KILLER FINDS THE POND MIGHTY LONESOME
“Tad Coon!” gasped Chaik Jay. “What are you doing here? My, but I’m
glad you came.” And he dropped down from the trunk of the pickery
thorn tree.
He told Tad all about everything; how the other Woodsfolk had gone up
to stay at Tommy Peele’s barn while Killer lived at the pond, and how
he’d fooled the mice into leaving it, and scared the birds so the
wicked beast wouldn’t find a thing to eat when he did wake up except
crawfish and snails, and angleworms, and he doesn’t like them.
“Te-hee!” snickered Tad into his fur, because he was trying not to
make any noise about it. “That’s a wonderful joke. How hungry he’s
going to be! And hunger bites the inside of your ribs worse than the
Buzzers with hot tails I shook down on Trailer the Hound bite the
outside of them. Not a thing can he eat anywhere around unless he
tries to catch the hawk. I believe I’ll paddle out to his perch and
warn him.”
“Yes,” cheeped Chaik, in a discouraged voice, “or unless he catches
me. I still can’t use my wing.”
“Oh, you can come up to the barn,” said Tad easily. “There are lots of
fine places to perch in.”
“But I can’t get there,” Chaik explained.
“Sure you can,” Tad grinned. “I came down here with Louie Thomson.
Watch the Dog said he was coming after his little skin tree he sleeps
in. (Tad meant Louie’s blanket tent, you know.) He’s going to live
with the house folks until after the big storm that’s coming. Just let
him catch you and he’ll take you home and feed you till you can fly.”
“Oh, no! Oh, no! I wouldn’t dare do that! Not even with Tommy Peele,”
fluttered Chaik. “I couldn’t stand being locked up.”
“Locked up! How long do you s’pose you’d be locked up while I was
running around with my handy-paws? It’s better than being eaten, isn’t
it?” Tad demanded.
“Ye-es,” chirped the bird, rather doubtfully.
“Then get on a branch and flutter so he’ll see you,” ordered Tad, as
cheerfully as though it were the most natural thing in the world for
birds to let themselves be caught by their little boy friends.
So Chaik hopped and sidled out to the tip of a bough where Louie could
see him.
The little boy couldn’t have helped finding him, for there sat Tad
Coon right beneath him, with his sniffy black nose turned up, pointing
straight at him. And Chaik Jay was fluttering in a scared way.
“You rascally old thing!” scolded Louie. Of course he thought Tad was
the one the pretty blue bird was afraid of; he never dreamed any one
would be afraid of him any more, because he never dreamed of hurting
his wild friends. “Is that the kind of a beast you are? You’re all
right while you know you can’t catch him, but the minute he can’t fly
you want to eat him. Well, I won’t let you. If you’re so hungry you
can’t wait till supper time you can go catch yourself a frog!”
A lot Tad cared! He knew Louie wouldn’t hurt him, and he didn’t know
what the scolding was about--he guessed maybe Louie thought someone
had hurt Chaik’s wing on purpose. He just winked the tips of his ears
to cheer up the bird when the little boy reached out his hand to take
him.
It was a very gentle hand.
It tried very softly to untangle Chaik’s feet from the branch. Before
either of them knew just exactly how it happened Chaik found himself
holding on very tight to Louie’s soft, warm finger instead of the
rough wood, balancing himself with his well wing. And suddenly he
found he wasn’t scared any more. He felt perfectly safe and happy. And
you know how Louie Thomson would feel! He was so pleased and proud he
just couldn’t get home fast enough to show his mother.
Do you know how happy Chaik Jay felt when he went riding up the lane
perched on Louie’s finger? He felt so happy he got actually impudent.
He looked up at the marsh hawk, still skimming over Doctor Muskrat’s
Pond wondering who had called him, and gave the hawk’s hunting call
again. That brought the hawk circling right over them. The hawk came
so near Louie could see the black tips to his blue-gray wings, like a
seagull’s, and the wide black bar on the end of his tail, and his
feathery whiskers--even the surprised look in his eyes, as bright and
coppery as a new penny.
“Well, I’m ruffled!” he exclaimed, quite indignantly. “Were you the
one giving my call?”
“Surely,” said that very impudent jay, bobbing his head and flicking
his own striped tail. “I thought you might want to know there’s not a
claw stirring in all these Woods and Fields except yours and Killer
the Weasel’s and those of the Bad Little Owls.”
“Ha-a-ah!” The hawk made a cup of his tail and wings and hung above
them for a moment while he thought this over. “Thanks,” he said, and
his voice wasn’t nearly as harsh. “I’m glad to know it. If that’s
what’s going on, the pond is no place for me!” He’s not a very big
hawk, you know--not nearly as big as the fine red lady hawk who came
to help Stripes Skunk kill the crook-tailed snake which stole eggs
from the meadowlarks. He had good reason to be afraid of Killer. So
round he turned and Louie saw the queer white patch on his back that
you only notice from behind go jogging off toward his mate on the
far-off side of the Deep Woods.
So when the wicked weasel woke up and squeezed himself through the
narrow crack between his two stones, he didn’t see any one at all.
“That’s queer,” he thought. “It’s certainly supper time for those
juicy little rabbits.” He listened. He didn’t hear any one at all, so
he began exploring, with his nose to the ground. And he could smell
where all the Woodsfolk had been scuttling around--tracks and tracks
of them. That satisfied him. “They’ll be coming down for a drink
before long,” he told himself. “I’ll just step under this bush, where
they won’t see me too soon, and wait for them.”