you plant the corn,—and
he pulled this out with his sharp front teeth, and ate it very fast;
but the rest of the kernel he threw away. Not a bit of it would he eat
but that! You see the germ was soft and sweet, and pleased the little
chap.
If all squirrels eat corn in that way, it is no wonder the farmers
worry when they make a raid on the cornfields in the early autumn!
When Mitchell had eaten all the tender corn-germs he wanted, they
went on; and the very next blade that rustled near them—pop!—he was
over the lady’s shoulder, up under her jacket, and in the top of her
sleeve. She had to stop and take off her jacket and extract him. He
kept on at this trick until finally she put him in his box and fastened
the cover down,—which, after all, was just what he wanted, for he was
tired, and he curled right up and went fast asleep and gave her no more
trouble.
Away they went, down the mountain, across the valley, up another
mountain, and down into the Watauga valley, where the river is larger
and where the chinkapins grow.
It is the same valley where stands the house on the strawberry
slope,—only the Watauga River is not a tinkling trout-brook down here,
but quite a proud stream, though it still has trout in its pools.
Of course, when they got among the chinkapins they stopped to gather
some,—for these were ripe, if the strawberries were not, and there
were plenty of them too.
What _are_ chinkapins?
Why, don’t you know? All the children who live in the South know what
chinkapins are,—at least, all who live where they grow know.
They are not berries! No, guess again.
Yes, nuts; little shiny brown nuts, like baby chestnuts. The mountain
children often string them for beads, they are so pretty. They grow in
little burrs, like tiny chestnut burrs; but there is only one nut in a
burr instead of two or three, and they grow on bushes or little trees,
with leaves like chestnut leaves, only smaller.
No, chinkapins are not shaped quite like chestnuts; they are not flat
anywhere. Chestnuts have to be flat on at least one side, because they
grow three in a burr, and are squeezed against each other, so the
middle chestnut is flat on both sides, but the others are flat only on
the inside and rounded on the outside. But the chinkapin is rounded on
both sides, because it is alone in its burr, with nothing to flatten
against. Oh no, it is not round all over like a marble,—it is like a
tiny chestnut, only it is rounded instead of being flattened on its
sides.
I wish I could give you a handful of shiny chinkapins, then you would
know just how they look.
Children who do not live near chinkapins need to know about them
because of “Uncle Remus.” When you read how “Brer Rabbit” sat on a
chinkapin log, combing his hair with a chip, you ought to know what a
chinkapin log is like.
[Illustration: LITTLE MITCHELL’S VISITOR
“He scampered off as if the old cat were after him.” (Page 158)]
Chinkapins being so small, and only one in a burr, you can imagine they
are not easy to gather until Jack Frost comes along with his sharp
fingers and splits open all the tiny burrs on all the little chinkapin
trees. Then you have only to shake the trees or beat the bushes,
and patter! patter! patter!—out will come jumping the pretty brown
chinkapins, as thick as rain-drops in a summer shower, and all you have
to do is to get down and pick them up.
Mitchell liked the little nuts, they are so sweet, and he could crack
them for himself because the shells are soft, like chestnut shells.
So he sat on the lady’s knee in the chinkapin patch, and cracked
chinkapins, and when he had succeeded in getting a shell off he would
give it a toss that sent it far away.
The lady ate chinkapins too, they were so sweet and good; but Little
Mitchell did not quite like that,—he seemed to think she was eating
his nuts, and once in a while he would reach up and snatch away her
chinkapin, and scold and chatter at her. That was because he was
hungry, and thought he wanted them all; but when he had had enough he
let her eat what she wanted too.
Presently along came Phyllis Amaranth, Lucy Ansonia Belindy, and Mollie
May. Of course they came with their pretty feet bare, and none of them
were more than seven years old.
They just smiled and smiled, and clasped their hands tight together,
when they saw Little Mitchell. But he kept one eye on them, and when
they came too near he ran and hid in the folds of his lady’s dress. He
didn’t care for little girls, and he was terribly afraid they might
touch him.
So Phyllis Amaranth, Lucy Ansonia Belindy, and Mollie May ran to the
chinkapin bushes and shook them, and picked up the chinkapins very
fast, and gave them to Mitchell’s lady for him, so that she soon had
all she could carry without the trouble of picking any up. That is the
way with these mountain people; they will give you something if they
possibly can.
Then they all said good-bye to each other, and Little Mitchell and the
lady went on. They crossed the Watauga valley, which is easy enough,
it is so narrow; then they crossed the Watauga River, which is hard
enough, the bridge is so narrow, and so high up in the air, and wobbles
so you are afraid of your life to go over it,—but you have to, or else
stay on the wrong side of the river, which, you understand, is quite a
river here, very swift and rather deep.
But they got safely over the wobbly bridge, and went on through the
forest, only stopping a few minutes to look at a birch-still.
A birch-still is a place where they distil birch-oil out of birch-bark.
Do you know how it is done? Well, you ought to, for you eat so much
birch-oil. You don’t think you ever ate any birch-oil in your life? Oh,
but I _know_ you have eaten it. I am perfectly sure you sometimes eat
wintergreen candy and other things flavored with wintergreen. That is,
you call it wintergreen; but it is not that at all, it is birch. You
see the flavor is the same, and it is much easier to get it out of the
birch.
The way they do is to strip the bark from the young black-birch
trees,—which of course kills the trees, and that is too bad; but they
do it, and chop the bark into little pieces, which they put into a long
wooden box with a zinc bottom.
When the box is full of bark, they put in some water, and fit on
the cover, and plaster all the cracks with clay until the box is
air-tight,—all but a little round hole in the cover that has a lead
pipe fitted into it.
Then they build a fire in the fire-hole under the box, and soon the
steam from the boiling water escapes through the pipe that is fitted in
the cover. The pipe is coiled up in a barrel of water when it leaves
the box, and is kept cool by a little stream of water which runs into
the barrel all the time.
Of course the steam that escapes through the pipe is turned back to
water when it becomes cooled, passing through the coil in the barrel,
and finally runs out of the other end of the pipe into a bottle. There
is birch-oil in the steam that goes over, and the oil runs into the
bottle with the water, but being heavier than water it sinks to the
bottom of the bottle. When the bottle is full, the water runs out at
the top; but when it gets full of oil, they do not allow that to run
over,—they take away the bottle of oil and put an empty bottle in its
place.
Yes, I know that oil is said to float on water, and some oil does, but
birch-oil is heavy, as I have told you, and sinks to the bottom.
The people take the oil to the store and exchange it for shoes and
calico and safety-pins, and all the things they need. The storekeeper
sells the oil to the manufacturers, who purify it and make it into
flavoring extracts, and then the druggists use it in making medicines
and tooth-powder, and the candy-makers flavor some of their candies
with it, and the perfumers mix it with other things to make perfumes
and scented soap. A great deal of this oil comes from the North
Carolina mountains, and is made in the woods, as I have told you.
Well, when Little Mitchell’s lady had looked at the birch-still long
enough, they went on until they got to Blowing Rock. And this is a very
wonderful place.
VII
LITTLE MITCHELL’S FIRST CAR-RIDE
You can see three thunder-storms at once from Blowing Rock.
Perhaps sometimes you can see more than that number.
This is because Blowing Rock is on the edge of a mountain, where you
can look off and off and off,—oh, so far, over a sea of mountains,
where the storms gather. You know a thunder-storm is not very big; it
is only as big as two or three clouds close together, and these clouds
may be rather small.
It is queer to see the rain pouring down in long straight lines over
one part of the mountains, while all the rest is in sunshine.
Little Mitchell’s lady used to like to watch the thunder-storms, but
Little Mitchell did not care anything about them. He preferred going
with the lady to the big rock from which the little village of Blowing
Rock gets its name. The Indians named it long ago, because when the
wind is in the right quarter it blows so hard you cannot throw anything
over the rock. If you try to throw your handkerchief or your hat over,
you cannot do it, because the wind flings it back to you. Sometimes
it blows so strong you couldn’t even jump over,—so people say. But I
should not like to try that, no matter how hard the wind blew; it is
such a very long way down to the tree-tops at the foot of the rock!
What Little Mitchell liked at the big rock was the sunshine and the
fine places to run about; but he never ran far from his lady, and at
the slightest noise he would scurry back to her.
There were some dear little children at Blowing Rock; but you know how
Mitchell felt on that subject! He would have nothing to do with them,
and if one of them took him up he would squirm and squeal so that he
was quickly dropped.
It was at Blowing Rock that he found out he could hop.
His lady used to let him out of his box early in the morning, so that
he could run around the room and exercise his muscles. She was afraid
to take him outside with her unless she went a long way off, on account
of the cats.
So he would frolic with her, and jump at her hand under the bed-covers
in the early morning, and when she got up he would play about the room,
run over the table, look at everything on the bureau, including his
own funny little face in the looking-glass; and one day he found out he
could hop.
He went hop, hop, hop, just like a grown-up squirrel, the whole length
of the room.
Hop, hop went Little Mitchell. He had always crawled or crept about
before this; but that day he went hop, hop, hop, all up and down the
room, and then up and down again.
When the lady was ready to go out, she thought she would put him in
his box. He had never given her any trouble before, but this time he
scampered under the bed, away over against the wall out of reach, and
there he went hop, hop, hop, up and down, up and down; but he never
came out from under the bed, because he did not want the lady to catch
him.
[Illustration: LITTLE MITCHELL AND HIS WHEEL
“As soon as he moved the wheel began to turn, and he began to run.”
(Page 170)]
He looked so funny, hopping up and down, and he was having such a
glorious time, that his lady did not like to end it, and waited ever so
long; but as he kept on hopping, and showed no sign of ever going to
stop, she finally got under the bed and captured him.
You see he had found something new to do, and he was as excited over
it as a child is over a new and delightful game. When the lady put him
in his box, he squirmed and screamed; and when she fastened the cover
down, he cried and scratched to get out. It was too bad,—but what else
could the lady do? She did not want to stay shut up in her room all
day, and she dared not leave him alone for fear some one might open the
door and a cat get in.
But he was really tired by this time; and when he found that crying and
scratching did no good, he curled up and went to sleep. When the lady
peeped into the room before going off, he was as quiet as a mouse; and
when she returned, he was still sound asleep in his little box.
Now about hopping,—that is the way grown squirrels get over the
ground, in little jumps; and Baby Mitchell was growing every day, not
only in size but in squirrel habits. How do you suppose he knew about
hopping, when he had never seen a squirrel hop? And how do you suppose
he knew about sitting up and holding his nuts in his hands, when he had
never seen a squirrel do these things? And how do you suppose he knew
about washing his face after the funny manner of the squirrel folk,
when he had never seen another squirrel do it?
I cannot tell you how he knew all these things; but he did know them,
and as he grew older, more and more squirrel habits came to him, as
you shall see.
The lady stayed at Blowing Rock only a few days; then one morning
she and Little Mitchell started off down the long winding road in a
carriage,—and this was the end of their life in the mountains.
At the end of that drive they got onto a railway train, and went a
little way, and then changed to another train,—only they had to wait a
long time between trains.
Little Mitchell’s lady was very sorry for him now, because you see
he was getting big enough to run about, and he had to take this long
journey all shut up in his little box.
But when they got to the station where they had to wait so long, she
opened his box, and out he came. He ran all over her as fast as he
could go, even jumping from her shoulder to the top of her head, and
played with her hair, which she told him was naughty. Then he jumped
down and ran all around the tops of the benches, for there was nobody
else in the waiting-room.
After a while a gentleman came in to wait for the train too, and he
fell quite in love with the playful little fellow, and wanted to buy
him to take home to his children; but of course the lady would not sell
him.
At last the train came, and they got on and rode awhile, and then got
off again to wait for another train. This was in a large station, full
of people and lighted by electric lights.
Little Mitchell’s lady saw his box bumping about, and heard something
inside go scratch, scratch, scratch. So she took off the cover, and out
came Little Mitchell. He was very tired from being shut up so long and
carried so fast in the jolty train, and he wanted to come out and see
what was going on. The electric lights and the crowd and the strange
sights and sounds all excited him. His eyes shone, and he was not
satisfied to sit on his lady’s shoulder and look about. He wanted to
leap upon the back of a lady who was dressed in laces and furs. He was
determined to do it, too; but every time his lady caught him just as he
was about to spring, and told him he mustn’t.
How surprised the strange lady would have been if he had done it! And
how frightened Little Mitchell would have been! For, once there, he
would not have known what to do, and would have wished himself back on
his own lady’s shoulder.
At last she went into a dark corner with him, and let him sit on the
seat by her and look at the people while he ate a piece of sugar cooky.
Then the train came, and they got into the sleeping-car,—Little
Mitchell in his little box, of course.
He was a good squirrel all night, and early in the morning the lady let
him look out of the window; but he did not like that,—it frightened
him to see things rushing by so fast. He preferred to race up and down
in the berth, and jump at the lady’s fingers from under the edge of the
blanket, and turn somersaults when she made believe catch him.
After a little while he got tired of this play, and was quite willing
to be put into his box, where he stayed quietly until they got to
Jersey City, and crossed the ferry, and went to the Grand Central
Station in New York City, and got upon another train that soon left the
noisy city behind.