[_Why should the popular magazines monopolise all the tragic animal
sketches? Mr. PUNCH'S menagerie is just as ferocious._]
Silence reigned in the woods! Silence! Deep silence! Save for the
chortle of the night-jar, the tap of the snipe's beak against the
tree-trunks, the snores of a weary game-keeper, the chirp of the
burying-beetle, the croak of the bat, the wild laughter of the owl and
the boom, boom of the frog, deep silence reigned. The crescent moon
stole silently above the horizon. Wonderful, significant is that silent,
stealthy approach of the moon. Red Head lumbered from his lair and
crouched beside the shimmering fire of the furze. A startled grass-snake
strove to leap out of the way of the monarch of the woods--- a hurried
crunch and a string of thirty white eggs was left motherless, forlorn.
A careless cock-pheasant gurgled on a bough. In a moment Red Head had
silently scaled the tree. Two tail feathers alone remained to show an
awed game-keeper that Red Head had passed that way. A woodcock floated
silently on the bosom of the tiny lake. He did not note the ripple which
showed that a powerful animal was swimming towards him. A scream, and
the woodcock, trumpeting shrilly, is drawn into the depths.
[_Editor._ But what is Red Head?
_The Expert._ I am not quite sure whether he is a tree-climbing fox or a
swimming badger. Anyhow he might have escaped from a menagerie.]
Peace reigned in the hole of the bumble-bee. Weary with culling sweets
from the lime-trees, the heather-bloom, the apple-blossom and the
ivy-flower be had sought his humble couch. Suddenly great claws tear
away his roof-tree. Red Head is at work. Bees and honey make his nightly
meal.
White Paws had listened from his burrow. All seemed well. He darted
forth and bathed in the bright light of the full moon.
[_Editor._ Wasn't it a crescent moon?
_The Expert._ You must make allowances for development in the course of
a story. Suppose we say it was a full-sized crescent.]
Then White Paws, standing on his hind-legs, danced for sheer joy of
life.
A leaf bitten from a bough by a sturdy green caterpillar fell suddenly
to the ground. Like lightning White Paws darted to the top of an
immemorial elm. In a moment he was reassured and returned to his
graceful dance in the bosky dell.
But what is this? A hideous red head emanates slowly from a bush. A
protruding tongue vibrates in the pale moonlight. Weak, curious White
Paws wonders what this strange thing is. Beware, White Paws! Think of
thy tender mate and innocent cubs.
Drawn by a fatal curiosity he advances towards it. The awful glimmer of
Red Head's eye fascinates him. He must see. Nearer he draws and nearer.
A sudden plunge from the bush--a sickening crunch. Red Head has dined
for the fifth time in one evening.
Death and Silence reign in the woods. Save for the chortling of the
night-jar, the chirp of the burying-beetle, the snores of the
gamekeeper, etc., etc. (see above) one might imagine oneself in the
solemn stillness of Piccadilly Circus at midnight.
Death and Silence.
[_Editor._ "Yes, but the identity of the protagonists in this Sophoclean
tragedy is still a little in doubt."
_The Expert._ "Any nature sketch ends satisfactorily with a meal."]
All this time the crescent moon has been swelling silently under the
watchful stars. It is now at the full. So is Red Head. He has dined five
times. He sleeps.
* * * * *
[Illustration: (_Lady Bountiful is entertaining some slum children at
her lovely place in the country._)
_Sister (to small brother who has just picked a daisy)._ "NAR VEN, 'ERB!
THE LIDY WON'T ARST YER AGINE IF YER GOW A-PICKIN' 'ER FLOWERS LIKE
THET!"]
* * * * *