Chapter IV: Part 4

So it was very late, and the woods was still as death, when _patter, patter_, through the underbrush came Mr. Fox to call on Mrs. Owl. Arriving at the bridge across the river, he jumped nimbly to the hand-rail and trotted on that narrow board as easily as a cat walks over the fence. For he was sure some dog would pass that way, come morning, but no dog would ever scent the wise fox who walks the rail.

"Always sniffing at the ground, these foolish dogs," thought Mr. Fox; and he laughed to himself as he jumped down into the bushes and ran on to the hill and the great cottonwood tree, whither Mrs. Owl herself had just returned.

With a big stick he hit the tree a hard blow. Then he barked politely and sat down to wait.

Way up in the top of the dead tree the window was open. Two great eyes looked out.

"Who's there? Who's there?" came in the most dreadful tones.

"Only your friend, a brother thief," laughed Mr. Fox; for in the company of Mrs. Owl he could afford this slanderous admission.

"Ha, ha!" screamed Mrs. Owl, who didn't mind being called a thief at all. In fact, she laughed so hard and long that every living being asleep in those woods awoke and shivered with a sudden terror. For it was the laughter of Mrs. Owl, you know, that made the blacksnake's blood run cold, and never has he been able to warm it up again, even by lying all day in the sun.

She scratched her ear and leaned a little farther out. After controlling her mirth, she grew very solemn and whispered down to Mr. Fox that she had discovered but an hour ago a certain roost with the most enticing hole in the roof.

"Easy and safe, you know," she giggled. "Two broilers and a fowl I've had this very night." Then she laughed again, "Ha, ha! Hoo, hoo!"

But Mr. Fox knew she was lying. She was only trying to get him into trouble.

"Thanks for the hint," he barked; "but it is easier to get in by the roof than out by the roof, you know, unless one is gifted as you are with wings, Mrs. Owl."

"True, true," she said, in her wisest tones.

"And I really came, dear Mrs. Owl, to ask a question of you. Can you tell me why the crows are black?"

There was a long silence, for Mrs. Owl must have time to think. All things were known to her, but she revealed her knowledge only with the greatest deliberation.

First she looked all around, then she laughed again, this time so loud and long that Mr. Fox thought she never would have done, and at last she exclaimed:

"Why, Mr. Fox, the crows are black for just the same reason that you ought to be black and I ought to be black too."

At this Mr. Fox was puzzled, but as Mrs. Owl seemed to think it such a joke he joined in her laughter, and between them they made the most distressing noise.

"You see," she said at last, while she held her sides and caught her breath. "You see, the whole miserable lot of them, the crows, used to be as bright and giddy as overgrown humming-birds. Red, white, and blue, they were. They would have been the national bird, I'm told, but the eagle always takes that honor by his overbearing ways. For my part, such honors are doubtful. I'd rather stand for wisdom than for politics. But, be that as it may, the crows were once the gayest of the birds. It was their mad career of theft and murder which brought the change."

At this they both screamed with laughter again, and it was a long time before Mrs. Owl could resume her story.

"Complaints against the crows came from everywhere. The robins--bless their souls--the larks, the pigeons, and every family you ever heard of, were determined to do something to the crows for snatching their young ones and stealing their eggs.

"Of course, you know, similar complaints have been lodged against me," she added; "but the point is, my family was never caught. Besides, the crows get corn and such to eat, and the whole world felt that the crow was stepping out of his class, you know, when he took to eating birds and eggs and frogs. It was the greediness of an upstart family. That's what it was."

The very thought of this aspect of the case made Mrs. Owl so indignant that she screamed and hooted loud and long.

"It was all long, long ago," she said. "The birds met in a great meeting. Something had to be done, and it was thought that war would be declared and the crows would all be killed or driven to live on a lonely island. But somebody, Mrs. Yellowhammer, I think it was, put in a word in their favor. She was a tender-hearted fool and recalled something decent the crows had done. She said that they had left her a lot of acorns one cold winter, and she felt so much obliged to them. The crows would have been done to death except for what she said. There were two doves on the jury, too; and they're a weak and sentimental lot, you know. At any rate, the sentence which the judge, a wonderful old owl, pronounced, was to the effect that the crows must forever go in black. They had to fly all the way to Egypt, where the little people live, to get their clothes changed.

"Oh, it was hard for them. Poor Mrs. Crow could think of nothing to say but _Caught! Caught! Caught!_ and that grew to be _Caw! Caw! Caw!_ after a while. Sometimes I feel a little sorry for her and her family; but, as you know, they are very much down on me. I can't imagine why."

She winked a long green wink at Mr. Fox. For she knew, and he knew, that Mrs. Owl had that very night eaten all the little crows she could steal from their nests. And he knew that Mrs. Owl would never dare to fly abroad in daylight for the crows. Then both of them made the woods fairly shiver with their laughter.

But it was growing light, and Mrs. Owl and Mr. Fox both felt that a night well spent deserved a long day of sleep, so they parted and Mr. Fox went to his home, greatly pleased to know why the crows are black, and why they must forever say, "Caught! Caught! Caught!"

XVII

MRS. MUSKRAT'S POOR RELATIONS

Mrs. Muskrat owned a beautiful home of her own on the edge of the mill-pond. She had built the house years ago, and had kept it in the best of repair. It was cleverly concealed at a point where tufts of grass and overhanging bushes afforded protection, and at the same time it was well out in the pond, quite inaccessible to Mrs. Muskrat's enemies.

The roof rose like an inverted bowl over a circular wall of mud and sticks; and so neatly were the straws and sticks matted over the top that the house seemed at first glance to be but an accidental confusion of dried leaves and old branches. This was as it should be, for Mrs. Muskrat, like many persons of good taste, preferred to have a home of interior elegance and ease to one with merely a showy exterior.

It was autumn and Mrs. Muskrat was congratulating herself upon her well filled larder and the prospects of a comfortable winter.

"I am always glad," she would say to the neighbor that happened in, "I am always glad that I moved down here from that upper pond when I did. It was a poor place to live and one was in constant danger of the water's being drawn off. Those farmers are so inconsiderate you can never tell when they will take it into their heads to drain the meadows, and then it is all up with us poor creatures."

She would then continue her narrative, after the manner of many people who take interest in no affairs but their own, and would probably burden her caller with the full account of how she had prevailed upon her husband, the young Dr. Muskrat, to leave the shallows of the upper home and set up for himself on the edges of the deep and permanent mill-pond.

"And," she would always conclude, "a mill-pond is so very much more aristocratic--not to mention a much better growth of provisions. Personally, I love deep water, and the sound of the mill-wheel is dear to my heart. No; I shall never go back to the upper pond."

Always the neighbors knew that Mrs. Muskrat, in alluding to the elegance of the mill-pond society, was, in point of fact, repudiating her poor relations, who had gone on living in the distant meadows. For, like many people who move to the town and prosper, waxing fat and successful, she was given to a feeling of pity that sounded a good deal like contempt for the poor relatives back in the country.

Little did she realize what the winter was to bring forth as she swam in and out of her front door, crossing to the opposite shores and back, always bringing the tenderest roots and lily stalks for her winter provisions. She was very content with the world, although she regretted the departure of her best friend, Mrs. Thrush, whose nest was in the alders almost over her very head, and she was sorry that the turtles had found it necessary to retire into the deep mud for their winter's sleep.

The sun was bright, however, and cheerful sounds came from the fields where men were loading pumpkins into the farm wagon, and from the orchards came the laughter of merry boys gathering apples. This drew her attention to the old, neglected tree which grew on the bank of the pond. Its fruit was bright, and there was much of it, but it hung high.

"If only there comes a good brisk wind to-night," she thought, "those apples will blow to the ground; and I can think of nothing more to my taste than a bit of fresh fruit."

Hardly had she indulged these pleasant thoughts of good eating, when she was surprised to see a visitor approaching her house. It was none other than the leanest and poorest of her cousins from the upper pond. Something in his presence told her of trouble to come. And her first question was not at all too polite.

"Why, what on earth are you down here for?" exclaimed Mrs. Muskrat. "Haven't you anything to do at home? I should think you would be busy putting in your own winter stores."

Before she could get any further, her lanky cousin interrupted her.

"Yes, yes; you would naturally think, Cousin Flattail, that we would be as busy as you are. But we have no longer any home to store things in, and we are at the edge of winter with starvation ahead of us. Farmer Jones drew the pond off yesterday. Already the shores of our poor meadow are drained of every drop. Our house is high and dry and we shall freeze to death if we stay in it."

With that they both looked up, for in the quiet society of the mill-pond a great confusion reigned.

All the poor relations were coming down from the upper meadows! Cousins, uncles, aunts, and brothers-in-law. It was an invasion--muskrats big and muskrats little.

Mrs. Muskrat gave one look and then bobbed down into the water and rushed through her house to lock the back door, scuttling again to the front to secure her main entrance by seating herself directly across it.

"There now!" she chattered angrily. "I'll watch any of you get into this house!"

For in the confusion of things people are often more distracted than need be, and Mrs. Muskrat was behaving very ugly and selfish because she hadn't taken time to think. All her neighbors behaved in much the same way at first; but when they saw the poor little baby cousins and reflected upon what this misfortune meant to the children, their hearts softened, and one by one the doors were opened, and the families invited in different ways to make the best of it. They must all live through the winter somehow.

But what they thought was going to be the season of the greatest hardship turned out to be the most brilliant winter that the muskrats had ever known, and the cousins all concluded that they never before had really appreciated one another.

Most exceptional, indeed, was Mrs. Flattail Muskrat's good luck, for she chose to live with her the cleverest of her nephews, the lively little Skinny Muskrat, who proved to be a wonderful musician. Every evening of the long winter they had delightful parties and dances in the snug quarters of their homes. All about them would be solid ice, and overhead, around the roofs, the driven, packed snow; but within, where all was warm and snug, there was the greatest merriment.

Little Skinny Muskrat was in great demand. His aunt always went with him out to supper or to spend the evening. And it was surprising how much more she got out of her neighbors than ever she had enjoyed at their tables before the adoption of this charming nephew.

It was the usual thing to say after supper: "And now won't Skinny give us some music? He plays so beautifully on his toe-nails!"

So the obliging Skinny would blow through his nails and produce the scratchiest and most exciting dance tunes in the world.

So eagerly was his society sought, that Mrs. Muskrat at last hit upon the idea of inviting her neighbors in, but with the hint that they bring their suppers with them. This was the crowning achievement of her thrift, and she never ceased to congratulate herself upon having thought of it. For her house was full of food from top to bottom, and she became the most popular person in the happy group of Muskrat society.

But winter melted very slowly into spring. And the provisions for everybody were growing low. Day after day Muskratdom peeped out into the cold world that was still black and gray. Not a sign of anything green; not even a bluebird in the orchards. Little by little the muskrats grew thinner and it was harder to be gay. At last, just as they were wondering why they had ever eaten so merrily, and ever been so prodigal with what they had, and several of the muskrat elders were up-braiding them roundly in an effort to put the blame on some one, what should they hear but a robin! And in a few days the cowslips began to show the green tips of their leaves. Then at last the grass on the edge of the pond showed sweet and green where it had lived all winter under the heavy snows.

Their hard times were over! And in all the general rejoicing, nothing gave them greater happiness than to think they had all weathered it together.

Nor was Mrs. Muskrat sorry to hear of the immediate marriage of her nephew Skinny with one of the prettiest little lady muskrats in the mill-pond. She was thereby able to congratulate herself again. This time as a matchmaker. And so long as Mrs. Muskrat could be thinking of how clever, or how thrifty, she was, her happiness was complete.

But you may judge of her neighbors' surprise when she left her snug house in the mill-pond and went back with Skinny and his wife, and many of the relatives who moved to the meadows. Something told her that the roots and the grasses and the tender bulbs would be engagingly delicious when the waters came back on the meadows; and she was a wise old muskrat, for those who went back lived a long summer on the fat of the land. Here again she felt the wisdom of her course, and she ventured to be truly hospitable by urging her adopted relatives to return with her, upon the approach of winter, to the deep, warm pond.

That is why there is both a winter and a summer residence in the highest society the world over. It is a sad lot for the muskrats who have not both a pond and an upper meadow to enjoy suitably and in season, as the good earth intends it to be enjoyed. But this last remark is a bit of wisdom from the mouth of Mr. Owl, and we must credit him with it.

XVIII

MR. WILD GOOSE AND MRS. GREBE

Far, far out on a great prairie there is a wide river which flows lazily between its banks, apparently going nowhere at all, but in reality bearing steadily toward the rising sun and the deep valley where another river rolls mightily to the southward and the ocean. The prairie is not level like a floor, but rises and falls in ridges that are sometimes miles apart, and between these rolling heights of the grassy land are unnumbered little lakes: bodies of sparkling water hidden in the folds of the land.

It was over this vast stretch of plains that the great birds of the Arctic were winging their way one early morning in the late summer, for they had started to their winter quarters in good season.

"_Honk, honk!_" the leader of the birds kept calling; and as he trumpeted, those in the rear would answer him, for even as they flew they had much to talk of, and just now the whole flock of them were discussing the subject of breakfast.

For they had been flying ever since the peep of dawn, and had come through mists and the cold upper air, covering a hundred miles of their journey before the sun really bathed the plains in light, and they were looking for the spot which was familiar to them as a good one for breakfast.

Lower and lower they flew as the leader kept signaling to them, until at last the wedge-shaped formation in which they traveled came like a pointed kite in long, sliding descents to within a few hundred feet of the earth.

They could see, of course, all the lay of the land for many miles around; but they were particular geese, a trifle fussy as you might say, and by no means would any one of the many little lakes suit their fancy. They were flying toward one spot out of all others which could afford just what they wanted for a meal.

At last they apparently settled down to a definite direction for they ceased to describe the slanting circles, and in one long slide through the air, their wings stretched perfectly motionless, they coasted to the ground.

The deep grasses almost hid them from view, but the little people who lived there saw them, and it was with great surprise that their friends turned from their feeding and pluming and bathing to exclaim over this sudden arrival.

There were Mr. and Mrs. Wild Duck, and their beautiful brood of little ones, and there were many of Mrs. Prairie Chicken's family, as well as crowds and crowds of little Redbirds and many of the handsome Kingfishers, all chattering at once over an ample breakfast table. For there was a solid growth of wild celery around this lake, a bed of plants so dense that it was for all the world like the heaviest moss. And of all things beloved by the wild fowl, this juicy and spicy celery is the favorite.

The leader of the newcomers looked about him. That was the first thing for him to do, under all circumstances; for he was the oldest and the wisest of the flock and as a watchman he was sagacious beyond all others in his family. While his mate and all the others fell to tearing at the tender shoots of celery, scarcely paying attention to anything but their voracious appetites, he was standing with head erect and eyes turning in all directions to be sure of no untoward sign. He could see and even scent danger a long way off.

Apparently he was satisfied for the moment, for he fell to and nibbled as the rest were doing, with his head almost buried in the rich tangle of celery. And as he progressed in his feasting, he came closer and closer to the edge of the lake, until suddenly he was just above a nest that lay almost entirely hidden from view.

It was the home of little Mrs. Grebe, the very handsomest and the shyest of the people dwelling here. She was right there by her nest of sticks, which literally floated on the water, and her shining neck of velvety feathers and her brown and silvery body were strikingly beautiful in contrast to the deep green of the rushes and reeds.

"Why, my dear friend!" the noble Wild Goose exclaimed. "How you surprised me! Though of course I knew you lived here. This is not the first year we have visited this place, by any means, and yet, when we flew North last spring and stopped here I do not remember seeing you."

"Oh, Mr. Goose," came in quick reply, "you can't imagine the misfortunes that have overtaken me; and it was on their account that I was not here in the early summer when you passed over."

With that Mrs. Grebe hung her dainty head, which was beautifully tufted about the ears, giving her the look of wearing a jaunty cap.

"I am the Widow Grebe," was all she could say.

Mr. Goose dried his eyes by rubbing them on his snowy breast. For, although he was a stern old gander, he had the most melting heart for the sad plight of widows and orphans.

And the fatherless ones were immediately discovered to view, for Mrs. Grebe moved ever so slightly and six tiny little Grebes twittered and chirped at her feet.

The sight was very moving, and the doughty old warrior commanded himself sufficiently to ask the particulars.

"Yes," the dainty little lady Grebe said. "We were a devoted pair, my husband and I. You know the Grebes, how they are like to die of broken heart if one or the other is killed. They're like the cooing dove, you know, very devoted. But my dear, beautiful mate was shot before my very eyes. Yes, the bullet was meant for me, because it is the mother Grebe's beautiful breast feathers that they are after. But it was he who was killed. We both dived, but when I came up from under the water after going as far as I could, I looked in vain for him. Men in a boat were reaching out for something, and it was my own mate they were lifting up from the water. When they saw it was not the mother bird, they threw his body back into the lake. After a while it sank and I knew that it was all hopeless."

Mr. Goose knew not what to say. But before he could even begin to express his feelings, the gentle Grebe added to her account of woes the fact that her first brood of the season had all perished, too.

"These little fellows are but just hatched," she went on. "They will never know their dear father; but what happened to the first brood of the season is the worst. We were, as you know, far south of here. Another lake where we go for the winter. No one knew that in that lake dwelt the worst of snapping turtles. But such was the fact. In one month our brood of dear little chicks was, every one of them, seized while swimming and dragged under by the great turtles!"

Then, like so many people who have suffered as much, Mrs. Grebe began to apologize for telling her woes.

"It is only because you are so very traveled and wise, Mr. Goose, that I tell you all my afflictions. Nothing, of course, can amend the loss of my dear mate. But how I am to protect my children from all my enemies I cannot say. I am sorely troubled."

Mr. Goose all this time had only pretended to eat, for he was too much interested and too deeply concerned to do aught but attend to Mrs. Grebe's sad plight.

He thought for a long moment, and then said that he would give her two pieces of advice, but that she must wait a few moments until he had thought over his many observations and experiences.

"True," he said, "I have seen many ways of caring for children. And you are without assistance. Now my nest is built in almost inaccessible places, and Mrs. Goose has few enemies in the water to fear. Our chicks are too large to be pulled under the water by turtles, and our nest is too well defended by the sentry goose for us to fear the fox or the wolf. But you, poor Mrs. Grebe, you are indeed sorely put to it. You must do two things. First, I am sure, you must build farther out from the shore; and, second, you must take your children with you on your back when they first venture over the pond.

"And," he added slyly enough, "don't grieve too long. Perhaps you will fall in love again."

Just then, however, he seemed to be suddenly mindful of his own family. For a distant shot was heard in the air. Everybody stopped eating, and listened, but nothing more was to be heard. The hunters were far off, although their presence anywhere within hearing was full of alarm.

"Remember what I say," the splendid traveler called back, for he was marshaling his flock.

Mrs. Grebe could scarcely comprehend what was going on, for it seemed but a second before all the beautiful geese were in the air again, flying low over the plain. They would elude the hunters. That she knew. But she wished the wise captain of them all could have stayed just a little longer to explain what he meant. How could she carry her young ones with her? And how build on the water?

But it is long practise that works out in perfection; and Mrs. Grebe was soon able to teach her babies to climb on her back and to perch there with their beaks buried in her soft feathers, and their little toes digging ahold of her. And she began pushing her nest farther and farther out into the water until it seemed scarcely to have any connection with the land at all. Alone, and fearing to leave her nest unguarded, to this day she covers it with sticks and straw, and when she turns the eggs over that she is hatching, she smears them with mud until they are very hard indeed to find. For she is the most suspicious of birds.

But if she was indebted to Mr. Wild Goose for his advice, he, on his part, felt that he had only drawn on his learning as a great traveler. Had he not seen the tropic swans with their young riding upon their shoulders? And he knew what it was for. So he was only a generous and observant bird when he made the suggestion.

Later that season, however, when a great prairie fire swept the region and burned everything to the very edges of the lakes, Mrs. Grebe was thankful indeed that she could carry her babies with her to the center of the lake, and there ride in safety with them while the reeds and the grasses blazed on the margin.

And of this she told Mr. Goose the year after, when he came back. He had helped better than he knew. But of her second marriage she said very little, and he did not embarrass her with questions.

Oh, yes, there is much that the great Wild Goose knows and he is not too proud to draw upon his wisdom when it is a matter of helping even such little stay-at-home people as Mrs. Grebe.

XIX

BABY FOX AND MRS. BEAR

There is a great river which comes rushing through the mountains, where the cliffs are dark with trees, and the heavy snows are slow to melt, even when spring has made the valleys green and warm. Here, on a cliff, snug and warm beneath the roots of a great tree, lived Mrs. Bear and her family of cubs. Three baby bears there were; and in their fine black coats with dark brown edges they were very handsome.

For their playmate, however, there was a little stranger. Just a funny little fox, whose fur was the color of a flame of fire. He was a rare little fox, being of such a lovely color. Had the hunters in the valley dreamed that he was living on the mountain above their very farms, they would never have rested until they got him, for his skin would bring a fortune in the world of men and money.

But of this the little fox knew nothing, for ever since the day that good Mrs. Bear had found him, lost and weak and hungry, where he had fallen down to sleep in the snow, he had led the happiest of lives with the little baby bears. They could not run as fast as he could, nor could they bark as prettily, but they were wonderful at turning somersaults, and at playing leap-frog, and they were more than generous to him. They gave him the best place at dinner, and when they all went to sleep, they cuddled him up between them, while the big Mrs. Bear slept with her nose to the door. Blow the wind as it might, they were all as warm as toast.

But one fine day in early summer Mrs. Bear broke the news to her family that the foxes, one and all, were looking for their child. One way or another, the news had gone down from the mountain to the high pastures and fields at the edge of the farms, and it was joy to the heart of the fox mother, to learn that her beautiful Fireflame was alive.

Of course he must go back. And by an arrangement most agreeable to Mrs. Bear, she was to venture with her adopted baby as far as the blackberry patches and the great maple groves at the foot of the mountain. The foxes would meet her, and with sweet little Fireflame safe in the bosom of his family, all would be well.

Just as it was planned, the excursion was made; but all the way down the mountain Mrs. Bear kept finding more and more berries to eat.

"Here I must stop on my way back," she would say.

"And here is another wonderful patch! Such blueberries I have never seen in my whole life."

So it was late when at last she came to the clearing, and Fireflame kissed the motherly Mrs. Bear good-by. And it was night before that good lady could tear herself from the berry patches and trundle herself home to her family.

Alas! She had lingered too long. Stray dogs from the farms had scented her presence; and although she had followed a brook until she was well on her way to the cliff, and her footsteps were hard to follow, they had soon learned her whereabouts. Back to their masters they had gone, and it was scarcely morning when the hunters set out. The dogs were barking and their great tongues were lolling from their mouths. And the men with their rifles, and the knives for skinning the bear when they got her, were striding up the mountain, laughing and shouting as they went. No sooner were they near the woods, however, than their laughter ceased and the hounds grew deathly quiet; for that is the way of the hunter. He must be quiet and quick, for he is the companion of death, and that terrible creature walks abroad only with cruel men who have learned his craft.

The foxes took in the situation at once. But none of them dared to stir. To cross the path of those hunters was a terrible risk. They shivered and shook in their deep burrows to hear the hounds.

"It's lucky for us that the wind blows up the mountain," was all they could say.

"And what are they after?" cried poor little Fireflame. "Whom are they hunting?"

But then the truth dawned on him. Old Grandpa Fox and good Mother Fox were quiet, for they did not dare to tell Fireflame that it was dear Mrs. Bear who was being trailed. Besides, they were ashamed; for it was plain that something must be done, yet no one dared to move.

"She ought to have crossed and recrossed the river," said Grandpa Fox. "That's the way to do it. But I mistrust she was engaged too long with those tempting berries. She was not discreet."

"They'll get her and her young ones too!" wailed Mrs. Fox, who was nearly beside herself. For it is a terrible thing to know what you ought to do, but to be lacking in the courage to do it.

Little Fireflame could stand it no longer. In a bound he was out of the burrow. The whole Fox family screamed after him to come back; but he paid no heed. He was well up the pasture, and far into the woods before their voices ceased to ring in his ears.

It was a test of his wits, and he was very young. No dog could overtake him if he ran, and he had the start; but to catch up to the hunters and pass them, and so reach Mrs. Bear in time, was a task that would try the wits of the wisest fox.

Now a beautiful bird flew past, and although he never knew why he did it, the brave little Fireflame followed that bird. Over the brook and back again he went, always bearing upward to the crest of the mountain. It was not the path by which he had come the day before, but higher he went and higher, with the far, snowy peak in front of him.

The bird would vanish, but after Fireflame had gone as fast as his beautiful legs would carry him and when he was so tired that he could not see for the mist in his eyes, the silent wings would be beside him, then in front; and Fireflame would bend to his race as though it were just begun.

Soon he was on the narrow edge of the cliff. The sun lay full and bright upon the foaming river far below, and Fireflame recognized the spot. By a path that no one knew, he had come to the home of Mrs. Bear. There she was, the three little bears with her, playing under the fir tree.

He bounded in upon them, but not before the bird had brushed his cheek with its wings and then flown away, straight as an arrow, into the sun.

Fireflame gasped out his news in one breath.

It was quick work that brought the Bear family to the edge of the river. There Mrs. Bear and her cubs began their journey to the fields of snow, and the caves that were safely beyond the reach of the hunters. She could not thank Fireflame at all. She could only look at him with tears of gratitude; while the three little bears, greatly confused, were as solemn as though they had never played tag in their lives.

"But you will visit us some day," the biggest baby bear said, clinging to Fireflame's paw, "and we will all play together again."

The hunters climbed up to the deserted cliff; but they never caught the trail of Mrs. Bear again. For the good river and the soft snows are friendly to the hunted people, and whatever they know they take with them to the great ocean, where it is of no use to any one.

Fireflame went home. He knew that he was safe, so he took his time.

But to the end of his days, he never knew what bird it was that showed him the way in the dark and unfamiliar woods.

XX

CHRISTMAS EVE

Tabby Green was alone in the snowy street. The wind which blew with gusts of the finest snow had nearly taken Tabby off her feet as she crept around the corner, and she was so cold and tired that she could hardly take another step. Just as she was preparing to make a final jump for the shelter of a flight of steps, a great white dog came trotting through the snow and, to her great alarm, they ran into each other.

"I beg your pardon," said the dog, in the politest way.

"My fault, I'm sure," said Tabby Green, for she was such a well-bred kitty that no dog, even if he had the finest manners in the world, could be more courteous than she.

Then, "Why, bless me!" she exclaimed. "Can it be you, dear Bobby Gordon? How glad I am to see you once again!"

And to show how pleased she was, poor Tabby rubbed her thin sides against the good dog's legs.

Together they crouched under the arch of the high stone steps, where, from a grating in the sidewalk, came a breath of good warm air. It was close to somebody's furnace room, and only such poor wandering creatures as the hungry cat and the dog who had known better days can appreciate the air from a warm cellar.

They sat close together and Tabby tried to purr, but she was nearly dead and purr she could not.

"There, there!" soothed Bobby Gordon, as he licked the snow from poor kitty's back in the gentlest way. "I wouldn't purr. It's very kind of you to try, but it's a bad thing to do in the open air. They say it hurts the voice."

"And I have no voice left these days," admitted Tabby sadly. "Really, if it were not for these warm cellar-ways and the few stray scraps of food that one finds in such shocking places, I wouldn't be alive."

"But," said Bob, "you're just a poor tramp cat, and no one's bound to kill you. I'm a dog without a collar, all alone and afraid to be seen. I can't let any one come near for fear they'll tell the officers about me. Once I had a collar--such a beauty, too! But it came off within a week of my great misfortune. You know my master went away, and the wicked people in the house were going to get rid of me. I knew it. I wasn't wanted any more. I had to go."

Great tears stood in Bobby Gordon's eyes but he brushed them away with his paw.

Tabby was overcome. In all her wanderings she had never met a case so sad.

"Poor Mr. Gordon!" was all she could say. "My poor, hunted friend!"

Then she thought of her own fireside, the cozy home that she had known. And simply to think of the saucers of cream, and the plates of dainty pieces from her mistress' table, made Tabby Green's poor mouth water.

"Ah, me!" she sighed, and was pretty near to crying when a thought flashed to her mind. "There's one more chance!" she suddenly exclaimed. "You have a fine strong voice, and you can make folks hear. Now just below this house, where that shoemaker's sign hangs out, is a little girl, and a boy whom I know to be her brother. They stopped and spoke to me but this very day. I felt that they were kind and understood my case. But, although I followed to their door, they didn't see me. And, call out as loudly as I could, my poor voice has grown so weak I know they didn't hear me."

"It's little use," was all the weary dog could say. "I've barked at a hundred doors."

Kitty waited and yielded to his discouragement. Of course it was no use, she thought. They must simply wait and wait until the cold and hunger did its work.

The wind howled, and the snow, which was piling higher and higher on the steps, was drifting around them.

"We Scotchmen die hard," said Bob at last. "The Gordons are a brave lot. I have to remember that."

"My mother purred away her life in song," cried Tabby Green. "She was mindful of her kittens to the last. She said almost in her dying breath: 'Remember, children! Never scratch, and always dry your tails when you come in out of the rain.'"

Suddenly a voice came through the cold night air. It was a child's voice, as sweet and clear as a bell.

"Kitty! Kitty! Come, Kitty, come!"

In an instant the poor, starved cat and the lame, hungry dog looked out and leaped into the drifting snow.

A shaft of lamp-light lay wide across the street. The door at the shoemaker's house was open. There stood a woman, and, with her, two little children, all wrapped in shawls and blankets. Their little feet were tucked in bed slippers and their eager faces peered into the night.

"It's no use, your calling," said the woman. "You were only dreaming. Any cat out in this storm is a dead cat now."

"Oh, but I know I heard a kitty."

"And I heard it, too," cried the little boy.

"Yes, and you made me get you out of bed to stand here and catch your death o' cold. I hope you are satisfied."

Scarcely had she spoken, and just as she was about to close the door, Bobby Gordon and Tabby Green came bounding past her feet into the hall.

"'Twas naught but the Christmas angels brought them here!" the woman said, when they had all seated themselves in the little parlor, which was the poor shoemaker's shop and kitchen too.

The Christmas night was turning into morning. Tabby and Bobby Gordon were sleeping by the stove, and in the bedroom, tucked deep and warm under their blankets, were the two children who had called the wanderers in.

Santa Claus was near, and thousands of lovely angels, drifting like the snowflakes, whispered to him and beckoned as they flew over the housetops.

"This way, this way," they kept singing. And Santa Claus came to the shoemaker's chimney with such a pack of toys as he takes only to the sweetest, kindest children in the world. For Santa Claus and all the good, sweet spirits know the children who love to keep the kitty warm and happy, and who would never let the poor, deserted dog go friendless.

"And tell me," whispered Santa Claus to Tabby Green, "tell me every child that so much as said, 'Poor Kitty!' to you in your wanderings. I shall take them what they want the most for Christmas."

So Tabby Green, as fast as she could think, and the dog with the fine manners told all they knew of the children. And when they had finished, Santa told them that before another year was out they must have news of other good children, like the shoemaker's little boy and girl.

So there are many Tabby Greens and Bobby Gordons, forsaken and driven and chased by the cruel people of the world. But sometimes a little girl or boy stops to pet the straying animal, or even calls it home. And you may be very sure that Santa Claus hears of it.

XXI

MOTHER RABBIT'S ADVICE TO HER BABIES

Mother Rabbit and her five babies lived among the sand-hills down by the sea. Their cozy home was a small cave in the side of the hill, and it had two separate entrances, one at each end. These assured her escape in case a dog or a weasel should enter her home.

One evening, just as the moon was showing itself, big and round and yellow, over the tops of the pine trees, Mother Rabbit led her children out of their cozy home to the big out-of-doors, which they had only begun to know. Their education must begin, she felt, for they were nearly one month old and already able to jump and skip around as nimbly as Mrs. Fox's young sons. She feared that, if left in ignorance longer, they were likely to become overbold.

"It is, first of all, my dears, necessary to be cautious in life," she said. "You must follow me now very quietly to the edge of the wheat-field, where we will sit down to talk. There are things you must know."

So they bounded along behind their mother, so lightly that they made not a sound on the driest leaves of the woodland, and when they came to the edge of the field they took the first high jump of their lives, for the mother selected a place between the bars of the fence and leaped through it swift and clean.

"Do it that way," she said. "You must never run under anything in the dark if you can jump over it."

Once within the pleasant field, where there was so much green wheat that the little rabbits wondered how in the world all of it ever could be eaten, Mrs. Rabbit seated her family around her and began by telling the babies all about their noble father.

"Ah, my dears, your father was such a rabbit as one seldom sees. Such stout legs, and short, too, just as they ought to be! Such a long, graceful body--and what magnificent ears! They were like flowers, and stood up in such a taking fashion! Could you but see him, dancing in the moonlight, hitting his heels together in the air, and wagging those wonderful ears at the stars, his tail as white and fluffy as a full-blown rose, why, my children, you would burst with pride. I shall never see his like again."

"But where is Daddy Rabbit now?" the babies cried in one voice, fearing that their mother spoke with sadness. "He isn't dead, is he?"

"Dead? No, no, my dears," she replied. "He's traveling; you'll see him yet, I'm sure. He has a way of coming back.

"But in case he doesn't return, you must know how brave he is, and what he can do. For you must grow up to be as like him as you can.

"Any of the neighbors can tell you of his clever ways, and his bravery. He rid this field of a dreadful dog, once, and the history of these parts will always relate that exploit. It made him famous."

At this the little rabbits cocked their ears in wonder.

"You see," Mother Rabbit went on, "it was this way: Once he returned to his burrow below the hill over there and discovered, by means of his keen sense of smell, that a terrier dog was in the burrow. He immediately called for a friend, and together they closed up the entrance to the burrow and smothered the dog to death. That's what _I_ call bravery. And that's the kind of father you had. The world will expect much of children of your parentage.

"Your father and I first met on the hillside one evening, and we liked each other at once. Every evening after, we would meet out there to play hide-and-seek in the grass and sand. Perhaps he will come to see you some day, and I want you to be smart and handsome, so that he will be proud of you.

"But I have said enough, dear Jacks, and now I must teach you some of the wise things he knew. He learned at an early age that each rabbit must procure his own food, and has many foes to shun. To do these things one must have a sharp wit.

"Always sleep during the day while other animals are prowling about, and come out only evenings when it is cool, to seek your food. Young wheat, fresh onions, lettuce and cabbages make splendid food for rabbits. Of course, it is rather dangerous to cultivate such expensive tastes, for lettuce and onions usually grow only in gardens and people are apt to set traps to catch you. So be careful never to go near a trap, or bite at anything that looks as though man had placed it there for you. It is said that your father prided himself on destroying traps.

"Our family is blessed by being both watchful and swift. Just watch me how I can run."

Mother Rabbit sprang to her feet, and over the field she sped like lightning. The children stared in wonderment, and then shouted for glee at their mother's rapidity. Finally Mrs. Rabbit returned as quickly as she had departed.

"Now, that is the way you must learn to run. And the next most necessary thing for you to acquire is the ability to stand on your hind legs like this."

To their amusement, Mother Rabbit stood up like a walking dog or a bear.

"An enemy can be seen at a long distance from such a position," she explained; "and it is well never to run until you have taken in the situation. Many rabbits have lost their lives by failing to observe that simple precaution. Once your Uncle Cotton heard a dog coming, and turned to run in the opposite direction without having stood up to survey the land. As a result, we found only his bones on the hillside the next day. It is supposed that he ran right into the jaws of another dog. Dogs are clever and often hunt together.

"But that's enough for the first lesson," she concluded. "Some evening we'll come again and I'll teach you to dance, and we'll play till the moon goes down in the West."

They jumped up, skimmed through the fence, and ran after their mother, who had them home and tucked them in bed almost before they knew it.

XXII

THE MICE AND BABY STORK

"I find it very hard," said the learned watchdog, "to speak well of the rats and the mice."

He was talking with his visitor, Professor Screech Owl, who perched on the peak of the kitchen roof and was engaged with him in a pleasant exchange of views and ideas. The moon was clear and everything was very still. All the world seemed asleep but the owl and the dog, and they were talking of many matters. For Professor Screech Owl was a knowing bird and he had, moreover, the most learned relatives.

"Of course, you know more than I do," Collie Dog hastened to add.

Professor Screech Owl nodded.

"And you may have heard in your travels of something which credits the mice with being other than thieves and rogues. But for my part, I am skeptical of all the good I hear of them."

"There are mice, and there are mice," said the Professor. For this is one of the best ways to open a subject and draw a distinction. "I have rarely inquired into their morals, preferring to take them as I find them. In the matter of one's living one must not be too squeamish. Probably I have eaten moral mice and immoral mice, with indifference. But I have heard that the mice in Belgium are the gentlest and sweetest of creatures. Have you heard of the Belgium mice, Mr. Dog?"

This was the point to which Collie Dog had drawn his visitor with intent. For no matter what subject you brought up, if you passed it over to Professor Screech Owl and showed him the respect and patience which is due to scholarly persons, he would refresh your mind with wonderful facts and you would be vastly improved and informed when he finished. So Collie Dog admitted that he was no book dog, and knew precious little about anything. This was not so, for he knew a great deal about sheep, the pasturing of cows, and the time for getting the mail, and he knew that the buggy meant business, and the surrey meant church, and he knew where his mistress kept the chocolate creams. Also he knew why the cook left, but he never told. But he pretended that blankness of mind which is a humility pleasing to superior students.

Screech Owl stared at the moon as though to recall what he could from his vast store of learning.

"The dates have escaped me," he began, "but it is the nature of the event, not the time which is important.

"Once long ago, as I was told by the great Arctic Owl, who is a sort of cousin of mine, the mice in the city of Ghent entered into a sort of league with the storks. Ghent, as you know, is in Belgium."

This was news to Collie Dog, but he wagged his tail as if to approve. He was glad to know that Ghent was in Belgium, and he wished to seem pleased.

"Don't wag your tail!" Screech Owl spat out at him. "I'm telling you history; I'm not asking you to have a bone. That's no way to act when I'm lecturing!"