Chapter V: Part 5

Solomon was the largest, as well as the most headstrong youngster in the screech-owl family. There were five of them, and they all lived in the knot-hole of a large sycamore tree down in the swamp. Just as soon as Solomon got through his pin-feather age, he began to show off and assert his independence. He would so bully the others, and jostle them about so roughly, that when the old owls came home with food for them, it always happened that the round, chuckle-head of Solomon managed to fill the knot-hole door, and always his greedy beak would snatch the forthcoming morsel from the others; for so furiously did he beat the little ones back, he always managed to get the very choicest bits.

Small wonder then that Solomon grew strong and lusty long before the others were out of their down and pin-feather age. Bold too and fearless he soon became, and when the purple twilight shadows began to deepen in the forest away down below him, Solomon would steal from the nest and sit blinking his beautiful yellow eyes until their black centers would expand from a mere dot, gradually growing larger, until all the daytime blindness had left him, and he could see everything about him. He saw the little brown bats, who slept all day, clinging like velvet bags to the limb of a tree, and each night he saw them unhook their claws, just at twilight, and dart squeaking away into the shadows after gnats. Then down below between dark, still aisles of the pines, night life in the forest began, and first of all a sly old lynx, with such an ugly disposition that he snarled at everything which crossed his path, would go skulking off by himself. Other night prowlers followed his example, and Solomon, watching them from his lofty perch, would suddenly unfurl his strong, young wings, with a swish as of rustling silk, and launch himself forth into the night.

Oh, it was wonderful to be free, and best of all, alone, for no longer did greedy Solomon have to share his food with the family. He knew instinctively where to hunt, and haunted the brooks and waterways for young frogs, who loved to come out of the water and sit upon the broad, cool lily pads enjoying the fragrance of snowy lilies which floated upon the water, as they sang their jolly choruses beneath the summer moon. Then down among the silvery ripples of the brook swam great shoals of little tender minnows, and into the tall sedges Solomon would dart like a flash, to snap up some trembling little field-mouse, or sleeping bird, who nested in the reedy marshes. Seldom did the yellow eyes or strong beak and talons of Solomon fail him, and soon he became famous among his wild kindred as a mighty hunter.

Now there are always certain things which young owls should know, and Mother Owl had tried to impress upon her children that they must always get back to the home nest before the sun rose and peeped above the top of the mountain, for, said she:

“Should you stay away from home after sunrise, you will never find your way back again, because you will be overtaken by the terrible sun blindness, and then you’ll be as blind as a bat, and everybody knows how helpless and blind a bat is in the daytime, for they have to cover up their eyes with their wings all day long.” All the other little owls listened respectfully to their mother’s warning words, but Solomon just snapped his beak saucily at her, and blinked his great eyes quite indifferently at her advice, which had simply gone into one feathery ear and straight out of the other; secretly, he made up his mind then and there, that he would have an astonishing adventure. He would stay out and keep awake all day long, instead of coming back home with the others and going to sleep.

So one night Solomon flew off, as usual, alone, upon a hunting trip; a new, strange wildness possessed him, and he longed for adventures. He would fly off a long distance to new hunting grounds. High and low he soared, searching for prey, skimming low over strange, unexplored pools far from home; but somehow that night the moon shone so brightly that the frogs always saw him first, and down they would plunge, out of sight beneath the thick jungles of the water weeds, throwing back to him a defiant “kerchung.” Finally Solomon realized to his dismay that night was almost gone, for the moon had disappeared behind a mountain, and still he had caught nothing to eat but just a few stray gnats. So he instantly made up his mind that it would be foolish to go back home

hungry, and perhaps when the big yellow sun ball actually came from behind the mountain, where it slept all night, then he would be able to find something quite different to eat, some new delicacy, for, with _more_ light, he would certainly be able to see very much farther, instead of becoming blind like a stupid bat. He determined to stay awake and test it all for himself. Accordingly, back and forth he gaily flew over the gradually lightening marshes. And just as he was beginning to get fiercely hungry, he suddenly spied a choice morsel of fresh meat lying right in plain sight near the brook. Headlong, down swept Solomon, and grabbed the coveted bait greedily, so eagerly that he failed to see the trap beneath it, until it had nipped his leg and held him firmly, a prisoner.

Solomon soon found out that the more he flopped and struggled about to get free, the harder did the cruel teeth of the trap bite into his leg; so, finally, he had to lie with outstretched, helpless wings upon the trap. Meantime, higher and higher crept the daylight into the sky, and finally out burst the big, hot sun in a great blaze, and the higher it mounted into the sky the greater became poor, foolish Solomon’s blindness. To add to his misery, the choice morsel of bait which he coveted, lay just outside his reach, and the trap bit and bit into his leg hotly.

In spite of his torment, Solomon began to know that unusual, daytime things, were going on all around him. Muskrats were taking their morning swim, splashing about in the water, and slapping their tails; birds, of which he knew nothing, sang beautiful, unfamiliar songs over his head. Thousands of sleeping gnats awoke and swarmed in the air, humming shrilly, while huge, lace-winged dragon-flies whirred close to his ears, and Solomon clicked his beak angrily at them as they swept past him. Then, to add to his misery, a whole drove of impudent little brown birds spied him, and began to tease and torment him. They would settle upon a near-by twig, then dart down upon him with little hateful “cheep, cheep, cheeps” of derision, flaunting their free wings saucily close to his half-blind eyes. Solomon beat his wings frantically to scare them off, but always they came back again to torment him. Next, a colony of crows came to drink at the brook and “caw, caw, caw’d” jeeringly at him; and all the time the hot sun beat down upon him and scorched and blinded him, so that he had to cover his eyes with their filmy lids, and defend himself as best he might. All day long Solomon endured the dreadful torments of daylight; then, when he was almost ready to give up, something happened.

“Pad, pad, pad,” came the sound of stealthy footfalls, and then right through the tall cat-tails and sedges came slyly Red-Brush, the fox; jauntily he made his way toward the trap, for his keen, pointed snout had caught the fresh meat scent. Picking his way cautiously over the brook stones he came, lightly leaping across to the trap. Red-Brush saw Solomon and bared all his sharp, white teeth, in a grin of joy and anticipation. But first of all he would eat the bait, then finish off with the young owl later. With a great bound he was on the trap, and instantly, with this the eight teeth of the trap were sprung apart, and Solomon’s leg was free. Then, even before Red-Brush could drop the bait, with a swift uprushing of wings Solomon was far above his head, and quite safe.

Solomon flew swiftly to the top of a lofty pine, and there beneath a limb, screened by dark, thick tufts of needles he sat alone and pondered. His foot was lame and stiff, and as daylight still lingered he blinked and winked to keep out the light. At last the hateful sun slipped away somewhere out of sight, and Solomon’s blindness began to leave him, and he saw with joy the moon, pale and yellow, come creeping back to its place once more. He recognized the swift, shadowy forms of his neighbors, the bats, flitting about again. And then poor, lonely Solomon, unable to contain himself any longer, for sheer homesickness sent forth a wonderful call of misery and longing, out into the night.

“Who-ooo-o-o, who-ooo-o-o,” he quavered, over and over again, and then before the last long “who-ooo-o-o” had fairly died away, away off somewhere over the tops of the tall pines came back an answering call, another “who-ooo,” and Solomon heard and recognized it as it came nearer and nearer.

So, unfurling his soft, moth-like wings Solomon flew off in the direction of the familiar call, and was soon lost in the darkness of the forest. Thus did Solomon return to his home and kindred in the knot-hole of the sycamore tree, and never after that did he stay out all night, or until daylight, and thereafter he became known to all the little wild dwellers of the woods as a very wise owl.

XIX

THE KING OF BALSAM SWAMP

Even by day it was dark, lonely, and scary down in the Balsam Swamp, right under the frowning shadow of the mountain, and so wild that only an occasional cranberry picker ventured down into the marsh when the berries were ripe and red. Most people gave the lonely place a very wide berth, for it is easy to lose one’s way in such a wilderness. So only the little wild creatures of the forest really knew very much about the many interesting inhabitants who lived in the swamp.

The little black bears came scrambling and sliding down from Porcupine Ridge occasionally to feed upon crawfish and frogs, and to wallow in the ooze and mud of the marsh, and when the red deer were hard pressed, and the hounds were baying close behind them, they found a safe hiding-place among the densely growing balsams. Thousands of the pointed green spires of the pine arose from the swamp, for the trees which grew there never had been chopped down by lumbermen. And so, if you only knew, the swamp was not, after all, such a lonely place, for many there were who loved it, and found a very safe home right there in the marsh.

Just over in the great black birch lived a very old raccoon and his interesting family; so old was this raccoon that he actually had rheumatism, and was quite gray in the face. The old raccoon could tell you many an exciting experience he had met with down in the swamp; how he had been chased by dogs and men, nights, when he had gone out to forage, how, when the hounds were baying, close upon his scent, he had cunningly doubled upon his track, crossed a brook many times, and so thrown them completely off the scent, leaving them to flounder and whine in the soft mud of the marshes while he had shinned up the great black birch in safety, and lying out flat upon a limb, actually grinned at the foolish hounds, showing all his little sharp white teeth for joy as they bayed and howled beneath the wrong tree.

Just beneath the great birch, in a dense clump of balsams, a young mother doe had come with her little dappled, frightened fawn, when the hunters were after them, and the mother’s leg had been hurt. And the thick balsams and hemlocks hid them well, and the gray mosses and pine-needles beneath made a soft thick bed for them, and there they stayed until the danger was over and the doe was able to travel once more.

Up aloft, in the tall swaying tops of the pines, whole colonies of squirrels, red and gray, lived with the birds, for there was plenty of good food in the swamp: small, sweet beechnuts, and wild cherries with a puckery tang, and sweet nutty pits. Then there were bobcats, who snarled and howled and spit at each other in the dark nights, and an old Canadian lynx with sharp, tufted ears, and the ugliest disposition, for he snarled at everything which crossed his tracks.

Down beneath the low-lying branches of the spruces which swept the ground, forming regular tents, crept and grunted the stupid hedgehog family, grubbing for nuts and fresh water clams and crawfish, and bristling their sharp quills indignantly when any one presumed to disturb them; even at the gentle partridge family, who loved to cuddle in bunches beneath the green, tent-like branches, and then the brave little cock partridge would ruffle up his feathers and rush out upon the hedgehogs furiously with a “whir-r-r-r,” and a drumming commotion, which often startled the lazy hedgehogs out of their wits, so that they would roll over in sudden terror and bristle out their quills until they looked like a round ball of sharp needles. Well the hedgehog knew that no enemy would care to come very near him then, lest they get a snout full of sharp quills.

If the Balsam Swamp was a creepy, dark place in the daytime, at night it was ten times more fearsome, for then every wild dweller in the depths of the swamp awoke, and the place was filled with strange sounds. The first signal for all to begin stirring in the swamp was given by the frogs who began their evening chorus, “Zoom, zoom, kerchung, kerchung,” down in the bogs. Just as soon as the old raccoon heard the first “zoom, zoom” of the old giant bullfrog, he hastily began to scratch and claw himself up out of his hole in the black birch, where he had been sleeping all day long. Next, the snarling lynx glided like a shadow from his lair, and went, with soft, velvet-padded footsteps, skulking off between the thick balsams after his prey; and then something else happened. For when it was just about dark enough, from right in the very heart of the marsh the King of the swamp sent out his lonely, blood-curdling cry: “Who-ho-ho, who-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho.” It was the great white owl, the very oldest inhabitant of the swamps; a regular old hermit was this great snowy owl, and he lived all alone in a giant pine, which had long ago been blasted by lightning. The pine towered over all the spire-like tops of the balsams and spruces of the marsh; white and lonely looking it stretched its blasted, crooked limbs forth like the arms of some great forest giant.

The trunk of the old pine was hollow, and deep within the whitened depths of this tree lived the King. Alone, despised, and forsaken by his mate and all his kindred, because of his fierce, vindictive temper, and shunned by all his furry neighbors also, because the sly old King had a way of knowing just where to find young baby raccoons when their mother was away; and he would even carry off a very young lynx cub, if he chanced to be pressed by hunger, while nothing delighted him more than to steal like a shadow upon a covey of sleeping partridges and scatter then like leaves, taking his pick of the family, and when the angry little father bravely “whirr’d and whirr’d,” the King was not at all frightened; for nothing ever daunted him very much.

Silently, on his great, soft white wings, he swooped down upon any tender little furry creature that chanced to come in sight of his great, staring yellow eyes, and then with one cruel blow of his lance-like beak he killed his prey and carried it swiftly off in his great horny talons to the old blasted pine in the heart of the swamp.

Only once or twice had the King been caught napping. That was when he made a great mistake and tried to rob the farmer’s muskrat trap, and the steel teeth had caught and nipped off one of his great horny toes, so that ever after that time he always hated the very sight of a muskrat, and never troubled them. Another time the King had a hard fight with a great blue heron. He had tried to take away a fish from the heron for which it had been fishing a long, long time, and somehow the heron’s long, sharp bill had punctured one of the King’s great, yellow eyes. Since his encounter with the heron, the King’s sight had not been so keen, and sometimes, when weary, or on a long flight, he flew with sideway motion.

Far up on a lofty ledge of the mountain which overhung the swamp, two bald eagles made their lonely, untidy nest every year, and raised their scrawny brood of young eaglets. The old eagles were faithful creatures, and looked out well for the wants of their young, never thinking of themselves at any time, so that they could get food enough to fill the wide-open, hungry mouths of their screaming little ones. It was simply wonderful how much the young eaglets ate to satisfy their hunger; for they managed to keep the old birds flying about for food from earliest daylight until the frogs began their evening song down in the marsh.

Very well the old King of the swamp knew of the eagles’ nest. He also knew just when the young eaglets were left lying alone in their nest, for at the early hour when the old eagles were forced to leave the ledge, the King was occasionally awake himself, especially if he himself had come home from his night’s wanderings hungry.

Once it happened that very, very early in the morning the King came back to the pine in a very bad humor, for he had been out all night long hunting for food, and he had found nothing worth eating.

“Who, ho, ho, ho-ho, ho-ho,” he grumbled to himself crossly. “Not a bite to eat all night.” Perhaps the old owl’s eyes were less keen than formerly. Nothing left for him to prey upon but hedgehogs. “Lazy things! Who wants to put their eyes out trying to eat a hedgehog?” thought the King. “Who, ho, ho-ho,” he croaked.

Just then he chanced to cock up one of his great eyes toward the ledge in time to see two dark shadowy forms hover over the edge. The old eagles were making a very early start for food for the eaglets.

Instantly the King was wide awake and alert; he waited only until the two dark shadows had passed out of sight over the mountain, then, silently, on his great, soft white wings he rose and rose in the air until level with the ledge, when he darted down and, seizing a young eaglet in his talons, was back to the pine again before the old eagles came back.

What a screaming and commotion took place when the old eagles returned and found one of their brood missing; but the old King cared little for this, for, having satisfied his pressing hunger, he was by this time safely hidden down inside the hollow pine, fast asleep.

The very next time the King happened to return home hungry after a night out, he instantly remembered about the young eagles. True enough, the one he had eaten had been exceedingly tough; but then, when one is hungry, young eagle is better than nothing at all. So, with his great golden eyes wide open and watching eagerly, he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the old eagles leave the nest and start forth in the early dawn; first one eagle arose from the ledge, flying straight over the mountain, then the mate soon followed after, and before she was fairly out of sight, unable to wait longer, for he was very hungry, swiftly the old King rose in the air to the eagles’ ledge.

“Screech, screech,” shrilled the young eaglets, and just then the old King’s maimed talon lost its grip of the young bird which he had selected, for young eaglets are strong, which made the youngsters screech still louder. Again the King’s horny talon gripped the eaglet, and so very much taken up was he, and so very hungry, that he utterly failed to see the shadow of a pair of wide wings gradually hovering, hovering, drawing closer to the ledge with every movement, until, with a sudden sound as of rustling silk, the wings wavered and dropped straight down from above, and the great lance-like talons of the enraged mother eagle were buried in the snowy back of the King, even before he had a chance to turn about and face her.

Then a mighty battle began between the mother eagle and the old King of the swamp. They finally cleared the ledge together, and went swirling out into space. Feathers of white and brown fell in showers, and floated down into the marsh, as they fought on and on, with great beaks snapping sharply, the eagle screaming weirdly, occasionally, as they battled in the air.

But the old King of the swamp had met his match at last, for the mother eagle well knew that she was fighting to the death the one who had robbed her nest before. In vain did the King seek to gain his home nest in the blasted pine. The eagle stuck to him, tearing at him cruelly with beak and talons until, finally, fluttering weakly, utterly exhausted, his spirit broken, blind and dying, the King began to fall. Fluttering weakly he began to settle down, down into a dark, hidden spot beneath the thick balsams. He had become just a mere bundle of snowy feathers now; all fierceness had departed, and there was nothing left of the King for the little wild things of the forest to longer fear and hate.

And that night when the frogs started off with their usual signal, calling all to awaken in the marshes, the “Who, ho, ho-ho, ho-ho, o-o” of the old King of the swamp was silent.

XX

THE GIANT OF THE CORN-FIELD

Dame Woodchuck, old and decrepit, came to the entrance of her burrow and peered anxiously forth, for she always poked the very tip of her brown nose out first, and then, if she happened to find the coast quite clear, she would venture to waddle entirely out.

Poor old thing, so old and covered with fat that she could not travel far; besides, one hind leg had once been caught in a steel trap and lamed, so that now she was almost doubly helpless. Her thick fur coat was of a dull reddish brown, and very much faded by sun and rain, and so badly worn off in certain places it looked really moth-eaten, while her black snout and stiff whiskers were quite gray with age.

Dame Woodchuck had very wisely selected her home, for you might stroll right past the great clump of rank nettles where it was, a hundred times without even suspecting that it concealed the door to a woodchuck’s burrow, because, you see, the vines of a wild woodbine trailed over the nettles, and formed such a fine curtain that it quite concealed the entrance to her home.

Of course all the little wild dwellers of the woods and her neighbors, who always know about such secret dwellings, might have told you where old Dame Woodchuck actually lived, but then, you see, they never did.

It was a bright, sunny day, and Dame Woodchuck enjoyed sitting in the door of her home, for the pleasant sun felt very grateful as it shone warmly down upon her aching old back. Besides, it was pleasant to chat with the neighbors who occasionally passed that way. After ascertaining, beyond a doubt, that her most dreaded enemy, the farmer’s yellow dog, whom she detested greatly because he delighted to pounce out upon her suddenly and worry and torment her, was nowhere in sight, with much wheezing and little chattering complaints, Dame Woodchuck managed to flop out of her burrow and sitting bolt upright upon her haunches, just in the brown, upturned earth in front of the nettle patch, she watched and waited for the return of her dilatory son, Ichabod. To tell the truth, the Dame was really beginning to feel a bit angry and out of patience with him, and well she might, for she was very, very hungry, and as she was now too old and lame to go off any distance to forage for herself she had to depend almost entirely upon Ichabod for food. Long had she been anticipating his return with the juicy, yellow turnips which he had been sent to bring from the farmer’s garden, where each year they grew so plentifully. What could have become of Ichabod? How tiresome to have to wait such a long, long while. Ichabod had been gone long enough to go to the garden and back twice over.

As Dame Woodchuck sat waiting for the turnips, pleasant recollections of bygone days suddenly came into her mind, days when the woodchuck family had been a large and happy one. Well she remembered the time when she and her mate had dug their burrow close to the beautiful field of pink clover, where every morning all the little woodchucks used to spend hours rolling and tumbling about in the fragrant, dew-laden blossoms.

What wonderful happiness had been theirs. But alas! to her sorrow, the farmer had found their burrow and broken up the happy family. One by one all the children had been caught in traps, until now but Ichabod remained of her five little ones. And then, worst blow of all, her mate, evidently faithless, had gone off and left them. Shortly after that the beautiful clover field had all been plowed up, and now it lay in ugly brown furrows, bare, unlovely, and as Dame Woodchuck looked back into the pleasant past a tear of grief and regret stole into her bleary eyes and trickled down her gray, furry cheeks.

Suddenly the Dame heard a scuffling, scuttling sound among the ferns, and then she speedily forgot all her sad thoughts, and was instantly alert, and listening with her small round ears. It was Ichabod. With a grunt of welcome and satisfaction she accepted eagerly, and fell to munching hungrily, the hard, unripe apple which he had brought to her. However, she felt far from satisfied with the apple, for she had all this time been anticipating the turnip, and the apple was so sour she did not relish it very keenly. Still, it was perhaps better than nothing at all. Ichabod had a strange story to tell, and the Dame listened with dismay as he told her that the farmer had planted no turnips in his garden this season. Evidently Ichabod had brought to his mother the very best he could find. But Ichabod brought also strange news.

A friendly raccoon, whom he had met during his absence, had told him quite a wonderful tale: that across the cranberry bogs, far over on the other side of the great hill covered with the pointed balsam firs, which lay in plain sight of the burrow, might be found a pleasant valley, and best of all in the valley was a great field of young corn. Already the plumy blades were beginning to bend down, heavy with their weight of milky sweet corn, upon whose juicy kernels one might live in luxury until the frost came, for not until then would the corn be harvested by the farmer.

Moreover, between the sentinel-like corn-stalks great golden pumpkins were fast ripening. Oh, what a land of plenty! If one were only there upon the enchanted ground. Dame Woodchuck gazed disconsolately and impatiently forth at the dreary prospect which lay spread out before her nettle-draped door and pondered over her situation. She knew that a time of action had arrived in the woodchuck family, and that she and Ichabod must surely go forth and seek a new home at last.

So that very night, when the great yellow moon rose over the dark hills, the Dame left her old burrow and waddled forth, with Ichabod following closely behind, to find a new home where food should be plentiful.

Across the perilous deep morasses of the cranberry bogs she dragged her unwieldy old body. Necessarily they traveled quite slowly, for the way seemed long and difficult, and the poor old thing was weak from lack of proper food. Often they paused in their night journey to rest and enjoy their new surroundings, for the Dame had never traveled very far from her old burrow before. Down in the thickets of the cranberry bog the whippoorwills sang plaintively their tremulous song; the Dame and Ichabod listened, and heard also, occasionally, the sleepy call of a nesting hermit thrush down in the meadows. Sometimes a hoot owl would brush past them, and call at them jeeringly. On the edge of the marshes they came into a great bed of dewy clover, sweet and cool. Here they paused to rest and feed.

Finally they reached the open country, and in the distance, in the moonlight, they plainly distinguished the tall wavy shadows of the corn of which the kind raccoon had told them. They had reached the promised land of plenty at last.

Very fortunately for the Dame and Ichabod they chanced to come across a deserted rabbit hole, which by a little judicious digging they very soon converted into quite a comfortable home; so that before any of the other little wild creatures in that neighborhood were awake the next morning the Dame and Ichabod had taken possession of their new burrow and were soon fast asleep in an upper chamber.

As Dame Woodchuck was so very weary and lame from her long journey she could not travel far from her home, but had to content herself at first with simply dragging herself to the door of the burrow, where she would gaze forth long and hopefully at the new and pleasant prospect spread out before her tired old eyes.

There, sure enough, not many fields away, lay the beautiful corn-field, where already choice ears filled with tender grains, just suited to her worn old teeth, were waiting, to be had for the taking, and she knew that already Ichabod was in the field, scurrying about beneath the wavy green plumes.

Great was the alarm and dismay of the Dame when Ichabod finally returned to her with no food and a strange fearsome tale of what had happened to him upon his first visit to the corn. It was all true enough about the fine, juicy corn; it was there, and plenty of it for everybody, just as the kind raccoon had told them. But, unfortunately, the whole field was ruled over, watched and guarded by a frightful monster, who occupied a commanding position right in the very center of the corn-field, where he guarded well the corn both by night and day; with angry, menacing mien he stood there, and no one dare intrude. Moreover, Solomon Crow and his family, who sat upon a rail fence near the corn-field, had told a terrible tale of certain unseen snares placed for the unwary, which the terrible creature had spread out all about him. Many of the crows had been caught in the innocent appearing threads, had given a few futile flops and strident caws, and that had been the last of them.

Oh, the giant who guarded the corn was indeed a fearful monster. Built upon similar lines to the farmer himself, whom they had all often seen, but far, far more horrible to look upon was this creature of the corn-field, who towered far above the tallest corn-stalks and held leveled at intruders an unknown weapon, from which fluttered yards and yards of fearsome streaming objects, and when the wind blew across the field the creature who guarded the corn shook with rage from top to toe. The giant’s hair was ragged and unkempt, and bristled forth fiercely from beneath his tattered old hat. Ichabod, somewhat bolder than others, wishing to get a full view, had crept as closely as he dared, and rising upon his hind legs, by the aid of a stone, he had stolen one fleeting glance full at the giant of the corn-field. One look had been quite sufficient for Ichabod and had sent him, panic-stricken with fear, hustling away; so hastily did he travel that he left a large tuft of his fur in a barb-wire fence beneath which he slid, and ran scuttling back home to his mother with chattering teeth.

Now Dame Woodchuck was very old and wise in experience, and she had in her long lifetime heard of such giants as Ichabod told her he had seen in the corn-field. And never in all her life had she ever heard of one of the creatures harming a woodchuck, in spite of gossip. After all, the crows were mostly gossips. It was certainly high time that Ichabod began to learn a few lessons from life, and have more courage and responsibility. Besides, the more the Dame thought of the luscious sweet corn so close at hand, the more hungry did she become.

So finally, quite unable to endure the trying situation longer, Dame Woodchuck herself started forth to investigate the matter. And Ichabod, not wishing to tarry home alone, ran along beside his old mother. They often stopped to rest and chat by the roadside, and all the terrifying stories which they heard of the giant filled them with secret dismay. But Dame Woodchuck was very brave at heart and did not lose her courage easily. So skirting the edge of the corn-field they soon gained a little hillock, where they had a full view of the monster. It was only too true; there he stood, undaunted and firm, waving aloft his fluttering, terrifying warning. Dame Woodchuck and Ichabod sat bolt upright upon their haunches and stared at the creature with bulging eyes.

Just at that very moment a deafening bang sounded, and a great cloud of smoke arose from the vicinity of the giant, and the next moment Peter Rabbit, with a wild cry of warning, dashed past them in mad haste, running for his very life. In an instant Dame Woodchuck and Ichabod had dropped down flat upon their stomachs and there they lay trembling together beneath a great bunch of burdock leaves. Perhaps even now the giant was searching about among the corn for them. They waited until their courage returned and finally crept back home again, quite sadly disappointed, for they had not even been able to taste a kernel of corn.

The situation in the woodchuck home was, after this, rather a desperate one, for food was again becoming scarce. How aggravating, too, when the luscious corn was ripening almost within sight of their door.

Dame Woodchuck’s sides soon became quite flabby, so that her fur coat actually hung in plaits and ridges upon her back, so loose did it become, while her eyes fairly bulged with anxiety and discouragement.

“‘Tis always darkest before dawn,” as the saying goes, and already brighter days were in store for the Dame and Ichabod.

One dark night, when they were fast asleep in their snug burrow, they were suddenly awakened in the middle of the night by a terrific rumbling and crashing above their heads. This frightful commotion and din went on all night long, and cowardly Ichabod squeaked and shook with fear, and crept close to his mother’s side.

“Lie still, O timorous one,” said his mother, trying to quiet him. “Do not be afraid; ’tis but the great Storm Spirit. He is passing this way.” By morning the commotion had ceased, and then Ichabod and his mother ventured to peer forth from their door. And what a sight was that which greeted their eyes. Great trees of the forest now lay prone upon the ground, which the mighty Storm Spirit in his strength had laid low everywhere in passing, for he had left ruin in his wake.

And then Peter Rabbit scurried past their door, and paused long enough to tell them some great and glorious good news, which was, that the mighty Storm Spirit had actually destroyed their great enemy, the terrible giant of the corn-field. At last the terrible creature had been conquered, and now lay prone and helpless upon the ground, a terror no longer to the little timid wild creatures who wore fur and feathers.

Already the crows were cawing the news triumphantly over his remains and feasting meantime greedily upon the unguarded corn, and then, very soon the Dame and Ichabod had joined them, and were burying their sharp teeth hungrily in the milky sweet kernels of corn. For the reign of the corn giant was now at an end, and soon Dame Woodchuck and her son became very, very plump and sleek, and fine and strong. And when the autumn winds began to blow chill and keen, and Jack Frost came and froze over all the little brooks and waterways, then they withdrew into their snug burrow for the winter, as they always do, and after stuffing up the entrance of their door securely with leaves and earth, that the snow might not drift and filter inside, there they slumbered together, comfortable and warm, until it was time to come out in the spring to see if they could find their shadows; for the woodchucks know best of any of the little forest creatures when spring is actually come.

XXI

THE BRAVERY OF EBENEZER COON

“De raccoon tail am ringed all ’roun.”

Once, a long time ago, there lived in an old oak tree in the middle of a deep forest, a large family of raccoons. In due course of time all the little ones grew up, and choosing mates, as is their custom, one after the other they deserted the old home tree until finally the only remaining one was Ebenezer. Ebenezer so loved the deep, comfortable nest, hollowed out far down in the trunk of the oak tree, that he preferred to stay right there instead of going out into the world with his brothers and sisters and finding a new home.

So there he lived all alone and in time he became known as a sort of a hermit. Ebenezer was really a fine, handsome fellow, with a black, pointed snout and stiffly bristling whiskers, deep, yellowish-brown fur, expressive, meditative green eyes, and small, alert, round ears, and when he moved about, or the wind blew across his fat back, his fur was so long and fine that it actually waved. But most remarkable of all Ebenezer’s many attractions was, perhaps, his fine, plume-like tail, of which he was inordinately vain.

Now Ebenezer Coon took what might be called “solid comfort.” The baying hounds never molested him, for just beneath and all around his home tree grew a perfect battlement of thorn bush, and often Ebenezer, from a safe retreat in some abandoned squirrel’s nest, would peek cautiously over its edge and with little rumbling grunts of satisfaction and fun he would watch the baffled hounds who had scented his retreat, while they gave up the chase in disgust, backing out with torn, bleeding ears and cruel spikes from the thorn bush piercing their inquisitive snouts.

One night, just as the big, yellow moon arose from behind the dark mountains, and its rays began to penetrate and filter through the thick dark pines, Ebenezer awoke from his customary, all-day sleep and began to pull himself up out of his nest. He dearly loved to go abroad on a moonlight night, enjoying the scenery while he leisurely foraged about for food. Having clawed his way up out of his hole he took up his position on a flat limb of the pine, gazing forth over the prospect with approval, and turning over in his mind just what he should do that night.

The owls were already out, hooting and calling soft answers back and forth to each other, and hermit thrushes were still singing their plaintive lullabies drowsily, in the thorn thickets, while down in the marshes the frogs and peepers had already begun their nightly serenade. Occasionally, from far off over the mountain, a whippoorwill called lonesomely. Even the bats were out foraging, for the soft night moths which they loved to hunt on the wing, and flapped, squeaking shrilly, close to Ebenezer’s head.

Ebenezer felt lazy, and began to stretch out first one black, claw-tipped foot, then the other, yawning and showing all his little sharp white teeth. At last he was quite awake and instantly began to realize that he was frightfully hungry. His pressing needs soon set his sluggish wits to work and he began to think longingly of a far-away field of ripening corn. True, the corn was a long distance from home, but Ebenezer never bothered about distances when he went hunting for sweet corn. It was the one dainty in all the world for which he cared most.

Now the more he thought about the milk-white, ripening kernels of corn, encased in their pale green, silken husks, the hungrier did Ebenezer become, until, unable to endure the situation longer, with sudden, desperate haste he began to slide and claw his way down the trunk of the oak tree. Ebenezer was now in fine spirits, for the night was simply perfect, and just suited his plans, so he frolicked along the forest path, often giving little ridiculous skips and bounds into the air for sheer joy. He skirted a deep ravine, then crossed the brook where he paused to dip his black snout into the bubbles, scattering a shoal of silvery minnows leaping and playing in the water.

Just before Ebenezer reached the corn-field he came across a queer, round bundle, or ball, lying directly in his path. Ebenezer never turned out for anything which happened to be in his road. He was far too indolent to do that--he always waited for others to make way for him. So he kept right on, and when he came close to the queer ball he playfully decided to see if it was alive, and have some fun with it. He reached forth, rather gingerly at first, and touched the thing with the tip of his paw. It did not move, so then he commenced to jostle it rudely about with his black snout. Just as he was beginning to rather enjoy the game, all of a sudden the supposed ball suddenly unrolled itself, stood upright and charged savagely at him. And then before Ebenezer knew it, he had been bowled over on his fat back, with his nose and cheeks stuck full of cruel sharp quills. The supposed ball had simply been a stray porcupine who had rolled himself up into a neat ball and gone to sleep.

Without stopping to even glance at poor Ebenezer, the porcupine, having revenged himself for being disturbed, turned and waddled back into the forest, grunting indignantly to himself as he traveled.

“Gar-r-r-r, gar-r-r-r,” snarled Ebenezer in a perfect frenzy of agony and rage, lifting his fore paws to his smarting cheeks and trying vainly to pull out the sharp, barbed quills which were penetrating his flesh. But he soon found out that the more he rubbed and scratched, the worse the cruel quills hurt him.

“Gar-r-r-r, gar-r-r-r,” howled Ebenezer again, more loudly and impatiently than before. Just then a white cottontail rabbit chanced to be passing that way, and heard the agonized cries of the poor raccoon and instantly saw what had happened, for once one of her own family had encountered a porcupine.

“Friend Raccoon, you seem to be in trouble,” said the kind rabbit, in the language in which the little wild creatures of the forest converse together. “Pray, let me help you, for I understand just exactly what to do.”

So saying, the white rabbit, with her soft little paws, deftly removed the cruel needles from the raccoon’s face, and then bidding him seek for a mullein leaf covered with night dew, and apply it to his smarting wounds, she left him.

Of course Ebenezer was most grateful to the kind rabbit for her timely aid, and he then and there made up his mind that if ever it lay in his power to repay the rabbit’s kindness he would go out of his way to do so. Then Ebenezer, after satisfying his hunger with corn, went back to his home, and rolling himself into a fur ball, went to sleep.

In spite of the fact that Ebenezer was indolent and lazy by nature, he possessed one very commendable trait of character. He was extremely neat and dainty in all his habits, and never dreamed of tasting a morsel of food which he might chance to find until he had first given it a thorough washing, whatever the food might be, if a turnip, an ear of corn or a land crab. Just as soon as Ebenezer found it he would always hurry away to the nearest pool and thoroughly rinse it before he ate it.

Some time after his adventure with the porcupine, he happened to be out hunting for food. Now there had been a great freshet in the land at that time, so food was very scarce and many of the little wild things had lost their lives, or been driven from their homes along the banks of the brook by the mighty, rushing waters. Of course the raccoon was quite safe, for his home nest was high above the freshet. Ebenezer chanced upon a floating corn-stalk that day, on which he was delighted to find an ear of corn. It was a lucky find for the hungry raccoon, and, very happy about it, he hastily stripped off the husk and leaning over the stream began to rinse the ear of corn in the water. Just as he had decided that it was properly rinsed, and that he might as well eat it, he suddenly heard a cry of fear and agony, and looking up-stream, he saw a strange sight.

Borne upon the rushing, muddy waters of the freshet he saw a log, and upon it were three little white rabbits. They were clinging frantically to the log, which came whirling swiftly on down-stream. Just below thundered and roared the falls, and should they plunge over them they must surely perish. Ebenezer saw their danger. At the same instant he also realized that now had come the opportunity to show forth his gratitude for the rabbit’s kindness to him.

That very instant the log swerved and was caught and held fast by the branch of a tree. Oh, would the branch hold it? With quick, bold strokes Ebenezer plunged straight into the roaring, rushing waters, and swam quickly out to the log. He realized, however, that he could never reach the shore again if the rabbits clung to his wet body and hampered his movements in the water, so instantly he told them just what to do.

“Quick, seize hold of my tail and hang on for dear life,” called Ebenezer to the first little rabbit. And then with the little, frightened thing clinging desperately to his plumy tail, Ebenezer swam quickly to the shore and left it and returning twice again, he succeeded in saving the last little helpless rabbit just as the log with a lunge went swirling down-stream.

Ebenezer Coon was very tired indeed after the rescue, and the last time he swam back to shore his fur was so heavy with water and the additional weight of the last little rabbit that it was all he could do to manage to reach the bank. So, faint and weary, for a while Ebenezer lay exhausted upon the bank, while the three little rabbits, after drying their fur in the sunshine, bade Ebenezer farewell and scurried back home to their mother.

After Ebenezer felt rested, he found his ear of corn again, nibbled a bit at it to stay his hunger, then dragged his tired body home, and clawing his way heavily up into the home tree, rolled himself up comfortably and slept.

Now all unbeknown to Ebenezer, while he slumbered, much excitement and gossip was taking place among all the little wild folk of the forest, for everybody was commenting upon the brave act of Ebenezer Coon in saving the three little white rabbits. And then the kind fairy of the woods, who watches and rewards all such little creatures for their good deeds and acts of bravery, especially, and knows everything which takes place in the animal kingdom, of course soon knew all about Ebenezer’s bravery, therefore planned out a little surprise which should be his reward.

So when Ebenezer finally awoke from his long nap, and came out as usual to sit and sun himself upon his favorite limb in the oak tree, then all the little wild things saw at once when they looked upon Ebenezer Coon that he had indeed been rewarded for his bravery, because the raccoon’s tail, which had always been just plain gray in color, like the rest of his coat, was now ringed about with five beautifully shaded jet-black rings--the decoration, the wonderful badge of distinction conferred on Ebenezer Coon for his bravery. And so ever since that time the beautiful, plumy tail of every raccoon in the kingdom has been marked with five jet-black rings.

XXII

THE NARROW ESCAPE OF VELVET WINGS

“Whir, whir, whir,” sounded the swish of many silken wings. The swallows had arrived from the South; thousands of them there were, long winged and dusky brown, with faintly russet breasts. So full of joyous bustle they were over their arrival, “cheep, cheep, cheeping,” making a great clamor as they separated into colonies, seeking to locate for the summer. The old red barn seemed to invite them; in fact, two colonies had a regular pitched battle over its possession, until at last the stronger band drove away the weaker, and took possession of the coveted spot. They swarmed into the old barn through small windows high in its peak, chattering together as they selected building sites, many of them hastily using last season’s mud-caked foundations. So great a disturbance did the swallows make in the silence of the dim, old barn that they disturbed and finally awakened many who had not aroused themselves from their winter’s torpor and sleep.

Far up in a distant peak of the barn, in a certain dim corner, where a great rafter lapped, forming a secluded sort of shelf, there hung, stretched across the corner, an unusually large cobweb curtain. The old gray spider who had spun the web had abandoned his web when cold weather came, and crawled down into the warm hay. Gradually thick dust collected upon the web curtain, and well it did, because back of it, upon the wide, dusty beam it covered, lay two torpid things, resembling nothing so much as two round balls of brown fur.

The strident chatter of the swallows had penetrated the small round ears of the two fur balls, perhaps, or it might have been the light from a stray yellow sunbeam, which at a certain hour of each day had a way of filtering through a crack and warming their retreat. At any rate, one of the torpid things began to slowly undo itself; a small, mouse-like head appeared first, having round, delicate ears of membrane, which appeared rather too large for its head. Its eyes, when it opened them, were exactly like two black-jet beads, and its rather wide, pink mouth was liberally armed with tiny, saw-like teeth, which the fur ball showed as it yawned sleepily, stretching itself, and spreading out its wings, to which were attached by a thin membrance its forearms and legs. Then, fully awake, it plunged straight through the cobweb curtain, tearing it apart from end to end, and sending back a sharp, encouraging squeak to the smaller fur ball to follow.

Of course the two ridiculous fur balls were just the bat family, and lifelong tenants of the old red barn, as everybody knows. The smaller, more timorous bat, soon followed her mate from behind the web curtain and joined him upon the broad beam. But so clumsy and half awake was she that the very first thing she did was to make a misstep and go pitching off the high beam into space. She landed upon the hay, fortunately, and then began the funniest sight. Did you ever chance to see a bat when it attempted to walk? They seldom use their feet, and when they do it is a droll sight.