Old Mother Nature was just about to open school when a slight noise up the Lone Little Path drew all eyes in that direction. There, shuffling down the Lone Little Path, was a queer looking fellow. No one needed more than one look at that funny, sharp, black and white face of his to recognize him.
“Bobby Coon!” shouted Peter Rabbit. “Are you coming to join our school, Bobby?”
Bobby shuffled along a little nearer, then sat up and blinked at them sleepily. No one needed to be told that Bobby had been out all night. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Hello, everybody,” said he. “I wish I felt as bright and lively as all of you look. I'd like to join your school, but I'm afraid if I did I would go to sleep right in the middle of the lesson. I ought to have been home an hour ago. So I guess I'll have to be excused.”
Old Mother Nature pointed an accusing finger at Bobby Coon. “Bobby,” said she, “You've been getting in mischief. Now own up you've been stealing some of that sweet, milky corn from Farmer Brown's cornfield.”
Bobby Coon hung his head. “I—I—I don't think it was stealing,” he mumbled. “That corn just grows, and I don't see why I shouldn't have my share of it. I help myself to other things, so why shouldn't I help myself to that?”
“I'll tell you why,” replied Old Mother Nature. “Farmer Brown planted that corn and took care of it. If he hadn't planted it, there wouldn't have been any corn there. That makes it his corn. If it grew wild, you would have a perfect right to it. As it is, you haven't any right to it at all. Now take my advice, Bobby, and keep away from that cornfield. If you don't, you will get in trouble. One of these fine nights Bowser the Hound will find you there and you will have to run for your life. Keep away from temptation.”
“But that corn is so good,” sighed Bobby Coon, smacking his lips. “There is nothing I like better than sweet, milky corn, and if I don't get it from Farmer Brown's cornfield, I can't get it at all, for it doesn't grow wild. He'll never miss the little I take.”
Old Mother Nature shook her head and looked very grave. “Bobby,” said she, “that is no excuse at all. Mark what I say: If you keep on you certainly will get in trouble. If you would be satisfied to take just an ear or two, I don't believe Farmer Brown would care, but you know very well that you spoil many times what you eat. You sample one ear, then think that probably the next ear will be better and sweeter and you try that. By the time you get through you have spoiled a lot, and eaten only a little. I think I'll punish you a little myself by keeping you here a while. If you think you can't keep awake, just go over and sit down there by Prickly Porky; he'll keep you awake.”
“I—I think I can keep awake,” stammered Bobby and opened his eyes very wide as if he were trying to stretch his eyelids so as to make them stay open.
“I'll help you by asking you a few questions,” replied Old Mother Nature. “Who is it that people sometimes call you the little cousin of?”
Bobby grinned. “Buster Bear,” said he.
“That's right,” replied Old Mother Nature.
“Of course, being a Raccoon, you are not a Bear, but you are related to the Bear family. I want you all to notice Bobby's footprints over yonder. You will see that the print of his hind foot shows the whole foot, heels and toes, and is a lot like Buster Bear's footprint on a small scale. Bobby shuffles along in much the same way that Buster walks. No one ever mistakes Bobby Coon for any one else. There is no danger that any one ever will as long as he carries that big, bushy tail with its broad black and gray rings. There is only one other in all this great country with a tail so marked, and that is a relative of Bobby's of whom I will tell you later. And there is no other face like Bobby's with its black cheeks. You will notice that Bobby is rather small around the shoulders, but is big and heavy around the hips. That gives him a clumsy look, but he is anything but clumsy. Despite the fact that his legs are not very long Bobby is a very good runner. However, he doesn't do any running unless he has to. Bobby, where were you before you went over to Farmer Brown's cornfield?”
Once more Bobby hung his head. It was quite clear that Bobby didn't want to answer that question. But Old Mother Nature insisted, and finally Bobby blurted it out. “I was up to Farmer Brown's hen house,” said he.
“What for?” asked Old Mother Nature.
“Oh, just to look around,” replied Bobby.
“To look around for what?” insisted Old Mother Nature.
“Well,” said Bobby, “I thought one of those Hens up there might have dropped an egg that she didn't really care about.”
“Bobby,” said Old Mother Nature sternly, “why don't you own up that you went over there to try to steal eggs? Or did you think you might catch a tender young Chicken? Where were you night before last?”
“Over at the Laughing Brook and the Smiling Pool,” replied Bobby promptly, evidently glad the subject had been changed.
“Well, you didn't find sweet corn or eggs or Chickens over there, did you?” said Old Mother Nature.
“No, but I caught three of the sweetest tasting little fish in a little pool in the Laughing Brook, and I got some of the tenderest Clams I've ever eaten,” replied Bobby, smacking his lips. “I raked them out of the mud and opened them. Down at the Smiling Pool I had a lot of fun catching young Frogs. I certainly do like Frogs. It is great sport to catch them, and they are fine eating.”
“I suppose you have had an eye on the beech trees and the wild grape-vines,” said Old Mother Nature slyly.
Bobby's face brightened. “Indeed I have,” said he. “There will be splendid crops of beechnuts and grapes this fall. My, but they will taste good!”
Old Mother Nature laughed. “There is small danger that you will go hungry,” said she. “When you can't find enough to eat times must be very hard indeed. For the benefit of the others you might add that in addition to the things mentioned you eat other fruits, including berries, insects of various kinds, birds when you can catch them, Mice, Turtles, in fact almost anything that can be eaten. You are not at all fussy about the kind of food. But you have one habit in regard to your food which it would be well if some of these other little folks followed. Do you know what it is?”
Bobby shook his head. “No,” said he, “not unless you mean the habit I have of washing my food. If there is any water near, I always like to take what I am going to eat over to it and wash it; somehow it tastes better.”
“Just so,” replied Old Mother Nature. “More than once I've seen you in the moonlight beside the Laughing Brook washing your food, and it has always pleased me, for there is nothing like cleanliness and neatness. Did you raise a family this year, Bobby?”
“Mrs. Coon did. We had four of the finest youngsters you have ever seen over in a certain big hollow tree. They are getting big and lively now, and go out with their mother every night. I do hope the hunters will leave them alone this fall. I hate to think of anything happening to them. If they can just get through the hunting season safely, I'll enjoy my winter sleep better, and I know Mrs. Coon will.”
At this Johnny Chuck pricked up his ears. “Do you sleep all winter, Bobby?” he asked eagerly.
“Not all winter, but a good part of it,” replied Bobby. “I don't turn in until the weather gets pretty cold, and it is hard to find anything to eat. But after the first snow I'm usually ready to sleep. Then I curl up in a warm bed of leaves in a certain big hollow tree, and don't care how cold or stormy the weather is. Sometimes I wake up once or twice, when the weather is mild, and take a little walk around for exercise. But I don't go far and soon return to sleep.”
“What do you do when Bowser the Hound gets after you?” asked Peter Rabbit.
“Run till I get out of breath,” replied Bobby. “And if by that time I haven't been able to fool him so that he loses my trail, I take to a tree. Thank goodness, he can't climb a tree. Sometimes I climb from the top of one tree into the top of another, and sometimes into a third and then a fourth, when they are near enough together. That fools the hunters, if they follow Bowser.”
“Have you any relatives, Bobby?” asked Old Mother Nature.
“I didn't know I had until you mentioned that fellow with the ringed tail you said you would tell us about. I didn't know there was anybody with a tail like mine, and I would like to know about it,” replied Bobby.
“He isn't exactly a Raccoon, but he is more nearly related to you than any one else,” replied Old Mother Nature. “His tail shows that. Aside from this, he is nothing like you at all. He is called the Ring-tailed Cat. But he doesn't look any more like a Cat than he does like you, and he isn't related to the Cat family at all. He has several names. He is called the Bassaris, the Civet Cat, Ring-tailed Cat, Coon Cat and Cacomixtle. Instead of being thick and clumsy-looking, as is Bobby here, he is long and rather slender, with a yellowish-brown coat, somewhat grayish on the back and whitish underneath. His head is rather small, long and beautifully shaped. His ears are of good size and very pretty. In some ways he looks like Reddy Fox. But the really beautiful thing about him is his tail. It is nearly as long as his body, thick and beautifully marked with black and white bands.
“He is quick and graceful in his movements, and, like Bobby, prefers to be abroad at night. Also, like Bobby, he eats about everything that he can find—flesh, reptiles, fruit, nuts and insects. He lives in the Far Southwest, and also in some of the mountains of the Far West. Why he should be called Civet Cat is more than I can guess, for he is neither a Civet nor a Cat. He is very clever at catching Mice, and sometimes he is kept as a pet, just as Farmer Brown keeps Black Pussy, to catch the Mice about the homes of men.
“Now, Bobby, you can trot along home, and I hope all that green corn you have eaten will not give you the stomach ache. To-morrow we will see what we can find out about Buster Bear.”
“Has Buster Bear a tail?” asked Old Mother Nature, and her eyes twinkled.
“No,” declared Whitefoot the Wood Mouse promptly.
“Yes,” contradicted Chatterer the Red Squirrel.
“What do you say, Prickly Porky?” Old Mother Nature asked.
“I don't think he has any; if he has, I've never seen it,” said Prickly Porky.
“That's because you've got poor eyes,” spoke up Jumper the Hare. “He certainly has a tail. It isn't much of a one, but it is a tail. I know because I've seen it many times.”
“Woof, woof,” said a deep, rumbly, grumbly voice. “What's going on here? Who is it hasn't any tail?”
At the sound of that deep, rumbly, grumbly voice it looked for a few minutes as if school would be broken up for that day. There was the same mad scrambling to get away that there had been the morning Reddy Fox unexpectedly appeared. However, there was this difference: When Reddy appeared, most of the little people sought safe hiding places, but now they merely ran to safe distances, and there turned to stare with awe and great respect at the owner of that deep, rumbly, grumbly voice. It was great, big Buster Bear himself.
Buster stood up on his hind legs, like a man, and his small eyes, for they are small for his size, twinkled with fun as he looked around that awe filled circle. “Don't let me interrupt,” said he. “I heard about this school and I thought I would just pay a friendly visit. There is nothing for you to fear. I have just had my breakfast and I couldn't eat another mouthful to save me, not even such a tender morsel as Whitefoot the Wood Mouse.”
Whitefoot hurriedly ran a little farther away, and Buster Bear chuckled. Then he looked over at Old Mother Nature. “Won't you tell them that I'm the best-natured and most harmless fellow in all the Great World?” he asked.
Old Mother Nature smiled. “That depends on the condition of your stomach,” said she. “If it is as full as you say it is, and I know you wouldn't tell me an untruth, not even timid Whitefoot has anything to fear from you.” Then she told all the little people to put aside their fears and return.
Buster, seeing that some of the more timid were still fearful, backed off a short distance and sat down on his haunches. “What was that about a tail I overheard as I came up?” he asked.
“It was a little discussion as to whether or not you have a tail,” replied Old Mother Nature. “Some say you have, and some say you haven't. Whitefoot thinks you haven't.”
Once more Buster Bear chuckled way down deep in his throat. “Whitefoot never in his life looked at me long enough to know whether I've got a tail or not,” said he. “I never yet have seen him until now, when he wasn't running away as fast as his legs could take him. So with me always behind him, how could he tell whether or not I have a tail?”
“Well, have you?” demanded Peter Rabbit bluntly.
“What do you think?” asked Buster.
“I think you have,” said Peter. “But if you have you are sitting down on it and I can't tell. It can't be much of a one, anyhow.”
Again Buster chuckled. “Quite right, Peter; quite right,” said he. “I've got a tail, but hardly enough of a one to really call it a tail.”
As Buster sat there, every one had a splendid chance to see just how he looked. His coat was all black; in fact he was black all over, with the exception of his nose, which was brown. His fur was long and rather shaggy. His ears were round. His paws were big and armed with strong, wicked looking claws.
“You all see what a black coat Buster has,” said Old Mother Nature. “Now I'm going to tell you something which may surprise you. Just as there are Red Foxes that are black, so there are Black Bears that are brown.”
“What's that?” grunted Buster, with the funniest look of surprise on his face.
“It's a fact, Buster,” said Old Mother Nature. “A great many of your family live out in the mountains of the Far West, and there quite often there will be one who is all brown. People used to think that these brown Bears were a different kind of Bear, and called them Cinnamon Bears. It was a long, long time before it was found out that those brown Bears are really black Bears. Sometimes one of the twin babies will be all black and the other all brown. Sometimes one of Buster's family will have a white spot on his breast. Buster's branch of the family is found in nearly all of the wooded parts of the entire country. In the Sunny South they live in the swamps and do not grow as big as in the North. Buster, there is a soft spot on the ground; I want you to walk across it so that these little folks can see your footprints.”
Good-naturedly Buster dropped on all fours and walked across the soft spot. Right away every one understood why Old Mother Nature had asked Buster to do this. The prints of his hind feet were very like the prints of Farmer Brown's boy when barefooted, only of course very much larger. You see, they showed the print of the heel as well as the rest of the foot.
“You see,” said Old Mother Nature, “Buster puts his whole foot on the ground, while all members of the Dog and Cat families walk wholly on their toes. Animals that put the whole foot down are called plantigrade. How big do you think Buster was when he was born?”
“Of course I'm only guessing,” said Chatterer the Red Squirrel, “but he is such a big fellow that I think he must have been a bouncing big baby.”
Old Mother Nature smiled. “I don't wonder you think so,” said she. “The fact is, however, Buster was a very tiny and very helpless little chap. He was just about the size of one of Prickly Porky's babies. He was no bigger than a Rat. He was born in the middle of winter and didn't get his eyes open for forty days. It was two months before he poked his head outside the den in which he was born, to find out what the Great World was like. At that time he wasn't much bigger than Peter Rabbit, and he and his twin sister were as lively a pair of youngsters and as full of mischief as any Bears the Green Forest has ever seen. You might tell us, Buster, what you live on.”
Buster's eyes snapped. “I live on anything I can eat, and I can eat most everything. I suppose a lot of people think I live almost wholly on the little people who are my neighbors, but that is a mistake. I do catch Mice when I am lucky enough to find them where I can dig them out, and they certainly are good eating.”
At this Whitefoot the Wood Mouse and Danny Meadow Mouse hastily scurried farther away, and Buster's eyes twinkled with mischief. “Of course I don't mind a Rabbit either, if I am lucky enough to catch one,” said he, and Peter Rabbit quickly backed off a few steps. “In fact I like meat of any kind,” continued Buster. “But the greater part of my food isn't meat at all. In the spring I dig up roots of different kinds, and eat tender grass shoots and some bark and twigs from young trees. When the insects appear they help out wonderfully. I am very fond of Ants. I pull over all the old logs and tear to pieces all the old stumps I can find, and lick up the Ants and their eggs that I am almost sure to find there. Almost any kind of insect tastes good to me if there are enough of them. I love to find and dig open the nests of Wasps that make their homes in the ground, and of course I suppose you all know that there is nothing in the world I like better than honey. If I can find a Bee nest I am utterly happy. For the sake of the honey, I am perfectly willing to stand all the stinging the Bees can give me. I like fish and I love to hunt Frogs. When the berry season begins, I just feast. In the fall I get fat on beechnuts and acorns. The fact is, there isn't much I don't like.”
“I've been told you sleep all winter,” said Johnny Chuck.
“That depends on the winter,” replied Buster Bear. “I don't go to sleep until I have to. I don't have to as long as I can find enough to eat. If the winter begins early, with bad weather, I make a comfortable bed of leaves in a cave or under a big pile of fallen trees or even in a hollow log, if I can find one big enough. Then I go to sleep for the rest of the winter. But if the winter is mild and open and there is a chance of finding anything to eat, I sleep only in the really bad weather.”
“Do you try to get fat before going to sleep, the way I do?” asked Johnny Chuck.
Buster grinned. “Yes, Johnny, I try,” said he, “and usually I succeed. You see, I need to be fat in order to keep warm and also to have something to live on in the spring, just the same as you do.
“I've been told that you can climb, but as I don't live in the Green Forest I have never seen you climb. I should think it would be slow work for such a big fellow as you to climb a tree,” said Johnny Chuck.
Buster looked up at Happy Jack Squirrel and winked. Then he walked over to the tree in which Happy Jack was sitting, stood up and suddenly began to scramble up the tree. There was nothing slow about the way Buster Bear went up that tree. Happy Jack squealed with sudden fright and started for the top of that tree as only Happy Jack can climb. Then he made a flying jump to the next tree. Halfway up Buster stopped. Then he began to come down. He came down tail first. When he was within ten feet of the ground he simply let go and dropped.
“I did that just to show you how I get out of a tree when I am really in a hurry,” explained Buster. “I don't climb trees much now unless it is for honey, but when I was a little fellow I used to love to climb trees.”
Suddenly Buster sat up very straight and pointed his nose up in the wind. An anxious look crept into his face. He cocked his ears as if listening with all his might. That is just what he was doing. Presently he dropped down to all fours. “Excuse me,” said he, “I think I had better be going. Farmer Brown is coming down the Lone Little Path.”
Buster turned and disappeared at a speed that was simply astonishing in such a clumsy-looking fellow. Old Mother Nature laughed. “Buster's eyes are not very good,” said she, “but there is nothing the matter with his nose or with his ears. If Buster says that Farmer Brown is coming down the Lone Little Path, there is no doubt that he is, although he may be some distance away yet. Buster has been smart enough to learn that he has every reason to fear man, and he promptly takes himself out of the way at the first hint that man is near. It is a funny thing, but most men are as afraid of Buster as Buster is of them, and they haven't the least need of being afraid at all. Where man is concerned there isn't one of you little people more timid than Buster Bear. The faintest smell of man will make him run. If he should be wounded or cornered, he would fight. Mrs. Bear would fight to protect her babies, but these are the only conditions under which a Black Bear will face a man. You think Buster is big, and he is, but Buster has relatives very much bigger than he. He has one beside whom he would look actually small. I'll tell you a little about these cousins of Buster.”
Buster Bear had been right about the coming of Farmer Brown. It was only a few minutes after Buster's disappearance that Farmer Brown's footsteps were heard coming down the Lone Little Path, and of course that ended school for that morning. But the next morning all were on hand again at sun-up, for every one wanted to hear about Buster Bear's big cousins.
“Way out in the mountains of the Far West, where Whistler the Marmot and Little Chief the Pika live, is a big cousin of Buster Bear,” began Old Mother Nature. “He is Silvertip the Grizzly Bear, and in the past no animal in all this great country was so feared by man, as he. But times have changed, and Silvertip has been so hunted with terrible guns that he has learned to fear man quite as much as Buster does.
“He is larger than Buster and possessed of tremendous strength. Instead of a black coat, he has a coat which varies from yellowish-brown to almost black. The tips of the hairs usually are lighter, giving him a frosted appearance, and this is what has given him his name. His claws are longer and more curved than those of Buster; in fact those claws are so big that they look very terrible. Because they are so long, Silvertip cannot climb trees. But if they prevent him climbing trees they are the finest kind of tools for digging out Marmots and ground Squirrels. Even when Whistler the Marmot makes his home down in among the rocks, he is not safe. Silvertip's strength is so great that he can pull over and roll aside great rocks.
“He is a great traveler and covers a wide range of country in his search for food. Sometimes he visits the Cattle ranges and kills Cattle. So great is his strength that he can kill a Cow with ease. Clumsy looking as he is, he is a very fast runner, and only a fast Horse can outrun him. Like Buster, he lives on anything he can find that is eatable. He has been so hunted by man that he has become very cunning, and in all the great mountains where he lives there is no one with quicker wits. At certain seasons of the year great numbers of a fish called Salmon come up the rivers in that country, and then Silvertip lives high. He watches beside a pool until a Salmon swims within reach; then, with a swift movement of one paw, he scoops the fish on to the bank. Or he finds a place where the water is so shallow that the fish have difficulty in getting across, and there he seizes them as they struggle up the river. In winter he sleeps just as Buster does, usually in a well-hidden cave.
“Mrs. Silvertip is a splendid mother. Usually the cubs, of which as a rule there are two, remain with her until they are a year old. Both Buster Bear and Silvertip have a queer habit of standing up against a tree and biting it as high up as they can reach. The next Bear who comes along that way sees the mark and makes his own on the same tree. Silvertip knows every inch of that part of the country in which he lives and always picks out the best way of getting from one place to another. He is one of the finest animals in this country, and it is a matter for sadness that his splendid race will soon come to an end unless man makes laws to protect him from the hunters. In very many places where he used to be found he lives no longer.
“Silvertip is not so good-natured as Buster, but all he asks is to be left alone. Of course when he turns Cattle killer he is getting into the worst possible kind of mischief and man cannot be blamed for hunting him. But it is only now and then that one of Silvertip's family turns Cattle killer. The others do no harm.
“I told you yesterday that Buster Bear has one cousin beside whom he would look small. This is Bigfoot the Alaska or Great Brown Bear, who lives in the extreme northwest part of the continent. Even Silvertip would look small beside him. He is a giant, the largest flesh-eating animal in all the great world. His coat is dark brown. When he stands up on his hind legs, he is almost half again as tall as a tall man. He stands very high at the shoulders and his head is very large. Like the other members of the Bear family, he eats all sorts of things. He hunts for Mice and other small animals, digs up roots, stuffs himself with berries, and at times grazes on a kind of wild grass, just as Cattle might do. He is a great fish eater, for fish are very plentiful in the streams in the country where he lives. Big as he is, he has learned to fear man just as Silvertip has. Occasionally when surprised he has been known to attack man and kill him, but as a rule he will run at the first hint of man's approach.
“The last of the Bear cousins is Snow King the Polar Bear. Snow King is king of the Frozen North. He lives in the region of snow and ice, and his coat is all white. He also is a big Bear, and of somewhat different shape from his cousins. He is longer, and has a much longer neck and a long head. His ears are rather small and close to his head. Snow King lives the year round where it would seem that no animal could live, and he manages to live well. Though his home is in the coldest part of the Great World, he does not mind the cold at all.
“More than any other member of the Bear family, Snow King is a flesh eater. This is because only in certain places, and then only for a few weeks in midsummer, is there any plant life. He is a great fisherman, and fish furnish him a great deal of his food. In that far northern country are great numbers of animals who live in the ocean, but come ashore to rest and bask in the sun, and to have their babies there. They are Seals, Sea Lions and Walruses. I will tell you about them later. On these Snow King depends for much of his food. He is himself a wonderful swimmer, and often swims far out in the icy water.
“Up there there are great fields of floating ice, and Snow King swims from one to another in search of Seals, for they often climb out on these ice fields, just as they do on shore. Sometimes Mrs. Bear takes her cubs for long swims. When they become tired, one will climb on her back, and the other will seize her tail, so she will carry one and tow the other.
“Snow King's babies are born in a house of snow. Early in the winter Mrs. Bear finds a sheltered place where the snow will drift over her. There she goes to sleep, and the snow drifts and drifts over her until she is buried deep. You might think she would be cold, but she isn't, for the snow keeps her warm. Her breath melts a little hole up through the snow, so that she always has air. There the babies are born, and there they remain, just as Buster Bear's remain in their home, until they are big enough to follow their mother about. Then she breaks her way out in the spring, and leads her cubs forth to teach them how to take care of themselves. Snow King, himself, does not sleep through the winter, but roams about, just as in the summer.
“Snow King is fearless and has not yet learned to dread man, as have his cousins. He will not hesitate to attack man and is terrible to meet at close quarters. Because he lives in that far, cold country, he is not hunted as much as other bears are. Besides the Seals and fish, he sometimes catches an Arctic Hare. In the summer great numbers of Ducks and other sea birds nest in that far northern country, and their eggs and young add to Snow King's bill of fare. His white coat is so in keeping with his surroundings that it is of the greatest aid to him in his hunting. It is a very beautiful coat and makes him the most beautiful of all the Bear family.
“Now this is all about the Bears, and also it is all about the order of flesh eaters, or Carnivora. I think that next we will see what we can find out about a certain little friend of yours, who, though he eats flesh, is not a member of the flesh-eating order at all, but belongs to an order of which he is the only member in this country. I will leave you to guess who it is.”
All the way home from school Peter Rabbit did his best to think who it could be who ate flesh, yet wasn't a member of the order of flesh eaters. Every few hops he would stop to think, but all his stopping and all his thinking were in vain, and when he started for school the next morning he was as puzzled as ever. On his way through the Green Forest he passed a certain tree. He was just past and no more when a familiar voice hailed him.
“Morning, Bre'r Rabbit,” said the voice. “What's yo' hurry?” Peter stopped abruptly and looked up in that tree. There, peering down at him from a hole high up in the trunk, was a sharp, whitish-gray face, with a pair of twinkling black eyes.
“Hello, Unc' Billy,” cried Peter. “How are you and Ol' Mrs. Possum?”
“Po'ly, Peter, Po'ly. We-uns haven't had breakfast yet, so we-uns are feeling po'ly,” replied Unc' Billy with a grin.
A sudden thought popped into Peter's head. “Unc' Billy,” cried Peter excitedly, “are you a Carnivora?”
Unc' poked his head a little farther out and put his hand behind his ear as if he were a little hard of hearing. “What's that, Bre'r Rabbit? Am I a what?” he demanded.
“Are you a Carnivora?” repeated Peter.
“Ah reckons Ah might be if Ah knew what it was, but as long as Ah don't, Ah reckons I ain't,” retorted Unc' Billy. “Ah reckons Ah'm just plain Possum. When Ah wants to be real uppity, Ah puts on an 'o.' Then Ah am Mister Opossum.”
But Peter wasn't listening. The fact is, Peter had started lipperty-lipperty-lip for school, without even being polite enough to say good-by. He arrived at school quite out of breath. “I know!” he panted. “I know!”
“What do you know?” asked Old Mother Nature.
“I know who it is who eats flesh, yet doesn't belong to the order of flesh eaters. It's Unc' Billy Possum!” cried Peter.
“Right you are,” replied Old Mother Nature. “However did you find it out?”
“I didn't exactly find it out; I guessed it,” replied Peter. “On my way here I saw Unc' Billy, and it popped into my head right away that he was one we haven't heard about, and must be the one. But if he eats flesh, I don't see why he isn't a member of the order of flesh eaters.”
“It is because he belongs to a group which has something which makes them entirely different from all other animals, and for this reason they have been given an order of their own,” explained Old Mother Nature. “They belong to the order of Marsupials, which means pouched animals. It is because the mothers have big pockets in which they carry their babies. Old Mrs. Possum has just such a pocket.”
“Of course,” exclaimed Peter. “I've seen those babies poking their heads out of that pocket. They look too funny for anything.”
“The Opossums are the only Marsupials in this country,” continued Old Mother Nature. “Now have I made it quite clear why, although they eat flesh, Unc' Billy and Ol' Mrs. Possum are not members of the same big order as Buster Bear and the other flesh eaters?”
Everybody nodded. Just then Chatterer the Red Squirrel shouted, “Here comes Unc' Billy, Ol' Mrs. Possum and all the little Possums.”
Sure enough, down the Lone Little Path came the Possum family, and a funny looking sight they were. Unc' Billy was whitish-gray, his face whiter than the rest of him. He looked as if he had just gotten out of bed and forgotten to brush his hair; it pointed every which way. His legs were dark, his feet black and his toes white. His ears were without any hair at all, and were black for the lower half, the rest being white. He had a long whitish tail without any hair on it. Altogether, with his sharp face and naked tail, he looked a great deal as though he might be a giant Rat.
But if Unc' Billy was a funny-looking fellow, Ol' Mrs. Possum was even more funny-looking. She seemed to have heads and tails all over her. You see, she had brought along her family, and Ol' Mrs. Possum is one of those who believe in large families. There were twelve youngsters, and they were exactly like their parents, only small. They were clinging all over Ol' Mrs. Possum. Some were on her back, some were clinging to her sides, and a couple were in the big pocket, where they had spent their babyhood.
“We—all done thought we'd come to school,” explained Unc' Billy with a grin.
“I'm glad you did,” replied Old Mother Nature. “You see, the rest of your friends here are a little curious about the Possum family.”
Meanwhile Ol' Mrs. Possum was climbing a tree, and when she had reached a comfortable crotch the little Possums left her and began to play about in the tree. It was then that it appeared what handy things those naked little tails were. When the little Possums crawled out where the branches were small, they simply wrapped their tails around the twigs to keep from falling.
“My!” exclaimed Peter. “Those certainly are handy tails.”
“Handiest tails ever was,” declared Unc' Billy. “Don't know what Ah ever would do without mah tail.”
“Suppose you climb a tree, Unc' Billy, and show your friends here how you manage to get the eggs from a nest that you cannot reach by crawling along the branch on which it is placed,” said Old Mother Nature.
Unc' Billy grinned, and good-naturedly started up a tree. He crept out on a branch that overhung another branch. Way out where the branch was small crept Unc' Billy. Then he wrapped the end of his tail around the branch and swung himself off, keeping hold of the branch only with his tail and one hind foot. Then, stretching down full length, he could just reach the branch below him. “You see,” he explained, “if there was a nest on this branch down here, Ah could get those eggs without any trouble. Ah wish there was a nest. Just speaking of eggs makes mah mouth water.” Again Unc' Billy grinned and then pulled himself back to the other branch.
Old Mother Nature shook her head reprovingly. “Unc' Billy,” said she, “you are a bad old rascal to steal eggs. What's more, it doesn't matter to you much whether you find eggs or young birds in a nest. It is a wonder that between you and Chatterer the Red Squirrel any of the birds succeed in raising families around here. Have you visited Farmer Brown's hen house lately?”
Unc' Billy shook his head. “Not lately,” said he; “Ah done got a dreadful scare the last time Ah was up there, and Ah reckons Ah'll stay away from there for a while.”
“What else do you eat?” asked Old Mother Nature.
“Anything,” replied Unc' Billy. “Ah reckons Ah ain't no ways particular—insects, roots, Frogs, Toads, small Snakes, Lizards, berries, fruits, nuts, young Rats and Mice, corn, any old meat that has been left lying around. Ah reckon Ah could find a meal most any time most anywhere.”
“Do you always have as big a family as you have there?” asked Peter Rabbit.
“Not always,” replied Unc' Billy. “But sometimes Mrs. Possum has to tote around a still bigger family. We believe in chillun and lots of them. We reckon on havin' two or three big families every year.”
“Where is your home?” asked Johnny Chuck. “I know,” said Peter Rabbit. “It's up in a big hollow tree.”
Unc' Billy looked down at Peter. “'Tisn't at all necessary to tell anybody where that hollow tree is, Bre'r Rabbit,” said he.
“Are Possums found anywhere except around here?” inquired Happy Jack.
“Yes, indeed,” replied Old Mother Nature. “They are found all down through the Sunny South, and in the warmer parts of the Middle West. Unc' Billy and his relatives are not fond of cold weather. They prefer to be where they can be reasonably warm all the year round.
“Some folks think Unc' Billy isn't smart, but those folks don't know Unc' Billy. He learned a long time ago that he can't run as fast as some others, so he has learned to depend on his wits in time of danger. What do you think he does?”
“I know,” cried Peter; “I saw him do it once. Farmer Brown's boy surprised Unc' Billy, and Unc' Billy just fell right over dead.”
“Pooh! That's a story, Peter Rabbit. How could Unc' Billy have fallen over dead and be alive up in that tree this very minute?” cried Happy Jack.
“I didn't mean he was really dead, but that he looked as if he were dead,” explained Peter. “And he did, too. He was the deadest looking thing I ever saw. I thought he was dead myself. I was watching from a bramble tangle where I was hiding, and I certainly thought the life had been scared right out of Unc' Billy. I guess Farmer Brown's boy thought so too. He picked Unc' Billy up by the tail, and looked him all over, and said, 'You poor little thing. I didn't mean to hurt you.' Unc' Billy didn't so much as wink an eye. Farmer Brown's boy went off up the path carrying Unc' Billy by the tail. By and by he laid Unc' Billy down on an old stump while he went to look at a nest of Blacky the Crow. When he came back Unc' Billy wasn't there. I never did see Unc' Billy hurry as he did the minute Farmer Brown's boy's back was turned. He came to life as suddenly as he had dropped dead.”
“Very good, Peter,” said Old Mother Nature. “Some other smart little people try that trick sometimes, but none of them can do it as well as Unc' Billy Possum. Pretending to be dead in order to remain alive is the cleverest thing Unc' Billy does. Now how about Lightfoot the Deer for the next lesson?”
“Splendid,” cried all together and prepared to start for their homes.
Of all the people who live in the Green Forest none is more admired than Lightfoot the Deer. So perhaps you can guess how delighted every one was when, just as the morning lesson was to begin, Lightfoot himself stepped daintily out from a thicket and bowed to Old Mother Nature.
“I heard,” said he, “that my little friends here are to learn something about my family this morning, and thought you would not mind if I joined them.”
“I should say not!” exclaimed Peter Rabbit forgetting that Lightfoot had spoken to Old Mother Nature.
All laughed, even Old Mother Nature. You see, Peter was so very much in earnest, and at the same time so excited, that it really was funny.
“Peter has spoken for all of us,” said Old Mother Nature. “You are more than welcome, Lightfoot. I had intended to send for you, but it slipped my mind. I am delighted to have you here and I know that the others are. I suspect you will be most comfortable if you lie down, but before you do this I want everybody to have a good look at you. Just stand for a few minutes in that little open space where all can see you.”
Lightfoot walked over to the open space where the sun fell full on him and there he stood, a picture of grace and beauty with just enough honest pride in his appearance to give him an air of noble dignity. There was more than one little gasp of admiration among his little neighbors.
“There,” began Old Mother Nature, “is one of the most beautiful of all my children, and the knowledge that he is beautiful does not spoil him. Lightfoot belongs to the Deer family, as you all know, and this in turn is in the order called Ungulata, which means hoofed.”
Peter Rabbit abruptly sat up, and his ears stood up like exclamation points. “Farmer Brown's cows have those funny feet called hoofs; are they related to Lightfoot?” he asked eagerly.
“They belong to another family, but it is in the same order. So they are distant cousins of Lightfoot,” replied Old Mother Nature.
“And Farmer Brown's Pigs, what about them?” asked Chatterer the Red Squirrel. “They also belong to that order and so are related,” explained Old Mother Nature.
“Huh!” exclaimed Chatterer. “If I were in Lightfoot's place I never, never would acknowledge any such homely, stupid creatures as those as relatives of mine.”
“Don't forget that Prickly Porky the Porcupine and Robber the Rat are members of the same order to which you belong,” retorted Old Mother Nature softly, and Chatterer hung his head. “Lightfoot,” she continued, “is the White-tailed or Virginia Deer, and is in some ways the most beautiful of the Deer family. You have only to look at him to know that those slim legs of his are meant for speed. He can go very fast, but not for long distances without stopping. Like Peter Rabbit he is a jumper rather than a true runner, and travels with low bounds with occasional high ones when alarmed. He can make very long and high jumps, and this is one reason he prefers to live in the Green Forest where there are fallen trees and tangles of old logs. If frightened he can leap over them, whereas his enemies must crawl under or climb over or go around them. Ordinary fences, such as Farmer Brown has built around his fields, do not bother Lightfoot in the least. He can leap over them as easily as Peter Rabbit can jump over that little log he is sitting beside.
“Just now, because it is summer, Lightfoot's coat is decidedly reddish in color and very handsome. But in winter it is wholly different.”
“I know,” spoke up Chatterer the Red Squirrel. “It is gray then. I've often seen Lightfoot in winter, and there isn't a red hair on him at that season.
“Quite right,” agreed Old Mother Nature. “His red coat is for summer only. Notice that Lightfoot has a black nose. That is, the tip of it is black. Beneath his chin is a black spot. A band across his nose, the inside of each ear and a circle around each eye is whitish. His throat is white and he is white beneath. Now, Peter, you are so interested in tails, tell me without looking what color Lightfoot's tail is.”
“White, snowy white,” replied Peter promptly. “I suppose that is why he is called the White-tailed Deer.”
“Huh!” grunted Johnny Chuck who happened to be sitting a little back of Lightfoot, “I don't call it white. It has a white edge, but mostly it is the color of his coat.”
Now while Lightfoot had been standing there his tail had hung down, and it was as Johnny Chuck had said. But at Johnny's remark up flew Lightfoot's tail, showing only the under side. It was like a pointed white flag. With it held aloft that way, no one behind Lightfoot would suspect that his whole tail was not white.
“Notice how long and fluffy the hair on that tail is,” said Old Mother Nature. “Mrs. Lightfoot's is just like it, and this makes it very easy for her babies to follow her in the dark. When Lightfoot is feeding or simply walking about he carries it down, but when he is frightened and bounds away, up goes that white flag. Now look at his horns. They are not true horns. The latter are hollow, while these are not. Farmer Brown's cows have horns. Lightfoot has antlers. Just remember that. The so-called horns of all the Deer family are antlers and are not hollow. Notice how Lightfoot's curve forward with the branches or tines on the back side.”
Of course everybody looked at Lightfoot's crown as he held his head proudly. “What is the matter with them?” asked Whitefoot the Wood Mouse. “They look to me as if they are covered with fur. I always supposed them to be hard like bone.”
“So they will be a month from now,” explained Old Mother Nature, smiling down at Whitefoot. “That which you call fur will come off. He will rub it off against the trees until his antlers are polished, and there is not a trace of it left. You see Lightfoot has just grown that set this summer.”
“Do you mean those antlers?” asked Danny Meadow Mouse, looking very much puzzled. “Didn't he have any before? How could things like those grow, anyway?”
“Don't you know that he loses his horns, I mean antlers, every year?” demanded Jumper the Hare. “I thought every one knew that. His old ones fell off late last winter. I know, for I saw him just afterward, and he looked sort of ashamed. Anyway, he didn't carry his head as proudly as he does now. He looked a lot like Mrs. Lightfoot; you know she hasn't any antlers.”
“But how could hard, bony things like those grow?” persisted Danny Meadow Mouse.
“I think I will have to explain,” said Old Mother Nature. “They were not hard and bony when they were growing. Just as soon as Lightfoot's old antlers dropped off, the new ones started. They sprouted out of his head just as plants sprout out of the ground, and they were soft and very tender and filled with blood, just as all parts of your body are. At first they were just two round knobs. Then these pushed out and grew and grew. Little knobs sprang out from them and grew to make the branches you see now. All the time they were protected by a furry skin which looks a great deal like what men call velvet. When Lightfoot's antlers are covered with this, they are said to be in the velvet state.
“When they had reached their full size they began to shrink and harden, so that now they are quite hard, and very soon that velvet will begin to come off. When they were growing they were so tender that Lightfoot didn't move about any more than was necessary and kept quite by himself. He was afraid of injuring those antlers. By the time cool weather comes, Lightfoot will be quite ready to use those sharp points on anybody who gets in his way.
“As Jumper has said, Mrs. Lightfoot has no antlers. Otherwise she looks much like Lightfoot, save that she is not quite as big. Have any of you ever seen her babies?”
“I have,” declared Jumper, who, as you know, lives in the Green Forest just as Lightfoot does. “They are the dearest little things and look like their mother, only they have the loveliest spotted coats.”
“That is to help them to remain unseen by their enemies,” explained Old Mother Nature. When they lie down where the sun breaks through the trees and spots the ground with light they seem so much like their surroundings that unless they move they are not often seen even by the sharpest eyes that may pass close by. They lie with their little necks and heads stretched flat on the ground and do not move so much as a hair. You see, they usually are very obedient, and the first thing their mother teaches them is to keep perfectly still when she leaves them.
“When they are a few months old and able to care for themselves a little, the spots disappear. As a rule Mrs. Lightfoot has two babies each spring. Once in a while she has three, but two is the rule. She is a good mother and always on the watch for possible danger. While they are very small she keeps them hidden in the deepest thickets. By the way, do you know that Lightfoot and Mrs. Lightfoot are fine swimmers?”
Happy Jack Squirrel looked the surprise he felt. “I don't see how under the sun any one with little hoofed feet like Lightfoot's can swim,” said he.
“Nevertheless, Lightfoot is a good swimmer and fond of the water,” replied Old Mother Nature. “That is one way he has of escaping his enemies. When he is hard pressed by Wolves or Dogs he makes for the nearest water and plunges in. He does not hesitate to swim across a river or even a small lake.
“Lightfoot prefers the Green Forest where there are close thickets with here and there open places. He likes the edge of the Green Forest where he can come out in the open fields, yet be within a short distance of the protecting trees and bushes. He requires much water and so is usually found not far from a brook, pond or river. He has a favorite drinking place and goes to drink early in the morning and just at dusk. During the day he usually sleeps hidden away in a thicket or under a windfall, coming out late in the afternoon. He feeds mostly in the early evening. He eats grass and other plants, beechnuts and acorns, leaves and twigs of certain trees, lily pads in summer and, I am sorry to say, delights to get into Farmer Brown's garden, where almost every green thing tempts him.
“Like so many others he has a hard time in winter, particularly when the snows are deep. Then he and Mrs. Lightfoot and their children live in what is called a yard. Of course it isn't really a yard such as Farmer Brown has. It is simply a place where they keep the snow trodden down in paths which cross and cross, and is made where there is shelter and food. The food is chiefly twigs and leaves of evergreen trees. As the snow gets deeper and deeper they become prisoners in the yard until spring comes to melt the snow and set them free.
“Lightfoot depends for safety more on his nose and ears than on his eyes. His sense of smell is wonderful, and when he is moving about he usually goes up wind; that is, in the direction from which the wind is blowing. This is so that it will bring to him the scent of any enemy that may be ahead of him. He is very clever and cunning. Often before lying down to rest he goes back a short distance to a point where he can watch his trail, so that if any one is following it he will have warning.
“His greatest enemy is the hunter with his terrible gun. How any one can look into those great soft eyes of Lightfoot and then even think of trying to kill him is more than I can understand. Dogs are his next worst enemies when he lives near the homes of men. When he lives where Wolves, Panthers and Bears are found, he has to be always on the watch for them. Tufty the Lynx is ever on the watch for Lightfoot's babies.
“The White-tailed Deer is the most widely distributed of all the Deer family. He is found from the Sunny South to the great forests of the North—everywhere but in the vast open plains of the middle of this great country. That is, he used to be. In many places he has been so hunted by man that he has disappeared. When he lives in the Sunny South he never grows to be as big as when he lives in the North.
“In the great mountains of the Far West lives a cousin, Blacktail, also called Columbian Blacktailed Deer, and another cousin, Forkhorn the Mule Deer. Blacktail is nearly the size of Lightfoot. He is not quite so graceful, his ears are larger, being much like those of Forkhorn the Mule Deer, to whom he is closely related, and his tail is wholly black on the upper surface. It is from this he gets his name. His antlers vary, sometimes being much like those of Lightfoot and again like those of Forkhorn. He is a lover of dense forests and is not widely distributed. He is not nearly so smart as Lightfoot in outwitting hunters.
“Forkhorn the Mule Deer, sometimes called Jumping Deer, is larger than Lightfoot and much more heavily built. His big ears, much like those of a Mule, have won for him the name of Mule Deer. His face is a dull white with a black patch on the forehead and a black band under the chin. His tail is rather short and is not broad at the base like Lightfoot's. It is white with a black tip. Because of this he is often called Blacktailed Deer, but this is wrong because that name belongs to his cousin, the true Blacktail.
“Forkhorn's antlers are his glory. They are even finer than Lightfoot's. The prongs, or tines, are in pairs like the letter Y instead of in a row as are those of Lightfoot, and usually there are two pairs on each antler. Forkhorn prefers rough country and there he is very much at home, his powers of jumping enabling him to travel with ease where his enemies find it difficult to follow. Like Blacktail he is not nearly so clever as Lightfoot the White-tail and so is more easily killed by hunters.
“All these members of the Deer family belong to the round-horn branch, and are very much smaller than the members of the flat-horn branch. But there is one who in size makes all the others look small indeed. It is Bugler the Elk, or Wapiti, of whom I shall tell you to-morrow.”