their souls--the larks, the pigeons, and every family you ever heard
of, were determined to do something to the crows for snatching their
young ones and stealing their eggs.
"Of course, you know, similar complaints have been lodged against me,"
she added; "but the point is, my family was never caught. Besides, the
crows get corn and such to eat, and the whole world felt that the crow
was stepping out of his class, you know, when he took to eating birds
and eggs and frogs. It was the greediness of an upstart family. That's
what it was."
The very thought of this aspect of the case made Mrs. Owl so indignant
that she screamed and hooted loud and long.
"It was all long, long ago," she said. "The birds met in a great
meeting. Something had to be done, and it was thought that war would
be declared and the crows would all be killed or driven to live on a
lonely island. But somebody, Mrs. Yellowhammer, I think it was, put
in a word in their favor. She was a tender-hearted fool and recalled
something decent the crows had done. She said that they had left her a
lot of acorns one cold winter, and she felt so much obliged to them.
The crows would have been done to death except for what she said. There
were two doves on the jury, too; and they're a weak and sentimental
lot, you know. At any rate, the sentence which the judge, a wonderful
old owl, pronounced, was to the effect that the crows must forever go
in black. They had to fly all the way to Egypt, where the little people
live, to get their clothes changed.
[Illustration: "THE BIRDS MET IN A GREAT MEETING. SOMETHING HAD TO
BE DONE"]
"Oh, it was hard for them. Poor Mrs. Crow could think of nothing to
say but _Caught! Caught! Caught!_ and that grew to be _Caw! Caw! Caw!_
after a while. Sometimes I feel a little sorry for her and her family;
but, as you know, they are very much down on me. I can't imagine why."
She winked a long green wink at Mr. Fox. For she knew, and he knew,
that Mrs. Owl had that very night eaten all the little crows she could
steal from their nests. And he knew that Mrs. Owl would never dare to
fly abroad in daylight for the crows. Then both of them made the woods
fairly shiver with their laughter.
But it was growing light, and Mrs. Owl and Mr. Fox both felt that a
night well spent deserved a long day of sleep, so they parted and Mr.
Fox went to his home, greatly pleased to know why the crows are
black, and why they must forever say, "Caught! Caught! Caught!"
XVII
MRS. MUSKRAT'S POOR RELATIONS
Mrs. Muskrat owned a beautiful home of her own on the edge of the
mill-pond. She had built the house years ago, and had kept it in the
best of repair. It was cleverly concealed at a point where tufts of
grass and overhanging bushes afforded protection, and at the same time
it was well out in the pond, quite inaccessible to Mrs. Muskrat's
enemies.
The roof rose like an inverted bowl over a circular wall of mud and
sticks; and so neatly were the straws and sticks matted over the top
that the house seemed at first glance to be but an accidental confusion
of dried leaves and old branches. This was as it should be, for Mrs.
Muskrat, like many persons of good taste, preferred to have a home of
interior elegance and ease to one with merely a showy exterior.
It was autumn and Mrs. Muskrat was congratulating herself upon her well
filled larder and the prospects of a comfortable winter.
"I am always glad," she would say to the neighbor that happened in,
"I am always glad that I moved down here from that upper pond when I
did. It was a poor place to live and one was in constant danger of
the water's being drawn off. Those farmers are so inconsiderate you
can never tell when they will take it into their heads to drain the
meadows, and then it is all up with us poor creatures."
She would then continue her narrative, after the manner of many people
who take interest in no affairs but their own, and would probably
burden her caller with the full account of how she had prevailed upon
her husband, the young Dr. Muskrat, to leave the shallows of the upper
home and set up for himself on the edges of the deep and permanent
mill-pond.
"And," she would always conclude, "a mill-pond is so very much more
aristocratic--not to mention a much better growth of provisions.
Personally, I love deep water, and the sound of the mill-wheel is dear
to my heart. No; I shall never go back to the upper pond."
Always the neighbors knew that Mrs. Muskrat, in alluding to the
elegance of the mill-pond society, was, in point of fact, repudiating
her poor relations, who had gone on living in the distant meadows.
For, like many people who move to the town and prosper, waxing fat and
successful, she was given to a feeling of pity that sounded a good deal
like contempt for the poor relatives back in the country.
Little did she realize what the winter was to bring forth as she swam
in and out of her front door, crossing to the opposite shores and back,
always bringing the tenderest roots and lily stalks for her winter
provisions. She was very content with the world, although she regretted
the departure of her best friend, Mrs. Thrush, whose nest was in the
alders almost over her very head, and she was sorry that the turtles
had found it necessary to retire into the deep mud for their winter's
sleep.
The sun was bright, however, and cheerful sounds came from the fields
where men were loading pumpkins into the farm wagon, and from the
orchards came the laughter of merry boys gathering apples. This drew
her attention to the old, neglected tree which grew on the bank of the
pond. Its fruit was bright, and there was much of it, but it hung high.
"If only there comes a good brisk wind to-night," she thought, "those
apples will blow to the ground; and I can think of nothing more to my
taste than a bit of fresh fruit."
Hardly had she indulged these pleasant thoughts of good eating, when
she was surprised to see a visitor approaching her house. It was none
other than the leanest and poorest of her cousins from the upper pond.
Something in his presence told her of trouble to come. And her first
question was not at all too polite.
"Why, what on earth are you down here for?" exclaimed Mrs. Muskrat.
"Haven't you anything to do at home? I should think you would be busy
putting in your own winter stores."
Before she could get any further, her lanky cousin interrupted her.
"Yes, yes; you would naturally think, Cousin Flattail, that we would
be as busy as you are. But we have no longer any home to store things
in, and we are at the edge of winter with starvation ahead of us.
Farmer Jones drew the pond off yesterday. Already the shores of our
poor meadow are drained of every drop. Our house is high and dry and we
shall freeze to death if we stay in it."
With that they both looked up, for in the quiet society of the
mill-pond a great confusion reigned.
All the poor relations were coming down from the upper
meadows! Cousins, uncles, aunts, and brothers-in-law. It was an
invasion--muskrats big and muskrats little.
Mrs. Muskrat gave one look and then bobbed down into the water and
rushed through her house to lock the back door, scuttling again to the
front to secure her main entrance by seating herself directly across it.
"There now!" she chattered angrily. "I'll watch any of you get into
this house!"
For in the confusion of things people are often more distracted than
need be, and Mrs. Muskrat was behaving very ugly and selfish because
she hadn't taken time to think. All her neighbors behaved in much the
same way at first; but when they saw the poor little baby cousins
and reflected upon what this misfortune meant to the children, their
hearts softened, and one by one the doors were opened, and the families
invited in different ways to make the best of it. They must all live
through the winter somehow.
But what they thought was going to be the season of the greatest
hardship turned out to be the most brilliant winter that the muskrats
had ever known, and the cousins all concluded that they never before
had really appreciated one another.
Most exceptional, indeed, was Mrs. Flattail Muskrat's good luck, for
she chose to live with her the cleverest of her nephews, the lively
little Skinny Muskrat, who proved to be a wonderful musician. Every
evening of the long winter they had delightful parties and dances in
the snug quarters of their homes. All about them would be solid ice,
and overhead, around the roofs, the driven, packed snow; but within,
where all was warm and snug, there was the greatest merriment.
Little Skinny Muskrat was in great demand. His aunt always went with
him out to supper or to spend the evening. And it was surprising how
much more she got out of her neighbors than ever she had enjoyed at
their tables before the adoption of this charming nephew.
It was the usual thing to say after supper: "And now won't Skinny give
us some music? He plays so beautifully on his toe-nails!"
So the obliging Skinny would blow through his nails and produce the
scratchiest and most exciting dance tunes in the world.
So eagerly was his society sought, that Mrs. Muskrat at last hit upon
the idea of inviting her neighbors in, but with the hint that they
bring their suppers with them. This was the crowning achievement of
her thrift, and she never ceased to congratulate herself upon having
thought of it. For her house was full of food from top to bottom,
and she became the most popular person in the happy group of Muskrat
society.
But winter melted very slowly into spring. And the provisions for
everybody were growing low. Day after day Muskratdom peeped out into
the cold world that was still black and gray. Not a sign of anything
green; not even a bluebird in the orchards. Little by little the
muskrats grew thinner and it was harder to be gay. At last, just as
they were wondering why they had ever eaten so merrily, and ever been
so prodigal with what they had, and several of the muskrat elders were
up-braiding them roundly in an effort to put the blame on some one,
what should they hear but a robin! And in a few days the cowslips began
to show the green tips of their leaves. Then at last the grass on the
edge of the pond showed sweet and green where it had lived all winter
under the heavy snows.
Their hard times were over! And in all the general rejoicing, nothing
gave them greater happiness than to think they had all weathered it
together.
Nor was Mrs. Muskrat sorry to hear of the immediate marriage of her
nephew Skinny with one of the prettiest little lady muskrats in the
mill-pond. She was thereby able to congratulate herself again. This
time as a matchmaker. And so long as Mrs. Muskrat could be thinking of
how clever, or how thrifty, she was, her happiness was complete.
But you may judge of her neighbors' surprise when she left her snug
house in the mill-pond and went back with Skinny and his wife, and many
of the relatives who moved to the meadows. Something told her that
the roots and the grasses and the tender bulbs would be engagingly
delicious when the waters came back on the meadows; and she was a wise
old muskrat, for those who went back lived a long summer on the fat
of the land. Here again she felt the wisdom of her course, and she
ventured to be truly hospitable by urging her adopted relatives to
return with her, upon the approach of winter, to the deep, warm pond.
That is why there is both a winter and a summer residence in the
highest society the world over. It is a sad lot for the muskrats who
have not both a pond and an upper meadow to enjoy suitably and in
season, as the good earth intends it to be enjoyed. But this last
remark is a bit of wisdom from the mouth of Mr. Owl, and we must credit
him with it.
XVIII
MR. WILD GOOSE AND MRS. GREBE
Far, far out on a great prairie there is a wide river which flows
lazily between its banks, apparently going nowhere at all, but in
reality bearing steadily toward the rising sun and the deep valley
where another river rolls mightily to the southward and the ocean.
The prairie is not level like a floor, but rises and falls in ridges
that are sometimes miles apart, and between these rolling heights of
the grassy land are unnumbered little lakes: bodies of sparkling water
hidden in the folds of the land.
It was over this vast stretch of plains that the great birds of the
Arctic were winging their way one early morning in the late summer, for
they had started to their winter quarters in good season.
"_Honk, honk!_" the leader of the birds kept calling; and as he
trumpeted, those in the rear would answer him, for even as they flew
they had much to talk of, and just now the whole flock of them were
discussing the subject of breakfast.
For they had been flying ever since the peep of dawn, and had come
through mists and the cold upper air, covering a hundred miles of their
journey before the sun really bathed the plains in light, and they
were looking for the spot which was familiar to them as a good one for
breakfast.
Lower and lower they flew as the leader kept signaling to them, until
at last the wedge-shaped formation in which they traveled came like a
pointed kite in long, sliding descents to within a few hundred feet of
the earth.
They could see, of course, all the lay of the land for many miles
around; but they were particular geese, a trifle fussy as you might
say, and by no means would any one of the many little lakes suit their
fancy. They were flying toward one spot out of all others which could
afford just what they wanted for a meal.
At last they apparently settled down to a definite direction for they
ceased to describe the slanting circles, and in one long slide through
the air, their wings stretched perfectly motionless, they coasted to
the ground.
The deep grasses almost hid them from view, but the little people who
lived there saw them, and it was with great surprise that their friends
turned from their feeding and pluming and bathing to exclaim over this
sudden arrival.
There were Mr. and Mrs. Wild Duck, and their beautiful brood of little
ones, and there were many of Mrs. Prairie Chicken's family, as well
as crowds and crowds of little Redbirds and many of the handsome
Kingfishers, all chattering at once over an ample breakfast table. For
there was a solid growth of wild celery around this lake, a bed of
plants so dense that it was for all the world like the heaviest moss.
And of all things beloved by the wild fowl, this juicy and spicy celery
is the favorite.
The leader of the newcomers looked about him. That was the first thing
for him to do, under all circumstances; for he was the oldest and the
wisest of the flock and as a watchman he was sagacious beyond all
others in his family. While his mate and all the others fell to tearing
at the tender shoots of celery, scarcely paying attention to anything
but their voracious appetites, he was standing with head erect and eyes
turning in all directions to be sure of no untoward sign. He could see
and even scent danger a long way off.
Apparently he was satisfied for the moment, for he fell to and nibbled
as the rest were doing, with his head almost buried in the rich tangle
of celery. And as he progressed in his feasting, he came closer and
closer to the edge of the lake, until suddenly he was just above a nest
that lay almost entirely hidden from view.
It was the home of little Mrs. Grebe, the very handsomest and the
shyest of the people dwelling here. She was right there by her nest
of sticks, which literally floated on the water, and her shining neck
of velvety feathers and her brown and silvery body were strikingly
beautiful in contrast to the deep green of the rushes and reeds.
"Why, my dear friend!" the noble Wild Goose exclaimed. "How you
surprised me! Though of course I knew you lived here. This is not the
first year we have visited this place, by any means, and yet, when we
flew North last spring and stopped here I do not remember seeing you."
"Oh, Mr. Goose," came in quick reply, "you can't imagine the
misfortunes that have overtaken me; and it was on their account that I
was not here in the early summer when you passed over."
With that Mrs. Grebe hung her dainty head, which was beautifully tufted
about the ears, giving her the look of wearing a jaunty cap.
"I am the Widow Grebe," was all she could say.
Mr. Goose dried his eyes by rubbing them on his snowy breast. For,
although he was a stern old gander, he had the most melting heart for
the sad plight of widows and orphans.
And the fatherless ones were immediately discovered to view, for Mrs.
Grebe moved ever so slightly and six tiny little Grebes twittered and
chirped at her feet.
The sight was very moving, and the doughty old warrior commanded
himself sufficiently to ask the particulars.
"Yes," the dainty little lady Grebe said. "We were a devoted pair, my
husband and I. You know the Grebes, how they are like to die of broken
heart if one or the other is killed. They're like the cooing dove, you
know, very devoted. But my dear, beautiful mate was shot before my
very eyes. Yes, the bullet was meant for me, because it is the mother
Grebe's beautiful breast feathers that they are after. But it was he
who was killed. We both dived, but when I came up from under the water
after going as far as I could, I looked in vain for him. Men in a
boat were reaching out for something, and it was my own mate they were
lifting up from the water. When they saw it was not the mother bird,
they threw his body back into the lake. After a while it sank and I
knew that it was all hopeless."
Mr. Goose knew not what to say. But before he could even begin to
express his feelings, the gentle Grebe added to her account of woes the
fact that her first brood of the season had all perished, too.
"These little fellows are but just hatched," she went on. "They will
never know their dear father; but what happened to the first brood
of the season is the worst. We were, as you know, far south of here.
Another lake where we go for the winter. No one knew that in that lake
dwelt the worst of snapping turtles. But such was the fact. In one
month our brood of dear little chicks was, every one of them, seized
while swimming and dragged under by the great turtles!"
Then, like so many people who have suffered as much, Mrs. Grebe began
to apologize for telling her woes.
"It is only because you are so very traveled and wise, Mr. Goose, that
I tell you all my afflictions. Nothing, of course, can amend the
loss of my dear mate. But how I am to protect my children from all my
enemies I cannot say. I am sorely troubled."
Mr. Goose all this time had only pretended to eat, for he was too much
interested and too deeply concerned to do aught but attend to Mrs.
Grebe's sad plight.
He thought for a long moment, and then said that he would give her two
pieces of advice, but that she must wait a few moments until he had
thought over his many observations and experiences.
"True," he said, "I have seen many ways of caring for children. And you
are without assistance. Now my nest is built in almost inaccessible
places, and Mrs. Goose has few enemies in the water to fear. Our chicks
are too large to be pulled under the water by turtles, and our nest is
too well defended by the sentry goose for us to fear the fox or the
wolf. But you, poor Mrs. Grebe, you are indeed sorely put to it. You
must do two things. First, I am sure, you must build farther out from
the shore; and, second, you must take your children with you on your
back when they first venture over the pond.
"And," he added slyly enough, "don't grieve too long. Perhaps you will
fall in love again."
Just then, however, he seemed to be suddenly mindful of his own family.
For a distant shot was heard in the air. Everybody stopped eating, and
listened, but nothing more was to be heard. The hunters were far off,
although their presence anywhere within hearing was full of alarm.
"Remember what I say," the splendid traveler called back, for he was
marshaling his flock.
Mrs. Grebe could scarcely comprehend what was going on, for it seemed
but a second before all the beautiful geese were in the air again,
flying low over the plain. They would elude the hunters. That she knew.
But she wished the wise captain of them all could have stayed just a
little longer to explain what he meant. How could she carry her young
ones with her? And how build on the water?
But it is long practise that works out in perfection; and Mrs. Grebe
was soon able to teach her babies to climb on her back and to perch
there with their beaks buried in her soft feathers, and their little
toes digging ahold of her. And she began pushing her nest farther
and farther out into the water until it seemed scarcely to have any
connection with the land at all. Alone, and fearing to leave her nest
unguarded, to this day she covers it with sticks and straw, and when
she turns the eggs over that she is hatching, she smears them with mud
until they are very hard indeed to find. For she is the most suspicious
of birds.
But if she was indebted to Mr. Wild Goose for his advice, he, on his
part, felt that he had only drawn on his learning as a great traveler.
Had he not seen the tropic swans with their young riding upon their
shoulders? And he knew what it was for. So he was only a generous and
observant bird when he made the suggestion.
Later that season, however, when a great prairie fire swept the region
and burned everything to the very edges of the lakes, Mrs. Grebe was
thankful indeed that she could carry her babies with her to the center
of the lake, and there ride in safety with them while the reeds and the
grasses blazed on the margin.
And of this she told Mr. Goose the year after, when he came back. He
had helped better than he knew. But of her second marriage she said
very little, and he did not embarrass her with questions.
Oh, yes, there is much that the great Wild Goose knows and he is not
too proud to draw upon his wisdom when it is a matter of helping even
such little stay-at-home people as Mrs. Grebe.
XIX
BABY FOX AND MRS. BEAR
There is a great river which comes rushing through the mountains, where
the cliffs are dark with trees, and the heavy snows are slow to melt,
even when spring has made the valleys green and warm. Here, on a cliff,
snug and warm beneath the roots of a great tree, lived Mrs. Bear and
her family of cubs. Three baby bears there were; and in their fine
black coats with dark brown edges they were very handsome.
For their playmate, however, there was a little stranger. Just a funny
little fox, whose fur was the color of a flame of fire. He was a rare
little fox, being of such a lovely color. Had the hunters in the valley
dreamed that he was living on the mountain above their very farms, they
would never have rested until they got him, for his skin would bring a
fortune in the world of men and money.
But of this the little fox knew nothing, for ever since the day that
good Mrs. Bear had found him, lost and weak and hungry, where he had
fallen down to sleep in the snow, he had led the happiest of lives
with the little baby bears. They could not run as fast as he could,
nor could they bark as prettily, but they were wonderful at turning
somersaults, and at playing leap-frog, and they were more than generous
to him. They gave him the best place at dinner, and when they all went
to sleep, they cuddled him up between them, while the big Mrs. Bear
slept with her nose to the door. Blow the wind as it might, they were
all as warm as toast.
But one fine day in early summer Mrs. Bear broke the news to her family
that the foxes, one and all, were looking for their child. One way or
another, the news had gone down from the mountain to the high pastures
and fields at the edge of the farms, and it was joy to the heart of the
fox mother, to learn that her beautiful Fireflame was alive.
Of course he must go back. And by an arrangement most agreeable to Mrs.
Bear, she was to venture with her adopted baby as far as the blackberry
patches and the great maple groves at the foot of the mountain. The
foxes would meet her, and with sweet little Fireflame safe in the bosom
of his family, all would be well.
Just as it was planned, the excursion was made; but all the way down
the mountain Mrs. Bear kept finding more and more berries to eat.
"Here I must stop on my way back," she would say.
"And here is another wonderful patch! Such blueberries I have never
seen in my whole life."