usually ate his own food raw, but once he dropped a Muskrat into the pot
in which I was making an Irish stew, and laughed loud and long at my
language when I took it out.
He had many mischievous tricks and would often hide my pens, tip over my
ink and track it all over the fair, smooth pages of my observation
ledger. At other times, he made himself very useful to me, especially on
sweeping day. Strutting around gravely on one leg, Hoot-Mon would sweep
the floor first with one great wing and then with the other, pushing the
dirt always toward the door. When he had it all in a neat pile and the
corners were perfectly clean, he would make a signal to me. I would open
the door, and with a great, forward sweep of both wings, Hoot-Mon would
brush all the dirt outside, meanwhile saying something that sounded like
“shoo!” It was clever of him, but it wearied him greatly and he would
always take a long nap afterward, though he never slept on my bed. I was
very grateful to him because he was willing to sleep in his own corner,
remembering a previous unhappy experience.
That Winter, also, he made me a rag carpet. I had a great many pieces of
old worsted garments, some of them being left by my grandmother and
others being discarded wearing apparel of my own. I had also an old red
blanket which I could not sleep under because there was a large hole in
the centre which acted like a chimney and created a draught. Some white
cotton cloth was among the pieces, and I gave him two old sheets, with
which he was greatly pleased.
First, he tore all the cloth into strips about half an inch wide,
fastening these together with a pine needle and some linen thread I gave
him, and with his claws and beak rolled it into a ball very similar to
those made in his stomach. When he had the rags all torn and sewed
together, he began work, and I do not think, in all my career as an
Unnaturalist, I have ever seen such wonderful intelligence in an animal.
I can never describe the way he did it, though I watched him for hours,
uninterruptedly. With claws and beak and wings he was continually at
work, tying knots, twisting, weaving in and out, rolling and turning in
every conceivable way. Finally he turned his back to me and would not
let me see what he was doing.
Respecting his wish for secrecy, I paid no further attention to him
then, but the next time he went hunting I hunted for his work. I did not
find it, but when he came back, he knew instantly what I had been doing
and pecked my face so severely that the blood came. He also opened up
the old wound on my head. Needless to say, I did not offend him in that
way again.
He worked nights, after that, while I slept. Many a time I have wakened
and seen poor, faithful Hoot-Mon sitting by the fire, patiently toiling
at his self-appointed task.
On the morning of my birthday, he presented me with a wonderful rug, a
yard wide and long enough to go across the cabin directly in front of my
bed. The background was red and black and in the centre, entirely in
white, was an enormous Owl with outstretched wings—his own portrait to
the life!
It was marvellous that he should do it with only the primitive
implements with which Nature had provided him, and I praised him early
and often. When I stroked him and patted his head, he would strut around
with his head in the air, purring and clucking.
This story may seem almost incredible, but I have the rug and a
photograph of the Owl that did it. These things will be on exhibition at
the time and place printed in the catalogue in the appendix. Both my
publishers and myself will be glad to have all the doubting ones
investigate. The entire “H” exhibit will be distinguished by the green
flag of Ireland, because the things came from the “owld” country.
Hoot-Mon was very much interested in my hat and used to kick it around
the cabin and play with it as a Kitten plays with a ball of yarn. I
determined to make him one of his own and cut out a paper pattern,
fitting it together with pins. I made one of the cocked hats worn by
Colonial soldiers, and put a gay feather in the top. The result was very
pleasing, to me, at least, and all went well until I attempted to put it
on Hoot-Mon’s head.
He snorted loudly, clawed, kicked, and spluttered like an angry Hen. His
eyes glared so fiercely that I was afraid of him and ran outdoors, cold
as it was, without hat or coat. I stayed until his wrath had somewhat
subsided, then cautiously ventured back. He had burned the offending hat
in the open fire and the ashes of it lay upon the hearth. He sat on his
perch in the corner, wrapped in impenetrable gloom through which his
eyes burned like live coals.
It was not until the next day that I learned why he had been so mortally
offended, and I hit upon the truth only by accident. I had unfortunately
selected foolscap paper for the pattern. I had legal cap in the house
and could have made him a lawyer’s bonnet just as well as not, if I had
only thought of it.
Strangely enough, Hoot-Mon and I never had any well defined method of
communication, though we lived together in intimate association for so
long.
I tried him with the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, but he paid no attention to
it. I wrote out the various things I wished to say to him and offered
him the slips of paper, but he did not eat them or try to read them, and
in memory of the insult I once offered him, I presume, he threw the
slips into the fire as fast as I could write them. He had no ears that
he could wig-wag signals with, and his own vocabulary was confined to
two or three syllables, the phrasing and intonation of which varied
scarcely at all.
He presented a strange bundle of contradictions, for he was slow witted
at times, yet did not understand English, and too quick to jump at
conclusions at others, yet the United States language passed him by
unharmed. He ate Frogs but did not understand French, sausage and beer,
without knowing German, and though he roosted by preference in the
attic, he did not know Greek. He was very fond of oatmeal, but he had
not the faintest comprehension of Scotch, though I caught him once, with
my spectacles on, poring over a book of Scotch dialect which I had in my
library. He burned the book afterward, which I did not in the least
regret—I had meditated doing it for some time.
I tried him with phrases from every known tongue, but they all seemed
alike to him. He did not have a speaking acquaintance with a single
modern language, so far as I was able to discover. Very possibly he
understood them all, but did not wish to let people know the extent of
his knowledge. Perhaps it is his monumental silence which has given him
his well deserved reputation for wisdom. At any rate, it contains a hint
worth passing on, for there is a great deal of trouble in this world
which is not caused by people keeping their mouths shut.
So Hoot-Mon and I lived through the most terrible Winter ever known in
that latitude. The unaccustomed warmth of the cabin made him moult while
the snow was yet deep upon the ground. He ate the feathers, afterward
disgorging them in the usual ball when he had enough to make it worth
the trouble. I have all of these little balls now, put away with my most
treasured possessions.
He was a pitiful sight when all of his feathers were gone, and he caught
cold. His cough distressed me greatly and his spirits drooped
perceptibly. He had chills at regular intervals and his poor body was
all covered with goose flesh. He wore his shawl, pinned closely at the
throat with a safety-pin, until the feathers began to sprout again.
While his head was moulting, he also wore his face mask.
Presently, however, Nature resumed business at the old stand and his
body was covered with grey down. He looked like an Angora Cat at this
stage. I examined the growth minutely with a magnifying-glass and was
surprised to find that each feather grew up from a single stalk, like a
plant, and sent out numerous branches which were closely interwoven with
the branches from the stalk next to it. This is why an Owl’s wings make
no sound; the wind passes under these branched feathers and the noise is
smothered. You cannot hear the wind blow if you have a pillow over your
head.
At last the backbone of Winter broke with a loud crash and the Chinook
wind blew in from the south, laden with warm rain. The songs of Robins
and Bluebirds were in the breath of it, though the snow was yet deep
upon the ground, and my dooryard was filled with hungry Birds.
“Who would not give a Winter seed for a Summer song?”
I went out one day, with my shovel, and Hoot-Mon followed me, warmly
wrapped in his shawl. I chose the lofty stump that was his watch-tower
and began to shovel a clear space. He sat on top of it, well out of
reach of draughts, and watched me. I intended to keep a free lunch set
out here for the Birds.
Round and round I shovelled, keeping always in a circle. Hoot-Mon never
took his eyes off me—his devotion was absolutely pathetic. When I had
finished, I galloped around the stump a few times to get warm, as it was
still bitterly cold.
I began to get dizzy, but I went on faster and faster, for the blood was
singing in my pulses and it was good to be alive. I was stopped in my
mad rush by the most astounding thing that could have happened.
Hoot-Mon’s head, bleeding profusely, and with the eyes staring from
their sockets, fell at my feet. On the stump, still clad in the shawl,
was his lifeless body.
I was stunned, and it was more than an hour before I saw how it had
happened. It was my own fault; no one but myself was to blame. An Owl
will turn his head, but never his body, and Hoot-Mon had followed me
around the stump with his fond eyes until he had wrung his own neck.
It was too terrible, and I am not ashamed to say that a man’s salt tears
bedewed the downy body of my pet as I lowered him into his grave. I made
him a shroud of my only remaining sheet and covered him with my last
pillow slip. I did not begrudge them to him in the least, and I still
have his red flannel shawl. This pathetic relic will be found by the
reader in its proper place in the exhibit.
The shocking occurrence saddened me so much that I gave up my study of
Unnatural History and returned to the city, where I speedily found some
honest employment which paid me fairly well.
At times, the voices of the wilderness call me, but I dare not go back,
lest the old magic of the woods take my spirit into slavery again.
Sometimes, at night, I start from my sleep, thinking that poor
Hoot-Mon’s bleeding head is again at my feet. It is a consolation,
however, to know that he did not suffer any more than a spring broiler
which is prepared for the market, and, after all, it may have been a
kinder fate than the one which was waiting for him somewhere in the
gloom of the tall pines, for the end of a wild animal is always a
tragedy.
APPENDIX
Realising that much of this work must, of necessity, seem almost
incredible to all save genuine Little Brothers of the Woods, I have, at
great expense and difficulty, secured for exhibition purposes a
collection of relics which will fully substantiate every statement I
have made.
This exhibition will be an annual affair, and will be held in the main
office of my publishers, on the thirty-first day of November only.
Admission is free to all who hold a copy of this book under the left
arm. Copies are not transferable.
The complete catalogue will be found on the following pages.
[Illustration: wolf drawing]
CATALOGUE
Printed at a Logging Camp on Genuine Wood Pulp Paper.
A1 Photograph of Tom-Tom taken just before we went to the woods.
A2 Photograph of grandmother’s cabin in the clearing.
A3 Picture of Little Upsidaisi.
A4 Mainspring of my jewelled repeater.
A5 One of Tom-Tom’s boots.
A6 Umbrella with which I wrote messages in the sand.
A7 Straw from the broom, slit at one end.
A8 Cat egg, blown.
A9 Square of red blanket.
A10 Returned manuscript.
A11 The same.
A12 The same.
A13 Another one.
A14 Cigar box in which Little Upsidaisi slept. Notice tail slot.
A15 Morse Code, in my writing.
A16 Empty cyanide bottle.
A17 Postage stamp, such as is used for manuscripts (cancelled).
B1 Photograph of Porcupine Hill.
B2 Picture of the post-office.
B3 Porcupine quill.
B4 Goatsrue, dried.
B5 The empty flask.
B6 An unpaid bill.
B7 Broken link from chain filed by Jagg.
B8 Pen-and-ink sketch of Ab.
B9 Jagg’s hat.
B10 Photograph of Jagg’s headstone.
C1 Cotton, such as I put into my ears.
C2 Copy of _The Ladies’ Own_ (much worn, but still legible).
C3 The prescription.
C4 Copy of _The Girlies’ Close Companion_.
C5 Literary note from _New York Times_, date appended.
C6 Bear trap, half size.
C7 Geyser House, from hotel advertisement.
C8 Slab of near-food, motto, “Excelsior.”
C9 Astronomical charts of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.
C10 Pen-and-ink sketch of Snoof and Snooflet, star-gazing.
C11 Story of Goldenhair and the Three Bears, type-written.
C12 Bottle of water from the sulphur spring, where Growler bathed.
C13 Comb, such as is used by Bears.
C14 Miranda’s china mug.
C15 My clothes, which Growler wore.
C16 Miranda’s croquet mallet.
D1 Receipted hotel William (framed).
D2 Enlarged portrait of Kitchi-Kitchi.
D3 A home-made biscuit.
D4 Blue Jay feather.
D5 Music of Squirrel duet, melody only.
D6 Squirrel egg, blown.
D7 Boat from Squirrel fleet.
E1 Picture of Jim Crow.
E2 Photograph of broken window.
E3 Section of crowbar.
E4 Crocus bulb.
E5 Eye of potato, in alcohol.
E6 Fragments of the clay cast.
E7 Jim’s crutch.
E8 Cornet half full of molasses. Guests may blow it free.
E9 Spectacle frames.
E10 Pressed burdock leaf.
E11 Poe’s poem, _The Raven_ (Arnheim edition).
E12 The cordial glass.
E13 My diamond pin (in glass case).
E14 Section of Johnny-cake, main formation.
E15 Photograph of perch.
E16 Picture of me, showing crow’s feet around eyes.
E17 Milk pan.
E18 Malted milk bottle.
F1 Pen drawing of Uncle Antonio’s organ.
F2 Score of _Il Trovatore_.
F3 Pressed foxglove.
F4 Pen sketch of Hoop-La, from memory.
F5 Pen drawing of imaginary encounter between Uncle and a cross country
tramp.
F6 Bottle of capers.
F7 Sketch, from memory, of the quilt pattern.
F8 A new cent, 1904 mintage.
F9 Recipe for spaghetti, written in gold, framed, and chained to the
counter. Guests may obtain permission to copy at cashier’s desk.
F10 Photograph of horse in bridle chamber.
F11 Impressionist picture of the rescue of Jocko.
G1 My concertina, in picture in catalogue.
G2 Score of _Bedelia_.
G3 Copy of _Uncle Remus_.
G4 Snake discovered by Chee-Wee.
G5 _Brier Rose_ (my writing).
G6 Toothpick.
G7 Bottle of sand.
G8 Pen sketch of Jenny drawing map.
G9 Better picture of same thing, _Wild Animals I Have Known_, page 122.
G10 Minnow, stuffed.
G11 Curry-comb, used by Rabbits.
G12 Box of Squirrel bark.
G13 Drawing of Jenny’s blanket.
G14 Square of Brussels carpet with nap gone.
G15 Working drawing of Rabbit’s nose.
G16 Bottle of Hare tonic (sealed).
G17 Rabbit form.
G18 Drawing from memory of Jenny’s school.
G19 My overalls.
G20 Drawing of Rabbit entertainment.
G21 Superior picture of same thing, _Ways of Wood Folk_, page 50.
G22 Bottle of beer made from Frog hops (open).
H1 Remnants of grandmother’s Mink muff.
H2 Diagram of Owl’s nest.
H3 Working drawing of Owl’s stomach.
H4 Crystals of hydrochloric acid.
H5 Undigested securities.
H6 The same.
H7 More.
H8 More.
H9 The same.
H10 Another one.
H11 Picture of beach.
H12 Picture of Owl.
H13 Pen drawing of Owl and Duck, flirting.
H14 Owl file, petrified.
H15 Mussel, in alcohol.
H16 Skin of poor pussy.
H17 Necklace and bangle.
H18 The beef stake.
H19 Blue pencil.
H20 Empty brandy bottle.
H21 Alarm clock.
H22 Page from observation ledger, showing Hoot-Mon’s tracks.
H23 The rug.
H24 Photograph of Hoot-Mon, life size.
H25 Sheet of foolscap.
H26 Pattern of Colonial hat.
H27 Hoot-Mon’s shawl.
H28 Rabbit’s tail in alcohol. (This exhibit has the words, “A tragedy,”
lettered on the bottle, being the end of a wild animal.)
BY MYRTLE REED
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The Book of Clever Beasts
Studies in Unnatural History
Fully illustrated by PETER NEWELL
12º.
A humorous book, hitting off the many writers who have returned to
Nature and made intimate friends in the Animal World. The author
describes the super-human intelligence to be found by the discerning
among our kindred of the wild. All those who love gentle humor will be
entertained by the whimsical story of “Little Upsidaisi,” and no reader
can fail to laugh at the antics of “Jagg, the Skootaway Goat.”
The illustrations by Peter Newell are in this clever artist’s happiest
vein and bring out to the full the humor of the text.
New York—G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS—London
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Punctuation has been normalized. Variations in hyphenation have been
retained as they were in the original publication.
Italicized phrases are presented by surrounding the text with
_underscores_.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Book of Clever Beasts, by Myrtle Reed