Old Rough the miser

Old Rough was not the only listener to the conversation between the bull-frog and the two young crows. The chimney-swallow Swift, who at the time was sailing over the meadow, apparently intent only on securing the finest insects, had heard every word that was said.

No sooner had the conversation ceased and the party separated, than the swallow with a few strong strokes of his long wings soared high above the meadow, until he looked like a little black speck. Soon, however, the black speck seemed to remain stationary, and then it grew larger and larger, as it rapidly descended, and alighting on the wall where the chipmunks dwelt, sat pluming its glossy feathers in a very skilful manner.

So engrossed was the swallow in his occupation that he appeared to be unconscious of everything that went on about him. Even the loud cawing of the two young crows, who alighted on a neighboring tree, did not take his attention from his task, and he was evidently unaware of the presence of the little chipmunk Squirrello, who first peeped timidly out of his hole, and after a careful survey of the country, grew bolder, and seated himself on top of the wall.

Little Bobtilla, too, from her house under the large stone, peeped out with her bright eyes, thinking it more prudent to remain in her doorway; the swallow, however, did not notice her any more than he did the squirrel, and continued to sit on the tree, picking apart his thick feathers. Before long the young crows flew away, and no sooner were they fairly out of sight than the swallow abruptly finished his toilet, and flew upon the top of the wall in front of Squirrello.

“I recognized you at once, Swift,” said Squirrello; “but I thought by your manner that you didn’t wish to have me notice you, so I kept still.”

“And quite right you were,” replied Swift. “The truth is that I have news of importance, and didn’t want those mischievous crows to hear it.”

Squirrello came nearer to the swallow, and awaited with anxiety the news he had to tell. Little Bobtilla, from her doorway under the large stone, inclined one ear toward the swallow, and listened with breathless interest.

“Just now,” began Swift, “I observed those two young crows who have just gone sitting very still on a tree that grows just behind old Rough’s den. They are always so noisy and restless that I knew their unusual silence meant mischief, so I resolved to keep about and find out what it meant. They hadn’t the least suspicion that I was watching them, for I took care to keep at a safe distance.

“Before long I saw Johnny the basso hopping along, and he stopped under that very tree. Old Rough crept slyly after him, and hid where he could overhear every word that was said. As soon as Johnny found sufficient breath to speak, he reproached the crows for having played a trick on him. I lost some of the conversation, not daring to venture too near; but I gathered that the crows had tried to pass the Widow O’Warty off for some one else. Before long old Rough came forward, and threw the whole blame on little Bobtilla, and the crows acknowledged that it was she who had given them their information. Whereupon Johnny, who prides himself on his gallantry to the fair sex, said that since a lady was to blame, he couldn’t call her to account, but that he would make the whole race of field-mice responsible, and declared war upon the spot. This seemed to please old Rough greatly, for he went off chuckling and muttering to himself.”

Poor little Bobtilla’s state of mind, as she heard these words, can be better imagined than described. She had, since her removal to the neighborhood of the chipmunks, begun to know what peace of mind was; and now all at once her hopes were shattered, and she felt that in no place would she be secure from the wrath of old Rough, which pursued her, go where she would. Shaking with fear, she remained in her doorway, too agitated to move or speak.

“What an outrage!” exclaimed Squirrello, as the swallow finished his recital. “Why, Bobtilla is the meekest and most amiable of creatures,—she wouldn’t harm a fly,—and I know she never spoke a word to either of those mischievous crows. It is a trick of old Rough, to spite poor little Bobtilla.”

“What is a trick of old Rough; and what has Bobtilla, of all creatures, to do with it?” asked Squirrella, who had heard her husband’s indignant tones, and now appeared on the wall beside him, to learn the cause of the excitement.

The story was told over again to Squirrella, and her indignation was even greater than her husband’s.

“I never heard anything so mean in all my life!” exclaimed the kind-hearted Squirrella. “I should think that poor little creature had suffered enough at old Rough’s hands, without this new persecution. However, I don’t see what old Rough will gain from a war between the mice and frogs; he will not fight himself.”

“He evidently considers it for his advantage,” answered the swallow, “for he went off in fine spirits. If the frogs are victorious, they will certainly destroy every mouse-hole in the meadow and woods; and it’s my private opinion that old Rough will slink around during the battle, and steal everything he can lay his paws on.”

“Fortunately we are out of the way,” said Squirrello.

“I’m not so sure about that,” replied Swift. “I wouldn’t risk it. If I were you, I’d be on the safe side, and move farther into the woods, and make your home more secure. Bobtilla, too, must move, for old Rough would be sure to visit her house first of all.”

“Dear me!” sighed Squirrella, “here we are, so comfortably settled for life I thought, and now we must move again. I don’t see how I can have the patience to go through it all again. I have heard that three moves are equal to a fire; I should say that two were equal to an earthquake.”

“I don’t very well see what else can be done, my dear,” replied her husband. “You are the last one, such an anxious mother as you are, to feel secure while war is raging around you.”

“Yes, I suppose there is nothing else to be done,” sighed Squirrella.

“After we have moved, and are settled in our new home, I am sure you will think yourself much better off, and wish you had chosen the place before,” said Squirrello, who always looked on the bright side of affairs.

“I forgot all about Bobtilla,” exclaimed Squirrella. “Poor thing, she thought herself so safe here,—how can I tell her the bad news?”

“There is no need to tell me, kind friends,” said a trembling little voice; and Bobtilla stood before them. “I have heard all, and also your kind plans for my safety, and I can truly say that I do not feel so badly about myself as I do to think that out of your kindness to me, you must have the trouble of moving again.”

“Nonsense!” answered Squirrella, briskly; “what have you to do with it? Do you suppose I want to live on the battle-field, as you may say? No, indeed; I prefer to move away where I shall not have fighting going on before my eyes.”

“I know very well,” persisted Bobtilla, “that I am the cause of all this trouble, for old Rough will not let me rest as long as I have a home to live in; and he will persecute all those who are kind to me. I know him so well that I feel sure he has done me this ill turn because I have found new and influential friends to protect me.”

“Well, after all, it doesn’t matter,” replied Squirrella, cheerfully. “The woods are quieter, and the air is purer there, and I am sure we shall be better off. So let’s decide on a spot; and the sooner we start about it the better.”

“I have a place in my mind,” said the swallow, “and if one of you will come with me, you can see what you think about it.”

Squirrello decided to accompany the swallow, and both set off,—the squirrel running along the highest boughs and jumping lightly from one tree to another, while little Swift soared high above him, often flying far out of sight, but always returning to point out the way.

At last the swallow stopped before a stately old oak-tree, whose sturdy branches were nearly bare of leaves, but whose topmost boughs were still clad with green leaves, as reminders that some vitality yet remained to the aged tree. The sturdy roots, that had resisted many a tempest, protruded above the soft turf, and seemed so formed purposely, that they might serve as homes for little animals in search of a dwelling-place.

“There,” said the swallow, pointing out the spot, “there is a house already built for you; and all you have to do is to make it soft and comfortable for your family.”

Nothing could be more desirable for a dwelling, and Squirrello returned to his little wife, and related to her what he had found. Both together visited the new home, and Squirrella was, if possible, even more pleased with the place than her husband had been, her motherly instincts at once divining that no place in the whole world could be so well suited for a young family like hers. The protecting roots of the old tree made it safe against the depredations of enemies, and the long, strong branches were just right for her children to run about on,—so much better and safer for them than running along the stone wall in sight of the whole world. Also under the roots of the old tree was a hole that looked as if it were made expressly for Bobtilla and her young family.

Thus the happy couple discussed their plans, and at once busied themselves in collecting soft, dry moss, and carrying it into their new house. Squirrella was so delighted with the appearance of the bed her children were to have, that she lay down in it, to see if it were as comfortable as it looked; and she declared that it surpassed her most sanguine expectations, and that it was utterly impossible for any bed in the universe to be as comfortable as her children’s was.

Then Bobtilla was brought to see the place, and the timid little creature was greatly pleased with it, and felt that in that peaceful wilderness she might be freed from the persecutions of old Rough. Poor little Bobtilla! she was fast experiencing that the strong prey on the weak in the struggle for life!

The little field-mouse, also, went to work, like the conscientious mouse she was, and dug out her house as far as she could under the roots of the old tree, and then made it soft and warm for her family. When this was done, at the suggestion of her friends the squirrels she skilfully concealed the entrance with moss, leaving only an opening large enough to squeeze her little body through.

The squirrels viewed Bobtilla’s work with great satisfaction, and concluded that even old Rough, shrewd as he was, could never detect it as the abode of a family; and, indeed, all three agreed in thinking that no living creatures had ever been so fortunate in securing such choice locations and in making such comfortable homes.

Then the squirrel family and the mouse family were removed to their new quarters, and all was peace and contentment once more.

While these new homes were being prepared, the news of the impending war was spreading rapidly over the adjoining meadows and fields, and soon all knew the fact that the frogs had declared war against the field-mice. Everywhere, in the meadows and fields, groups of field-mice were collected, discussing the exciting news; and every evening on the borders of the ditch, and on the edges of the bog, frogs of all sizes and ages were heard croaking over the same topic.

Among all the animals, old Rough the water-rat was the one who seemed to derive the most satisfaction from the prospect of war. He fairly gloated over the thought that the dwellings of the field-mice would be destroyed, and he should reap the benefit of the stock of provisions that the industrious little creatures had collected with so much pains.

More agreeable even than this was the thought that when the war was ended, and their homes and property destroyed, the field-mice would come to him to trade for provisions, and then he could make his own terms.

Dwelling on these pleasant themes, old Rough remembered Bobtilla, and he felt happier still as he reflected on the misery in store for her. So pleasant was it to imagine what her sufferings would be, that he resolved to make her a call, and witness her despair as he recounted to her the misery in store for her. Thus elated by this generous resolve, the old miser set briskly off for Bobtilla’s abode, and in due time found himself before her door. Not hearing any signs of life, he called aloud,—

“Bobtilla!”

Not a sound was heard in response, and old Rough wondered at this, for the tones of his harsh voice had never before failed to bring the little field-mouse trembling before him. Once more he called, and more loudly; but all was silent, and he walked up to the house and looked in.

All was so still inside that the old miser was convinced that the house was empty, and he fell into a great rage as he realized that his victim had escaped. In his ungovernable passion he tore away the earth from before the entrance to the former dwelling of the field-mouse, and his strong paws soon disclosed the vacated home. Not a vestige of Bobtilla’s family remained, save the bed of leaves and moss where they had so lately reposed.

“Won’t I make you speak though, my lady!” exclaimed the old water-rat, savagely.

“You must find her first, my friend,” said a voice from above the wall.