THE LITTLE VILLAGER AND HIS UNFRIENDLY GUESTS
Across the still surface of Silverwater, a-gleam in the amber and
violet dusk, came a deep booming call, hollow and melancholy and
indescribably wild. _Tooh-hoo-oo-whooh-ooh-oo_, and again
_whooh-ooh-ooh-oo_, it sounded; and though the evening was warm the
Child gave a little shiver of delicious awe, as he always did when he
heard the sunset summons of the great horned owl.
"That's a bad fellow for you, the Big Horned Owl," growled Uncle Andy.
"He's worse than a weasel, and that's a hard thing to say about any of
the wild folk. He's everybody's enemy, and always ready to kill much
more than he can eat."
"_Some_ owls aren't bad," suggested the Child. He had a soft spot in
his heart for owls, because they were so downy, and had such round
faces and such round eyes, and looked as if they thought of such
wonderful, mysterious things which they would never tell.
"How do you know that?" demanded Uncle Andy suspiciously. "Mind, I'm
not saying off-hand that it isn't so, but I'd like to know where you
get your information."
"Bill told me," said the Child, with more confidence in his tones than
he usually accorded to this authority.
"Oh, Bill!" sniffed Uncle Andy. "And haven't you got used to Billy's
fairy stories yet?"
There was an obstinate look in the Child's earnest blue eyes which
showed that this time the imaginative guide had told him a tale which
he was unwilling to discredit.
"I know very well, Uncle Andy," said he with a judicial air, "that Bill
loves to yarn, and often pretends to know a lot of things that aren't
so. But I think he's telling the truth this time. He said he was.
It's a little owl that lives out West on the big sandy plains. And it
makes its nest in holes on the ground. It knows how to dig these holes
itself, you know; but it can't dig them half, or a quarter, so well as
the prairie dogs can. So it gets the prairie dogs to let it live in
their big, comfortable burrows; and in return for this hospitality it
kills and eats some of the rattlesnakes, the very small ones, I
suppose, of course, which come round among the burrows looking for the
young prairie dogs. Well, you know, Uncle Andy, Bill has been out West
himself, and he's seen the villages of the prairie dogs, and the little
owls sitting on the tops of the hillocks which are on the roofs of the
prairie dogs' houses, and the rattlesnakes coiled up here and there in
the hot, sunny hollows. There were lots and lots of the prairie dogs,
millions and millions of them, Bill said."
"There'd have been still more if it hadn't been for the little owls,"
said Uncle Andy with a grin. But seeing a grieved look on the Child's
face, and remembering that he himself was none too fond of having his
narratives broken in upon, he hastened to add politely, but pointedly,
"I beg your pardon for interrupting. Please go on!"
"Well, as I was going to say," continued the Child, in quite his
Uncle's manner, "Bill saw--he saw them himself, with his own
eyes--these millions and thousands of prairie dogs, and quite a lot of
the little owls, and only just a very few of the rattlesnakes. So, you
see, it looks as if the owls must have eaten some of the snakes, and,
anyhow, I think Bill was telling the truth _this_ time."
"Well," said Uncle after puffing at his pipe for a few complimentary
moments of reflection, "there's one important thing which Bill appears
to have neglected. He doesn't seem to have inquired the views of the
prairie dogs on the subject. Now, if he'd got _their_ opinion--"
"But how _could_ he?" protested the Child reproachfully. He was always
troubled when Uncle Andy displayed anything like a frivolous strain.
"To be sure! To be sure! You _couldn't_ have expected that of Bill,"
agreed Uncle Andy. "Still, you know, the opinion of the prairie dogs
would have been interesting, wouldn't it? Well, I'll tell you a story
just as soon as I can get this old pipe to draw properly, and then you
can judge the opinion of the prairie dogs as to whether the Little
Burrowing Owl is 'good' or not. If their opinion does not agree with
Bill's, why you can choose for yourself between the two."
"Prairie Dog Village was of considerable size, covering as it did
perhaps a dozen acres of the dry, light prairie soil. Its houses were
crowded together without any regard to order or arrangement, and so
closely as to suggest that their owners imagined land was scarce in the
neighborhood. It wasn't. For hundreds of miles in every direction the
plains stretched away to the dim horizon. There was room everywhere,
nothing much, in fact, _but_ room, with a little coarse grass and
plenty of clear air. But the population went in for crowding by
preference, and didn't care a cactus whether it was hygienic or not.
"The houses were ail underground, each with a rounded hillock of earth
beside its front door; and the size of these hillocks was an indication
of the size of the houses beneath, for they were all formed by the
earth brought to the surface in the process of excavating the rooms and
passages. On the tops of these hillocks the owners sat up in the sun
to bark and chatter and gossip with their nearest neighbors, always
ready to dive headlong down their front doors, with a twinkling of
their hind feet, at the approach of danger,
"But if the village was large, the Little Villager himself was
decidedly small. Some twelve or fifteen inches in length from the tip
of his innocent-looking nose to the end of his short and quite
undistinguished-looking tail, he seldom had occasion to stretch himself
out to his full length, and therefore he seldom got the credit of such
inches as he actually possessed. His ears were short and rounded, his
eyes were large, softly bright, and as innocent-looking as his nose.
His body was plump and rounded, and he looked almost as much a baby
when quite grown up as he had looked when he was still a responsibility
to his talkative little mother. In color he was of a grayish-brown on
top, and of a dingy white underneath, with a black tip to his tail to
give a finish which his costume would otherwise have lacked.
"Except for unimportant variations in size, there was perhaps some
hundreds of thousands of others, just like the Little Villager, sitting
on their hillocks, or popping in and out of their round doorways, and
chattering and barking in shrill chorus under the pale blue dome of a
lovely sky. But on the hillock next door to the Little Villager sat no
garrulous, furry gossip like himself. That mound top was deserted.
But at its foot, curled up and basking in the still blaze of the sun,
close beside the doorway, lay a thick-bodied, dusty-colored rattler,
the intricate markings on his back dimmed as if by too much light and
heat. His venomous, triangular head, with the heavy jaw base that
showed great poison pockets, lay flat on his coils, and he had the
lazy, well-fed appearance of one who does not have to forage for his
meals. Here and there, scattered at wide intervals throughout the
village, were to be seen other rattlers, of all sizes, from foot-long
youngsters up to stout fellows over a yard in length, either basking in
the hollows or lazily wriggling their way between the hillocks. They
seemed to pay no attention whatever to the furry villagers; for a
rattler likes to make a huge meal when he's about it, and therefore
does not bother often about the, to him, rather laborious process of
dining. The villagers, on their part, also seemed to pay little
attention to the snakes; except that those who chanced to be foraging
on the coarse herbage which grew between the hillocks always got out of
the way with alacrity if a wriggling form approached, and not one of
the coiled baskers ever woke up and shifted its position but that a
hundred pairs of bright, innocent eyes would be fixed upon it until its
intentions became quite clear.
"The Little Villager, who had just come out of his burrow, sat straight
up on his hind-quarters, on the top of his hillock, with his forepaws
hanging meekly over his breast, and glared all about him to see if any
danger was in sight. The big rattler beside the door of the next
hillock underwent his careful scrutiny, which convinced him that the
reptile had recently made a good meal, and would not be dangerous until
he had slept it off. Then he glanced skyward. A great hawk was
winging its way up from the southern horizon, almost invisible in the
strong, direct glare, but the Little Villager's keen eyes detected it.
He barked a warning, and the sharp signal went around from hillock to
hillock; and in half a minute all the big, babyish eyes were fixed upon
the approach of the skying marauder. Everybody chattered about it
shrilly till the hawk was straight over the village. Then suddenly the
noise was hushed. The great bird half folded its wings and swooped,
the air making a hissing hum in its rigid pinion tips. The swoop was
lightning swift, but even swifter was the disappearance of the Little
Villager, and of all his neighbors for fifty feet about him. Before
the hawk reached earth they had dropped into their burrows.
"Checking himself abruptly, the hawk flew on over the tops of the
hillocks, making unexpected zigzag rushes to right and left. But
wherever he went, there the villagers had vanished, almost as if the
wind of his approach had whisked them away. Baffled and indignant, he
at last gave up the hope of a dinner of prairie dog, and dropped on a
small rattler which was too sluggish from overeating to have noticed
that there was any particular excitement in the village. Gripping the
reptile in inexorable talons just behind its head, the great bird bit
its backbone through, carried it to the nearest hillock, and proceeded
to tear it to pieces. Calmly he made his meal, glancing around with
eyes glassy hard and fiercely arrogant, while from every burrow in the
neighborhood round, innocent heads peered forth, barking insult and
defiance. They were willing enough that the rattler should be
destroyed, but they wished the hawk to understand that his continued
presence in the villages was not desired. Of the two foes, they
preferred the rattler, to whose methods of administering fate they had
grown so accustomed that they could regard them with something like
philosophy, especially where only a neighborhood was concerned. But
the hawk's attack was so abrupt and violent as to be upsetting to the
nerves of the whole village.
"When the hawk had finished his meal and wiped his beak on the hard
earth he flew off; and long before he was out of sight all the furry
householders were out on top of their hillocks and chattering at the
tops of their voices about the affair. The Little Villager himself,
having been first to give the alarm, was particularly excited and
important. But even he managed to calm himself down after a while.
And then, feeling hungry from excess of emotion, he descended from his
hillock and fell to nibbling grass stems.
"He had been but a few minutes at this engrossing occupation when from
the door of a nearby burrow popped suddenly a small brown owl. The
bird appeared with a haste which seemed to ruffle its dignity
considerably. It was followed at once by its mate. The two blinked in
the strong light, and turned to peer down the hole from which they
emerged, as if expecting to be followed. They were snapping their
strong hooked beaks like castanets, and hissing indignantly. But
nothing more came out of the hole. They glared about them for several
minutes with their immense, round, fiercely bright eyes. Then, lifting
themselves like blown thistledown, with one waft of their broad, downy
wings they floated over to the door of the Little Villager's burrow.
They looked at it. They looked at the Little Villager where he sat
holding a half-nibbled grass stem between his paws. They snapped their
beaks once more, with angry decision, and with two or three awkward,
scuttling steps, like a parrot walking on the floor of his cage, they
plunged down, quite uninvited, into the burrow.
"The Little Villager sat just where he was for perhaps half a minute,
barking with indignation. Then he followed the impertinent visitors.
As he entered he heard a confused sound of shrill, angry chattering,
explosive hissing, and savage snapping of beaks. Being able to see
quite comfortably in the gloom, he distinguished his companion, the
lady villager who was at that time occupying the burrow with him, doing
her best to make the visitors understand that they were not welcome.
Her language might have seemed clear enough. She made little rushes at
them with open mouth and gnashing teeth, and her tones were just as
unpleasant as she knew how to make them. But the guests confronted her
with claws and beaks so ready and so formidable that she did not like
to come to close quarters.
"Nor, indeed, when the Little Villager himself arrived was the
situation very much altered. One of the owls turned and faced him,
whereupon he, too, lost his resolution and confined himself to threats.
The two owls, for their part, seemed to consider it wise to stand on
the defensive rather than to force a battle to a finish with their
unwilling hosts. For some minutes, therefore, the war of threats and
bad language went on, without fur or feathers actually flying. Then at
last the Little Villager, who was by nature an easy-going, unresentful
soul, chanced to glance aside from his adversary; and it flashed into
his mind that, after all, there was some room to spare in the burrow.
Anyhow, he was tired of the argument. He turned away indifferently and
began to nibble at some tough grass stems which he had brought down in
case of a rainy day. Seeing him thus yield the point at issue, his
mate was not going to fight it out alone. She, too, turned her back
with ostentatious indifference upon her rude guests, and went out and
sat on the top of the hillock to let her feelings calm down. The pair
of owls, well satisfied to have forced themselves upon the Little
Villager's hospitality, huddled together in their own corner, and
resumed the nap which had been so unpleasantly interrupted in their
previous residence."
"What was it that interrupted?" broke in the Child, glad that it was
not he that could be accused of it, _that_ time. "What was it that
drove them out of their own burrow in such a hurry?"
"It was a big rattlesnake," answered Uncle Andy, quite politely,
remembering that he himself had recently been guilty of an
interruption. "I ought to have explained that before, but I was
interested in the Little Villager and forgot it. It was a big
rattlesnake which had got tired of its old hole and taken a fancy to
that of the owls. So the owls had had nothing to do but get out,
without even a half-minute to talk over the matter. And hating to stay
out in the full glare of the sun, which was very hard on their eyes,
they had invited themselves to live with the Little Villager just
because his house was the first they came to.
"All the rest of the day the Little Villager and his companion were
extremely discontented. Their burrow was a very roomy and comfortable
one, but it was spoiled for them by the presence of those two
moon-eyed, hook-beaked, solemn persons sitting side by side in the
opposite corner. So they spent most of their time outside on the
hillock, gossiping about it to their neighbors, who were extremely
interested and full of suggestions, but showed no inclination whatever
to come and help turn the intruders out. That was a thing which had
never been attempted in their village, and the prairie dogs were not
noted for their initiative. In learning to get together and live in
villages they had apparently exhausted it all. They were always ready
to chatter, from morning to night, about anything, and protest against
it, and declare that it must not be permitted, but they always shirked
the bother of united action, even to suppress the most dangerous and
destructive of nuisances.
"When evening came, however, they had the house to themselves. The
owls, getting lively as the sunset colors faded from the sky, scuttled
forth and sat up side by side on the top of the hillock. As soon as it
was full night, and the stars had come out clear and large in the
deeply crystalline sky, they began hovering hither and thither on their
wide, soundless wings, hunting the tiny prairie mice, which swarmed
among the hillocks after dark.
"While they were thus pleasantly occupied, the Little Villager and his
companion had an idea. It was not a very usual thing with them, and
they hastened to act upon it lest it should get away. They proceeded
to block up their entrance tunnel about three feet from the door. They
packed the earth hard, and made a good job of it, and flattered
themselves that their guests would not get in in a hurry, even if they
were pretty good burrowers themselves. Then at the extreme opposite
corner of their central chamber they tunneled a new passageway, which
brought them out quite on the other side of the hillock. This done,
they felt very pleased with themselves, and settled down for a
well-earned sleep, curled up in a furry ball together.
"At daybreak the owls came home. Confidently they ducked their big,
round heads and dived down the old entrance, only to be brought up with
a bump when they had gone about three feet. Out they came in a rage,
fluffing their feathers and snapping their beaks, and stood on each
side of the hole to talk the affair over. First, one and then the
other reentered to investigate. They found it quite inexplicable.
They felt sure this _was_ the way they had previously entered--so sure,
in fact, that again and again they tried it, only growing more and more
puzzled and indignant with each attempt. Finally they came to the
conclusion that they must have made some mistake. They scuttled
solemnly round the hillock, and came upon the new entrance. Ah, of
course, they _had_ been mistaken. Their indignation vanished. They
scurried in cheerfully, one hard upon the other's tail, and took up
their place in their adopted corner. The Little Villager and his mate
opened disgusted eyes upon them for a second, then went to sleep again,
relinquishing all thought of further protest.
"After this, for a time, there was perfect peace in the house, the
peace of mutual aversion. Hosts and guests ignored each other
scrupulously. But after a while a family was born to the Little
Villager, a litter of absurd, blind, tiny whimperers, all heads and
hungry mouths. The two owls were immensely interested at once, but
their efforts to show their interest were met by such an astonishing
display of ferocity on the part of both the Little Villager and his
mate that they discreetly withdrew their advances and once more kept
strictly to themselves. They knew their business, these owls; and they
knew they would lose nothing in the long run by a little temporary
forbearance. They were well aware, from past experience with prairie
dogs, that the vigilance of the happy parents would relax in course of
time, and that all the while the little ones, growing larger and
plumper every day, would be getting better worth the interest of an
appreciative owl.
"The event proved they were right. As the days went by, and the young
ones grew lively and independent, the Little Villager and his mate grew
less and less anxious about them. Their soft eyes now wide open, they
would leave the nest and wander about the burrow, in spite of all that
their mother or their father (whichever happened to be in charge at the
time) could do to prevent them. There were so many of them, moreover,
that it was quite impossible to keep an eye on them all at once.
"Late one afternoon, in that debatable time when the owls in their
corner were just beginning to wake up, two of the youngsters ran over
quite near them. The temptation was irresistible. There was a light
pounce, a light squeak instantly strangled, and _one_ of the
youngsters, badly frightened, ran back to the mother. The other
remained, limp and motionless, in the owl's corner, with a set of
steel-like talons clutching it.
"The mother started to the rescue boldly. But the moment she left the
rest of the litter the second owl hopped over toward them. She paused
in an agony of irresolution. Then she turned and scurried back. She
could not sacrifice all for the sake of one. But as she gathered the
survivors to her she barked and chattered furious defiance at the
murderer. Her clatter brought down the Little Villager himself, and
together they hurled all the insults they could think of at the owl,
who, however, calmly turned his feathery back upon them and proceeded
to devour his easy prey.
"For some days there was renewed vigilance, and the little ones kept
close to their parents' side. But the memory of a prairie dog,
especially of a young prairie dog, is distinctly short. Soon there was
more wandering from the nest, and then a lot of childish racing about
the floor of the burrow. Again a youngster went too near the owls'
corner and remained there. This time there was no fuss about it,
because the slaughter was accomplished quite silently, and the mother
did not happen to see. After this there would never be more than two
or three days go by without the sudden disappearance of one or another
of the litter, which, after all, kept the burrow from becoming too
crowded. The youngsters were getting so big by now that their parents
began to lose all interest in them. It became time for them to be
weaned. But as the interest of the owls had been increasing as that of
the parents diminished, it happened by this time that there was not one
left to wean. So the duty of the furry little mother, with her silly
nose and her big, childish eyes, was singularly simplified. It was no
use making more trouble with her unfriendly guests over a matter that
was now past remedy. So all was overlooked, and the burrow settled
down once more to the harmony of mutual aversion."
Uncle Andy stopped and proceeded to refill his pipe, waiting for the
Child's verdict. The Child's face wore the grieved look of one who has
had an illusion shattered.
"I shan't ever believe a word Bill tells me again," said he, with
injured decision.
"Oh," said Uncle Andy, "you mustn't go so far as that. Bill tells lots
of interesting things that are true enough as far as they go. You must
learn to discriminate."
The Child did not know what "discriminate" meant, and he was at the
moment too depressed to ask. But he resolved firmly to learn it,
whatever it was, rather than be so deceived again.