kissed the motherly Mrs. Bear good-by. And it was night before that
good lady could tear herself from the berry patches and trundle herself
home to her family.
Alas! She had lingered too long. Stray dogs from the farms had scented
her presence; and although she had followed a brook until she was well
on her way to the cliff, and her footsteps were hard to follow, they
had soon learned her whereabouts. Back to their masters they had gone,
and it was scarcely morning when the hunters set out. The dogs were
barking and their great tongues were lolling from their mouths. And the
men with their rifles, and the knives for skinning the bear when they
got her, were striding up the mountain, laughing and shouting as they
went. No sooner were they near the woods, however, than their laughter
ceased and the hounds grew deathly quiet; for that is the way of the
hunter. He must be quiet and quick, for he is the companion of death,
and that terrible creature walks abroad only with cruel men who have
learned his craft.
The foxes took in the situation at once. But none of them dared to
stir. To cross the path of those hunters was a terrible risk. They
shivered and shook in their deep burrows to hear the hounds.
"It's lucky for us that the wind blows up the mountain," was all they
could say.
"And what are they after?" cried poor little Fireflame. "Whom are they
hunting?"
But then the truth dawned on him. Old Grandpa Fox and good Mother Fox
were quiet, for they did not dare to tell Fireflame that it was dear
Mrs. Bear who was being trailed. Besides, they were ashamed; for it was
plain that something must be done, yet no one dared to move.
"She ought to have crossed and recrossed the river," said Grandpa Fox.
"That's the way to do it. But I mistrust she was engaged too long with
those tempting berries. She was not discreet."
"They'll get her and her young ones too!" wailed Mrs. Fox, who was
nearly beside herself. For it is a terrible thing to know what you
ought to do, but to be lacking in the courage to do it.
Little Fireflame could stand it no longer. In a bound he was out of
the burrow. The whole Fox family screamed after him to come back; but
he paid no heed. He was well up the pasture, and far into the woods
before their voices ceased to ring in his ears.
It was a test of his wits, and he was very young. No dog could overtake
him if he ran, and he had the start; but to catch up to the hunters and
pass them, and so reach Mrs. Bear in time, was a task that would try
the wits of the wisest fox.
Now a beautiful bird flew past, and although he never knew why he did
it, the brave little Fireflame followed that bird. Over the brook and
back again he went, always bearing upward to the crest of the mountain.
It was not the path by which he had come the day before, but higher he
went and higher, with the far, snowy peak in front of him.
The bird would vanish, but after Fireflame had gone as fast as his
beautiful legs would carry him and when he was so tired that he could
not see for the mist in his eyes, the silent wings would be beside him,
then in front; and Fireflame would bend to his race as though it were
just begun.
Soon he was on the narrow edge of the cliff. The sun lay full and
bright upon the foaming river far below, and Fireflame recognized the
spot. By a path that no one knew, he had come to the home of Mrs. Bear.
There she was, the three little bears with her, playing under the fir
tree.
He bounded in upon them, but not before the bird had brushed his cheek
with its wings and then flown away, straight as an arrow, into the sun.
Fireflame gasped out his news in one breath.
[Illustration: "FIREFLAME GASPED OUT HIS NEWS IN ONE BREATH"]
It was quick work that brought the Bear family to the edge of the
river. There Mrs. Bear and her cubs began their journey to the fields
of snow, and the caves that were safely beyond the reach of the
hunters. She could not thank Fireflame at all. She could only look at
him with tears of gratitude; while the three little bears, greatly
confused, were as solemn as though they had never played tag in their
lives.
"But you will visit us some day," the biggest baby bear said, clinging
to Fireflame's paw, "and we will all play together again."
The hunters climbed up to the deserted cliff; but they never caught the
trail of Mrs. Bear again. For the good river and the soft snows are
friendly to the hunted people, and whatever they know they take with
them to the great ocean, where it is of no use to any one.
Fireflame went home. He knew that he was safe, so he took his time.
But to the end of his days, he never knew what bird it was that showed
him the way in the dark and unfamiliar woods.
XX
CHRISTMAS EVE
Tabby Green was alone in the snowy street. The wind which blew with
gusts of the finest snow had nearly taken Tabby off her feet as she
crept around the corner, and she was so cold and tired that she could
hardly take another step. Just as she was preparing to make a final
jump for the shelter of a flight of steps, a great white dog came
trotting through the snow and, to her great alarm, they ran into each
other.
"I beg your pardon," said the dog, in the politest way.
"My fault, I'm sure," said Tabby Green, for she was such a well-bred
kitty that no dog, even if he had the finest manners in the world,
could be more courteous than she.
Then, "Why, bless me!" she exclaimed. "Can it be you, dear Bobby
Gordon? How glad I am to see you once again!"
And to show how pleased she was, poor Tabby rubbed her thin sides
against the good dog's legs.
Together they crouched under the arch of the high stone steps, where,
from a grating in the sidewalk, came a breath of good warm air. It
was close to somebody's furnace room, and only such poor wandering
creatures as the hungry cat and the dog who had known better days can
appreciate the air from a warm cellar.
They sat close together and Tabby tried to purr, but she was nearly
dead and purr she could not.
"There, there!" soothed Bobby Gordon, as he licked the snow from poor
kitty's back in the gentlest way. "I wouldn't purr. It's very kind of
you to try, but it's a bad thing to do in the open air. They say it
hurts the voice."
"And I have no voice left these days," admitted Tabby sadly. "Really,
if it were not for these warm cellar-ways and the few stray scraps of
food that one finds in such shocking places, I wouldn't be alive."
"But," said Bob, "you're just a poor tramp cat, and no one's bound to
kill you. I'm a dog without a collar, all alone and afraid to be seen.
I can't let any one come near for fear they'll tell the officers about
me. Once I had a collar--such a beauty, too! But it came off within a
week of my great misfortune. You know my master went away, and the
wicked people in the house were going to get rid of me. I knew it. I
wasn't wanted any more. I had to go."
Great tears stood in Bobby Gordon's eyes but he brushed them away with
his paw.
Tabby was overcome. In all her wanderings she had never met a case so
sad.
"Poor Mr. Gordon!" was all she could say. "My poor, hunted friend!"
Then she thought of her own fireside, the cozy home that she had known.
And simply to think of the saucers of cream, and the plates of dainty
pieces from her mistress' table, made Tabby Green's poor mouth water.
"Ah, me!" she sighed, and was pretty near to crying when a thought
flashed to her mind. "There's one more chance!" she suddenly exclaimed.
"You have a fine strong voice, and you can make folks hear. Now just
below this house, where that shoemaker's sign hangs out, is a little
girl, and a boy whom I know to be her brother. They stopped and spoke
to me but this very day. I felt that they were kind and understood my
case. But, although I followed to their door, they didn't see me. And,
call out as loudly as I could, my poor voice has grown so weak I know
they didn't hear me."
"It's little use," was all the weary dog could say. "I've barked at a
hundred doors."
Kitty waited and yielded to his discouragement. Of course it was no
use, she thought. They must simply wait and wait until the cold and
hunger did its work.
The wind howled, and the snow, which was piling higher and higher on
the steps, was drifting around them.
"We Scotchmen die hard," said Bob at last. "The Gordons are a brave
lot. I have to remember that."
"My mother purred away her life in song," cried Tabby Green. "She
was mindful of her kittens to the last. She said almost in her dying
breath: 'Remember, children! Never scratch, and always dry your tails
when you come in out of the rain.'"
Suddenly a voice came through the cold night air. It was a child's
voice, as sweet and clear as a bell.
"Kitty! Kitty! Come, Kitty, come!"
In an instant the poor, starved cat and the lame, hungry dog looked
out and leaped into the drifting snow.
A shaft of lamp-light lay wide across the street. The door at the
shoemaker's house was open. There stood a woman, and, with her, two
little children, all wrapped in shawls and blankets. Their little feet
were tucked in bed slippers and their eager faces peered into the night.
"It's no use, your calling," said the woman. "You were only dreaming.
Any cat out in this storm is a dead cat now."
"Oh, but I know I heard a kitty."
"And I heard it, too," cried the little boy.
"Yes, and you made me get you out of bed to stand here and catch your
death o' cold. I hope you are satisfied."
Scarcely had she spoken, and just as she was about to close the door,
Bobby Gordon and Tabby Green came bounding past her feet into the hall.
"'Twas naught but the Christmas angels brought them here!" the woman
said, when they had all seated themselves in the little parlor, which
was the poor shoemaker's shop and kitchen too.
The Christmas night was turning into morning. Tabby and Bobby Gordon
were sleeping by the stove, and in the bedroom, tucked deep and
warm under their blankets, were the two children who had called the
wanderers in.
Santa Claus was near, and thousands of lovely angels, drifting like
the snowflakes, whispered to him and beckoned as they flew over the
housetops.
"This way, this way," they kept singing. And Santa Claus came to the
shoemaker's chimney with such a pack of toys as he takes only to the
sweetest, kindest children in the world. For Santa Claus and all the
good, sweet spirits know the children who love to keep the kitty warm
and happy, and who would never let the poor, deserted dog go friendless.
"And tell me," whispered Santa Claus to Tabby Green, "tell me every
child that so much as said, 'Poor Kitty!' to you in your wanderings. I
shall take them what they want the most for Christmas."
So Tabby Green, as fast as she could think, and the dog with the fine
manners told all they knew of the children. And when they had finished,
Santa told them that before another year was out they must have news of
other good children, like the shoemaker's little boy and girl.
So there are many Tabby Greens and Bobby Gordons, forsaken and driven
and chased by the cruel people of the world. But sometimes a little
girl or boy stops to pet the straying animal, or even calls it home.
And you may be very sure that Santa Claus hears of it.
XXI
MOTHER RABBIT'S ADVICE TO HER BABIES
Mother Rabbit and her five babies lived among the sand-hills down by
the sea. Their cozy home was a small cave in the side of the hill,
and it had two separate entrances, one at each end. These assured her
escape in case a dog or a weasel should enter her home.
One evening, just as the moon was showing itself, big and round and
yellow, over the tops of the pine trees, Mother Rabbit led her children
out of their cozy home to the big out-of-doors, which they had only
begun to know. Their education must begin, she felt, for they were
nearly one month old and already able to jump and skip around as nimbly
as Mrs. Fox's young sons. She feared that, if left in ignorance longer,
they were likely to become overbold.
"It is, first of all, my dears, necessary to be cautious in life,"
she said. "You must follow me now very quietly to the edge of the
wheat-field, where we will sit down to talk. There are things you must
know."
So they bounded along behind their mother, so lightly that they made
not a sound on the driest leaves of the woodland, and when they came to
the edge of the field they took the first high jump of their lives, for
the mother selected a place between the bars of the fence and leaped
through it swift and clean.
"Do it that way," she said. "You must never run under anything in the
dark if you can jump over it."
Once within the pleasant field, where there was so much green wheat
that the little rabbits wondered how in the world all of it ever could
be eaten, Mrs. Rabbit seated her family around her and began by telling
the babies all about their noble father.
"Ah, my dears, your father was such a rabbit as one seldom sees. Such
stout legs, and short, too, just as they ought to be! Such a long,
graceful body--and what magnificent ears! They were like flowers, and
stood up in such a taking fashion! Could you but see him, dancing in
the moonlight, hitting his heels together in the air, and wagging
those wonderful ears at the stars, his tail as white and fluffy as a
full-blown rose, why, my children, you would burst with pride. I shall
never see his like again."
"But where is Daddy Rabbit now?" the babies cried in one voice, fearing
that their mother spoke with sadness. "He isn't dead, is he?"
"Dead? No, no, my dears," she replied. "He's traveling; you'll see him
yet, I'm sure. He has a way of coming back.
"But in case he doesn't return, you must know how brave he is, and what
he can do. For you must grow up to be as like him as you can.
"Any of the neighbors can tell you of his clever ways, and his bravery.
He rid this field of a dreadful dog, once, and the history of these
parts will always relate that exploit. It made him famous."
At this the little rabbits cocked their ears in wonder.
"You see," Mother Rabbit went on, "it was this way: Once he returned
to his burrow below the hill over there and discovered, by means of
his keen sense of smell, that a terrier dog was in the burrow. He
immediately called for a friend, and together they closed up the
entrance to the burrow and smothered the dog to death. That's what _I_
call bravery. And that's the kind of father you had. The world will
expect much of children of your parentage.
"Your father and I first met on the hillside one evening, and we liked
each other at once. Every evening after, we would meet out there to
play hide-and-seek in the grass and sand. Perhaps he will come to see
you some day, and I want you to be smart and handsome, so that he will
be proud of you.
"But I have said enough, dear Jacks, and now I must teach you some of
the wise things he knew. He learned at an early age that each rabbit
must procure his own food, and has many foes to shun. To do these
things one must have a sharp wit.
"Always sleep during the day while other animals are prowling about,
and come out only evenings when it is cool, to seek your food. Young
wheat, fresh onions, lettuce and cabbages make splendid food for
rabbits. Of course, it is rather dangerous to cultivate such expensive
tastes, for lettuce and onions usually grow only in gardens and people
are apt to set traps to catch you. So be careful never to go near a
trap, or bite at anything that looks as though man had placed it there
for you. It is said that your father prided himself on destroying
traps.
"Our family is blessed by being both watchful and swift. Just watch me
how I can run."
Mother Rabbit sprang to her feet, and over the field she sped like
lightning. The children stared in wonderment, and then shouted for glee
at their mother's rapidity. Finally Mrs. Rabbit returned as quickly as
she had departed.
"Now, that is the way you must learn to run. And the next most
necessary thing for you to acquire is the ability to stand on your hind
legs like this."
To their amusement, Mother Rabbit stood up like a walking dog or a bear.
"An enemy can be seen at a long distance from such a position," she
explained; "and it is well never to run until you have taken in the
situation. Many rabbits have lost their lives by failing to observe
that simple precaution. Once your Uncle Cotton heard a dog coming, and
turned to run in the opposite direction without having stood up to
survey the land. As a result, we found only his bones on the hillside
the next day. It is supposed that he ran right into the jaws of another
dog. Dogs are clever and often hunt together.
"But that's enough for the first lesson," she concluded. "Some evening
we'll come again and I'll teach you to dance, and we'll play till the
moon goes down in the West."
They jumped up, skimmed through the fence, and ran after their mother,
who had them home and tucked them in bed almost before they knew it.
XXII
THE MICE AND BABY STORK
"I find it very hard," said the learned watchdog, "to speak well of the
rats and the mice."
He was talking with his visitor, Professor Screech Owl, who perched on
the peak of the kitchen roof and was engaged with him in a pleasant
exchange of views and ideas. The moon was clear and everything was very
still. All the world seemed asleep but the owl and the dog, and they
were talking of many matters. For Professor Screech Owl was a knowing
bird and he had, moreover, the most learned relatives.
"Of course, you know more than I do," Collie Dog hastened to add.
Professor Screech Owl nodded.
"And you may have heard in your travels of something which credits the
mice with being other than thieves and rogues. But for my part, I am
skeptical of all the good I hear of them."
"There are mice, and there are mice," said the Professor. For this
is one of the best ways to open a subject and draw a distinction. "I
have rarely inquired into their morals, preferring to take them as I
find them. In the matter of one's living one must not be too squeamish.
Probably I have eaten moral mice and immoral mice, with indifference.
But I have heard that the mice in Belgium are the gentlest and sweetest
of creatures. Have you heard of the Belgium mice, Mr. Dog?"
This was the point to which Collie Dog had drawn his visitor with
intent. For no matter what subject you brought up, if you passed it
over to Professor Screech Owl and showed him the respect and patience
which is due to scholarly persons, he would refresh your mind with
wonderful facts and you would be vastly improved and informed when he
finished. So Collie Dog admitted that he was no book dog, and knew
precious little about anything. This was not so, for he knew a great
deal about sheep, the pasturing of cows, and the time for getting the
mail, and he knew that the buggy meant business, and the surrey meant
church, and he knew where his mistress kept the chocolate creams. Also
he knew why the cook left, but he never told. But he pretended that
blankness of mind which is a humility pleasing to superior students.
Screech Owl stared at the moon as though to recall what he could from
his vast store of learning.
"The dates have escaped me," he began, "but it is the nature of the
event, not the time which is important.
"Once long ago, as I was told by the great Arctic Owl, who is a sort of
cousin of mine, the mice in the city of Ghent entered into a sort of
league with the storks. Ghent, as you know, is in Belgium."
This was news to Collie Dog, but he wagged his tail as if to approve.
He was glad to know that Ghent was in Belgium, and he wished to seem
pleased.
"Don't wag your tail!" Screech Owl spat out at him. "I'm telling you
history; I'm not asking you to have a bone. That's no way to act when
I'm lecturing!"
Poor Collie Dog wished to laugh, but he only sat still and looked
humbly at the conceited little owl on the peak of the barn.
Professor Screech Owl suddenly grew quite himself again, apologized for
his agitation, and resumed:
"The storks are a noble lot, and have been renowned in Egypt and on
the Continent. They dwell on the chimney-pots, I'm told, or build on
the edges of steeples and such. Very proud they are, and given to the
practise of medicine. The cranes in the country make great pretense of
being cousins of the stork. But we all know the difference,--we who
have traveled. Ha! Ha!"
Screech Owl screamed a terrible laugh. Collie Dog, to be polite, joined
in; but he stopped short when Screech Owl's feathers began to ruffle up.
"In Ghent, long ago," the Professor went on, "the mice that lived in
the barn of the mayor's place were many. They overran it and lived
under the very eaves as well as in the cellars. And those nearest the
roof became great friends of the storks who dwelt on the gables and
chimneys.
"Now, so the story runs, the mayor's barn caught fire. The good lady
stork had but just left her nest. The storks, you know, go far out into
the country to get their food. I think it very foolish of them to live
in the cities. But Mrs. Stork took her chances, as all mothers do when
they leave their young ones for any length of time.
"Dr. Stork, the father of this particular family, was away on medical
matters, and so the baby was alone. You can imagine what Mrs. Stork
felt when she came flying toward the city and saw smoke pouring from
the roof of the mayor's barn."
Collie Dog scented the drift of the story, and grew suddenly impatient
for the slow Professor to reach the point.
"And was the baby stork burned to death?" he interrupted.
Professor Screech Owl only looked down and cleared his throat.
"The mice," he said, "are credited with singular humanity. They
scrambled all around and in and out of the nest, and at last they
grabbed the baby stork and dragged him down to the edge of the roof."
[Illustration: "THEY GRABBED THE BABY STORK AND DRAGGED HIM DOWN TO
THE EDGE OF THE ROOF"]
"And then?" exclaimed Collie Dog, now really excited. "What then? Did
he fall off and get killed after all?"
"The roofs of the houses in Ghent are not very high," came from
Professor Screech Owl, in the deepest of tones, "but they are very
steep. A plank was leaning against the wall and they slid him down on
that, so that he reached the ground in safety.
"Since then the storks give all the feathers they can spare to the
mice; and now these frisky creatures sleep on down. That is, the mice
in Belgium do."
Professor Screech Owl came to a sudden stop and watched Collie Dog.
Seeing his audience was profoundly impressed, he then went on:
"Those who were witnesses to this rescue say that Mrs. Stork's
excitement was terrible. She went to Egypt for a year to recover her
nerves--"
An unearthly screech pierced the night. The Professor and Collie Dog
jumped in surprise. Old Tom Cat, who had listened to all this as he sat
on the door-step in the dark, was trying to laugh. He was also making
remarks about owls and mice in general. But just then the master of the
house threw open the window and expressed _his_ views.
Collie Dog retired quickly to his kennel to think over this wonderful
chapter of history; and wise Professor Screech Owl flew silently from
the peak of the barn to his nest in the hickory woods.
XXIII
MRS. BOB-WHITE AND THE HUNTING DOG
At the very peep of day Collie Dog and Setter Pup started out on a
hunting trip of their own. Collie Dog called the place "my farm" and
he had told his friend of all the wonderful sights there were to be
seen on the place by a dog who could travel alone and do as he wanted.
It was his habit, he said, to be abroad very early; sometimes, indeed,
he would run over the fields and along the shore, or back into the
woodland, for miles and miles before breakfast.
"And what do you do that for?" Setter Pup asked. For this youngster
was just from the city, and he was not used to these country ways. "We
never get up until long after the man with the milk cans has gone by
the door, and the postman has come and gone," he yawned. "That's the
proper thing in town."
Collie Dog laughed in a courteous way.
"And we get up before the milk cans start for town," he said. "That
is, some of us do. But they'll take you out early enough when the
hunting begins. And you'll be pointing birds all day in the fields and
the swamps."
Setter Pup waved his tail proudly, for he meant to be a great hunter.
That was why they had him in the country now--to teach him all sorts of
things about guns and what to do when he smelt a covey of birds.