You may remember what a funny time Silvertip had with the first Mouse
he caught; how he carried it so long in his mouth before daring to lay
it down, and how frightened he was each time that it wriggled. That
was because he was just beginning to hunt. Cats have to learn by doing
things over and over, just like other people. He used to hear the
Little Boy sing.
If at first you do not try
Try, try again.
After a while he heard him sing.
If at first you don’t succeed
Try, try again.
He did not understand just what this meant, but he soon knew that
Little Boys have to learn things quite as Cats do. He watched him
afterward learning to turn summersaults, and saw him do just that and
nothing else for nearly a whole afternoon.
It was in some such way that Silvertip came to be a good hunter. He
used to spend whole hours under the low branches of some evergreen,
crouching and springing at every passing bird. In summer he crawled
through the wheat-field back of the house, looking for Mice. If he
found nothing better, he caught Moles, although he never ate them. He
thought that Moles were probably made for Cats to practice on, and
that good little Cats, who did the best they could on Moles, would
find Mice to catch after a while--if they were patient.
When he could not find anything alive to hunt, he practiced on the
dead leaves which were blown over the lawn, or chased empty spools
across the kitchen floor. In the spring, when the Gentleman went out
before breakfast to work in his garden, Silvertip played with the
onion sets, chasing them down the narrow trench in which they had been
placed, until the Gentleman had to carry him off and shut him up.
This is how he became so fine a hunter, and it is perhaps not strange
that after a while he grew conceited. You know what it means to be
conceited. Well, Silvertip was so. He thought himself really the
cleverest Cat that had ever lived, a Cat who could catch anything he
tried to. He bragged to the other Cats who came around, and when he
was alone he purred to himself about the fine things he could do. Now
people who think themselves clever are not always conceited, for
sometimes they are as clever as they think. But when a person is
always thinking and talking about what he can do, you watch him to see
if he does as well as he thinks. If not, then he is conceited.
Silvertip even used to climb nearly to the top of the tall maple-trees
after Blackbirds, and crouch there, switching his tail, yet he never
caught any. When the other Cats asked him about this, he would smile,
and say that he decided not to eat any more just then, or that he had
found that Blackbirds disagreed with him. Undoubtedly these excuses
were both true, still they did not keep him from trying again and
again.
The only Blackbird he ever caught was a young one who had disobeyed
her mother and flopped away from the tangle of rosebushes where she
had been told to stay. She was dreadfully punished for it--but then it
was very wrong for her not to mind her mother. If she had stayed where
she was, the thorns would have kept Cats away.
Silvertip had been in the big house nearly a year, when Mr. Chipmunk
came to live in the yard. He chose to burrow under the open shed
which ran along by the back fence, and under which wood was piled to
dry before it was split and carried into the wood-house. He was the
first Chipmunk who had ever lived on the place, and all his new
neighbors were much interested in him.
“Shall you bring your family here?” Mr. Robin asked him, as he watched
his own children caring for themselves. Mr. Robin had worked hard all
summer, and now he was enjoying a little visiting time before starting
south.
“My family?” answered Mr. Chipmunk, with a chuckling laugh. “No,
indeed! One is company and two is crowd with Chipmunks. Of course
mothers have to live with their children for a time, but fathers
always have holes to themselves.”
Mr. Robin did not think that right, yet he kept still. He knew that it
is not always wise or polite to say all that one thinks. He thought it
was not fair to make the mothers have all the care of the children.
There is great difference in animals about this.
Mr. Chipmunk began at once to dig his burrow. He had not seen
Silvertip yet, and did not know that there was a Cat around. He began
just in front of the woodpile, and when he had enough earth loosened
to fill his cheek-pockets, he brought it out and emptied it by the
doorway of his burrow. Quite a pile was there already when Silvertip
came walking past.
“Meouw!” said he. “What sort of creature is at work here?”
Mr. Chipmunk heard his voice, and lay still in his burrow. If
Silvertip had not spoken just then, this story might end very
differently. In fact, it would probably be ended already. “A Cat!”
said he. “Well, it is always something, and it might as well be a Cat
as a Dog. He won’t be so likely to dig me out, anyway.”
After a long time he turned around, and went quietly toward the
door-way of the burrow, just far enough to see who was there. What he
saw was a white face with tiger spots and a pink nose. Long white
whiskers stuck out on either side, and the nose was twitching.
Silvertip was trying to get a good smell of the new-comer.
Mr. Chipmunk did not move, and being brown and in the darkness of the
hole, Silvertip, who stood in the sunshine, could not see him. For a
long time neither moved. Then Silvertip walked slowly away. He was not
very hungry that morning. Mr. Chipmunk always believed in keeping
still as long as possible. “If the other fellow is the larger,” said
he, “always wait to see what he is going to do. Then you can decide
better what you should do.”
After this Silvertip came often to the burrow. He learned the Chipmunk
by smell long before he saw him. When at last he did see him, Mr.
Chipmunk was perched on a low stick of wood, with his small fore paws
clasped on his breast and his beautiful fur glistening in the
sunshine. He was facing Silvertip, so the Cat did not see the five
dark stripes on his back till later.
Silvertip crouched and tried his muscles by shaking himself a little.
He did not say that it was a pleasant day, or that he was glad to
become acquainted with Mr. Chipmunk. He did not even say, “I see you
are making a new home!” He was sure this was the little creature whom
he had been smelling for several days, and he saw no use in saying
anything. He meant to eat Mr. Chipmunk, and Mr. Chipmunk understood
it. There was really nothing to be said. Mr. Chipmunk might object to
being eaten. People usually did object to it, but Silvertip saw no
sense in talking it over. He would rather have no conversation
whatever at meals than to speak of disagreeable things or to quarrel.
Mr. Chipmunk did not care to talk, either. He believed in thinking
before you speak, and he had a great deal of thinking to do just then.
A team stopped by the gate of the driveway. Mr. Chipmunk dared not
look to see what was coming. Silvertip did not look until the Milkman
was near him carrying the milk bottles. Then he gave one quick upward
glance. When he looked back, the stick of wood was there, but Mr.
Chipmunk was gone.
Silvertip was not at all happy, and he felt still worse when Mr.
Chipmunk stuck his saucy little face out of the burrow and called,
“Chip-r-r-r! Milk is better for Cats anyway, you know!” Mr. Chipmunk
did not have to stop to think when he was in his hole.
That was the beginning of the acquaintance, and a very merry one it
was for Mr. Chipmunk. “I have to be hunted anyway,” he said, “so I
might as well have some fun out of it.”
Whenever he saw Silvertip having an especially comfortable nap, he
would run near and give his chirping, chuckling laugh. Then he would
run away. Sometimes he would stand as still as a stone, with his tiny
fore paws clasped on his breast. Silvertip would creep and crawl up
close to him, and he would act too scared to move. Then, just as
Silvertip was ready to spring, he would cry out, “Chip-r-r-r!” and
tumble heels over head into his burrow.
Sometimes, too, Silvertip would be walking along as happily as
possible, not even thinking of Chipmunks, when a mischievous little
face would peep out from the woodpile just beside him. Mr. Chipmunk
would say “Good-morning!” then draw back and disappear, only to peep
out again and again from new places as the Cat came along. You know
nothing can catch a Chipmunk when he is in a woodpile. The worst of it
was that there always seemed to be so many other people around to see
how poor Silvertip was teased. You would never have thought that
Silvertip was hunting Mr. Chipmunk. It always seemed to be Mr.
Chipmunk who was hunting Silvertip.
At last Mr. Chipmunk had his burrow all done. He had made an opening
at the second end and closed the one at the first, so nobody could
tell from the pile of earth what had been happening. He said he had
crawled into the hole and pulled it in after him. The last opening,
which was now to be his only door, was under the woodpile. No rain
could fall into it and no Dog could dig at it. Mr. Chipmunk was very
happy.
He made friends with the Lady, too. She seemed to be perfectly
harmless, and she brought him a great deal of corn and many
peanuts. Sometimes he found butternuts tucked around in the woodpile,
which could not possibly have fallen from any tree. He decided that he
might come to some sort of agreement with Silvertip. He got ready for
it by being more annoying than ever. When Silvertip’s tail was
switching and his nose twitching with anger, Mr. Chipmunk peeped out
from a hollow stick in the pile and called to him.
[Illustration: MR. CHIPMUNK ON THE WOODPILE. _Page 142_]
“Silvertip!” cried he, “O Silvertip! I want to talk with you. How
would you like to be eaten up?”
There was no answer, except a murmuring under his breath that he
“guessed there wasn’t much danger.”
“Enjoy the acquaintance, do you, Silvertip?” asked Mr. Chipmunk. “Find
me a pleasant talker? Ever tell anybody that you were going to eat
me?”
Now Silvertip had told some of his friends exactly that, but this was
before he knew so much about Chipmunks. He growled something under
his breath about “Quit your teasing.”
“I will if you will quit trying to catch me,” answered Mr. Chipmunk.
“Tell your friends that you changed your mind. Tell them that I am not
to your taste. Tell them anything you wish, but let me alone and I
will let you alone.”
“All right,” said Silvertip. “Now don’t you ever speak to me again.”
“Never!” answered Mr. Chipmunk. “Walnuts couldn’t hire me to!” And
after that there was peace around the woodpile.