thing as that.
But he walked on across the pasture-lot, toward the deep ravine
that cut through the side of the hill to the valley.
All that time poor Julius had been hoeing away desperately upon the
last row of his mother's potatoes, and she had been smiling at him
from the window. She was anxious he should get through, for she
meant to send him to the village for a quarter of a pound of tea.
It was just as Julius reached the last hill that the baby cried,
and when Mrs. Davis returned to the window to say something about
the store and the kind of tea she wanted, all she could see of
Julius was the hoe lying beside that last hill.
"Ef he hasn't finished dem taters and run away!"
She would have been proud of him if she could have seen how
wonderfully fast he did run away, down the road he had seen Quib
and the other hunters.
"Dey's into de lot!" he exclaimed, when he came to the bars. "Dar's
Pete Corry's ole straw hat lyin' by de stone-heap. Mus' hab been
somefin' won'erful, or he'd nebber forgot his hat."
That was an old woodchuck, of course, or he would not have been so
large, and it may be he knew those boys as well as Quib did. If
not, it was his own fault, for every one of them had chased him
before, and so had Quib.
He knew every inch of that pasture-lot, and he knew the shortest
way to the head of the deep ravine.
"Boys!" shouted Abe Selover, with all the breath he had. "Boys!
He's going for the glen! Now we've got him!"
The ravine was a rocky and wonderful place, and all the boys were
perfectly familiar with it, and considered it the grandest
play-house in the world, or, at least, in the vicinity of the
village. If Quib once got the woodchuck penned up among those
rocks, they could play hide-and-seek for him till they should find
him.
Some city people that had a picnic there once had called it a
"glen," and the name had stuck to it, mainly because it was
shorter than any other the boys could think of; and, besides
that, the schoolmaster of the district two years before (who
didn't suit the trustees) had been named Glenn, and so the word
must have been all right.
Some of the boys were near enough to see the woodchuck make for the
two maples at the head of the ravine, and Bob Hicks tumbled over
Andy Thompson while he was shouting:
"Catch him, Quib!"
After they got past those two maple trees there was no more fast
running to be done.
Down, down, deeper and rockier and rougher every rod of it, the
rugged chasm opened ahead of them, and it was necessary for the
boys to mind their steps. It was a place where a woodchuck or a
small dog could get around a good deal faster than any boy, but
they all followed Quib in a way that would have scared their
mothers if they had been there.
"It's grand fun!" said Mart Penniman. "Finest woodchuck you ever
saw!"
"Come on, boys!" shouted Abe Selover, away ahead. "We'll get him,
this time."
Abe had a way of being just the next boy behind the dog in any kind
of chase, and they all clambered after him in hot haste.
On went Quib, and even Abe Selover could not see him more than half
the time, for he had an immense deal of dodging to do, in and out
among the rocks and trees, and it was dreadfully shady at the
bottom of that ravine.
The walls of rock, where Abe was, rose more than sixty feet high on
either side, and the glen was only a few rods wide at the widest
place.
"He's holed him! He's holed him! Come on! we've got him, now!"
Quib was scratching and yelping like an insane dog at the bottom of
what looked like a great crack between two rocks, in the left-hand
side of the glen as you went down. The crack was only an inch or so
wide at the bottom, and twisted a good deal as it went up, for the
rock was of the kind known as "pudding-stone." There was a hole,
just there, large enough for a woodchuck, but too small for a dog.
"Dig, boys! Dig!"
"Dig yourself," said Pete Corry. "Who's going to dig a rock, I'd
like to know?"
"Let Quib in, anyhow. He'll drive him out."
Abe was prying at that hole with a dead branch of a tree, and,
almost while he was speaking, a great piece of the loose
pudding-stone fell off and came thumping down at his feet.
"A cave, boys, a cave! Just look in!"
Quib did not wait for anybody to look in, but bounded through the
opening with a shrill yelp, and Abe Selover squeezed after him.
Pete Corry felt a little nervous when he saw how dark it was, but
he followed Abe; and the other boys came on as fast as the width of
the hole would let them.
That is, they crept through, one boy at a time.
What surprised them was, that the moment they had crawled through
that hole they could stand up straight.
"Where's the woodchuck?" asked Bob Hicks.
"Woodchuck? Why, boys, this is a regular cave," replied Abe.
"Quib's in there, somewhere," said Mart Penniman. "Just hear him
yelp!"
"Hold on," said Cole Thomas--"there's more light coming in. We
shall be able to see, in a minute."
The fact was that it took a little time for their eyes to get
accustomed to the small amount of light there was in that cave.
The cave itself was not very large.
It grew wider for about twenty feet from the hole they came in by,
and the floor, which was covered with bits of rock, sloped upward
like the roof of a house, only not quite so abruptly.
In the middle it was more than a rod wide. Then it grew narrower,
and steeper, and darker with every step. But they knew about where
the upper end must be, for they could hear Quib barking there.
"It's dark enough," said Andy.
"Come on, boys!" shouted Abe Selover. "We'll have that woodchuck
this time. He's in this cave, somewhere."
They were not very much afraid to keep a little way behind Abe
Selover, and in a few minutes they heard him say:
"Quib! Is he there? Have you got him?"
Quib barked and whined, and the sound seemed to come from away
above them.
"Come on, boys! I can see a streak of light. It's like climbing up
an old chimney. Quib's almost on him."
All that time, while they were groping through that cave, Julius
Davis was looking around the pasture-lot after them.
He would have been glad of a small glimpse of Quib, but all he had
found as yet was Mr. Hamburger, who was standing under an old
butternut-tree and looking down at a round, hollow place in the
ground.
He was smoking very hard.
"Hab you seen my dog?" asked Julius.
"Hold shtill, poy! Joost you vait. Hi! Dere goes dose vootshuck!"
"Dat's so. He's coming right up out ob de hole, and dar ain't no
dog to foller him!"
Away went the woodchuck, and Julius gave him up for lost; but Mr.
Hamburger smoked harder than ever and looked down at the hole.
"Hark! Hear dem? It is de tog. Pless mein eyes, if dey didn't chase
dose vootshuck right oonder mein pasture-lot!"
Julius could hear Quib bark now, away down there in the ground, and
he could not stand still on any one side of that hollow. So he
danced up and down on every side of it.
One minute,--two, three minutes,--it was a dreadfully long time,
--and then it was the voice of Abe Selover mixed with a long yelp
from Quib.
"Come on, boys! I've shoved him through. I'm going right up after
him. Nothing to pull away but some sods."
"Dat's de tog!" exclaimed Mr. Hamburger. "Keep shtill, black poy!
De rest of dose vootshucks is coming. Keep shtill."
Nothing but some sods to pull away, to make that hole large enough,
and then Abe Selover's curly head popped out, and the rest of him
followed, grimy and dirty, but in a great fever of excitement and
fun.
After him climbed the other boys, one by one.
"Mr. Hamburger, did you see where that woodchuck went to?"
"De vootshuck? I don't know him. But de black poy haf run after de
tog, ant he vas run so fast as nefer you saw. Vare you leetle
vootshucks coom from, eh? You climb oonder mein pasture?"
"No use, Abe," said Mart Penniman. "We've missed that woodchuck
this time."
"We've found the cave, though," said Pete Corry. "It's through that
he got away from us so many times."
"I dell you vat," said Mr. Hamburger; "de nex' time you leetle
vootshucks vant to chase dat oder vootshuck, you put a pag ofer
dese hole. Den you shace him round among de rocks, and you will
catch de tog ant de vootshuck into de same pag."
"That's what we'll do," said Abe Selover. "But not to-day, boys. He
was the finest woodchuck I ever saw, but we've missed him this
time."
THE FAITHFUL LITTLE LIZARD
By Lieutenant-Colonel W. Hill James
On the diggings near the Avoca River the lizard's future master
had, as was the digger's custom, come out of his hole, or shaft, at
eleven o'clock for a short half-hour's rest between breakfast and
the midday meal. He threw himself down in a half-sitting posture,
and was dreamily smoking his pipe when from beneath a neighboring
rock, popped out a little lizard who eyed the stranger with
inquisitive interest, as quickly retiring, to return again in a few
minutes.
This was repeated several times, the lizard's keen eyes always
fixed on the face of the intruder.
Presently the digger's foot was approached, and evidently approved
of for its warmth. After a retreat to the rock a farther advance
was made, this time to the knee of the stranger, to whose face the
two brilliant little eyes were still enquiringly directed. Before
the half-hour's rest was over the left arm of the smoker had been
mounted, his neck rounded, and the right arm descended, the
venturesome journey ended by the lizard squatting contentedly on
the back of his new-found friend's right hand. Confidence had thus
been established between the two, but not to the extent of capture,
for on the gold-seeker attempting to place his left hand over his
new acquaintance, he scuttled away to his rock with almost
inconceivable quickness. The digger's smoke over, he returned to
his work in the hole, leaving his blouse where he had sat.
When the work of the day was finished the tired gold-seeker mounted
to the surface and, taking up his blouse, was about to march to his
camp, three miles away, when, to his great surprise, he discovered
his little four-footed friend lying hidden in the fold of the
garment. He carried him gently in the blouse to the camp, and
there, with the usual courage and confidence of his race, the
little reptile quickly adapted himself to his new surroundings in
the digger's tent. He was carefully fed, kept warm at night, and
soon began to like his new quarters with the gold-seekers. In
return for much affectionate attention he was, in a few days, quite
at home with all the party.
On the walk to camp he had made his home in his master's serge
blouse, running up the arm of the loose garment or round the full
front above the tight waistband, as fancy took him, and enjoying
the warmth of his master's body. It was very interesting and
amusing to see him poke his little head out between the buttons, or
through a buttonhole of the blouse at intervals to ask, with
glittering eye and jerky movement, for an occasional fly from his
master's hand caught on the shafts or cover of the cart.
When the camp was pitched for the night, Master Lizard would employ
himself by making the most inquisitive scrutiny and inspection of
the immediate surroundings within and without the tent. He made
himself acquainted with every stone, tuft, stump, or hole, within
what he considered his domain, eventually retiring with the sun to
the blanket on his master's bed, where he invariably slept.
On one occasion, during the darkness of the night, he became
extremely restless, and ran about on the bed, evidently with a view
to awakening his protector, who, being a sound sleeper, was not
easily disturbed. Failing to attract attention, he proceeded to run
rapidly backwards and forwards over the sleeper's face, making at
the same time a low spitting noise, like an angry cat. By this
means he at length roused his friend, who gently pushed him away
several times, speaking soothingly to him in the hope of quieting
the excited little animal.
But the lizard would not be soothed. Having attracted attention, he
continued his inexplicable movements with redoubled energy, until
at length his master, convinced that something must be amiss, got
up, struck a light, and looked round the tent, the sharp eyes of
the lizard following every movement with intense interest. As
nothing unusual could be seen, the gold-hunter retired once more,
after pooh-poohing the lizard for his fears.
Scarcely had he dropped off to sleep, when he was again disturbed,
and, losing patience at these repeated interruptions to his
slumbers, he seized the lizard and threw him lightly across the
tent. In this involuntary flight the little creature unfortunately
struck the tent-pole with considerable force, and half of his tail
was broken off--a matter of no very great importance to a lizard,
perhaps, but still a discouraging reward for a well-meant warning.
Notwithstanding this the little reptile returned to the bed,
keeping close to his master, but he continued to be very restless
and excited for the remainder of the night.
When day dawned, preparations were begun for the day's march. The
tents were struck and the bedding was rolled up, ready to be placed
on the rough digger's cart. Then the mystery was explained. In the
twigs and ferns thrown underneath the scanty bedding, to keep it
from the bare ground, a huge tiger snake with several young ones
was discovered. This snake is of a deadly description and is much
feared by the colonists. Like all snakes, it gives forth a strong
odor, which, no doubt, made the lizard aware of his enemy's
presence, unless, perhaps, he saw it creep under the curtain of the
tent. Of course, the snakes were killed at once.
After this our little friend with half a tail became a greater
favorite than ever, because we recognized that he was protector as
well as friend.
TOBY THE WISE
By General Rush C. Hawkins
The chief subject of this truthful history is a jet-black,
middle-aged bird, commonly known in England as a rook, but
nevertheless a notable specimen of the crow family.
In his babyhood he was, in the language of the ancient chroniclers,
grievously hurt and wounded full sore, and particularly so in the
left wing. He was so badly disabled that he had to forego the
pleasure of flying through the air, and was obliged to content
himself as best he could with trudging about on the rough surface
of mother earth.
In his sad plight, with the maimed wing dragging painfully along,
he chanced to pass the window of a library belonging to and
occupied by a charming old English gentleman, a perfect example of
the old school, learned, benevolent, and very fond of animals and
feathered pets. No one can tell what chance it was that brought the
unhappy and wounded young rook to the window of this good man. But
possibly it was a real inspiration on the part of the young bird.
Toby was wet, weary, wounded and hungry, and as he looked in upon
the cheerful wood fire and the kindly face of the master of the
house, his longing expression was met by a raising of the window
and an invitation to walk in to a breakfast of corn and meal that
had been hastily prepared for him. He gazed and thought, and
thought and gazed, upon the joys within and still he doubted; but,
finally, appetite and curiosity got the better of his discretion,
and, as he walked cautiously in, the window was closed behind him.
So the wounded bird entered upon a new life.
At first he was a little shy and cautious and it took considerable
time for him to convince himself that his protector was his friend.
After a few weeks, however, he realized the value of his new
position, and consented to the establishment of intimate relations.
In fact, Toby became so attached to his master, that he was not
happy out of his presence.
During the first month of his captivity, his wounded wing was bound
close to his body for the purpose of giving the fractured bone an
opportunity to unite, and during most of that time he would walk by
his master's side, cawing and looking up into his face as if asking
for recognition. When the wing got well, and his ability to fly was
re-established, he would anticipate the direction of the promenades
by flying in advance from shrub to bush, alighting and awaiting the
arrival of his master.
The most singular part of Toby's domestication was his exclusive
loyalty to a single person. He had but one intimate friend, and to
him his loyalty was intense. He would tolerate the presence of
other members of the household, but when strangers appeared he was
decidedly offish, and scolded until they disappeared.
Three times a day Toby is decidedly funny, and goes through a
comical performance. In his master's study there is a contrivance
which, on a small scale, resembles the old New England well-pole.
At one end, which rests upon the floor, Toby commences his ascent
with a great flapping of wings and uproarious cawing. When he
arrives at the upper end of the pole, some eight or nine feet from
the floor, it falls and lands him upon a platform, beside a plate
containing his food. This climbing up the pole precedes each meal,
and takes place punctually at the same hour and minute of each day.
In the spring of 1890 Toby was tempted from his loyalty, and flew
off with a marauding flock of his kind. He remained away all
summer. He was missed but not mourned, for his master felt certain
he would return; and, sure enough, one bleak cold morning in
November, Toby was found looking longingly into the room where he
had first seen his good master. The window was opened, he walked in
and mounted his pole, and after him came a meek, modest and timid
young rook, more confiding than Toby, and differing from him in
many other respects. He, too, was duly adopted, and was christened
Jocko. He was easily domesticated and soon became a part of the
household of one of the finest old Bedfordshire manorial homes.
With age Toby has taken on quite an amount of dignity. He is
neither so noisy nor so companionable as formerly, but is more
staid and useful. One of his favorite resting places, where he
enjoys his after-breakfast contemplations and his afternoon
siestas, is among the branches of a fine old English oak, whose
protecting shades, in the far-off past, were the scene of the
stolen love meetings of Amy Wentworth and the Duke of Monmouth.
Neither of these knowing birds has been able to understand the
mystery of a looking-glass. They spend many hours of patient
investigation before a mirror in their master's room, but all to no
purpose, for the puzzle seems to remain as great as ever. They
usually walk directly up to it, and betray great surprise when they
find two other rooks advancing to meet them. For a while they
remain silent and motionless, looking at the strangers, and
waiting, apparently, for some sign of recognition. Then they go
through a considerable flapping of wings and indulge in numerous
caws, but after long waiting for an audible response they give up
the useless effort, only to return next day as eager as ever to
solve the mystery. The older bird and his admiring junior are
perfectly contented with their home, and never leave it. They often
look out from their perches upon wandering flocks of vagrant rooks,
but are never tempted to new adventures. The old fellow is very
wise. Like a fat old office-holder, he knows enough to appreciate a
sinecure in which the rewards are liberal and the service nominal.
His devoted follower never falters in his dutiful imitation of his
benefactor.
Toby proves by his actions that he appreciates the advantages of
the situation, and in his simple way makes some return for the
pleasures he enjoys.
During a considerable portion of the pleasant days of the year he
is really the watchman upon the tower, ever on the lookout to give
notice of the approach of visitors to his castle, and no one can
intrude upon the premises under his self-appointed watchmanship
without exciting vigorous caws, which are enthusiastically
reinforced by those of his faithful subordinate. Aside from his
affectionate devotion to his master, this duty of "chief watchman
of the castle" is Toby's most substantial return for favors
received.
In a letter of last May, the master wrote: "My two crows are
sitting on chairs close to me, and cawing to me that it is time for
me to let them out of the window, so I must obey." This quotation
gives but a faint intimation of the exceptionally friendly
relations existing between these devoted friends. Blessed are the
birds that can inspire such affection in the heart of a noble old
man, and doubly blessed is he who is the object of such loving
appreciation. Long may they all live to enjoy the fulness of their
mutual attachments!
This brief sketch is not intended for an amusing story. It is only
a narrative of facts in support of an often repeated theory, viz.:
that the humblest creatures are worthy of our tender consideration,
and, when properly treated, will make pleasing returns for the
affection we may bestow upon them.
BLACKAMOOR
By Ruth Landseer
Many will wonder how I managed to keep order in the schoolroom and
give proper attention to the lessons with three baby woodchucks, a
turtle, two squirrels and a young crow about the place. My fellow
teachers will be inclined to say that the children would have eyes
and ears for nothing else.
In point of fact it made little difference after my pupils became
accustomed to the sight and sound of these "pets." Moreover, they
were a source of endless pleasure and, I think, profit, for I gave
little talks upon the habits and history of all these creatures,
and sought to inculcate sentiments of compassion and love toward
all living things.
This was my first school, however, and people wondered. The
supervisor also wondered, and was skeptical. Several of the
parents, who did not understand very well, complained to him that I
kept a menagerie instead of a school. There were some, even, who
did not wish to have their children taught natural history, because
they came home and asked questions. They did not like it and deemed
it quite unnecessary. They desired to have their children attend
strictly to their "school studies."
It came about, therefore, that at the end of the second term the
position was given to another teacher, and for one whole term my
occupation was gone.
Yet my former pupils lamented so openly and said so much at home,
that their small voices wrought a change of opinion, and at the
beginning of the second year the school was given to me again. The
teacher who had taken my place said a little spitefully, on
leaving, that I had spoiled the school for any one else. She was a
very worthy young lady, but one of those who scream at the sight of
a spider, a mouse or a harmless snake.
Blackamoor came to school one morning in July, head downward, in
the hands of one of my larger boys, named Wiggan Brown, who was a
little inclined to thoughtless cruelty. On the part of children,
indeed, cruelty is usually thoughtless. They are rarely cruel after
they have been taught to think on the subject.
Wiggan and his older brother had taken Blackamoor from a nest in
the top of a hemlock-tree. By this time the reader will have
guessed that Blackamoor was the young crow which became one of our
schoolhouse pets.
At first we built a pen for him at the farther corner of the
schoolyard, where we kept him until he could fly. After that he was
released, to stay with us or depart. He chose to stay, and during
school hours usually sat on the ridge of the schoolhouse roof. At
night he often accompanied me home, and lingered about the
farmhouse or barns till school-time the next day. At the recesses
he swaggered and hopped about with the children at play, often
cawing uproariously.
If a dog or cat approached during school hours, Blackamoor would
cry, _"Har-r-r!"_ from the roof, and drive the intruder away.
If it was a person, he cried _"Haw!"_ quite sharply, on a
different key. If another crow or large bird flew past, he turned
up an eye and said _"Hawh!"_ rather low. In fact, he kept us
posted on all that was going on out-of-doors, for we soon came to
know most of his signal-cries. The boys would glance up from their
books and smile when they heard him.
Blackamoor had certain highly reprehensible traits. He was
thievish, and we were obliged to keep an eye on him, or he would
steal all our lead-pencils, pocket-handkerchiefs and other small
objects. What he took he secreted, and was marvelously cunning in
doing it.