_The_
WILD HEART
_By
Emma-Lindsay Squier_
[Illustration]
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
GENE STRATTON-PORTER
_Illustrations and Decorations by_
PAUL BRANSOM
Cosmopolitan Book Corporation
NEW YORK MCMXXII
_Copyright, 1922, by Cosmopolitan Book
Corporation, New York. All rights
reserved, including that of translation
into foreign languages, including the
Scandinavian_
_First printing_ _March, 1922_
_Second printing_ _April, 1922_
_Printed in the United States of America_
DEDICATED TO
_BASIL KING_
WITH DEEPEST GRATITUDE FOR THE INSPIRATION
AND ENCOURAGEMENT THROUGH WHICH THE WILD
HEART STORIES FOUND WRITTEN EXPRESSION,
AND FOR THE TITLE OF THE SERIES WHICH THUS
CAME INTO BEING.
THE ILLUSTRATIONS _and_ CONTENTS
PAGE
Skygak discovered that catching mice was
Three-Spot’s chief vocation SKYGAK 12
He circled slowly above our heads 32
U-Chu-Ka never failed to answer our call U-CHU-KA 34
For the dogs had lost the lighter scent SANCTUARY 47
He questioningly sniffed the breeze THE FAERY NIGHT 66
Cannon came charging in a whirlwind of THE FRIENDSHIP THAT
feathers FAILED 82
His constant barking set the grown-ups
against him STOP THIEF 101
If Clarence had been a man, he would have
endowed orphanages O’HENRY 124
Timothy clung to the bottle habit TIMOTHY, THE DIRTY BEAR 145
Sometimes the bandit birds swooped down THE BANDIT BIRD 168
Her nostrils dilated at the hated human
scent MY FRIEND THE PRINCESS 189
A wild thing of the deep woods, ruled by
pain instead of kindliness ETHEL 208
AN INTRODUCTION
_Which might better be entitled_:
Some Youngsters Find the Wrong Parents
_By_
Gene Stratton-Porter
Since “The Wild Heart” is throbbing with the same blood that pulses in
the heart of every human being who goes to the fields and woods and
fraternizes with the creatures that home there, since the feet that
carry a wild heart on its journey are following the same path that a few
peculiar feet have made, what they have found and what the heart has
learned is the same thing that similar feet have been finding and hearts
have been learning since the beginning of time.
[Illustration]
The author of this book pronounces it “very simple, having no literary
style or value.” Perhaps this estimate indicates modesty on her part,
but it is not the truth concerning the book. Thoreau once wrote: “It
takes two to speak the truth—one to speak and the other to hear.” Those
of us who have made our own path through the wilds know the truth when
we hear it. The first law that can be laid down concerning any work
worthy to be put into the hands of the public is the old law that every
writer should write concerning matters of his own personal observation.
Whenever any writer follows this old rule, working with sincerity of
heart, with inborn insight concerning his chosen subject, following the
promptings of a simple human heart, and using a certain facility in the
choice of words, which is a gift of God primarily, that author must
evolve good work. Laying down these specifications as law which governs
every masterpiece that ever has been produced, it will be observed that
“The Wild Heart” follows them as naturally as water flows to the sea,
possibly as unconsciously.
[Illustration]
To anyone who knows the fields and woods the book carries the conviction
of truth. Those who do not know nature will not believe many of these
statements, because they have not learned that when one goes into the
haunts of the wild calmly, fearlessly, absolutely in tune with Nature,
one is perfectly safe. The people who go to fraternize with the free
creatures, to learn the secrets of Nature, to protect, to love, to
fellowship with the wild, wear an invincible armor.
Enos Mills will tell you that he tramps the Rocky Mountains for weeks at
a time absolutely without a weapon. Arthur Heming will tell you that he
travels Canada from side to side, north and south, passing all kinds of
wild creatures at all seasons and under any conditions, and nothing
touches him.
I can tell you that my face has been within two feet of a coiled
rattlesnake ready to strike, but it did not strike. Two minutes later a
man antagonistic to the wild passed the same location and immediately
the snake disclosed itself and was ready to fight.
Very recently some children playing at the edge of the desert found a
scorpion. They coaxed it onto a piece of bark and were carrying it
around playing with it. So long as they felt no fear of the creature, it
was quiescent in their hands. The instant they carried it among grown
people who recognized it and were afraid, the trouble began. When the
wild thing entered the atmosphere of fear and was surrounded by the
taint of that acid which is exhaled from the body of any human being
experiencing fear, that instant it was on guard and ready to strike.
Any human being carrying in his breast a wild heart knows instinctively
how to fraternize with the wild. Anyone carrying a heart of fear and
antagonism will have a troubled journey through forest or desert. The
writer of this book proves that she carries a wild heart in her breast.
Her records are unquestionably true. They are precisely the same things
that happen to anyone having a heart in tune with Nature.
[Illustration]
So the book passes, first, because it speaks the truth. It needs only
that these records should be read to gain an idea of the degree of
insight possessed by the writer. The nice comprehension of what the wild
is thinking and feeling, the keen perception of the “why” of things,
pass the book on the grounds of insight. The simple unassuming manner in
which the record is kept proves it the emanation of a human heart
without guile, effervescing love, not only for the beauties of field and
forest, but for the living creatures that home there.
[Illustration]
It is modest of the writer to say that her book has “no literary style
or value,” but the book proves the reverse. Throughout will be found the
value of truth, the exquisite style of utter simplicity, the best plain
common word chosen to tell the plain common story; and it is a very
difficult thing always to find the right words with which to tell any
story. There are only about twenty thousand words in the English
language. When you compare this number with the number of objects
existing in the world, the number of ideas that have sprung and will
spring in the human brain, it easily can be appreciated that it is
sometimes difficult to find the right word by which to express one’s
meaning clearly and simply; for there always is one word which, better
than any other, will portray a situation or describe an object.
Any author who is actuated by sincerity will always choose the plain
simple word which expresses his meaning plainly and simply. The one
thing that sets apart the work of any writer is the ability to express
himself in plain simple language that common people can understand and
appreciate. It was on this subject that Martin Luther once said:
“Hebrew, Latin, and Greek I spare until we learned ones come together,
and then we make it so curled and finical that God Himself wondereth at
us.”
That is precisely the reason why nine-tenths of the Nature books written
in this country have been failures. They are “so curled and finical”
that only the “learned ones” can understand what they are all about.
[Illustration]
To me it is an atrocity to tag a bird, a butterfly, or a flower with
several inches of Latin or Greek per each. Every living creature should
have a common, simple, descriptive name that a common human being who
wants to know what it is can learn and remember. I do truly believe
“that God Himself wondereth at us” if He takes the time to look at many
of the books to be found in our libraries concerning the most exquisite
and beautiful of His creatures.
[Illustration]
I believe that any normal man or woman would be intensely interested in
the organism of a moth, the delicate parts so beautifully evolved to
serve their purpose; but what common person could wade through a large
volume crammed from end to end with such terms as _patagia_, _jugum_,
_discocellulars_, _phagocytes_? It is such works on Nature that have
kept the Nature lovers of many generations out of the fields and woods.
They had not the education, the time, nor the inclination to be
sufficiently “curled and finical” to be specific. They could take no one
specimen and learn it, because they could not identify it. In a book
such as “The Wild Heart” there is no word that a ten-year-old child can
not comprehend; while there is a wonderful beauty and facility in the
choice of words, in the sincerity of expression, and the sympathetic
insight.
I certainly wish that a copy of this book may go into every home in the
world, for two reasons: the first, that men and women may learn how
anyone with a sympathetic heart devoid of fear may fraternize with the
wild; and for the other very excellent reason that it may do something
toward teaching parents that all children are not alike and can not
possibly be run through the same groove.
[Illustration]
Here and there in a family there is born a child with a wild heart. It
is nothing less than a tragedy when such a child is cursed with the
wrong parents. God gives to only a few of His children a wild heart, a
musical ear, facile fingers. The man or woman who keeps a child born
with the love of the woods in its heart from contact with Nature, who
destroys the trust that God placed in its heart, and instils fear bred
by man, does a dreadful thing, a thing that must end in disaster. Nature
does not reveal her secrets to everyone. Creatures of the wild will not
be brothers with any save a very few specially endowed human beings.
[Illustration]
Today my heart sickens at the thought of what would have happened to me
if, when I told my Mother I had been talking with the fairies and what
they said and did, she had whipped me for not speaking the truth; if,
when I came from the woods with my apron torn and soiled, full of dirty
specimens, my heart overflowing with the wonders of my discoveries, I
had been beaten and forbidden to go again. If we are to have truly great
art, literature, or science in the future, many, perhaps most, of those
who are to do the work will be born into this world in simple common
homes like the Indiana homes in which the author of “The Wild Heart” and
I were born. What we as a nation produce in wonder-work along any
creative line in the future is going to depend upon the ability of
parents of this generation to recognize and to foster unusual gifts in
their children when they first detect them. The mother who whips a child
because it happens to have been born with a wild heart does a thing so
wickedly cruel that there are no words in which to describe the
situation adequately. If this book will serve the one purpose of making
fathers and mothers of the coming generation sympathetic and kindly to
the little wild hearts that they bring into the world, it will perform a
very great work indeed.
[Illustration]
_Part One_
_The Story of_
SKYGAK
AN OLD-MAN SEA-GULL
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Skygak discovered that catching mice was Three-Spot’s chief vocation,
and he made her life a burden._
Skygak was an old-man sea-gull. He had circled and screamed over the
waters of Puget Sound for many a season, and it is doubtful if there is
anything in aërial lore that he did not know. He was an expert at
fishing, and could swoop down on an unsuspecting smelt from a dizzy
height and have the shiny fish down his gullet without so much as
touching his webbed feet to the water’s surface. He could snatch up a
sidling red crab before it could seek the shelter of a rock, and drop it
neatly and accurately on a stone, to dart down upon the mangled remains
before the juicy meal could be purloined by any of his kindred.
He knew when storms were coming, and sometimes, when the skies were
clearest and the sun warmest, he would spiral up to a great height and
scream in long, quavering cadences that grew louder as the rain and wind
approached. Then the Siwash clam-diggers on the beach would gather up
their bags and shovels and bid their women see to brushwood, for they
knew the cry of the sea-gull when the Storm-God rides. They respected
the gray gull’s warning.
[Illustration]
We were children on the shores of Puget Sound, Brother and I. From our
little log cabin, with its porch roof slanting low like an old-fashioned
pokebonnet, we would watch the sea-gulls circle in the sky or bob lazily
on the blue waters of the bay like so many feathered corks.
We knew Skygak among the other gulls, for one wing was white, the other
gray. So when we saw him, we named him by a queer, fanciful name that
seemed to fit a bird of air and water. And because the boat landing in
front of the cabin furnished a resting place for webbed feet on sunshiny
days, Skygak made it his headquarters, and we came to look for him and
to be fond of him.
When we sailed in the tiny twelve-foot boat with its home-made
leg-o’-mutton sail or paddled in the dugout canoe made for us by a
Siwash Indian chief, we looked for Skygak in every flock of sea-gulls
that passed us, and it was our superstition, made on the spur of the
moment, as children’s fancies are, that if he flew over us we would have
good luck, and that a wish made on the instant would come true.
[Illustration]
But we never dreamed that Skygak of the air lanes would one day be an
intimate friend of ours, for we had been told by sailor and Indian
alike—and who knows more of seafaring birds than they?—that sea-gulls
could not be tamed. The Siwash chief who had given us our dugout canoe
knew the habits of the winged scavengers and loved them. Perhaps the
primitive heart of him, held in leash by the white man’s civilization,
was tuned to the wild, untamed heart of the gulls, for they flocked
around his beach shanty unafraid, and ate the scraps of clams he flung
to them; but he had never touched one of the gray brethren.
[Illustration]
And so it happened, on a day of mists and clouds, that Skygak came into
our lives as something more than a gray-and-white winged bird whose
passage above our boat would make a wish come true.
[Illustration]
It was a day typical of autumn in the Sound country. Gray rain pattered
ceaselessly into gray waters that stretched away to meet a leaden
horizon, and low-hanging clouds swirled restlessly with every gust of
wind. But the smell of wet pines was in the air; the grass was green and
glistening with iridescent beads. It was a day when the out-of-doors
called the hardy one to don overshoes, raincoat, and sou’wester hat and
fare forth to breathe the wet fragrance of woods and field, to feel the
soft rain on uplifted face, and to listen for the storm cry of the gulls
circling against the sky.
[Illustration]
Brother and I, clad against the rain, stood in wonder at the shore end
of the float. For there on the far end was Skygak, a miserable, dripping
figure hunched dejectedly on the wet planking. His once sleek wings hung
limply at his sides, his feathers were draggled and unkempt, his head
was hanging miserably as if the light but steady drizzle were torment to
him.
[Illustration]
Above him soared and circled his kindred of the sky, wondering, no
doubt, what was wrong, for now and again one of them would turn in a
half-circle, spinning on the tip of one great wing, and scream sharply,
as if in invitation to Skygak to join the airy tribe. And the old-man
sea-gull would turn one eye up to the birds above him and give vent to a
plaintive, longing cry. His draggled wings would flap in the rain as if
sheer force of will must bear him upward, then relax hopelessly as if
the effort made him more miserable.
We watched and speculated, Brother and I, for never had we seen a gull
in such a plight. We saw that he was denied the water, too, for he would
stalk, with the wobbly, swinging motion of a web-foot tribe, to the edge
of the float, crane his neck as if about to launch himself upon the
rain-beaten waves, and then retreat to the middle of the wharf once
more. A gull who could neither fly nor swim! What had happened?
We took the problem to the Siwash chief a mile up the beach, mending a
fish-net in his warm and smoky shanty. He listened impassively, yet with
interest. And he returned with us to the float to diagnose the gull’s
ailment.
[Illustration]
When he saw Skygak, he grunted briefly but sympathetically. The bird had
been caught in the swell behind a large boat—a battle-ship,
probably—when it was discharging oil, he told us. It was not an uncommon
thing, he said. The gull’s feathers were soaked with the heavy oil, and
until it had evaporated, or until new feathers should grow, Skygak would
be helpless both in the air and in the sea, and since he could not
provide food for himself he would starve to death.
So spoke the Siwash chief, but his philosophy was not ours. We told each
other that Skygak should not die, and we called to the wet, miserable
gull that we would take care of him, but he did not even raise his head.
What should we feed him? We had neither clams nor fish, and we were
afraid to go too near him, lest he mistake our friendly intentions and
take to the water in self-defense, to be weighted down by his oil-soaked
feathers.
With the permission of our always sympathetic mother we salvaged cookies
from the jar behind the kitchen stove. We took cold griddle cakes, too,
and scraps of meat and bread. And with these dainties we set about the
task of winning the gray gull’s confidence and of saving him from the
misfortune which had overtaken him.
[Illustration]
Carefully and very quietly we went down the float, as near as we could
approach without Skygak’s taking alarm. When he showed signs of
restlessness, we advanced no further, but put a chunk of meat upon the
planks and withdrew to watch and wait.
The gull, at first indifferent to everything but his unexplainable
plight, gradually felt hunger’s urge, and his long neck craned toward
our offering of food. Slowly he waddled toward it, a grotesque gray
bundle of draggled feathers, and with one vigorous gulp the meat
disappeared.
Then we tossed him a chunk of bread softened with water, and this time
Skygak did not hesitate. The first morsel had aroused an appetite which
for the time being supplanted misery. He stalked forward and swallowed
the food, turning on us the broadside of one black eye, as if asking for
more.
[Illustration]
Nor did we refuse him. We tossed him, piece by piece, the food we had
brought with us, and returned to the pantry for more. Always we placed
the bread or meat a little nearer the shore and the cabin, and Skygak
followed the morsels anxiously, greedily, satisfying a hunger which must
have been of long and painful duration.
Early dusk was upon us when we finally succeeded in tolling the gray
gull through the front yard into the chicken run, and into an unused
brooder house which offered a shelter against the rainy night.
The lamps were lighted in the little log cabin when we completed our
self-appointed task of making Skygak comfortable, and our only regret
was that we could not give our friend a blanket. We feared he would not
understand.
[Illustration]
That was the beginning of a threesided friendship. The first few days of
Skygak’s convalescence were spent in huddled misery, and he moved only
when Brother or I came into the brooder house with food and water. Then
the rain ceased, Indian summer came smilingly upon the Sound country,
and when the sun shone warmly, Skygak decided that life was not all a
haze of gloom, and he set about vigorously to restore himself to a
normal condition. Hour after hour he pulled and massaged his feathers
until some of the heavy oil was loosened. The sunshine helped to dry his
draggled plumage, new feathers commenced to grow, and little by little
Skygak became his old cocky self.
[Illustration]
His affection for Brother and me was as apparent as was his dislike for
all other members of the human race. The grown-ups he would not trust,
and passers-by annoyed and alarmed him. But he would follow us about
wherever we went, stalking along behind us with grotesque dignity, and
when invited, would fly up on my shoulder or on Brother’s to receive
bits of food from our fingers and to snap playfully at us with his
great, powerful bill when we pretended to box with him.
The liberty of the ranch was his, but his favorite spot was a corner of
the front porch where he would sit for hours in solemn contemplation of
the bay in front. People who went by on the trail looked in wonder at
the gray gull apparently very much at home in a little log cabin.
[Illustration]
Soon he learned to eat with the chickens, and when the bran mash was
spread for them in a long, wooden trough, Skygak would be there before
the bucket was emptied. Then, as the hens came flocking around, the gull
would spread his magnificent wings, open his huge beak to its widest
extent, and scream shrilly and fiercely, laying about him with his
yellow beak like a warrior swinging a deadly sword. The startled
poultry, unused to this changeling of the sea and sky, would scurry away
with distressed and frightened cackles, and Skygak would eat his fill at
the trough, pausing occasionally to administer punishment to any daring
cockerel who ventured too near. Many a bunch of feathers have I seen
hanging from his bill, like a scalplock hung from the belt of an Indian
brave, mute witness to a battle of brief but bloody duration.
[Illustration]
Our animals soon learned that this wandering guest was to be respected.
Tinker, the rat terrier, learned to his cost that Skygak was not a hen
to be chased from the front porch, if he chose to stay there.
Between our cat, Three-Spot, and the gull, a bitter feud developed,
which had for its beginning such a small thing as a mouse. One had been
killed in a trap, and Brother tendered it to Skygak as an experiment.
The delicacy was new, but wholly acceptable, and with one ecstatic snap
of his beak Skygak swallowed it, and afterward, as Brother averred,
fairly licked his chops. Three-Spot sulked and gloomed because of the
slight, but her cup of woe was not full.
[Illustration]
For in some mysterious manner, Skygak discovered that catching mice was
Three-Spot’s chief vocation, and he made her life a burden. One morning
we heard an outraged yowl from the cat and an answering scream from
Skygak. On the back porch we found the two, Three-Spot crouched over a
dead mouse, eyes gleaming dangerously, tail switching from side to side,
and every hair erect. The bird was advancing cautiously, but
relentlessly, wings outspread, beak wide open, screaming and snapping at
every step. Three-Spot did not lack courage, but her experience had not
included juggernaut gulls, and when the terrifying yellow beak was hard
upon her, she fled, spitting venomously, and Skygak, like a disreputable
robber chief, swallowed her hard-earned prize in one mouthful.
From that time, when he was not following Brother and me, or dozing on
the front porch, or bullying the hens, he was trailing Three-Spot about,
a relentless gray shadow, and if the luckless cat succeeded in keeping
for herself one mouse that she caught, it was when Skygak was asleep in
the brooder house.
[Illustration]
Slowly but surely the old-man sea-gull recovered from his affliction.
Some of the oil-soaked feathers dropped out, and new ones took their
place, and he risked short flights from time to time, cautiously at
first, as if not sure of his powers, and then with increasing
confidence. He ventured out into the water with perfect ease, and we
knew it would be but a short time before he had completely regained his
health.
[Illustration]
When first he flew we were afraid we had lost him, but he returned at
night-time, hungry and eager to be taken up on my shoulder. After that,
when he flew, it was to come back to us as naturally as if we, and not
the sea-gulls, were his kindred.
But there came a day when a feeling of restlessness was in the air.
Brother and I, attuned to the moods of the woods and of out-of-door
things, felt it keenly, and we were not surprised when we saw overhead
the V formation of the wild geese flying southward.
Then the sea-gulls commenced to scream in short, sharp cadences, and a
flock of the gray-and-white birds flew overhead, rising higher and
higher as is the habit of the gray ones when the migrating call comes.
Skygak heard the call—that we could not doubt—for he was restless and
would stretch himself on tiptoe, flapping his wings, turning his head up
to the sky where a gray cloud of birds were flying. Then he would
scream—short, broken cries as if torn by indecision. He loved us, we
knew, but he was of the air lanes; the gray gulls were his kindred.
Sooner or later he must go with them.
[Illustration]
His flights grew longer, and once we did not see him for three days.
Even when he was with us, he was ill at ease. The wild heart of him was
longing for the untrammeled freedom of the winds and the sea, and gaunt
cliffs untouched by foot of man. He forgot to box with us; he no longer
bullied the poultry yard; he even neglected to watch for Three-Spot’s
trophies of the hunt.
[Illustration]
And then he went away. A week passed, and we mourned him bitterly. It
was not so much his going—we knew we must expect that—but we had wanted
to tell him good-by when he left, to wave our hands to him and wish him
Godspeed, to watch him until he was only a speck in the sky. The Siwash
chief said Skygak would never come back—but he did, once more.
It was on a day of crystal clearness, when the clouds were like tiny
white boats in the sky. We stood in the yard, hand in hand, watching the
wild geese pass overhead and the flocks of sea-gulls flying high above
them. From the west came a gray cloud of the seabirds, with one gull
flying far in the lead. And as we watched, the leader left the flock of
winging gulls and, like a falling star, swooped down upon us, spiraling
lower and lower. We held our breath as we watched, for somehow, we knew,
we knew—
A flash of one white wing showed clearly. I tried to speak, but no words
came. Closer and closer came the bird, Skygak, our old-man sea-gull, and
when he was no higher than the roof of the house, he circled slowly
above our heads. Then he screamed twice—long, plaintive cries that we
knew meant farewell.
[Illustration]
We were crying, but we waved our hands to him and called, “Good-by,
good-by!” And slowly he rose once more, the white of one white wing
melting into gray. Higher and higher he winged, to take his place at the
head of the flock.... He was just a speck against the sky, and still we
called our farewells to him in words choked with tears—the specks
vanished into cloudy distance—Skygak had gone forever.
[Illustration:
_He circled slowly above our heads_
]
But it was not without a thought of us. We shall always believe that he
halted the winged caravan to tell us good-by—and the Siwash chief
believes it, too.
_Introducing_
U-CHU-KA
THE JUMPER
_Part Two_
U-CHU-KA
Upon the Hill Trail, which Brother and I called ours because we loved it
so, you may yet see a little clearing made in the midst of red
huckleberry bushes, Oregon grape, and dark green salal shrubs. As long
as we lived in the little cabin by the bay, we never allowed underbrush
to creep into this spot on the Hill Trail, for it was sacred to the
memory of U-Chu-Ka, the only monument we could give him.
U-Chu-Ka was a tiny rabbit—a “jack-rabbit,” I suppose natural historians
would have called him. But we gave him the name that in the Chinook
language means “the jumper,” and we never called him anything else.
[Illustration]
_Part Two_
U-CHU-KA
THE JUMPER
[Illustration:
_He never failed to
answer our call_
]
I remember the day we first saw him—a wee baby rabbit he was, escaped
somehow from his mother’s vigilance, and so much interested in the big
world outside the burrow where he had spent his short life that he
hardly knew whether to be afraid of us or merely curious. In such a case
he no doubt remembered his mother’s warning, for he “froze.” By this I
mean that he remained rigid, the tan of his fur blending with the
mottled greenery and the brown tones of the forest undergrowth. But
Brother and I could “freeze” too, having learned the art from the woods
creatures whom we knew and loved. So we stood perfectly still, and then
it was a case of seeing who could hold out the longer.
It was U-Chu-Ka who finally capitulated in the battle of freezing. His
curiosity became greater than his fear, and he sat up on his haunches,
his tiny forefeet held primly over his stomach, his ears—much too long
for him—tilted questioningly in our direction, and his black dot of a
nose twitching ceaselessly.
We were, I am sure, the first human beings U-Chu-Ka had seen, and
although behind him were countless rabbit traditions as to what fearful
creatures humans were, U-Chu-Ka, being so young, was possessed of
optimism and confidence. Brother and I were so happy when the little
fellow with his soft brown eyes decided that we were friends to be
trusted! Oh, if we had only realized that there were other people not so
friendly to little brown rabbits, whom U-Chu-Ka might have the
misfortune to meet!
But we never thought of that. Our one realization was that here was a
new woods friend, and we set ourselves to the task of winning his heart.
[Illustration]
It was not hard. Indeed, when I think of it now, it seems so pitifully
easy. And I wonder, if every one knew just how easy it was, if men would
carry sticks that shoot flame and death into the domain of the woods
creatures—if they would not carry apples instead.
It was an apple that first won U-Chu-Ka’s heart. Brother had one, of
course, and we nibbled bites off and placed the juicy morsels on the
trail in front of us. Then, walking quietly backward, we waited at a
safe distance for the wind to carry the delectable apple fragrance to
U-Chu-Ka’s wiggling nose.
[Illustration]
Nor was it long before one satiny ear—so fragile that it was almost
transparent—drooped and then rose again. The twitching nose worked
harder; U-Chu-Ka sat up straighter than ever; and then, with funny
little hops, he came toward us, hesitating occasionally, once pausing to
sit up on his haunches as if asking himself if he were doing the right
thing in approaching thus boldly.
[Illustration]
Finally he came to the bits of apple and promptly forgot his fear in his
delight at the unknown dainty. By the time he had eaten the few morsels
we had spread out for him, we had others ready, this time only at arm’s
length.
Later we proffered bits of the fruit in our hands, held very steadily so
that no jerking should alarm the little brown rabbit. At first he was
undecided whether to accept the morsels so close to the big human
creatures, but something, I am sure, told him that there was no harm in
us. In the end he hopped over to my outstretched hand and nibbled
daintily at the apple, while I held my arm so still it ached.
What Mother Rabbit would have said of the way we stuffed U-Chu-Ka, that
day, I do not know, but I am sure she would not have approved. We fed
him until his small stomach was round as a ball. When the apple diet
seemed to pall, we gathered tender blades of grass, and very soon the
little brown one would not take alarm at our movements, but would watch
us with solemn baby dignity, sitting up on his haunches or squatting in
a round ball, his tiny ears laid over his back—a sure sign that he was
no longer nervous.
How we hated to leave him that day! We didn’t take him down the hill and
make him a home by the log cabin, for we had no wish to frighten him,
and as for foraging for himself in the woods, we were sure U-Chu-Ka knew
how to go about it. So we left him at the bend of the trail where we had
first seen him. We called it U-Chu-Ka’s corner, and we left the core of
the apple for him to nibble on after we had gone.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The next afternoon about the same time—for the woods creatures are apt
to do certain things at certain hours—we came up the Hill Trail,
whistling, and were almost at U-Chu-Ka’s corner before it occurred to us
that the sound might frighten him away if he were still in that
neighborhood. But curiosity is a rabbit’s strongest trait, and suddenly
there he was, hopping out of the underbrush into the little clearing as
if in response to our call—indeed as if he had been waiting.
We had brought offerings of lettuce and cabbage leaves, and this time it
was not half so long before U-Chu-Ka would eat from our hands and permit
us to fondle his velvet softness.
We came every day after that, always whistling, with choicest tidbits
for our little friend. He would come into his “corner” hopping out from
the greenery like a tiny puffball, sit up very primly, ears tilted, his
nose wiggling, until he was sure it was his friends. Then down the trail
toward us he would bound, with such long hops that his hind feet seemed
to go above his head. Oh, U-Chu-Ka, little brown one, if we only had not
taught you to have confidence in humans—to come unafraid when we
whistled!
[Illustration]
As the summer went by, U-Chu-Ka grew and grew. From a baby rabbit he
became a half-grown rabbit, and we realized that before long he would be
a very large rabbit indeed. But he never failed to answer our call, and
through the long summer afternoons we would play upon the hill, the
three of us. We played house, U-Chu-Ka submitting without protest to
being dressed in a doll’s frock, with a tiny hat tying back his ears. He
was our child, and we rocked him to sleep, sent him to school,
disciplined him at times, and pretended that he talked to us. If I could
only give you a picture of U-Chu-Ka, half-grown now, in a blue gingham
doll dress, his brown paws stuck through the short sleeves, his white
knob of a tail flashing impudently from behind when he hopped about, and
his soft brown eyes grotesquely large under the white hat tied under his
chin!
And then, one day—it is a day I do not like to think of—we decided that
U-Chu-Ka should have a birthday party. So we took cookies, apples, and
lettuce sandwiches up the hill. It was hot, with scarcely a breeze, and
sounds carried distinctly. From far away we heard a whistled tune, and
we knew that some infrequent passer-by was on the Hill Trail. The sound
grew louder as we climbed, and then—a single shot that sent echoes
vibrating against the startled hills.
[Illustration]
A gunshot! It was not such an infrequent sound through the woods that
skirted the Bay, but our hearts suddenly contracted as if a hand had
clutched them.
We said not a word to each other, but broke into a jogging trot that
brought us hot and panting to the top of the hill. From there it was but
a hundred yards or so to U-Chu-Ka’s corner, and we ran doggedly, with a
great fear tearing at our hearts.
Oh, that moment! U-Chu-Ka’s corner was empty—but perhaps he would come
if we whistled! We tried to form our dry lips for the sound, but none
came. For we saw simultaneously, in the little clearing, a bright red
patch on the low-hanging ferns—a little tuft of brown fur and a bit of
white down.
[Illustration]
The hunter had come and gone. U-Chu-Ka could not have known that the
long stick pointed at him was filled with flame and death. We could
picture the scene so well—the man, swinging carelessly down along the
trail whistling, the gun over his shoulder—a sudden halt as a little
brown rabbit hopped out from the underbrush into the small clearing and
raised himself inquisitively on his haunches—a flash—a bundle of limp
fur, blood-stained—a little brown pelt dangling pathetically down from a
leather belt. Perhaps the man whistled again as he went down the trail.
He could not know that two children, back by the little clearing, were
sobbing their hearts out with their faces buried in the cool, green
moss, because of a playmate who would come no more.
[Illustration]
We tamed no more rabbits, Brother and I. We felt that we had been the
cause of our friend’s death, and the least we could do was to refrain
from putting confidence into other woods creatures, to be shattered by
humans who did not know or care about the wild heart.
And so we planted twin-flower vines in the little clearing, and edged it
with yellow Johnny-jump-up plants. It was our futile way of saying to
U-Chu-Ka how sorry we were—how we loved him and how we missed him.
And today on the Hill Trail you may see U-Chu-Ka’s corner, grown over a
bit now, because no one chops away the underbrush. But still the
twin-flowers and the Johnny-jump-up’s bloom there in memory of U-Chu-Ka,
the little brown friend who lives on in our hearts and our loving
memory.
[Illustration:
_For the dogs had lost the lighter scent_
]
_Part Three_
SANCTUARY
No doubt it was a silly name to give a deer—“Leonard”—but Brother and I
named him on the spur of the moment, and, probably because we did not
know the Indian word for “fawn,” we resorted to the prosaic title to
which our woods friend learned to respond.
Our acquaintance with Leonard began in such a dramatic way and with such
suddenness that we had no time to think about a suitable name—although
we did remember to name him even in the first chaotic moment of meeting.
It was a habit that came to us as naturally as breathing.
[Illustration]
It was during those days of licensed killing known as “the deer season.”
All day long, from across the bay, a mile in width, came the
long-drawn-out baying of hounds and an occasional shot. On our side of
the bay, too, high up in the wooded hills, we could hear the hounds at
chase, and our hearts were heavy, being weighted with fear for the
hunted things of the woods. We wondered if the hunters would find the
salt-lick which we had stumbled upon in our wanderings and where we had
spent many breathless hours watching for the slim-limbed does and the
antlered bucks to come and take refreshment.
We stood outside the little log cabin, our faces raised to the hills,
our hands clasped tightly together, listening shiveringly to the hunting
cry of the dogs. They were in full chase, we knew, after some luckless
deer. We felt so helpless, yet so eager to help protect our friends of
the wilds. I wonder if our unexpressed prayer did not have something to
do with what happened.
The baying of the hounds alternated with the crash of the underbrush
where they were running, men coming close behind. The dogs were skirting
the top of a hill. All at once their baying became a series of
whimpering barks. They were for the moment off the scent.
[Illustration]
And then, down the hill, with such flying leaps that he scarcely touched
the earth, came a little deer, a fawn, heading straight for the cabin.
Was he mad with fear that he sought the home of humans? Or did he know
by that unexplainable power which animals have that we were friends,
that we would protect his life with ours—did he, I wonder? For he
cleared the four-foot fence with a bound and trotted up to us, then
stood trembling, his soft eyes glazed with fright, white foam at the
corners of his mouth.
This is not a fiction story; I am telling it as it happened.
The little fawn thrust his hot, dry nose against my hand, and when
Brother and I, recovering from our petrified amazement, put our arms
around his velvety neck, he did not shrink away, but pressed against us
as if mutely begging protection.
[Illustration]
If you have never had a wild creature throw itself upon your mercy, if
you have never known the feeling of a soft, brown deer body pressed
against yours in pleading and in confidence, you can not realize the
wild thrill of ecstasy that went through us.
“His name is Leonard!” I found breath to say, my face against the
velvety neck of the little deer.
But Brother, being a man in embryo, was thinking of sterner things. The
hounds, he reminded me, would shortly find the scent of the deer. If
they came baying down the hill, the fawn would take fright and dart away
before we could stop him.
[Illustration]
It was not a pleasant picture, but what were we to do? The short,
whining barks of the dogs had already changed to the long, triumphant
cadence of the hound in full cry. They would come down the hill, the
hunters would claim Leonard as their game, they would—
[Illustration]
“Meat!” whispered Brother tensely, and cryptic as it may sound to the
reader I understood perfectly. I wondered that I had not thought of it
myself. Brother outlined a plan of action in a few brief words while the
baby deer, with knees wobbling sadly, turned terror-haunted eyes up the
hill, his delicate nostrils quivering, yet made no move to leave us.
It took my best efforts to lead the little fawn into the shelter of the
brooder house. The scent was foreign to anything he had known before,
and the darkness terrified him anew. He could not have known that safety
lay within that strange place, but he did know—of that I am sure—that he
could trust himself with me, for he came, hesitatingly, urged always by
my voice and my hands gently caressing him. He went with me, even
through the door, into the semi-darkness of the frame brooder house, and
though when I swung the door shut he nervously leaped away from my side,
it was to return an instant later, as if begging my pardon for his
involuntary action.
Brother, in the meantime, had dashed into the kitchen and emerged as
quickly with a juicy steak—it was to have been cooked for dinner that
night—which he hacked into chunks with his jackknife as he raced up the
hill.
With my eyes against a crack I could see him panting upward to the point
where Leonard had emerged from the underbrush of the woods.
[Illustration]
And scarcely had he arrived when a lean hound, with lolling tongue and
nose to the ground, burst from the shrubbery, uttering a long-drawn-out
bay. The little deer beside me shook in every limb, and I was trembling,
too, as if it were I, not Leonard, whom the dogs were trailing. We
crouched there in the darkness, the wild thing of the woods and the
child who loved the wild things of the woods, and in those tense moments
I felt the heart of the baby deer pounding against my body. Can you
wonder why now, when I see the body of a deer killed in the hunt, I can
not congratulate the hunter on his prowess? I know how the deer at bay
stood still and trembled! I know how his soft, brown eyes grew wide with
helpless terror. I know how his heart pounded suffocatingly. And I can
not be glad for the hunter; I am only sorry that he does not understand.
[Illustration]
And up on the hill Brother was acting his part in the drama. When the
first lean hound swung into sight, he deftly tossed a chunk of red,
juicy meat in his pathway. The dog ignored the first piece, so intent
was he on the fresh scent of the deer. But another chunk aimed just
ahead of him was a temptation not to be withstood, and he gobbled it up,
pausing a second in his chase. Another dog followed him out of the
underbrush, finding the first piece of meat Brother had thrown.
It did not take long for the two hounds to finish off the entire steak
so obligingly tossed to them by the small boy almost hidden in a clump
of tall ferns. And when it was gone, Leonard was safe, for the dogs,
with the smell of fresh meat in their nostrils, had lost the lighter
scent of the little deer’s flying hoofs, and they sniffed shamefacedly
and with befuddled yappings, until the hunters came cursing down the
hill and crashing into the open, to berate the dogs soundly for having
lost the game—as they supposed—in the woods.
[Illustration]
They could not know that the little boy in the clump of ferns, looking
on so innocently, was responsible for the hounds’ failure, nor that
their game was at that instant held tightly in the arms of a little girl
who was shaking with excitement as well as with fear, lest something
happen to betray the refugee’s hiding-place.
But nothing did. The men stamped back into the woods, taking the hounds
with them, and that day at least we heard no more baying on the hill.
[Illustration]
And Leonard—we were afraid to let him go back to the woods until the
deer season had passed or until he was of a size better able to care for
himself. The grown-ups helped us, and we contrived a pen with wire
netting over the top and sides as well, with the brooder house as
shelter for nights. And here we kept Leonard a willing prisoner, while
the hounds bayed on the hills and shots echoed across the water. How we
wished, when we heard them, that we could make a place of refuge for
every hunted thing in the world to come to and be cared for. But Leonard
at least was safe, and he seemed to know it, too. Though he trembled
whenever he heard the long hunting cry of the dogs, he did not take
refuge even in the brooder house. He knew, I think, that he was in
sanctuary.
[Illustration]
As the days went on, we released our little deer from his pen, first
with a collar and a rope, and then with nothing to hold him. He followed
us like a dog, trotting beside us with dainty, mincing steps, sometimes
leaping ahead of us, turning to look back at us, his large ears at an
angle, his slim young body silhouetted against the green of the woods.
He soon learned his name and would come bounding out to us when we
called. We fed him things his ancestors probably never tasted—cookies,
apples, lettuce leaves, and candy, in addition to the grass and tender
leaves we brought him before we allowed him to accompany us. But best of
all the dainties we gave him was the chewing gum that Brother in a
playful moment tendered him. Leonard accepted it daintily, as was his
wont, and chewed it, as Brother and I remarked, with an actual
expression of surprise coming into his brown eyes. He chewed and chewed.
Perhaps he thought it a new variety of cud. At any rate, he gave it his
hearty indorsement, and after that he would nose in Brother’s pockets to
find the stick of gum that was always there for him.
[Illustration]
So Leonard became one of our happy family, and though we knew that
sometime in the distant future we should have on our hands the problem
of what to do with an antlered buck who had forgotten the ways of the
woods and accepted those of civilization, we did not feel sorry about
it, being content to dwell in the happy present, while Leonard seemed
content as well.
But one night I woke to find Brother’s hand tugging at mine. He was
whispering to me that something was outside Leonard’s pen—perhaps it was
a bear or a wildcat trying to get at him.
[Illustration]
Foolish children we may have been, but we were not cowardly. It never
occurred to us to rouse the grown-ups. Leonard was our friend and our
responsibility. From my window the two of us crept out on the roof,
white nightgowned figures, shaking with cold and excitement. From the
roof we dropped easily to the railing of the picket fence at the back of
the cabin and from there to the ground.
Like two little white wraiths we crept along in the shadow of the fence
until we could see the outlines of the brooder house and the pen which
enclosed it. There was a moon, but it was thickly hidden by clouds. All
we could distinguish was a dark form against the wire netting, a shape
that moved restlessly, now away from the pen, now back to it.
As our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, we saw that Leonard was
in the pen outside the brooder house, and we questioned each other
silently. Surely no deer would come thus to meet an enemy animal that
wanted to destroy.
[Illustration]
And then, as if in answer to our question, the clouds parted and a pale
moon turned the darkness into half-shadowed light. With the sudden
effulgence came the weird gleam of four eyes turned in our direction—for
our scent had carried to sensitive nostrils. Brother and I, for an
instant, caught each other’s hands and gasped.
[Illustration]
Then two of the luminous lights vanished, as the slim animal outside the
pen sprang away in great bounds that carried her into the shadows beyond
our ken—but not before we had recognized the slim, fleeing form for a
doe. We knew it was Leonard’s mother, who had found her baby.
We climbed back into our window as silently as we had left it. Brother
in his cot, and I in mine, stared up into the darkness, trying to tell
ourselves that ours was the right to keep the fawn we had befriended,
yet knowing that the mother heart was calling for the little brown deer
whom we loved so well. And we knew that in the end we must relinquish
our claim—Leonard, after all, belonged to the woods, and the mother
heart of the woods was calling.