THE SNOWHOUSE BABY
There had been a film of glass-clear ice that morning all round the
shores of Silverwater. It had melted as the sun climbed high into the
bland October blue; but in the air remained, even at midday, a crispness,
a tang, which set the Child's blood tingling. He drew the spicy breath
of the spruce forests as deep as possible into his little lungs, and
outraged the solemn silences with shouts and squeals of sheer ecstasy,
which Uncle Andy had not the heart to suppress. Then, all at once, he
remembered what the thrilling air, the gold and scarlet of the trees, the
fairy ice films, the whirr of the partridge wings, and the sharp cries of
the bluejays all meant. It meant that soon Uncle Andy would take him
back to town, the cabin under the hemlock would be boarded up. Bill the
Guide would go off to the lumber camps beyond the Ottanoonsis, and
Silverwater would be left to the snow and the solitude of winter. His
heart tightened with homesickness. Yet, after all, he reflected, during
the months of cold his beloved Silverwater would be none too friendly a
place, especially to such of the little furred and feathered folk as were
bold enough to linger about its shores. He shivered as he thought of the
difference winter must make to all the children of the wild.
"Why so solemn all of a sudden?" asked Uncle Andy, eyeing him
suspiciously. "I thought a minute ago you'd take the whole roof off the
forest an' scare the old bull moose across the lake into shedding his new
antlers."
"I was just thinking," answered the Child.
"And does it hurt?" inquired Uncle Andy politely.
But, young as he was, the Child had learned to ignore sarcasm--especially
Uncle Andy's, which he seldom understood.
"I was just wondering," he replied, shaking his head thoughtfully, "what
the young ones of all the wild creatures would do in the winter to keep
warm. Bill says they all go to sleep. But I don't see how _that_ keeps
them warm, Uncle Andy."
"Oh, _Bill_!" remarked Uncle Andy, in a tone which stripped all Bill's
statements of the last shreds of authority. "But, as a matter of fact,
there _aren't_ many youngsters around in the woods in winter--not enough
for you to be looking so solemn about. They're mostly born early enough
in spring and summer to be pretty well grown up by the time winter comes
on them."
"Gee!" murmured the Child enviously. "I wish I could get grown up as
quick as that."
Uncle Andy sniffed.
"There are lots of people besides you," said he, "that don't know when
they're well off. But," he continued, seating himself on Bill's chopping
log and meditatively cleaning out his pipe bowl with a bit of chip,
"there _are_ some youngsters who have a fashion of getting themselves
born right in the worst of the cold weather--and that not here in
Silverwater neither, but way up north, where weather is weather, let me
tell you--where it gets so cold that, if you were foolish enough to cry,
the tears would all freeze instantly, till your eyes were shut up in a
regular ice jam."
"I wouldn't cry," declared the Child.
"No? But I don't want you to interrupt me any more."
"Of course not," said the Child politely. Uncle Andy eyed him
searchingly, and then decided to go on.
"Away up north," he began abruptly--and paused to light his pipe--"away
up north, as I was saying, it was just midwinter. It was also
midnight--which, in those latitudes, is another way of saying the same
thing. The land as far as eye could see in every direction was flat,
dead white, and smooth as a table, except for the long curving windrows
into which the hard snow had been licked up by weeks of screaming wind.
Just now the wind was still. The sky was like black steel sown with
diamonds, and the stars seemed to snap under the terrific cold. Suddenly
their bitter sparkle faded, and a delicate pale green glow spread itself,
opening like a fan, till it covered half the heavens. Almost immediately
the center of the base of the fan rolled itself up till the strange light
became an arch of intense radiance, the green tint shifting rapidly to
blue-white, violet, gold, and cherry rose. A moment more and the still
arch broke up into an incalculable array of upright spears of light,
pointing toward the zenith, and dancing swiftly from side to side with a
thin, mysterious rustle. They danced so for some minutes, ever changing
color, till suddenly they all melted back into the fan-shaped glow. And
the glow remained, throbbing softly as if breathless, uncertain whether
to die away or to go through the whole performance again."
"I know--" began the Child, but checked himself at once with a
deprecating glance of apology.
"Except for the dancing wonder of the light," continued Uncle Andy,
graciously pretending not to hear the interruption, "nothing stirred in
all that emptiness of naked space. Of life there was not the least sign
anywhere. This appeared the very home of death and intolerable cold.
Yet at one spot, between two little, almost indistinguishable ridges of
snow, might have been noticed a tiny wisp of vapor. If one had put his
face down close to the snow, so that the vapor came between his eyes and
the light, he would have made it out quite distinctly. And it would have
certainly seemed very puzzling that anything like steam should be coming
up out of that iron-bound expanse."
Now the Child had once seen, in the depth of winter, a wreath of mist
arising from the snowy rim of an open spring, and for the life of him he
could not hold his tongue.
"It was a boiling spring," he blurted out.
Uncle Andy gazed at him for some seconds in a disconcerting silence, till
the Child felt himself no bigger than a minute.
"It was a bear," he announced at length coldly. Then he was silent again.
And the Child, mortified at having made such a bad guess, was silent too,
in spite of his pangs of curiosity at this startling assertion.
"You see," went on Uncle Andy, after he was satisfied that the Child was
not going to interrupt again, at least for the moment, "you see, under
those two ridges of frozen snow there was a little cavern-like crevice in
the rock. It was sheltered perfectly from those terrific winds which
sometimes for days together would drive screaming over the levels. And
in this crevice, at the first heavy snowfall, a big white bear had curled
herself up to sleep.
"She had had a good hunting season, with plenty of seals and salmon to
eat, and she was fat and comfortable. Though very drowsy, she did not go
quite to sleep at once, but for several days, in a dreamy half-doze, she
kept from time to time turning about and rearranging her bed. All the
time the snow was piling down into the crevice, till at last it was level
full and firmly packed. And in the meantime the old bear, in her sleepy
turnings, had managed to make herself a sort of snowhouse--decidedly
narrow, indeed, but wonderfully snug in its way. There was no room to
take exercise, of course, but that, after all, was about the last thing
she was thinking of. A day or two more and she was too fast asleep to do
anything but breathe.
"The winter deepened, and storm after storm scourged the naked plain; and
the snow fell endlessly, till the snowhouse was buried away fairly out of
remembrance. The savage cold swept down noiselessly from outer space,
till, if there had been any such things as thermometers up there, the
mercury would have been frozen hard as steel and the thin spirit to a
sticky, ropy syrup. But even such cold as that could not get down to the
hidden snow-house where the old bear lay so sound asleep."
The Child wagged his head wistfully at the picture, and then cheered
himself with the resolve to build just such a snowhouse in the back yard
that winter--if only there should fall enough snow. But he managed to
hold his tongue about it.
"Just about the middle of the winter," went on Uncle Andy, after a pause
to see if the Child was going to interrupt him again, "the old bear began
to stir a little. She grumbled, and whimpered, and seemed to be having
uneasy dreams for a day or two. At last she half woke up--or perhaps a
little more than half. Then a little furry cub was born to her. She was
just about wide enough awake to tell him how glad she was to see him and
have him with her, and to lick him tenderly for a while, and to get him
nursing comfortably. When she had quite satisfied herself that he was a
cub to do her credit, she dozed off to sleep again without any anxiety
whatever. You see, there was not the least chance of his being stolen,
or falling downstairs, or getting into any mischief whatever. And that
was where she had a great advantage over lots of mothers whom we could,
think of if we tried."
"But what made the steam, Uncle Andy?" broke in the Child, somewhat
irrelevantly. He had a way, sometimes rather exasperating to the
narrator, of never forgetting the loose ends in a narrative, and of
calling attention to them at unexpected moments.
"Can't you see that for yourself?" grunted Uncle Andy impatiently. "It
was breath. Try to think for yourself a little. Well, as I was trying
to say, there was nothing much for the cub to do in the snowhouse but
nurse, sleep, and grow. To these three important but not exciting
affairs he devoted himself entirely. Neither to him nor to his big white
mother did it matter in the least whether the long Arctic gales roared
over their unseen roof, or the unimaginable Arctic cold groped for them
with noiseless fingers. Neither foe could reach them in their warm
refuge. Nothing at all, indeed, could find them, except, once in a
while, when the Northern Lights were dancing with unusual brilliance
across the sky, a dim, pallid glow, which would filter down through the
snow and allow the cub's eyes (if they happened to be open at the time)
to make out something of his mother's gigantic white form.
"For the youngster of so huge a mother, the snowhouse baby was quite
absurdly small. But this defect, by sticking closely to his business, he
remedied with amazing rapidity. In fact, if his mother had cared to stay
awake long enough to watch, she could fairly have seen him grow. But, of
course, this growth was all at his mother's expense, seeing that he had
no food except her milk. So as he grew bigger and fatter, she grew
thinner and lanker, till you would hardly have recognized this long,
gaunt, white fur bag of bones for the plump beast of the previous autumn.
"But all passes--even an Arctic winter. The sun began to make short
daily trips across the horizon. It got higher and higher, and hotter and
hotter. The snow began to melt, crumble, shrink upon itself. Up to
within a couple of hundred yards of the hidden snowhouse, what had seemed
to be solid land broke up and revealed itself as open sea, crowded with
huge ice cakes, and walrus, and seals. Sea birds came splashing and
screaming. And a wonderful thrill awoke in the air.
"That thrill got down into the snowhouse--the roof of which was by this
time getting much thinner. The cub found himself much less sleepy. He
grew restless. He wanted to stretch his sturdy little legs to find out
what they were good for. His mother, too, woke up. She found herself so
hungry that there was no temptation to go to sleep again. Moreover, it
was beginning to feel too warm for comfort--that is, for a polar bear's
comfort, not for yours or mine--in the snowhouse. She got up and shook
herself. One wall of the snowhouse very civilly gave way a bit, allowing
her more room. But the roof, well supported by the rock, still held.
The snowhouse was full of a beautiful pale-blue light.
"Just at this particular moment a little herd of walrus--two old bulls
and four cows with their fat, oily-looking calves--came sprawling,
floundering and grunting by. They were quite out of place on land, of
course, but for some reason known only to themselves they were crossing
over the narrow neck of low ground from another bay, half a mile away.
Perhaps the ice pack had been jammed in by wind and current on that side,
filling the shallow bay to the bottom and cutting the walrus off from
their feeding grounds. If not that, then it was some other equally
urgent reason, or the massive beasts, who can move on land only by a
series of violent and exhausting flops, would never have undertaken an
enterprise so formidable as a half-mile overland journey. They were
accomplishing it, however, with a vast deal of groaning and wheezing and
deep-throated grunting, when they arrived at the end of the crevice
wherein the snowhouse baby and his mother were concealed.
"Lifting their huge, whiskered and tusked heads, and plunging forward
laboriously on their awkward nippers, the two old bulls went by, followed
by the ponderous cows with their lumpy, rolling calves. The hindermost
cow, a few feet to the right of the herd, came so close to the end of the
crevice that the edge of the snow gave way and her left nipper slipped
into it, throwing her forward upon her side. As she struggled to recover
herself, close beside her the snow was heaved up, and a terrible,
grinning white head emerged, followed by gigantic shoulders and huge,
claw-armed, battling paws.
"This sudden and dreadful apparition startled the walrus cow into new
vigor, so that with a convulsive plunge she tore herself free of the
pitfall. For a couple of seconds the old bear towered above her, with
sagacious eyes taking in the whole situation. Then, judiciously ignoring
the mother, she sprang over her, treading her down into the snow, fell
upon the fat calf, and with one tremendous buffet broke its neck.
"With a hoarse roar of grief and fury the cow wheeled upon her haunches,
reared her sprawling bulk aloft, and tried to throw herself upon the
slayer. The bear nimbly avoided the shock, and whirled round to see
where her cub was. Blinking at the light and dazed by the sudden uproar,
but full of curiosity, he was just crawling up out of the ruins of the
snowhouse. His mother dragged him forth by the scruff of the neck, and
with a heave of one paw sent him rolling over and over along the snow, a
dozen paces out of danger. At the same time something in her savage
growls conveyed to him a first lesson in that wholesome fear which it is
so well for the children of the wild to learn early. As he pulled
himself together and picked himself up he was still full of curiosity,
but at the same time he realized the absolute necessity for keeping out
of the way of something, whatever it was.
"He soon saw what it was. At the cry of the bereaved mother the two
great walrus bulls had turned. Now, with curious, choked roars, which
seemed to tear their way with difficulty out of their deep chests, they
came floundering back to the rescue. The cub, a sure instinct asserting
itself at once, looked behind him to see that the path of escape was
clear. Then he sat up on his haunches, his twinkling little eyes
shifting back and forth between those mighty oncoming bulks and the long,
gaunt, white form of his mother.
"For perhaps half a minute the old bear stood her ground, dodging the
clumsy but terrific onslaughts of the cow, and dealing her two or three
buffets which would have smashed in the skeleton of any creature less
tough than a walrus or an elephant. But she had no notion of risking her
health and the future of her baby by cultivating any more intimate
acquaintance with those two roaring mountains of blubber which were
bearing down upon her. When they were within just one more crashing
plunge, she briskly drew aside, whirled about, and trotted off to join
her cub. They were really so clumsy and slow, those walruses, that she
hardly cared to hurry.
"For a few yards the two bulls pursued her; so she and the cub strolled
off together to a distance of some fifty paces, and there halted to see
what would happen next. Even creatures so dull-witted as those walrus
bulls could see they would waste their time if they undertook to chase
bears on dry land, so they turned back, grumbling under their long tusks,
and joined the cow in inspecting the body of the dead calf. Soon coming
to the conclusion that it was quite too dead to be worth bothering about,
they all three went floundering on after the other cows, who had by this
time got their own calves safely down to the water, and were swimming
about anxiously, as if they feared that the enemy might follow them even
into their own element. Then, after as brief an interval as discretion
seemed to require, the old bear led the way back, sniffed at the body of
the fat walrus calf, and crouched down beside it with a long _woof_ of
deepest satisfaction. For it is not often, let me tell you, that a polar
bear, ravenous after her long winter's fast, is lucky enough to make a
kill like that just at the very moment of coming out of her den."
Uncle Andy knocked the ashes out of his pipe with that air of finality
which the Child knew so well, and sometimes found so disappointing'.
"But what became of the snowhouse baby?" he urged.
"Oh," replied Uncle Andy, getting up from the chopping-log, "you see, he
was no longer a snowhouse baby, because the snowhouse was all smashed up,
and also rapidly melting. Moreover, it was no longer winter, you know;
so he was just like lots of other wild babies, and went about getting
into trouble, and getting out again, and growing up, till at last, when
he was almost half as big as herself and _perfectly_ well able to take
care of himself, his mother chased him away and went off to find another
snowhouse."