XVI
THE STORY OF RUSTY STARLING
RUSTY STARLING had a coat of glossy black feathers, all speckled over with rust colored dots, for all the world like a freckle-faced boy in summer time. His long, sharp beak was brilliant yellow, and he had such a funny, strutting kind of a walk which made him appear not unlike a dandy as he minced along over wide fields to feed. But Rusty’s song was perhaps the queerest thing of all. It began, usually, with a few preliminary, creaking notes, which somehow reminded you of the noise made by a rusty swinging hinge; but occasionally he would change this note and burst forth into a beautiful, clear whistle, which he followed by a curious, throbbing call; and when he uttered this last call, it seemed to fairly shake his speckled body from the point of his yellow beak to the very tip of his long tail feathers.
Rusty was a foreigner; he sailed across the ocean to America in company with a little band of starlings, and was let loose in a large park. But one bright spring morning he suddenly began to feel strangely lonely, and longing for fresh adventure, he spread his wings, and off he flew to discover for himself a new country. At first he did not get acquainted with the strange American birds readily, for some of them chased him about, pecking at him viciously just because they failed to recognize him, for he was quite unlike any other American blackbird which they had ever met, and they were all suspiciously inclined, and unwilling to adopt a stranger into their midst.
But, taking it altogether, Rusty liked his new home exceedingly, and made himself quite at home in an old apple tree which chanced to be in blossom. The tree was simply riddled with knot-holes, and Rusty knew by experience that beneath the rough bark of the apple tree he could find plenty of fine grubs for the searching. The apple blossoms clustered thickly about him, all pink and white, and the air was sweet with perfume, while in and out, gathering pollen, the honey-bees droned and hummed in the sunshine. All this so charmed Rusty Starling that he began to pour out his strange rusty, creaking song as hard as ever he could pipe. Oh, what a fine spot the apple tree would make for a nest. Why, right below him in a knot-hole was the finest place he had ever run across. He felt very much overcome at the thought of building a nest in the apple tree, and the very idea caused him to change his first harsh, throaty notes into a wonderfully clear, beautiful warbling—the mating call.
Almost before his last note died out, Rusty’s whistle was answered. First came the starling’s creaking notes, then it merged into the same throbbing, inviting call as his own, and thus Rusty found his mate, for another starling had strayed away from the park flock.
Rusty never felt lonely after little Mrs. Rusty’s arrival, and they soon made all plans for their nest building in the knot-hole of the old apple tree. It was such an ideal place, for the whole tree chanced to be hung about with many gossamer caterpillars’ nests; there would be food a-plenty right at their very door.
During the mating days Rusty’s coat of feathers underwent the strangest change, and you would hardly have recognized him, for he became very beautiful, having lost every one of his freckles. His feathers glittered and shone in the sunshine in colors of purple, green and golden hue, and he would flash like a jewel back and forth from morning until night carrying twigs and material for the nest in the apple tree.
The entrance to the nest was so very small that you simply wondered how a full grown starling could ever manage to get inside the door; but once he had squeezed inside, it was deep and roomy, and comfortably lined with down and hair. At sunset Rusty always took up his position on a twig close to the nest and gave a regular concert to his little mate, who sat away down inside the knot-hole brooding five young starlings. But really he or his mate had very little time for songs, for as soon as their pin-feathers commenced to sprout, the little starlings developed such fearful appetites that it took their parents every instant to find food enough to satisfy them.
One day when Rusty and his mate had gone off after food, leaving the little ones home alone, suddenly, as they were expecting the old birds to come home, a strange thing happened. Instead of food being thrust down into their wide, hungry mouths, a long, furry arm, striped with tigerish marks and filled with sharp, cruel claws, came creeping far down into the nest, and when it was withdrawn a baby starling went with it. Five times the dreadful tigerish arm was thrust down into the nest, and each time it took away a starling.
Rusty and his mate made a frightful fuss when they came back to the nest and found it empty; while there upon a flat limb sat a big tiger cat lapping his chops, and freeing his long whiskers from pin-feathers. They flew about his head, rasping shrilly, and trying to peck at him with their long yellow beaks, but the tiger cat simply blinked his eyes insolently at them. And somehow the starlings are of such a happy disposition that nothing ever worries them for long, and in a few days they were as happy as ever.
Autumn came, and soon the few apples left upon their home tree were touched by Jack Frost and became bitter, not very good eating; still Rusty and his mate loved to peck at them, for by this time food began to be scarce. Now, when October came, by rights Rusty and his mate should have gone south with all the other migrating birds, for at this time the starlings usually seek a warmer climate; but strangely enough, Rusty and his mate watched the bluebirds, the straggling flocks of geese and all their neighbors fly off, and still they tarried behind.
When cold weather came they left the apple tree nest, for the snow sifted down into it and blocked up their door completely. They flew off into the pine forests, and huddled closely together to keep warm. One day they were buffeted about in a great howling snow-storm, and Mrs. Rusty was blown against a barb-wire fence and her wing injured. Then Rusty knew he must find a comfortable spot for her or she would perish. So, urging her to follow him, he flew to a farmhouse, and there they perched upon a great chimney. My, what a beautiful warm spot they had discovered! The heat came up in great waves and penetrated their feathers, and best of all they could sit down inside upon a small ledge and be out of the storm.
Soon Mrs. Rusty’s lame wing grew strong, and they were allowed to fly into the barn-yard and share the chickens’ food. And upon sunshiny days they sat together upon the chimney and sang their rusty, creaking song together, for already beautiful visions of a new nest in the apple tree came to them. But one day Rusty flew off, and while he was away they built up a rousing fire in the old chimney to clear out its soot, so that when Rusty came back he could not find his little mate. She had been blinded and overcome by the uprushing smoke, and had perished.
He called and called, but vainly, and took up his lonely life again until spring time; and glad enough he was to welcome back all his old bird neighbors. He recognized them all in turn: the bluebirds, the flickers and the robins. And one great day as he sat lonesomely upon the old apple tree trying hard to keep cheerful by whistling to himself, suddenly he spied what at first sight appeared to be a black cloud floating right in his direction. The cloud moved rapidly, and finally began to come to earth. It was a great colony of birds, and somehow they appeared to Rusty strangely familiar. Soon a soft, creaking, crackling burst of song came to him, and instantly Rusty knew they were starlings.
Hundreds of them there were. They broke ranks finally, precisely like a company of trained soldiers, and settling all over the field, they began walking about with their little, quick, mincing steps.
Rusty gave one great, triumphant whistle of recognition and joy, and spreading his freckled wings he launched forth into the air and had soon joined the colony. And, wonderful to relate, much to his delight he discovered among the great flock another little starling so precisely like his lost mate that he was fully convinced that he had found her. And so when the leader of the great Starling Colony gave his loud whistle of command for the company to form ranks again, at his signal the whole flock arose, and making a wide wheel first, close to the earth, suddenly, as if they were one instead of a great company, they arose in the air and took flight, and Rusty Starling went with them.
XVII
WHERE THE PARTRIDGE DRUMS
ALL during the beautiful summer days the little Mother Partridge and her mate, the brave, ruffled cock, and their twelve brown chicks had lived just on the border of a deep wood, not too far back, so that when the little ones began to fly their flight should be easy. It was a fine, safe place for the little partridges, for they could easily run and hide from danger beneath the thick shadowy places of the pines, which towered so far above their lowly nest that only the soft, swishy whispering of their plumy tops could be heard down in the covert. The little ones grew rapidly, and were soon good-sized chicks; and they were very knowing, for the very instant their wise mother uttered her warning “cr-rr-r-r” cry, off they would flutter, looking, in their flight, for all the world like a drove of flying dead leaves; and strain your eyes as you might, after they had taken flight, you could never find where one little partridge had hidden itself. Instinct taught them to select a leaf or object which exactly matched their brown feathers, and then lie quite flat. There they would huddle until their mother gave a reassuring cluck, meaning “danger over,” then out they would come in a little flock, and all this time while they lay hid, the little Father Partridge was never idle, I assure you, but took it upon himself, when danger came near the flock, to tell them just as far away as possible, and try to divert the attention of the enemy to himself in the funniest fashion. He would be so brave, even in the face of great danger, that he would boldly strut forth, all his feathers bristling, and the curious ruffle raised about his neck, and so bluster and strut and make such a ridiculous clamor that the intruder invariably forgot to see where the little chicks hid themselves. Then as soon as Mother Partridge and the chicks were off and away, a swift “whir-r-r,” and before you knew it, Father Partridge had vanished as if the earth had swallowed him up.
The partridges always led their little chicks to the very best feeding grounds. Well they knew where the plump little red partridge berries grew thick in their deep green beds of moss, and also they remembered where in the deep mountain slashes the luscious red raspberries hung in ripe clusters; and sometimes they had to do battle with the screaming blue jays to drive them off, providing they reached the feeding grounds first. Brave as well as gallant was the little cock partridge. Off alone, on fleet wing would he fly upon private expeditions of his own, and when he succeeded in finding good feeding, he would mount upon a great log, or high place, and drum, drum, drum, beating his strong wings against his sides, and filling the forest with loud echoing calls—the call of the partridge for his mate, until she and the little partridges had followed him to the feeding place. Many a time when swift danger came upon them from above, and a cruel hawk swooped low after one of the chicks, then Father Partridge would raise his ruff fiercely and rushing forth, his barred wings and tail flaunted high, he would drum so loudly in the very face of the hawk that it would change its course and decide that it really did not care for a young partridge that day.
Gradually, as the young partridges became stronger and larger, they would venture forth into the woods upon short excursions on their own account, but they invariably came back to the home covert at night, where their mother would hover them beneath her soft brown wings, until they became too old, when they would all huddle together beneath the drooping limbs of a low falling spruce, or fly up into its lower limbs; for sometimes their instinct told them to sleep out of reach of Red-Brush, the fox, who sometimes strolled in the woods, near at hand, after dark. But somehow, in spite of the many warnings of wise little Mother Partridge, and fierce drummings of the father, one by one all but four of the partridge chicks mysteriously disappeared in one way or another, until when autumn came there were but six left of the large partridge family.
But they did not seem to mind that, which is the way in partridge families, and all through the autumn they had the very happiest times together that you possibly can imagine. The mornings were beginning to be keen and frosty, but their brown feather coats were thick and glossy, and they were so very plump from the abundance of good feed to be had, that they never minded the cold; it only made them wilder and livelier. Just as the first twinkling sunbeam filtered its way through the tent-like roof of their covert, then Father Partridge would take his head from beneath his wing; with a flash of his bright, beady eyes he would ruffle his crest, then “whir-r-r,” swiftly his wings would take him off, skimming low over frosted ferns and brakes. Then five other “whir-r-s” would sound, and you knew that the partridge family were awake for the day, and had started off to hunt for their breakfast. Indeed in the partridge family it was meal time all day long in those autumn days, for they did nothing but feast continually, because that is the great festival time of the year for partridges. In the hedges the red choke cherries had turned black and hung in such heavy clusters that their branches trailed low, and the fruit was wild and juicy. The thorn apple trees, with their armor of bayonet-like spikes, were filled with scarlet apples, mellow and rich as a persimmon after the frost has ripened it, while over wayside saplings trailed long vines hung thick with little fox grapes doubly tasty because Jack Frost had nipped them. Then too there were beechnuts rattling down out of their yellowing leaves—all these good things to be had for the taking; no wonder the partridges grew each day a trifle more plump that autumn. Still, unlike the thrifty squirrel family, they were not wise enough to lay aside a hoard of food against hard, bitterly cold winter weather; they just flew about enjoying life. So plump did the young ones become that at last you could not tell them from the old partridges. Then, all of a sudden, just as they were becoming recklessly tame and fearless, something terrifying and unknown came into the forest and drove every little thing which wore fur or feathers quite wild with fright.
“Bang, bang, bang,” it sounded, the awful din, sometimes in the depths of the thick spruce bush, and again in the open, or down in the edge of the slashes; then up would curl an evil-smelling blue vapor, and one time when the terrified partridge family took flight two more of the young ones did not follow their leader to safe covert. Four of them, all that were now left, remained safely hidden in the depths of the deep forest for days, and at last the terrifying bangs were no longer heard, and they finally ventured out into the open once more.
By this time the maples, beeches, and the birch trees had all shed their dense leaves, and chilly winds, wintry and bleak, began to croon and whine through the dense coverts among the thick spruces. There the partridges sought shelter each night, and finally winter set in in good earnest and all the little wild creatures sought for warm, snug quarters. The squirrels huddled down in their cozy nests, all lined with leaves, and filled with a choice assortment of provisions, and old Dame Woodchuck had long ago crept into her burrow, deep down in the brown earth, and closed up her door for the winter; not until Candlemas Day would she venture to even stick her nose out-of-doors again. Still, there were plenty who did not care to idle and sleep all through the cold weather, so there was still plenty of life left in the forest.
After the first deep snow the partridges remained hidden in some deep, warm covert among the thick, sheltering pines, coming forth into the open only when they wished to feed upon chance dried berries which the snow and winds had left clinging to bare branches; but for the most part all the birds which had not gone south kept to the deep woods for shelter.
Now right in the heart of a balsam pine lived a great snowy owl, which had drifted from its kindred down from the far North, and taken up its solitary home close to the partridge covert. The great, wise owl thought herself perfectly safe, no doubt, in such a lofty home; so, a few months before, she had laid two beautiful snowy eggs in her retreat, which in time became two small owlets, with such comical, fuzzy, round faces, and large yellow eyes. The great snowy mother owl loved them as only a mother owl knows how, almost wearing herself out to hunt food for them, both day and night. One day when the great snowy owl came back to the balsam pine she arrived just in time to see a sinuous, brown, fur-coated stranger hastily claw himself down from her nest, and dashing swiftly and angrily at him, she managed to clutch just a tuft of his brown fur. He had slipped away, and her nest was empty; and all night long, far above the spot where the partridges nested, the great snowy owl cried out: “Who-who-wo-wo-wo-o-o,” and from that day she nested alone and began to watch and watch for the reappearance of that hateful, sinuous, brown-coated stranger who had stolen the young owl babies, but she watched in vain.
Fiercely raged the great northern blizzards and sometimes when the partridges ventured forth from their coverts when hard pressed with hunger the heavy winds would seize them and dash them roughly about, so that spent and weary they were often forced to come back to shelter without tasting food for hours. Still, in certain places known to the partridges there were still pine cones a-plenty, and in between the brown husk-like layers of the cones they found little nutty seeds of the pine, while beneath, in sheltered spots which the snow did not cover, they scratched for partridge berries, wintergreen plums, and an occasional beechnut which the squirrels had not found. Searching and keen were the wintry winds, which sometimes stung through their feather coats, so they would huddle close together beneath the shelter of a great log, or where pine branches swept low. One day a great storm raged which lasted for many days, and the giant pines rocked so mightily that none of the wild creatures ventured out as long as it lasted. The partridges huddled closely together upon the ground for warmth, and gradually the snow sifted and filtered its way through the forest until it had finally covered everything, even the partridges, who looked like little mounds of snow. Strangely enough they were warm and comfortable beneath their snow coverlet, for the snow arched over each sleek, brown back, forming a little shelter or hut over them, not unlike those small snow huts which the Laps build; and if you could have peeped beneath, you might have seen four pairs of very bright, alert eyes peeping from a tiny opening in their snow covering; that is, when the partridges were not fast asleep.
When the snowflakes began to come down slower and slower, and almost cease, then many of the wild things began to grow very hungry and ventured forth. A sly old weasel started out first, and soon his lithe, snake-like body was skimming silently through the pathless, silent forest, leaving queer little tracks in the soft snow as he traveled. Once in the deep pines he began to peer about for prey; in and out among the brown underbrush he crept, being careful that no twig should snap beneath him to betray his coming. Nothing seemed to be stirring yet; plainly everything was still asleep. But far up above in the giant pine above him the weasel failed to notice that a certain knot-hole was completely filled by a great, round, snowy face lighted by glittering, angry eyes, of pale yellow. For the great snowy owl had seen the weasel the moment he came into the woods, and recognized him as the enemy who had robbed her of the young owlets. On crept the weasel, feeling rather cross, when suddenly his little red eyes lighted upon four very peculiar tussocks of snow just beside a great log; and could he believe his eyes?—one of the snow bundles moved. Then the weasel knew there must be something hidden there. He stole nearer. He was in great luck; surely there were partridges there asleep in the snow. Instantly he gathered himself for a swift spring, but just as he was about to seize the first partridge, a great, white shadowy form, which might have been a giant snowflake, so silently did it fall, came swooping down upon the weasel from above, and the next instant the strong yellow talons hidden in the snowy feathers were buried in the weasel’s fur, and he was lifted and borne in triumph through the air, twisting and struggling to gain his freedom, but vainly.
Then at a signal the brave leader of the partridges rose, and the other three went “whir, whir, whirring” off into the safe places of the forest.
XVIII
HOW SOLOMON OWL BECAME WISE
SOLOMON was the largest, as well as the most headstrong youngster in the screech-owl family. There were five of them, and they all lived in the knot-hole of a large sycamore tree down in the swamp. Just as soon as Solomon got through his pin-feather age, he began to show off and assert his independence. He would so bully the others, and jostle them about so roughly, that when the old owls came home with food for them, it always happened that the round, chuckle-head of Solomon managed to fill the knot-hole door, and always his greedy beak would snatch the forthcoming morsel from the others; for so furiously did he beat the little ones back, he always managed to get the very choicest bits.
Small wonder then that Solomon grew strong and lusty long before the others were out of their down and pin-feather age. Bold too and fearless he soon became, and when the purple twilight shadows began to deepen in the forest away down below him, Solomon would steal from the nest and sit blinking his beautiful yellow eyes until their black centers would expand from a mere dot, gradually growing larger, until all the daytime blindness had left him, and he could see everything about him. He saw the little brown bats, who slept all day, clinging like velvet bags to the limb of a tree, and each night he saw them unhook their claws, just at twilight, and dart squeaking away into the shadows after gnats. Then down below between dark, still aisles of the pines, night life in the forest began, and first of all a sly old lynx, with such an ugly disposition that he snarled at everything which crossed his path, would go skulking off by himself. Other night prowlers followed his example, and Solomon, watching them from his lofty perch, would suddenly unfurl his strong, young wings, with a swish as of rustling silk, and launch himself forth into the night.
Oh, it was wonderful to be free, and best of all, alone, for no longer did greedy Solomon have to share his food with the family. He knew instinctively where to hunt, and haunted the brooks and waterways for young frogs, who loved to come out of the water and sit upon the broad, cool lily pads enjoying the fragrance of snowy lilies which floated upon the water, as they sang their jolly choruses beneath the summer moon. Then down among the silvery ripples of the brook swam great shoals of little tender minnows, and into the tall sedges Solomon would dart like a flash, to snap up some trembling little field-mouse, or sleeping bird, who nested in the reedy marshes. Seldom did the yellow eyes or strong beak and talons of Solomon fail him, and soon he became famous among his wild kindred as a mighty hunter.
Now there are always certain things which young owls should know, and Mother Owl had tried to impress upon her children that they must always get back to the home nest before the sun rose and peeped above the top of the mountain, for, said she:
“Should you stay away from home after sunrise, you will never find your way back again, because you will be overtaken by the terrible sun blindness, and then you’ll be as blind as a bat, and everybody knows how helpless and blind a bat is in the daytime, for they have to cover up their eyes with their wings all day long.” All the other little owls listened respectfully to their mother’s warning words, but Solomon just snapped his beak saucily at her, and blinked his great eyes quite indifferently at her advice, which had simply gone into one feathery ear and straight out of the other; secretly, he made up his mind then and there, that he would have an astonishing adventure. He would stay out and keep awake all day long, instead of coming back home with the others and going to sleep.
So one night Solomon flew off, as usual, alone, upon a hunting trip; a new, strange wildness possessed him, and he longed for adventures. He would fly off a long distance to new hunting grounds. High and low he soared, searching for prey, skimming low over strange, unexplored pools far from home; but somehow that night the moon shone so brightly that the frogs always saw him first, and down they would plunge, out of sight beneath the thick jungles of the water weeds, throwing back to him a defiant “kerchung.” Finally Solomon realized to his dismay that night was almost gone, for the moon had disappeared behind a mountain, and still he had caught nothing to eat but just a few stray gnats. So he instantly made up his mind that it would be foolish to go back home
hungry, and perhaps when the big yellow sun ball actually came from behind the mountain, where it slept all night, then he would be able to find something quite different to eat, some new delicacy, for, with more light, he would certainly be able to see very much farther, instead of becoming blind like a stupid bat. He determined to stay awake and test it all for himself. Accordingly, back and forth he gaily flew over the gradually lightening marshes. And just as he was beginning to get fiercely hungry, he suddenly spied a choice morsel of fresh meat lying right in plain sight near the brook. Headlong, down swept Solomon, and grabbed the coveted bait greedily, so eagerly that he failed to see the trap beneath it, until it had nipped his leg and held him firmly, a prisoner.
Solomon soon found out that the more he flopped and struggled about to get free, the harder did the cruel teeth of the trap bite into his leg; so, finally, he had to lie with outstretched, helpless wings upon the trap. Meantime, higher and higher crept the daylight into the sky, and finally out burst the big, hot sun in a great blaze, and the higher it mounted into the sky the greater became poor, foolish Solomon’s blindness. To add to his misery, the choice morsel of bait which he coveted, lay just outside his reach, and the trap bit and bit into his leg hotly.
In spite of his torment, Solomon began to know that unusual, daytime things, were going on all around him. Muskrats were taking their morning swim, splashing about in the water, and slapping their tails; birds, of which he knew nothing, sang beautiful, unfamiliar songs over his head. Thousands of sleeping gnats awoke and swarmed in the air, humming shrilly, while huge, lace-winged dragon-flies whirred close to his ears, and Solomon clicked his beak angrily at them as they swept past him. Then, to add to his misery, a whole drove of impudent little brown birds spied him, and began to tease and torment him. They would settle upon a near-by twig, then dart down upon him with little hateful “cheep, cheep, cheeps” of derision, flaunting their free wings saucily close to his half-blind eyes. Solomon beat his wings frantically to scare them off, but always they came back again to torment him. Next, a colony of crows came to drink at the brook and “caw, caw, caw’d” jeeringly at him; and all the time the hot sun beat down upon him and scorched and blinded him, so that he had to cover his eyes with their filmy lids, and defend himself as best he might. All day long Solomon endured the dreadful torments of daylight; then, when he was almost ready to give up, something happened.
“Pad, pad, pad,” came the sound of stealthy footfalls, and then right through the tall cat-tails and sedges came slyly Red-Brush, the fox; jauntily he made his way toward the trap, for his keen, pointed snout had caught the fresh meat scent. Picking his way cautiously over the brook stones he came, lightly leaping across to the trap. Red-Brush saw Solomon and bared all his sharp, white teeth, in a grin of joy and anticipation. But first of all he would eat the bait, then finish off with the young owl later. With a great bound he was on the trap, and instantly, with this the eight teeth of the trap were sprung apart, and Solomon’s leg was free. Then, even before Red-Brush could drop the bait, with a swift uprushing of wings Solomon was far above his head, and quite safe.
Solomon flew swiftly to the top of a lofty pine, and there beneath a limb, screened by dark, thick tufts of needles he sat alone and pondered. His foot was lame and stiff, and as daylight still lingered he blinked and winked to keep out the light. At last the hateful sun slipped away somewhere out of sight, and Solomon’s blindness began to leave him, and he saw with joy the moon, pale and yellow, come creeping back to its place once more. He recognized the swift, shadowy forms of his neighbors, the bats, flitting about again. And then poor, lonely Solomon, unable to contain himself any longer, for sheer homesickness sent forth a wonderful call of misery and longing, out into the night.
“Who-ooo-o-o, who-ooo-o-o,” he quavered, over and over again, and then before the last long “who-ooo-o-o” had fairly died away, away off somewhere over the tops of the tall pines came back an answering call, another “who-ooo,” and Solomon heard and recognized it as it came nearer and nearer.
So, unfurling his soft, moth-like wings Solomon flew off in the direction of the familiar call, and was soon lost in the darkness of the forest. Thus did Solomon return to his home and kindred in the knot-hole of the sycamore tree, and never after that did he stay out all night, or until daylight, and thereafter he became known to all the little wild dwellers of the woods as a very wise owl.
XIX
THE KING OF BALSAM SWAMP
EVEN by day it was dark, lonely, and scary down in the Balsam Swamp, right under the frowning shadow of the mountain, and so wild that only an occasional cranberry picker ventured down into the marsh when the berries were ripe and red. Most people gave the lonely place a very wide berth, for it is easy to lose one’s way in such a wilderness. So only the little wild creatures of the forest really knew very much about the many interesting inhabitants who lived in the swamp.
The little black bears came scrambling and sliding down from Porcupine Ridge occasionally to feed upon crawfish and frogs, and to wallow in the ooze and mud of the marsh, and when the red deer were hard pressed, and the hounds were baying close behind them, they found a safe hiding-place among the densely growing balsams. Thousands of the pointed green spires of the pine arose from the swamp, for the trees which grew there never had been chopped down by lumbermen. And so, if you only knew, the swamp was not, after all, such a lonely place, for many there were who loved it, and found a very safe home right there in the marsh.
Just over in the great black birch lived a very old raccoon and his interesting family; so old was this raccoon that he actually had rheumatism, and was quite gray in the face. The old raccoon could tell you many an exciting experience he had met with down in the swamp; how he had been chased by dogs and men, nights, when he had gone out to forage, how, when the hounds were baying, close upon his scent, he had cunningly doubled upon his track, crossed a brook many times, and so thrown them completely off the scent, leaving them to flounder and whine in the soft mud of the marshes while he had shinned up the great black birch in safety, and lying out flat upon a limb, actually grinned at the foolish hounds, showing all his little sharp white teeth for joy as they bayed and howled beneath the wrong tree.
Just beneath the great birch, in a dense clump of balsams, a young mother doe had come with her little dappled, frightened fawn, when the hunters were after them, and the mother’s leg had been hurt. And the thick balsams and hemlocks hid them well, and the gray mosses and pine-needles beneath made a soft thick bed for them, and there they stayed until the danger was over and the doe was able to travel once more.
Up aloft, in the tall swaying tops of the pines, whole colonies of squirrels, red and gray, lived with the birds, for there was plenty of good food in the swamp: small, sweet beechnuts, and wild cherries with a puckery tang, and sweet nutty pits. Then there were bobcats, who snarled and howled and spit at each other in the dark nights, and an old Canadian lynx with sharp, tufted ears, and the ugliest disposition, for he snarled at everything which crossed his tracks.
Down beneath the low-lying branches of the spruces which swept the ground, forming regular tents, crept and grunted the stupid hedgehog family, grubbing for nuts and fresh water clams and crawfish, and bristling their sharp quills indignantly when any one presumed to disturb them; even at the gentle partridge family, who loved to cuddle in bunches beneath the green, tent-like branches, and then the brave little cock partridge would ruffle up his feathers and rush out upon the hedgehogs furiously with a “whir-r-r-r,” and a drumming commotion, which often startled the lazy hedgehogs out of their wits, so that they would roll over in sudden terror and bristle out their quills until they looked like a round ball of sharp needles. Well the hedgehog knew that no enemy would care to come very near him then, lest they get a snout full of sharp quills.
If the Balsam Swamp was a creepy, dark place in the daytime, at night it was ten times more fearsome, for then every wild dweller in the depths of the swamp awoke, and the place was filled with strange sounds. The first signal for all to begin stirring in the swamp was given by the frogs who began their evening chorus, “Zoom, zoom, kerchung, kerchung,” down in the bogs. Just as soon as the old raccoon heard the first “zoom, zoom” of the old giant bullfrog, he hastily began to scratch and claw himself up out of his hole in the black birch, where he had been sleeping all day long. Next, the snarling lynx glided like a shadow from his lair, and went, with soft, velvet-padded footsteps, skulking off between the thick balsams after his prey; and then something else happened. For when it was just about dark enough, from right in the very heart of the marsh the King of the swamp sent out his lonely, blood-curdling cry: “Who-ho-ho, who-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho.” It was the great white owl, the very oldest inhabitant of the swamps; a regular old hermit was this great snowy owl, and he lived all alone in a giant pine, which had long ago been blasted by lightning. The pine towered over all the spire-like tops of the balsams and spruces of the marsh; white and lonely looking it stretched its blasted, crooked limbs forth like the arms of some great forest giant.
The trunk of the old pine was hollow, and deep within the whitened depths of this tree lived the King. Alone, despised, and forsaken by his mate and all his kindred, because of his fierce, vindictive temper, and shunned by all his furry neighbors also, because the sly old King had a way of knowing just where to find young baby raccoons when their mother was away; and he would even carry off a very young lynx cub, if he chanced to be pressed by hunger, while nothing delighted him more than to steal like a shadow upon a covey of sleeping partridges and scatter then like leaves, taking his pick of the family, and when the angry little father bravely “whirr’d and whirr’d,” the King was not at all frightened; for nothing ever daunted him very much.
Silently, on his great, soft white wings, he swooped down upon any tender little furry creature that chanced to come in sight of his great, staring yellow eyes, and then with one cruel blow of his lance-like beak he killed his prey and carried it swiftly off in his great horny talons to the old blasted pine in the heart of the swamp.
Only once or twice had the King been caught napping. That was when he made a great mistake and tried to rob the farmer’s muskrat trap, and the steel teeth had caught and nipped off one of his great horny toes, so that ever after that time he always hated the very sight of a muskrat, and never troubled them. Another time the King had a hard fight with a great blue heron. He had tried to take away a fish from the heron for which it had been fishing a long, long time, and somehow the heron’s long, sharp bill had punctured one of the King’s great, yellow eyes. Since his encounter with the heron, the King’s sight had not been so keen, and sometimes, when weary, or on a long flight, he flew with sideway motion.
Far up on a lofty ledge of the mountain which overhung the swamp, two bald eagles made their lonely, untidy nest every year, and raised their scrawny brood of young eaglets. The old eagles were faithful creatures, and looked out well for the wants of their young, never thinking of themselves at any time, so that they could get food enough to fill the wide-open, hungry mouths of their screaming little ones. It was simply wonderful how much the young eaglets ate to satisfy their hunger; for they managed to keep the old birds flying about for food from earliest daylight until the frogs began their evening song down in the marsh.
Very well the old King of the swamp knew of the eagles’ nest. He also knew just when the young eaglets were left lying alone in their nest, for at the early hour when the old eagles were forced to leave the ledge, the King was occasionally awake himself, especially if he himself had come home from his night’s wanderings hungry.
Once it happened that very, very early in the morning the King came back to the pine in a very bad humor, for he had been out all night long hunting for food, and he had found nothing worth eating.
“Who, ho, ho, ho-ho, ho-ho,” he grumbled to himself crossly. “Not a bite to eat all night.” Perhaps the old owl’s eyes were less keen than formerly. Nothing left for him to prey upon but hedgehogs. “Lazy things! Who wants to put their eyes out trying to eat a hedgehog?” thought the King. “Who, ho, ho-ho,” he croaked.
Just then he chanced to cock up one of his great eyes toward the ledge in time to see two dark shadowy forms hover over the edge. The old eagles were making a very early start for food for the eaglets.
Instantly the King was wide awake and alert; he waited only until the two dark shadows had passed out of sight over the mountain, then, silently, on his great, soft white wings he rose and rose in the air until level with the ledge, when he darted down and, seizing a young eaglet in his talons, was back to the pine again before the old eagles came back.
What a screaming and commotion took place when the old eagles returned and found one of their brood missing; but the old King cared little for this, for, having satisfied his pressing hunger, he was by this time safely hidden down inside the hollow pine, fast asleep.
The very next time the King happened to return home hungry after a night out, he instantly remembered about the young eagles. True enough, the one he had eaten had been exceedingly tough; but then, when one is hungry, young eagle is better than nothing at all. So, with his great golden eyes wide open and watching eagerly, he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the old eagles leave the nest and start forth in the early dawn; first one eagle arose from the ledge, flying straight over the mountain, then the mate soon followed after, and before she was fairly out of sight, unable to wait longer, for he was very hungry, swiftly the old King rose in the air to the eagles’ ledge.
“Screech, screech,” shrilled the young eaglets, and just then the old King’s maimed talon lost its grip of the young bird which he had selected, for young eaglets are strong, which made the youngsters screech still louder. Again the King’s horny talon gripped the eaglet, and so very much taken up was he, and so very hungry, that he utterly failed to see the shadow of a pair of wide wings gradually hovering, hovering, drawing closer to the ledge with every movement, until, with a sudden sound as of rustling silk, the wings wavered and dropped straight down from above, and the great lance-like talons of the enraged mother eagle were buried in the snowy back of the King, even before he had a chance to turn about and face her.
Then a mighty battle began between the mother eagle and the old King of the swamp. They finally cleared the ledge together, and went swirling out into space. Feathers of white and brown fell in showers, and floated down into the marsh, as they fought on and on, with great beaks snapping sharply, the eagle screaming weirdly, occasionally, as they battled in the air.
But the old King of the swamp had met his match at last, for the mother eagle well knew that she was fighting to the death the one who had robbed her nest before. In vain did the King seek to gain his home nest in the blasted pine. The eagle stuck to him, tearing at him cruelly with beak and talons until, finally, fluttering weakly, utterly exhausted, his spirit broken, blind and dying, the King began to fall. Fluttering weakly he began to settle down, down into a dark, hidden spot beneath the thick balsams. He had become just a mere bundle of snowy feathers now; all fierceness had departed, and there was nothing left of the King for the little wild things of the forest to longer fear and hate.
And that night when the frogs started off with their usual signal, calling all to awaken in the marshes, the “Who, ho, ho-ho, ho-ho, o-o” of the old King of the swamp was silent.
XX
THE GIANT OF THE CORN-FIELD
DAME WOODCHUCK, old and decrepit, came to the entrance of her burrow and peered anxiously forth, for she always poked the very tip of her brown nose out first, and then, if she happened to find the coast quite clear, she would venture to waddle entirely out.
Poor old thing, so old and covered with fat that she could not travel far; besides, one hind leg had once been caught in a steel trap and lamed, so that now she was almost doubly helpless. Her thick fur coat was of a dull reddish brown, and very much faded by sun and rain, and so badly worn off in certain places it looked really moth-eaten, while her black snout and stiff whiskers were quite gray with age.
Dame Woodchuck had very wisely selected her home, for you might stroll right past the great clump of rank nettles where it was, a hundred times without even suspecting that it concealed the door to a woodchuck’s burrow, because, you see, the vines of a wild woodbine trailed over the nettles, and formed such a fine curtain that it quite concealed the entrance to her home.
Of course all the little wild dwellers of the woods and her neighbors, who always know about such secret dwellings, might have told you where old Dame Woodchuck actually lived, but then, you see, they never did.
It was a bright, sunny day, and Dame Woodchuck enjoyed sitting in the door of her home, for the pleasant sun felt very grateful as it shone warmly down upon her aching old back. Besides, it was pleasant to chat with the neighbors who occasionally passed that way. After ascertaining, beyond a doubt, that her most dreaded enemy, the farmer’s yellow dog, whom she detested greatly because he delighted to pounce out upon her suddenly and worry and torment her, was nowhere in sight, with much wheezing and little chattering complaints, Dame Woodchuck managed to flop out of her burrow and sitting bolt upright upon her haunches, just in the brown, upturned earth in front of the nettle patch, she watched and waited for the return of her dilatory son, Ichabod. To tell the truth, the Dame was really beginning to feel a bit angry and out of patience with him, and well she might, for she was very, very hungry, and as she was now too old and lame to go off any distance to forage for herself she had to depend almost entirely upon Ichabod for food. Long had she been anticipating his return with the juicy, yellow turnips which he had been sent to bring from the farmer’s garden, where each year they grew so plentifully. What could have become of Ichabod? How tiresome to have to wait such a long, long while. Ichabod had been gone long enough to go to the garden and back twice over.
As Dame Woodchuck sat waiting for the turnips, pleasant recollections of bygone days suddenly came into her mind, days when the woodchuck family had been a large and happy one. Well she remembered the time when she and her mate had dug their burrow close to the beautiful field of pink clover, where every morning all the little woodchucks used to spend hours rolling and tumbling about in the fragrant, dew-laden blossoms.
What wonderful happiness had been theirs. But alas! to her sorrow, the farmer had found their burrow and broken up the happy family. One by one all the children had been caught in traps, until now but Ichabod remained of her five little ones. And then, worst blow of all, her mate, evidently faithless, had gone off and left them. Shortly after that the beautiful clover field had all been plowed up, and now it lay in ugly brown furrows, bare, unlovely, and as Dame Woodchuck looked back into the pleasant past a tear of grief and regret stole into her bleary eyes and trickled down her gray, furry cheeks.
Suddenly the Dame heard a scuffling, scuttling sound among the ferns, and then she speedily forgot all her sad thoughts, and was instantly alert, and listening with her small round ears. It was Ichabod. With a grunt of welcome and satisfaction she accepted eagerly, and fell to munching hungrily, the hard, unripe apple which he had brought to her. However, she felt far from satisfied with the apple, for she had all this time been anticipating the turnip, and the apple was so sour she did not relish it very keenly. Still, it was perhaps better than nothing at all. Ichabod had a strange story to tell, and the Dame listened with dismay as he told her that the farmer had planted no turnips in his garden this season. Evidently Ichabod had brought to his mother the very best he could find. But Ichabod brought also strange news.
A friendly raccoon, whom he had met during his absence, had told him quite a wonderful tale: that across the cranberry bogs, far over on the other side of the great hill covered with the pointed balsam firs, which lay in plain sight of the burrow, might be found a pleasant valley, and best of all in the valley was a great field of young corn. Already the plumy blades were beginning to bend down, heavy with their weight of milky sweet corn, upon whose juicy kernels one might live in luxury until the frost came, for not until then would the corn be harvested by the farmer.
Moreover, between the sentinel-like corn-stalks great golden pumpkins were fast ripening. Oh, what a land of plenty! If one were only there upon the enchanted ground. Dame Woodchuck gazed disconsolately and impatiently forth at the dreary prospect which lay spread out before her nettle-draped door and pondered over her situation. She knew that a time of action had arrived in the woodchuck family, and that she and Ichabod must surely go forth and seek a new home at last.
So that very night, when the great yellow moon rose over the dark hills, the Dame left her old burrow and waddled forth, with Ichabod following closely behind, to find a new home where food should be plentiful.
Across the perilous deep morasses of the cranberry bogs she dragged her unwieldy old body. Necessarily they traveled quite slowly, for the way seemed long and difficult, and the poor old thing was weak from lack of proper food. Often they paused in their night journey to rest and enjoy their new surroundings, for the Dame had never traveled very far from her old burrow before. Down in the thickets of the cranberry bog the whippoorwills sang plaintively their tremulous song; the Dame and Ichabod listened, and heard also, occasionally, the sleepy call of a nesting hermit thrush down in the meadows. Sometimes a hoot owl would brush past them, and call at them jeeringly. On the edge of the marshes they came into a great bed of dewy clover, sweet and cool. Here they paused to rest and feed.
Finally they reached the open country, and in the distance, in the moonlight, they plainly distinguished the tall wavy shadows of the corn of which the kind raccoon had told them. They had reached the promised land of plenty at last.
Very fortunately for the Dame and Ichabod they chanced to come across a deserted rabbit hole, which by a little judicious digging they very soon converted into quite a comfortable home; so that before any of the other little wild creatures in that neighborhood were awake the next morning the Dame and Ichabod had taken possession of their new burrow and were soon fast asleep in an upper chamber.
As Dame Woodchuck was so very weary and lame from her long journey she could not travel far from her home, but had to content herself at first with simply dragging herself to the door of the burrow, where she would gaze forth long and hopefully at the new and pleasant prospect spread out before her tired old eyes.
There, sure enough, not many fields away, lay the beautiful corn-field, where already choice ears filled with tender grains, just suited to her worn old teeth, were waiting, to be had for the taking, and she knew that already Ichabod was in the field, scurrying about beneath the wavy green plumes.
Great was the alarm and dismay of the Dame when Ichabod finally returned to her with no food and a strange fearsome tale of what had happened to him upon his first visit to the corn. It was all true enough about the fine, juicy corn; it was there, and plenty of it for everybody, just as the kind raccoon had told them. But, unfortunately, the whole field was ruled over, watched and guarded by a frightful monster, who occupied a commanding position right in the very center of the corn-field, where he guarded well the corn both by night and day; with angry, menacing mien he stood there, and no one dare intrude. Moreover, Solomon Crow and his family, who sat upon a rail fence near the corn-field, had told a terrible tale of certain unseen snares placed for the unwary, which the terrible creature had spread out all about him. Many of the crows had been caught in the innocent appearing threads, had given a few futile flops and strident caws, and that had been the last of them.
Oh, the giant who guarded the corn was indeed a fearful monster. Built upon similar lines to the farmer himself, whom they had all often seen, but far, far more horrible to look upon was this creature of the corn-field, who towered far above the tallest corn-stalks and held leveled at intruders an unknown weapon, from which fluttered yards and yards of fearsome streaming objects, and when the wind blew across the field the creature who guarded the corn shook with rage from top to toe. The giant’s hair was ragged and unkempt, and bristled forth fiercely from beneath his tattered old hat. Ichabod, somewhat bolder than others, wishing to get a full view, had crept as closely as he dared, and rising upon his hind legs, by the aid of a stone, he had stolen one fleeting glance full at the giant of the corn-field. One look had been quite sufficient for Ichabod and had sent him, panic-stricken with fear, hustling away; so hastily did he travel that he left a large tuft of his fur in a barb-wire fence beneath which he slid, and ran scuttling back home to his mother with chattering teeth.
Now Dame Woodchuck was very old and wise in experience, and she had in her long lifetime heard of such giants as Ichabod told her he had seen in the corn-field. And never in all her life had she ever heard of one of the creatures harming a woodchuck, in spite of gossip. After all, the crows were mostly gossips. It was certainly high time that Ichabod began to learn a few lessons from life, and have more courage and responsibility. Besides, the more the Dame thought of the luscious sweet corn so close at hand, the more hungry did she become.
So finally, quite unable to endure the trying situation longer, Dame Woodchuck herself started forth to investigate the matter. And Ichabod, not wishing to tarry home alone, ran along beside his old mother. They often stopped to rest and chat by the roadside, and all the terrifying stories which they heard of the giant filled them with secret dismay. But Dame Woodchuck was very brave at heart and did not lose her courage easily. So skirting the edge of the corn-field they soon gained a little hillock, where they had a full view of the monster. It was only too true; there he stood, undaunted and firm, waving aloft his fluttering, terrifying warning. Dame Woodchuck and Ichabod sat bolt upright upon their haunches and stared at the creature with bulging eyes.
Just at that very moment a deafening bang sounded, and a great cloud of smoke arose from the vicinity of the giant, and the next moment Peter Rabbit, with a wild cry of warning, dashed past them in mad haste, running for his very life. In an instant Dame Woodchuck and Ichabod had dropped down flat upon their stomachs and there they lay trembling together beneath a great bunch of burdock leaves. Perhaps even now the giant was searching about among the corn for them. They waited until their courage returned and finally crept back home again, quite sadly disappointed, for they had not even been able to taste a kernel of corn.
The situation in the woodchuck home was, after this, rather a desperate one, for food was again becoming scarce. How aggravating, too, when the luscious corn was ripening almost within sight of their door.
Dame Woodchuck’s sides soon became quite flabby, so that her fur coat actually hung in plaits and ridges upon her back, so loose did it become, while her eyes fairly bulged with anxiety and discouragement.
“ ’Tis always darkest before dawn,” as the saying goes, and already brighter days were in store for the Dame and Ichabod.
One dark night, when they were fast asleep in their snug burrow, they were suddenly awakened in the middle of the night by a terrific rumbling and crashing above their heads. This frightful commotion and din went on all night long, and cowardly Ichabod squeaked and shook with fear, and crept close to his mother’s side.
“Lie still, O timorous one,” said his mother, trying to quiet him. “Do not be afraid; ’tis but the great Storm Spirit. He is passing this way.” By morning the commotion had ceased, and then Ichabod and his mother ventured to peer forth from their door. And what a sight was that which greeted their eyes. Great trees of the forest now lay prone upon the ground, which the mighty Storm Spirit in his strength had laid low everywhere in passing, for he had left ruin in his wake.
And then Peter Rabbit scurried past their door, and paused long enough to tell them some great and glorious good news, which was, that the mighty Storm Spirit had actually destroyed their great enemy, the terrible giant of the corn-field. At last the terrible creature had been conquered, and now lay prone and helpless upon the ground, a terror no longer to the little timid wild creatures who wore fur and feathers.
Already the crows were cawing the news triumphantly over his remains and feasting meantime greedily upon the unguarded corn, and then, very soon the Dame and Ichabod had joined them, and were burying their sharp teeth hungrily in the milky sweet kernels of corn. For the reign of the corn giant was now at an end, and soon Dame Woodchuck and her son became very, very plump and sleek, and fine and strong. And when the autumn winds began to blow chill and keen, and Jack Frost came and froze over all the little brooks and waterways, then they withdrew into their snug burrow for the winter, as they always do, and after stuffing up the entrance of their door securely with leaves and earth, that the snow might not drift and filter inside, there they slumbered together, comfortable and warm, until it was time to come out in the spring to see if they could find their shadows; for the woodchucks know best of any of the little forest creatures when spring is actually come.