American squirrels were such good housekeepers they would have fared
very badly, and their young ones would probably have died from cold
and want. But they had plenty of food and a nice, warm nest--the very
same nest in which they had lived for several seasons.
This nest was made of leaves, moss, grass, little twigs, hair,
feathers, little scraps of wool which the sheep had thoughtfully left
on the brambles--anything, in fact, that was soft, and comfortable,
and warm. It was woven so carefully that neither rain nor snow could
get into it, and was so firmly wedged in its place that no wind could
blow it away. Therefore, when they had all taken a little exercise,
had a good meal, and trotted home again, they nestled down in their
warm, cozy home, and were just as happy as they could be.
But when Christmas was over and January had come and gone, the young
squirrels got restless and tiresome, and began to behave very badly--
so badly that sometimes they did not come home for a couple of nights
and days, and at last they went away altogether.
But the parent squirrels did not seem to mind it, and it was rather a
relief to be quiet and peaceable, and not have so much noise and
quarreling, and as Mother Earth was beginning to look green again,
Sentre and Siccatee felt very happy and were scarcely ever apart.
They began to find mice, young birds and insects again, and very glad
they were, for they were tired of dried roots and odd scraps.
All that spring they were very busy, as usual, for squirrels always
seem to be busy, no matter what time of the year it may be. They are
busy in the spring getting ready for the little baby squirrels; busy
all the summer attending to them and feeding them; busy all the autumn
collecting their winter stores, and busy all the winter finding their
food and teaching their children the manners and customs of
squirreldom.
As the spring went on the two squirrels grew more busy, if possible,
than ever, and by the beginning of summer, in the old nest which they
had done up and renovated, were four, tiny baby squirrels, and both
Sentre and Siccatee were fully convinced that they were finer babies
than they had ever had before. They both took the greatest care of
them all through that summer, and when autumn came round once more
began the same thing over again--collecting food for the winter and
teaching their little ones how to eat eggs and nuts; how to climb
trees, and leap from bough to bough, and how to drop in time of danger
on their outspread little feet and bushy tails, and so save themselves
from injury.
And, curiously enough, one day Siccatee came across the same Horrible
Humans that had caused her so much trouble the year before. They were
both a little taller and broader, but that they were the same there
could be no doubt. Siccatee found out that they came to the house at
the foot of the hill every year, and very sorry she was, for it was
only last year that they had spoiled one of her best storehouses.
This year something far more terrible happened. Of all her four
children, Siccatee loved best of all little Graycoat, who was
certainly a very beautiful baby squirrel. He was so soft and fluffy;
had such a beautiful, silvery gray tail; such pretty, delicate feet
and limbs, and neat, small head, with bright little eyes that were
never still for a single moment.
Now, Graycoat was fond of wandering off by himself--being a bit of a
dreamer--and one beautiful day he happened in some extraordinary way
to jump right into the lap of one of the Humans, who were sitting
there in the woods.
It was the lap of the little girl, and in an instant she had thrown
her apron over Graycoat and he was a prisoner.
In vain he cried and shrieked for his mother, and in vain she answered
from the bough above, chattering and scolding and calling him
beseechingly in most piteous tones. But the little girl kept tight
hold and carried poor Graycoat to the house at the foot of the hill,
and here, after being petted and stroked, and looked at until he was
nearly dead with fright, Graycoat was put into a horrible prison with
iron bars; and although he climbed and climbed and worked hard all
day, he never seemed to get any further up and could see no chance of
getting out. The children, wishing to be kind, but not realizing how
dreadfully cruel it was to keep him in the cage at all, put his little
prison out on the veranda, and it was with an aching heart and tears
of agony that Siccatee saw her beloved little one shut up in that
cruel cage.
She crept close and talked to Graycoat in a soft, guttural tone, and
when night drew on, and all was still and silent outside the house,
Siccatee would go to the prison and bite and gnaw with her little
teeth, and scratch with her little paws, straining every nerve in her
poor little body to set her darling free.
Graycoat's poor little heart would beat with hope every time his
mother came, and, when she hopped swiftly and softly away in the early
morning, Graycoat's little heart would sink again, and he would send
forth a pitiful little cry after his mother--a cry that went to her
very heart.
From the time that Graycoat was taken prisoner Siccatee scarcely ate
or slept. Carefully hidden behind the nearest tree, her bright little
eyes would peep out, and her soft tail wave up and down while she
watched every action and incident in the new life of her little one.
As night crept on, she would once more steal forth to the cage, and
try again and again at the same useless, hopeless task of breaking
those cruel bars.
She had not forgotten her other children, but she knew they could now
look out for themselves, had plenty to eat, and a good, comfortable
home in the old tree. So she paid little attention to them, and
devoted all her thoughts and energies to her unfortunate, little
Graycoat.
Then came one cold, frosty night--so cold that the poor little baby
squirrel shivered and shook as though with an ague. Siccatee sat as
close to the bars of the prison as she could sit, and did her best to
warm Graycoat with the heat from her own little body. But Graycoat
missed the nice, warm nest in the tree, and although the side that was
nestling against his mother was fairly warm, his other side felt cold
and stiff.
In fact, he felt stiff all over, for the unnatural life, the different
food, the cruel prison bars, and last, but not least, the cold, frosty
night were too much for him, and quite suddenly he left off leaning
against his little mother, and lay on the floor of his prison cold and
stiff.
Poor Siccatee was in great distress. She ran round and round the cage,
calling him, scolding him and beseeching him to speak to her. Her
bright eyes were full of tears, and her poor little body shook with
cold and distress.
In vain she put first one tiny paw through the cage and tried to
arouse him, and then the other. It was no use. Graycoat neither moved
nor answered, and at last with a pitiful little cry Siccatee lay down
by the cage, put one little paw through the bars as though in a last
appeal to her darling, and, shivering with cold and anguish, drew one
long sobbing breath, and lay just as still as Graycoat.
And when the children came in the morning, they were greatly surprised
and deeply distressed to find two dead squirrels--one baby squirrel
inside the cage, and one mother squirrel outside.
But even then they did not seem to realize how dreadfully cruel they
had been in suddenly taking away a wild, free creature from the fresh,
open air, beautiful woods and trees, and, best of all, joyous freedom,
and putting him in a tiny, narrow cage, where there was only just room
enough for him to turn round.
They could not realize that nothing they could do or give him could
ever make up to the active, little creature the loss of his beautiful,
woodland home and his free life.
LEO, THE LION
Leo was a full-grown, African lion, and one of the finest specimens of
his race. Not only was he the king of beasts, but he was the king of
all other lions for miles and miles around the country in which he
lived.
From a little, tawny cub, when he had played and frolicked with his
brother and sister, he had given proofs of his extraordinary strength.
His mother had at last decided he was too rough to play with the
others, so bruised and knocked about were they on more than one
occasion after romping with him.
The muscles of his thick paws and sturdy limbs stood out like knotted
cords even as a cub; his claws cut like little sickles, and his hard,
rope-like tail could give a blow that would knock his brother or
sister head over heels.
As he grew up he gave promise of the magnificent animal he eventually
became. Added to his wonderful strength he had marvelous daring, even
for a young lion, being absolutely fearless.
Long before his mane had fully grown the other lions stood in awe of
him; for, although at times he was indolent and lazy, like the rest of
his kind, and would not exert himself unless obliged to do so, there
were other times when he allowed nothing to stand in his way.
His favorite food happened to be buffalo and giraffe, and although
they were both extremely troublesome things to get hold of, Leo cared
not. He liked buffalo and giraffe, and he intended to have them. The
other lions would never go out of their way if they could get an
antelope or a jaguar, because they were easy to strike down and were
very good eating; but to obtain a buffalo or a giraffe meant running
long distances, and this is what a lion does not care to do.
With his great strength he can give tremendous springs, but, owing to
his indolent nature, he dislikes a long-continued race, which is apt,
before it is finished, to be somewhat tiring, even to a lion.
Buffaloes and giraffes are made for running and think nothing of it,
but the lion is built in a different manner, and, moreover, he knows
that these animals are so wonderfully quick of hearing that they
generally obtain a good start to begin with.
But Leo cared nothing for this: if he wanted a buffalo he had it, even
if he raced half the night through for it. As a matter of fact, the
longer the race the more he enjoyed the feast. What could be nicer
than, after racing for miles after a nice, fat buffalo, to pull it
down with his strong paws, to tear open its throat, and drink the warm
blood?
Sometimes he ate a part of the flesh, but not always; he was somewhat
fastidious, and so that he had the warm blood, he more often than not
left the carcass for the wolves and hyenas, or any other animal who
cared to have it.
There was perhaps even more delight in obtaining a giraffe than a
buffalo. For a giraffe can skim over the ground at an amazing pace--so
swiftly, so silently, that not a sound can be heard except the soft,
gentle swish of its funny little tail.
The stately carriage of the giraffe does not appeal to the lion, and
the graceful neck, with its pretty head and round, gentle eyes, has no
effect on him; all he thinks of is the tender flesh and delicate
flavor which belong peculiarly to a giraffe.
There is no struggle as with the buffalo when the lion springs upon
the giraffe. There is no roar or noise of any kind, for the giraffe is
absolutely dumb, and makes no sound even when dying.
But Leo was fastidious even about the giraffe: he only ate the parts
he liked best, and left the rest for the lower animals.
At other times, when the indolence of his nature overcame him, Leo
would content himself with a young antelope or any other animal which
was easy to capture. When food was scarce he would use the lion's
tactics to get it.
In the first place, he would be very careful to go against the wind,
so that the peculiar odor, which all animals that belong to the cat
tribe have, should be blown behind him, and so not convey any warning
to the animals he was approaching. If he failed to find anything, he
would resort to tactic number two. He would put his huge mouth close
to the ground and roar, moving his head in a half-circle all the time;
by doing this it was impossible for the animals to tell from which
direction the sound came, and, wild with terror, the foolish creatures
would rush out in all directions, very often into Leo's very mouth.
After this he would creep indolently back to his comfortable lair and
have a good, long sleep. For sleep is one of a lion's greatest
enjoyments. He sleeps after a night hunt; sleeps during the heat of
the day; in fact, when there is nothing else to do, and whenever he
has an opportunity. Belonging to the cat tribe, he has the cat's love
of sleep and ease very strongly developed, and is about as indolent an
animal on occasion as can be imagined.
When Leo was fully grown he was a magnificent animal, and even the
other male lions stood in awe of him. He looked what he was--a very
king of lions, when, after a long sleep, he rose up in all his majesty
of strength, shook his magnificent mane and lashed his tail, with its
curious little black tuft, to and fro as though eager for a fight.
He was acknowledged by all his brethren, almost before he had reached
his maturity, to be the king of them all; and Leo took the honor as a
matter of course, and kept up his reputation to the very letter.
He was the terror of the villagers by night, for he had already become
known, and the animal creation lived in deadly fear of him.
He would stalk into the villages in the coolest and most daring
manner, passing under the very noses of the guns, take up some lamb or
sheep or other small animal, and walk coolly off with it, growling in
his most impudent manner the while. In vain did the guns blaze forth
fire and smoke; in vain were traps set in all directions. Leo was not
to be caught: he eluded them all, and went his way, and became more
and more a living terror and a dread.
When he took unto himself a wife he grew fiercer still, and his rage
and passion at the slightest sign of any intruder kept all other
members of the tribe at a safe distance.
In due course of time he had a small family, and once in possession of
these precious cubs his strength and fierceness increased, and his
daring knew no bounds. His roars struck terror into all hearts, and
his craftiness and extraordinary cunning inspired a superstitious fear
among the natives, which made them speak of him with hushed breath.
But pride must have a fall, and Leo's fall came in a somewhat curious
manner.
It happened that food was very scarce, and that the young cubs were
growing more and more hungry as the days went on.
Leo was a proud father, and the fine, sturdy cubs which belonged to
him were the admiration of all the other lions who had ever had the
privilege of seeing them. He would go through almost anything for
himself, but for his wife and cubs he cared not what he faced or what
he dared, so that he obtained what he wanted.
They had eaten up most of the young things which had been thriving on
the various farms, and there seemed to be nothing left but either a
sheep or a bullock. Being lazy, Leo did not care to carry either a
sheep or a bullock to his lair; he preferred something lighter.
And so it happened one evening that, as he made his way towards the
village--making up his mind that if there was nothing else he must
have a sheep--he suddenly came across the dead body of a little Kaffir
boy lying by the wayside.
The Kaffirs very seldom bury their dead, and so the mother had laid
her beloved one under a shady bank, and left him with a few leaves
strewn over him.
At first Leo hesitated. He had never tasted Kaffir, and he also knew
that it was a bad thing to eat. But he was very hungry himself, and
his wife and family were hungry, too; and the little Kaffir boy would
be light to carry.
After smelling and turning over the body, he decided first to taste it
and see whether it would be good for his family to eat.
Alas! once having tasted it, Leo was done for. It was the most
delicious food he had ever tasted, and he was unable to stop eating
until he had made a full, heavy meal. Then he looked at the poor
little carcass; there would still be enough for the cubs, and yet he
hesitated.
He knew it would be bad for them; he knew that, once having given it
to them, they would be spoilt for all other food; but he had eaten so
heartily himself, and was already getting so lazy and sleepy from the
effects of his meal, that he had no energy nor inclination to hunt for
any other food that night. So, taking the remains of the little Kaffir
boy in his strong mouth, he trotted swiftly off to his lair, and put
it down temptingly in front of the cubs.
There were two of them, and they were ravenously hungry; without more
ado they set to work, and tore and crunched with their sharp teeth and
strong little jaws, until there was not a vestige of the little Kaffir
boy left.
The lioness, seeing there was only sufficient food for the cubs, did
not attempt to take any, but, hungry as she was, looked placidly on
while the young ones satisfied their hunger.
[Illustration: "HE WOULD TAKE UP SOME SMALL ANIMAL AND WALK COOLLY OFF
WITH IT."]
Leo looked at her guiltily, and expected reproaches. But, as it
happened, his wife had not noticed what kind of food he had brought;
it had been too much torn to be recognizable, and she concluded it was
the remains of some small animal he had killed.
At any other time he would have gone out again to fetch some food for
his wife, but he was so heavy and sleepy that, with one big yawn, he
sank down, stretched out his huge paws in front of him, and, nestling
his handsome head comfortably between them, sank into a deep sleep.
From that day Leo was no longer the same. He was restless and
irritable, snappy and fierce even to his wife and children. He raced
no more after buffaloes or giraffes, or even for antelopes or jaguars;
all he wanted was human flesh.
Once having tasted it, he cared for and could eat no other. And as
time went on his magnificent coat began to come off in great,
unsightly patches, his eyes and mouth got sore and red, and his limbs
grew weak and rickety. His roar was no longer the fierce, grand,
triumphant roar that it had been; it resembled a hoarse cry of pain
now, and his little ones--instead of being sturdy little cubs as they
had been--had grown thin, miserable, and mangy.
Altogether Leo was in a miserable state; and, to add to his misery,
his wife turned against him. The sight of his mangy coat and bloodshot
eyes, not to speak of the sore, drooping mouth, filled her with
disgust, and she growled fiercely whenever he came near her.
In vain he brought her food to eat; but the food was always dead
Kaffir, and she would not touch it.
She appeared, too, to turn against the cubs, and, instead of fondling
and caressing them as formerly, kept them aloof and chastised them
severely with her heavy paws whenever they came too near.
Soon after this one of the cubs died, and Leo's grief was painful to
witness. He licked it all over, put his huge paw on it, and turned it
from one side to the other, uttering queer little sounds all the time,
and, when he found it would neither move nor respond to his caresses,
gave a prolonged howl of misery which struck terror into his wife's
heart.
She had had enough of it by this time; she disliked a mangy husband
and scrofulous children, and so the next evening quietly took her
departure to some other place where the surroundings were more
congenial.
Leo tottered back to his lair that night with staggering, uneven steps
to find his wife had gone and that his last remaining cub had just
died.
With a cry of pain, something between a roar and a deep growl, Leo
stretched himself over the two little, dead bodies of his children and
pined and fretted away.
He no longer went for food, not even for Kaffirs, and the villagers
and animals in the neighborhood wondered what had become of him, and
whether his absence meant some fresh daring on his part.
But there was no more daring for Leo. From the time he laid his long,
warm body over the cold forms of his children he never rose again.
For three days he lay there, doing his best to bring them back to
life; but on the third day his great head, with what remained of its
magnificent beauty, sank for the last time on his heavy paws, and Leo,
the king of lions, was dead.
And so this grand, strong, noble animal lost his life through eating
human flesh, which he knew quite well he ought not to touch.
CHAFFER, THE CHAMOIS
On one of the craggy heights of the Alpine mountains, in Switzerland,
Chaffer stood, one fine, clear day in October, looking out over the
landscape, and wondering what he should do and where he should go.
For, sad to relate, he had just been turned out of the herd by an old
chamois, who considered that he and those of his own age had a better
right there than some of the young males. So, with a few others,
Chaffer had been driven off, but not until he had made a good fight
for it. He was fairly strong, and did not at all relish getting the
worst of anything, but he was young yet and knew his time was coming--
the time when he would drive that old chamois out of the herd far
quicker than he had been driven, and get the best of him in more ways
than one.
He was a fine young animal, and as he stood there at that dizzy
height, his four feet planted firmly on the peak, he showed to very
best advantage. Chaffer stood about two feet high at the shoulders,
and was about three feet in length, not counting his short, black
tail; his yellowish-brown body was streaked down the back with a black
line, which defined the spine, while his beautiful head--the face and
throat a peculiar yellowish-white, with a brownish-black mark which
went from his mouth to his eyes--was surmounted by a splendid pair of
horns nearly come to perfection.
These horns were from six to eight inches long, black and shiny,
slender and round, rising from the forehead perpendicularly, and
curving sharply at the extremities into hooks. Very proud Chaffer was
of them, for they meant; so much to him. They meant, for one thing,
that he was now almost full grown, and that he would soon be of an age
to take his place in the antelope world as a champion and fighter. He
could hold his own now with some of the males, and, although he had
just been driven out of the herd, several others had been forced out
with him, so he did not trouble himself much about it.
The only thing he was puzzled about was what he should do next, but
this little matter was decided for him in a manner he never dreamed
of. He was some way from the herd now, but at that moment he heard the
well-known whistle of the sentinel chamois.[Footnote: Each herd has a
chamois who acts as a sentinel. At the slightest sign of danger this
sentinel gives a peculiar whistle, not particularly shrill or
piercing, but which has a curious, penetrating power and carries a
great distance. Not only does this sentinel give warning of danger,
but he indicates from which direction it is coming.--_Author._] In an
instant Chaffer was off, leaping over wide chasms, climbing over crags
and dizzy heights, sliding down dangerous, slippery places, but always
going in the opposite direction to the approaching enemy.
For Chaffer knew now what the danger was--it was a man; and he could,
with his wonderful power of scent, smell him, although he was still a
great distance away. Once having realized that it was a man, Chaffer
lost no time, but made his way at once up the steepest crag he could
find. It was much easier for him to go up than down, for his legs were
adapted for this purpose, The hind ones being much longer than the
front ones.
His small, neat feet were formed for climbing; his forefeet had very
sharp hoofs, which, when descending, Chaffer would dig into the ground
to gain a foothold, and his hind feet had curious, false hoofs. That
is to say, the outer hoofs were higher than the soles, and this
enabled him to have a grip on the slightest notch or projection on the
face of the rocks, so that it was almost impossible for him to slip.
In descending the rocks, he would place his forefeet close together
and push them in front of him; he could then slide down the face of an
almost perpendicular cliff with the greatest ease and safety, and
alight at the bottom without so much as a scratch.
In going up a very steep hill, he would stand up on his hind legs, put
his forefeet on some narrow shelf or ledge of rock, and then, with a
sharp little bound, draw his body up, and stand with all four feet on
a space scarcely big enough for a full-grown man.