voice in his ear. "That's right,--now swing yourself round and take
hold of the branch above you. So! You're getting on famously. Well
done!"
Phil knew that it was Nature who spoke to him, and he felt so proud
of her praises that he almost forgot the Squirrels. But three small
heads, and a larger one, which belonged to a very proud mother,
peeped over the nest to welcome him, and Feathertail waited beside
it. Phil laughed to think of his doubts as to whether the branch
would bear him; slender as it was it barely stirred beneath his
weight.
The baby Squirrels were charming little things; he sat in the nest
with them, and laughed with glee as the Wind rocked it to and fro,
while Feathertail told him how it was only this spring that he had
come to these woods.
"Their mother and I used to live in those heights you see in the
distance there, under that rosy cloud. But the Grey Squirrels came,
and drove us out--we couldn't stand the noise they made, and their
rough ways frightened us. So Nature told us about this wood, and
here we feel quite safe."
"So do I," said Phil, stroking the prettiest baby Squirrel gently.
"What a jolly little chap this is. I wish I could take him home
with me when I go back--I s'pose I'll have to go back some day," he
finished with a sigh.
The mother Squirrel fluffed out her fur in wild alarm, and
Feathertail darted forward ready to protect his family.
"How could you suggest such a thing?" he asked indignantly, when
Phil had managed to convince him that he meant no harm. "It is bad
enough for an ordinary Squirrel to be taken away from his forest
home and shut in a small cramped prison, but for us it means almost
certain death, for we cannot stand captivity.... A cousin of
mine--'twas the Wind that told me--was caught by some travellers
and put in a tiny cage where she had scarcely room to turn. Of
course she died, and they 'couldn't think why'! I wonder if they
knew how cruel they were?"
His bright little eyes were clouded with grief, and it was not
until he had raced to the top of a neighbouring tree and back again
that he felt better. Even then he looked uneasy when Phil fondled
his babies; as to the mother Squirrel, since that unfortunate
remark of his, she had been clearly anxious to get rid of him.
"We will go to the stream," said Feathertail, when he saw that her
anxiety was getting too much for her. Phil longed to ask if the
baby Squirrels might come as well, but wisely refrained. He was
sorry to leave that cosy nest on the waving branch; next time he
came, he thought, he would be careful what he said.
The stream to which Feathertail led him was bordered by drooping
ferns; it was so clear that it might have been a lady's mirror but
for the tiny wavelets rippling from side to side.
"Don't you hear it singing as it trickles over the stone?" asked
Feathertail. "It is the same song that the Wind sings, only more
low and sweet.... Listen!"
Phil could hear nothing but the rustling of the leaves about them,
and the soft flow of the sparkling water; but perhaps his ears were
not so keen.
The Black Squirrel sat on the edge of the bank, and dipping his
nose well under the surface of the stream, drank deeply and long.
Then he placed himself jauntily on his hind feet, and washed his
face with his forepaws, splashing them in the stream from time to
time as if he thoroughly enjoyed it.
"We are the only Black Squirrels in the world," he said with
melancholy pleasure. "We find our homes in the woods and heights of
North America, and even here we are becoming more rare, for the Red
and Grey Squirrels drive us from our haunts, and hunters trap us
for our fur."
A cry from the bushes--the indignant protest of a Scarlet Tanager,
that had been robbed by his mate of a fine fat insect--made
Feathertail dart away. Phil waited in vain for his return.
"He has gone for good--that was quite enough to frighten him,"
remarked a little clucking voice that reminded Phil of the cry of a
fluffy yellow chicken; and the daintiest little Squirrel he had yet
seen whisked out from the brushwood and sat beside him. It was the
Hackee, or Chipping Squirrel, and many a time Phil had seen him
running in and out among the bushes; for the Hackee lives on the
ground.
Now that he saw him closely, Phil noticed the beauty of the seven
stripes that ran across his brownish-grey and orange fur. Five of
these were jet-black, and two were white, tinged with flecks of
yellow; the fur on his throat and underneath him was the colour of
pure snow, and his forehead flamed with brilliant orange. He seemed
on the best of terms with himself and all the world, and his small
black eyes were full of fun and humour.
"Did Feathertail offer you any breakfast?" he asked, hopping close
to Phil.
"No."
"I thought he wouldn't. He doesn't keep such stores as we do. Come
with me."
His movements were so rapid that Phil almost lost sight of him
before he gained the stump of the hollow tree which was, so to
speak, his hall. Out of this hollow led several tunnels, down one
of which the Hackee disappeared. Phil ran after him as quickly as
he could, and with all his haste, admired the way in which his host
had formed his winding gallery. Up and down it led them, through
twists and turns that would have puzzled most Squirrels, let alone
a boy, until they reached a large snug nest made of dry moss and
grasses. It was empty, but still quite warm.
"Those young ones of mine ought to have been up and out more than
an hour ago, lazy little creatures!" chuckled the Hackee. "I tell
their mother that if they are not more independent before the new
brood comes, she will have her hands full."
Diving into another gallery, the Hackee came to a full stop. Phil's
eyes were scarcely yet used to "seeing in the dark," but he saw at
length that they were standing before a heap of nuts, with grain in
plenty, and many acorns; the Hackee had more than provided for his
wants.
"We stay in these cosy burrows all through the winter snows," he
said, "and only come out when the warm sunshine tells us that
spring is here. To do this in comfort we work very hard in the fall
to fill our storehouses with nuts and grain. This is only one of
them--we have others in different places. Help yourself, and take
as many nuts as you like," he went on hospitably. "Here--sit in
this corner, and I will crack them for you."
But Phil preferred to crack his own nuts; his teeth, though the
Beavers scorned them, were strong enough for this, he thought. They
tasted like beaked hazel nuts, but where were the beaks? The Hackee
laughed at his bewilderment.
"We carry home nuts in our cheek pouches, four at a time (Why four?
Because five would be one too many, of course!), and we are much
too sensible, as you might have guessed, to hurt ourselves by those
sharp points. We bite them off tidily before we push them into our
mouths with our fore-paws, as you will see if you watch us one day.
It is fine to be a ground Squirrel, and much safer than living in
trees. Down here we are safe from all our enemies--or almost all,"
he added in a whisper. Then his expression changed, and his sharp
ears pointed forward.
"Hark!" he cried.
"_Chip-munk-chip-munk!_" The call was echoed through the
galleries, and the Hackee's merry eyes were full of anger.
"How dare he come here!" he cried, "and calling me in that familiar
way too! I'll let him know who is master in this burrow!"
The second Hackee came joyously down the passage, heedless of
offence.
"Hallo," he cried, looking at Phil, "whom have we got here? That
Nature child? To be sure. I--"
But Hackee the First interrupted him.
"You have no business to come down here uninvited," he said,
fiercely. "I would have you know--"
Before he could finish, the other had flown at him. Their slender
tails--Phil was not at all astonished when he heard afterwards that
these sometimes were snapped across in battle--whirled round like
Catherine wheels; two small furry bodies darted backward and
forward; gleaming white teeth tried to take savage bites at soft
pink noses. It was a wonder that the Hackees found room to turn as
they did in that narrow tunnel.
Phil tried in vain to come between them; they pushed him aside as
if he were a bundle of grass, and in a second were at each other
again. He was afraid that, like the Otters, they would fight to the
death.
But the pugnacious Hackees' rage was spent as suddenly as it had
arisen. While Phil imagined they were only gathering their breath
for another attack, they had both calmed down.
"I've just been showing him round," said Hackee the First, twisting
his tail in Phil's direction.
"Seems a nice boy," said Hackee the Second, feeling Phil's nose
anxiously. "I thought I might have bitten it off just now when you
got in my way," he said to Phil with much relief, finding it was
still there. "Never come between fighting creatures, boy--it's a
thankless task."
Phil was quite sure that if he had been his usual size the Hackee
would not have chucked him under the chin in that off-hand way, but
he did not mind a bit. They were all three sitting before the
storehouse, the best of friends, when both chipping Squirrels
sprang to their feet in terrified accord, standing for a second as
if paralysed with fear. For their keen sense of smell had told them
of the approach of the one enemy they dreaded--the soft-footed,
silent Stoat.
Now came the use of those twists and turns of the winding passages.
Swift as were the movements of the Stoat, he was on strange ground,
while the Hackees knew every inch of it. His savage eyes looked
like vengeful green fire to Phil, who waited for him in the centre
of the gallery, hoping to bar his way. But the Stoat passed by him
as if he were not there, and Phil listened with dread for the
strangled cry which would mean that one of the Hackees had met his
doom. None came; the Stoat had missed a turn in the winding tunnel,
and the flying Hackees reached the hollow tree in safety. Once
there, it was easy to dive down another burrow and so baffle
pursuit, but they were two very frightened Squirrels when at last
they stopped for breath.
A DEN IN THE ROCKS
By Lillian M. Gask
The sun, like some mighty king in a fairy tale with a great gold
crown, and flowing robes of pearl and rose colour, had long since
risen above the mountain. A mist of heat hung over the valley, and
the giant fir trees at the edge of the wood were like sentinels
guarding a wonderland.
Down one of these, from which the bark had been completely
stripped, came a singular animal with rough hair, and a short tail
thickly set with quills. On seeing Phil, who had just left the home
of the Squirrels, he rapped his tail smartly against a tree, almost
dropping to the ground with fright. He recovered his balance just
in time.
"I suppose you are that child of Nature's," he remarked, gruffly,
"I am the Urson, the only Porcupine you'll find in North America,
and I eat bark because I like it. Why do I take it from the top of
the tree first? Because I prefer to work my way down. Why haven't I
more quills if I am a Porcupine? If you use your eyes, you'll see
that I am studded all over with them, though my hair is so thick
and long that they are not particularly noticeable. How fond you
are of questions! Is there anything more you want to know? I'm just
going home."
"Couldn't you stay a little while, Mr. Urson? You look so--so
interesting, and I should like to talk to you!"
The Urson showed his orange teeth in a sudden smile, and rubbed
himself against Phil's arm as al friendly cat might have done. In
spite of his crop of thick dark hair he was rather prickly, and
Phil hoped that he would not want to sit on his lap.
"You're a bright little fellow," declared the Urson; "I can't think
why they called you 'stupid.' Did you put out your quills and fight
them?"
"No,--o," Phil acknowledged reluctantly. "I--I--ran away."
"Bad thing to do as a rule, though it hasn't turned out badly for
you. When you go back, you must stand up to the boys if they tease
you, and show them you have some spirit. Don't get in a temper, you
know; but hold your own."
Phil thought it was all very well for a Porcupine full of quills to
talk so bravely; for a small boy it was quite different.
"Not at all," said the Urson, as if he had spoken his thoughts
aloud. "They would leave you alone if you did not let them see you
were so frightened. I am nervous myself, but I can keep a dog twice
my own size at bay; if he comes too near I turn my; back and give
him a taste of my tail, and a mouthful of quills into the bargain."
"Ah, but I haven't a tail, you see!" said Phil, and the Urson
remarked that as that was the case he must learn to do without.
Yawning at intervals, he told Phil how his great-great-grandfather
("a most distinguished inhabitant of this forest") had defended
himself single-handed against the attack of an American Indian,
coming off victorious in the fight, though leaving half his tail
quills in the native's hands.
"And he used them to decorate his squaw's front hair!" said the
Urson with disgust. The very thought of it made him so angry that
he erected all his own quills until he was as completely protected
as a knight in armour.
In a moment or two his anger subsided. "Would you like to see my
home?" he asked, mindful of the fact that he, in common with all
the other creatures of the wood, had been told by Nature to be kind
to Phil. He did not seem too pleased when Phil said "Yes," for he
was a most devoted father, and had heard before now of a human
being taking a liking to a young Porcupine, and carrying him off to
tame and bring up as his own. He grunted to himself under his
breath as he went along, but Phil thought this was just his way.
The Urson's den was some distance off, in the midst of a cluster of
rocks that had fallen to the valley from the mountain side. To
reach it they had to cross the wood, and the Urson's progress was
almost a royal one, for all the small wood things moved away at his
approach. He walked deliberately, as if the woods belonged to him,
and made no effort to subdue the rustling of his quills through the
long grass. A hungry-looking Weasel with malicious eyes glared at
him furtively, but came no nearer; he had "tried conclusions" with
an Urson once, and would not venture again. A sharp-nosed Fox
licked his longing lips and turned his head aside, while further on
a greyish-brown animal huddled upon the lower branch of a spreading
tree stretched out a savage paw, and drew it back. Those slender
quills were painful things when they pierced the tender places
between one's claws, and no delicious morsel behind the spears
could make up for a swollen mouth that would be sore and smarting
for days--so sore that its owner, unable to eat, might die from
sheer starvation. So the Porcupine passed under the tree in safety,
dawdling on purpose as he caught sight of the crouching figure
above him.
"That's 'Peeshoo'--the Lynx," he laughed as they moved on. "She
would make a grab at me if she dared, but she's afraid. You would
not think to look at her, would you, that a blow from a stick would
kill her at once? Yet so it is. That is because she is a coward at
heart, for all her fierceness."
A snarl of rage from "Peeshoo" told Phil that she had overheard.
"She always snarls when I move out of her reach, though she dare
not touch me," said the Urson, making himself into a bristling ball
of defiance as he heard the sound. "I do that to remind her what
she would have to face," he explained to Phil. "There's nothing
like letting one's enemies see that one is ready for them. 'Don't
attack, but always be ready to defend yourself; this is my motto,
and a good one it is."
They were out of the wood soon and in the valley. The entrance that
led to the Urson's den was so narrow that he had to make his quills
lie very flat in order to creep through, but Phil, as it always
happened, was just the right size. He was speedily introduced to
Mrs. Urson and to "my small son."
The baby Porcupine was in reality anything but "small"; Phil found
out afterwards that of all wild things he was the largest in
proportion to the size of his parents. A big furry bundle of silky
brown, his quills not yet having pushed their way through his thick
hair, Phil thought him very comfortable to nurse, and Mrs. Urson
was as pleased with his admiration of her offspring as the Lady
Ondatra had been. His father, however, was inclined to be testy.
"He's just an ordinary young Porcupine," he said; "no more, no
less. Don't put nonsense into his head, please--his mother is ready
enough to do that."
Feeling rather uncomfortable on her account, Phil turned to Mrs.
Porcupine, who did not seem in the least disturbed by her lord's
reproaches.
"He wants a little change of air, poor dear," she said to Phil in a
confidential whisper. "I expect he'll be leaving me soon--I know
the signs."
The Urson caught her whisper, and his sharp little face grew sad.
"We've been very good friends," he said, looking round at her
wistfully, "and it's a nice child; but there's something beyond
these woods which is calling--calling. I don't think that I can
stay much longer."
His mate moved close to him and touched his, nose with hers.
"You'll come back when the summer is over," she said, "and you will
find us here."
"Shall I?" returned the Urson, doubtfully, more to himself than
her. They had forgotten Phil, who was rather in the way. He was
glad when the Mother Porcupine came back to the present, and asked
him to try some fine spruce bark.
"I wish I could give you buckwheat," she remarked, "for it might be
more to your taste. You're not hungry? That's very strange. We
always are--when we're awake!" She finished her sentence with a
wide yawn, and Phil took this as a hint that she wanted to go to
sleep--which was indeed the case. He refused her kind offer of a
bed for the day, and the Urson then insisted upon showing him a
short cut through the wood. On the way he grew quite talkative.
"That's a Bee-tree," he said, as they passed a big maple with a
hollow trunk. "The Bees may thank me that the Bears have not robbed
them of their wealth long before now. That crooked branch, just
half-way up, is a favourite resting-place of mine, and I allow no
trespassing. If a Bear appears and begins to climb with the idea of
scooping out honey from the entrance some feet higher, I go to meet
him; Bears have tender noses, and don't care for quills. So they
growl a bit and go down more quickly than they came up ... I
wouldn't part with my quills for the strongest teeth in the world."
"Your own teeth seem a very good size," said Phil, taking a look at
them.
"They're not so bad," said the Urson, modestly. "But I use them
chiefly for stripping bark from the trees. As weapons of defence
they would not serve me, for if I tried to bite I should expose my
throat and nose, which are the unprotected parts of my body. If
ever you see me asleep, you will notice that I hide my head between
my forepaws; never expose your weak spot, you know!"
They had come to an open space, and the sun shone down upon them
with glowing ardour; the Urson thought of his cool dark den, and
hastily wished Phil "good-bye."
"There's 'Peeshoo' again," he said. "Have a chat with her if you
like, but don't tell her where I live, or about my son. He's too
young to show fight yet. Good day to you."
He walked off in that precise, deliberate way of his, but Phil was
not to be left alone. The Lynx that he had caught sight of on the
branch of the tree some time ago had been awaiting her opportunity,
and came running towards him with a series of noiseless bounds. Her
back was arched, and her feet outspread; she was not unlike a
long-bodied and heavily-built cat, Phil thought, though her
peculiar erect ears, tipped by an upright tuft of coarse black
bristles, proclaimed her at once as the Lynx of North America, of
which the Beavers had already told him. Her powerful feet were
furnished with large white claws, almost hidden in her thick fur;
her face was round, and her eyes as sharp and piercing as those of
all her kind. She reached Phil's side as silently as if she were
shod with velvet, and greeted him as if she had not seen him
before.
"Come and sit by me, you lonely little fellow," she purred.
"No--you needn't be frightened. ('I wasn't,' said Phil.) The only
creatures that are afraid of me are the Hares and Foxes, and if I
didn't eat them they would soon overrun the whole place; I do it
out of kindness, you know."
She had seated herself on the ground as she was speaking, and made
a soft and comfortable heap of fur. But Phil, though he, too, felt
sleepy in the warm sunshine, was both to do as she suggested and
use her back as a cushion.
"I've been very unjustly blamed," she began in a plaintive voice,
when she had asked him what colour he thought her eyes, and whether
he considered her fur becoming. "Settlers say that I am in the
habit of dropping from trees on to the backs of Deer, and tearing
their throats. They must mistake the Puma for me,--isn't it too
bad?"
"Much too bad," agreed Phil, though he wondered a little if she
were as innocent as she would have him believe. It was only
politeness that kept him beside her, for he wanted to play with the
Squirrels, who were much more to his liking. He could see one now
beckoning to him from a great maple, as if he was very anxious to
tell him something that he had heard. With a great effort Phil
turned his attention to "Peeshoo"; she was talking of the
Wolverene, which he could see that she did not love.
"He was so abominably greedy," she said, "and Wanted our share as
well as his own. Quite early this morning he was after one of my
Hares; it was a remarkably active little creature, and soon left
him in the lurch. He caught a Rabbit or two and a few Birds, and
might have been satisfied with those. But no--he wanted something
larger, and ventured so near the mountains that a Grizzly Bear, who
had strolled down to see what these woods were like, found him
nosing about his breakfast, which he had just killed. What he said
to the Grizzly I don't know, but it couldn't have pleased him, for
with a single blow of his heavy paw the great Bear struck him down.
That Wolverene will never try to rob me of my Hares again!"
"Was he _quite_ killed?" Phil asked her anxiously, and
"Peeshoo" smiled an ugly smile that showed her teeth and made Phil
draw away from her.
"Don't you know yet what the paw of a big Grizzly is, child? It
would kill a man, let alone an animal like the Wolverene. I keep
out of the way of the Grizzlies myself--I find it wiser, and so
will you."
But Phil knew well that even a Grizzly would not harm him, and he
had always been fond of Bears. Some day he would go and see them;
they were brave creatures, at any rate, and could tell him much
that he longed to know.
"Peeshoo" talked on, but he scarcely heard her. So the Wolverene
had been killed himself, instead of killing the Beavers, and for
the present at least they would be safe. How glad Father Beaver
would be, he thought; it was good news this time that he had to
tell him, and as soon as he could get rid of "Peeshoo" he would
hasten back to the colony. He did not mention the Beavers to her,
for he thought it quite possible that she might eat other small
animals besides Foxes and Hares; and he was learning to be very
careful not to injure his friends.
When "Peeshoo's" hunger grew stronger than her interest in her
companion, Phil and she parted company. Phil went straight to the
river, and followed its course until he came to the Beavers'
dome-shaped houses. Of the Beavers themselves there was no sign.
"I'll explore one of their tunnels," thought Phil. He dived into
the river, using his right leg instead of a tail to splash the
water as the Beavers did, and soon found a Beaver's hole.
"Anyone at home?" he sang out gaily, as he ran through the tunnel's
twists and turns.
"We're here!" cried Mother Beaver from its innermost recesses; and
there Phil found her with her young ones, looking most forlorn.
"What is the matter?" he asked, for he had never seen her so
distressed. She was shaking all over as she told him, and her voice
was broken with sobs.