The Eels were as different from the Clams as people well could be. It
was not alone that they looked unlike, but that they had such different
ways of enjoying life. The Clams were chubby people, each comfortably
settled in his own shell, which he could open or shut as he chose. They
never wanted to live anywhere else, or to get beyond the edges of their
own pearl-lined shells.
The Eels were long, slender, and slippery people, looking even more like
snakes than they did like fishes. They were always careful to tell new
acquaintances, though, that they were not even related to the snakes.
"To be sure," they would say, "we do not wear our fins like most
fishes, but that is only a matter of taste after all. We should find
them dreadfully in the way if we did." And that was just like the
Eels--they were always so ready to explain everything to their friends.
They were great talkers. They would talk about themselves, and their
friends, and the friends of their friends, and the pond, and the
weather, and the state of the mud, and what everything was like
yesterday, and what it would be likely to be like to-morrow, and did you
really think so, and why? The Water-Adder used to say that they were the
easiest people in the pond to visit with, for all one had to do was to
keep still and look very much interested. Perhaps that may have been why
the Clams and they were such good friends.
The Clams, you know, were a quiet family. Unless a Clam was very, very
much excited, he never said more than "Yes," "No," or "Indeed?" They
were excellent listeners and some of the most popular people in the
pond. Those who were in trouble told the Clams, and they would say,
"Indeed," or "Ah," in such a nice way that their visitor was sure to
leave feeling better. Others who wanted advice would go to them, and
talk over their plans and tell them what they wanted to do, and the
Clams would say, "Yes," and then the visitors would go away quite
decided, and say, "We really didn't know what to do until we spoke to
the Clams about it, but they agree with us perfectly." The Clams were
also excellent people to keep secrets, and as the Eels were forever
telling secrets, that was all very well.
Mother Eel was fussy. She even said so herself. And if a thing bothered
her, she would talk and talk and talk until even her own children were
tired of hearing about it. Now she was worrying over the pond water.
"I do not think it nearly so clean as it was last year," she said, "and
the mud is getting positively dirty. Our family are very particular
about that, and I think we may have to move. I do dread the moving,
though. It is so much work with a family the size of mine, and Mr. Eel
is no help at all with the children."
She was talking with Mother Mud Turtle when she said this, and the
little Eels were wriggling all around her as she spoke. Then they began
teasing her to go, until she told them to swim away at once and play
with the young Minnows. "I'm afraid I shall have to go," said she, "if
only on account of the children. I want them to see something of the
world. It is so dull in this pond. Were you ever out of it?" she asked,
turning suddenly to Mrs. Mud Turtle.
"Oh, yes," answered she. "I go quite often, and one of my sons took a
very long trip to the meadow. He went with some boys. It was most
exciting."
[Illustration: SHE WAS TALKING WITH MOTHER MUD TURTLE. _Page 160_]
"Is that the one with the--peculiar back-shell?" asked Mother Eel.
"Yes," replied Mother Mud Turtle sweetly. "He is very modest and does
not care to talk about it much, but I am really quite pleased. Some
people travel and show no sign of it afterward. One would never know
that they had left home (Mother Eel wondered if she meant her), but with
him it is different. He shows marks of having been in the great world
outside."
Mother Eel wriggled a little uneasily. "I think I must tell you after
all," she said. "I have really made up my mind to go. Mr. Eel thinks it
foolish, and would rather stay here, but I am positive that we can find
a better place, and we must consider the children. He thinks he cares as
much for them as I do, yet he would be willing to have them stay here
forever. He was hatched here, and thinks the pond perfect. We get to
talking about it sometimes, and I say to him, 'Mr. Eel, where would
those children be now if it were not for me?'"
"And what does he say then?" asked the Mud Turtle Mother.
"Nothing," answered Mother Eel, with a smart little wriggle. "There is
nothing for him to say. Yes, we shall certainly move. I am only waiting
for the right kind of night. It must not be too light, or the land
people would see us; not too dark, or we could not see them. And then
the grass must be dewy. It would never do for us to get dry, you know,
or we should all be sick. But please don't speak of this, dear Mrs.
Turtle. I would rather leave quietly when the time comes."
So the Mud Turtle Mother remembered that it was a secret, and told
nobody except the Mud Turtle Father, and he did not speak of it to
anybody but the Snapping Turtle.
"Did you say that it was a secret?" asked the Snapping Turtle.
"Yes," said the Mud Turtle Father, "It is a great secret."
"Humph!" said the Snapping Turtle. "Then why did you tell me?"
That same day when the Stickleback Father came to look for nineteen or
twenty of his children who were missing, Mother Eel told him about her
plans. "I thought you would be interested in hearing of it," she said,
"but I shall not mention it to anybody else."
"You may be sure I shall not speak of it," said he. And probably he
would not have told a person, if it had not been that he forgot and
talked of it with the Snails. He also forgot to say that it was a
secret, and so they spoke freely of it to the Crayfishes and the Caddis
Worms.
The Caddis Worms were playing with the Tadpoles soon after this, and one
of them whispered to a Tadpole right before the others, although he
knew perfectly well that it was rude for him to do so. "Now, don't you
ever tell," said he aloud.
"Uh-uh!" answered the Tadpole, and everybody knew that he meant "No,"
even if they hadn't seen him wave his hindlegs sidewise. Of course, not
having the right kind of neck for it, he couldn't shake his head.
Then the other Tadpoles and Caddis Worms wanted to tell secrets, and
they kept whispering to each other and saying out loud, "Now don't you
_ever_ tell." When a Caddis Worm told a Tadpole anything, he said, "The
Eels are going to move away." And when a Tadpole told a secret to a
Caddis Worm, he just moved his lips and said, "Siss-el, siss-el,
siss-el-siss. I'm only making believe, you know." But he was sure to add
out loud, "Now don't you _tell_." And the Caddis Worm would answer,
"Uh-uh!"
The Eel Mother also spoke to the Biggest Frog, asking him to watch the
grass for her and tell her when it was dewy enough for moving. He was
afraid he might forget it, and so told his sister and asked her to help
him remember. And she was afraid that she might forget, so she spoke to
her friend, the Green Brown Frog, about it. The Yellow Brown Frog
afterward said that he heard it from her.
One night it was neither too dark nor too light, and the dew lay heavy
on the grass. Then Mother Eel said to her children, "Now stop your
wriggling and listen to me, every one of you! We shall move because the
mud here is so dirty. You are going out into the great world, and I want
you to remember everything you feel and see. You may never have another
chance."
The little Eels were so excited that they couldn't keep still, and she
had to wait for them to stop wriggling. When they were quiet, she went
on. "All the Eels are going--your uncles and aunts and cousins--and you
children must keep with the older ones. Be careful where you wriggle to,
and don't get on anybody else's tail."
She led the way out of the water and wriggled gracefully up the bank,
although it was quite steep at that place. "I came this way," she said,
"because I felt more as though this was the way to come." She closed her
mouth very firmly as she spoke. Mr. Eel had thought another way better.
They had to pass through crowds of pond people to reach the shore, for
everybody had kept awake and was watching. The older ones cried out,
"Good-bye; we shall miss you," and waved their fins or their legs, or
their tails, whichever seemed the handiest. The younger ones teased the
little Eels and tried to hold them back, and told them they'd miss lots
of fun, and that they guessed they'd wish themselves back in the pond
again. When they got onto the shore, the Frogs and the Mud Turtles were
there, and it was a long time before they could get started on their
journey. One of the little Eels was missing, and his mother had to go
back for him. She found that a mischievous young Stickleback had him by
the tail.
When at last they were all together on the bank, the Eel Father said to
his wife, "Are you sure that the Cranes and Fish Hawks don't know about
our moving? Because if they did--"
"I know," she said. "It would be dreadful if they found out; and we have
been so late in getting started. We shall have to stop at the very first
water we find now, whether we like it or not." She lay still and
thought. "I have a feeling," said she, "that we should go this way." So
that way they went, dragging their yellow bellies over the ground as
carefully as they could, their dark green backs with their long fringes
of back fins hardly showing in the grass. It was a good thing that their
skin was so fat and thick, for sometimes they had to cross rough places
that scraped it dreadfully and even rumpled the tiny scales that were in
it, while their long fringes of belly fins became worn and almost
ragged. "If your scales were on the outside," said their father, "like
those of other fishes, you wouldn't have many left."
Mother Eel was very tired and did not say much. Her friends began to
fear that she was ill. At last she spoke, "I do not see," she said, "how
people found out that we were to move."
"You didn't tell anybody?" said Mr. Eel.
"No indeed!" said she; and she really believed it. That was because she
had talked so much that she couldn't remember what she did say. It is
always so with those that talk too much.