Chapter V: Part 5

He came to the first door, and a sudden inspiration came to him. He never knew how it was, but he felt perfectly confident which was his right hand. It seemed perfectly simple, somehow. It was this one. So he turned out into the garden.

He didn’t see any corn-shocks. But he was not surprised at that. His mother had said maybe they would have been hauled away by this time. He looked ahead. Yes, there was the big stone. It did look a good deal like a cement horse-block. “But then,” he said to himself, “they make stone these days so that you can hardly tell it from cement.” He looked for the two scarecrows. If they were there he would know he was right. And there they were. They were awfully good imitations of men. One of them was walking about just a little. As he went by them, he noticed that neither of them had a gun, but he heard one of them say to the other, “Ever eat ’em?” “The young uns,” said the other, “are pretty good; old ones too tough.” Monax was much interested, but he was not frightened. On a page of the “Scientific American,” which his mother brought home a few weeks before, he had read about the talking pictures that Mr. Edison had invented. He hadn’t read of the talking scarecrows, but he had no doubt there were such. “You never can tell what these men will invent next,” he said as he moved leisurely by.

At the big stone he turned--this way--he said to himself. “It is surprising how sure I am about my right hand now.” He came to the edge of the field. There, just as his mother had said, was the barn. It looked more like a garage than a barn. But styles change. Anyway, there it was to the right, just as his mother had told him. “If you are sure of your direction everything else takes care of itself,” he said. “The location is right.”

He went into the barn. He noticed the odour; something like gasoline. He looked for the horses; none there. He glanced about for the basket of corn. All he saw, instead, was a bunch of waste lying on top of a big red tank. Where the horses ought to have been was an automobile. “Probably they have changed it over from a barn to a garage since mother was here,” he said; “if you are going to keep up with the times these days you can’t stay in the house; you’ve got to get out where things are doing.” It was no use to look for corn there. He had had no instructions to bring home gasoline. His mother used ammonia instead. So he took his time to look around the barn, and then moved leisurely out. Just a few yards to the right again, as his mother had said, was the corn-crib. He had never seen one before, and this one looked small to him. It looked more like a dog-house to him. But the location was right again--“always to the right,” his mother said.

The old wagon box wasn’t there. But at the back end of the corn-crib there was a board tacked up from the crib to the tree. That was probably one end of the scaffold that had held the wagon box. Of course they wouldn’t leave the wagon box there all the fall. Probably they were using it to haul corn, at that very moment, to that very crib.

Meantime Mrs. Woodchuck was growing very worried at home--for Monax had taken more time for his journey than his mother thought he would. Mr. Woodchuck’s knee was very bad, and whenever he had rheumatism he was more pessimistic than usual. “I tell you,” said he, “that boy will never get home. He doesn’t know his right hand from his left.” “I tell you he does,” said Mrs. Woodchuck; “I tried him on it just before he went.” “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mr. Woodchuck stuck to his position, “if he had turned out that left-hand door, into the garden and had gone to the garage instead of the barn. There is one thing sure; if he tries to get corn out of that dog kennel, he will find out his mistake.” Mr. Woodchuck’s lack of sympathy always irritated his wife.

“Keep still,” she said, “you will give me nervous prostration again if you keep saying such things.”

Monax had climbed up onto the board. He paused to look around a moment. Then thinking that he must not be quite so leisurely, he jumped quickly through the little window just under the roof.

Then things began to happen so fast that Monax could hardly keep track of them. For what Monax had really done was just what his father said he probably would do. He had turned to the left every time, where he ought to have turned to the right. He had gone through the garden instead of the cornfield, past the cement horse-block instead of the big stone, mistaken the garage for the barn, and now, worst luck of all, he had jumped into the dog kennel instead of into the corn-crib.

The old dog had been after the sheep and cows, and was fast asleep on the floor of his kennel. Still, he didn’t propose to lie there and be jumped on by a woodchuck--not in his own kennel. And Monax--well, perhaps he wasn’t surprised when, instead of landing on top of a crib of corn he fell clear to the bottom, and felt his feet touching something furry that moved. But it didn’t have time to move much. Monax felt that a crisis had arrived in his career, and it was time to act. He didn’t wait to look for the door of the kennel; he didn’t want to try any more new routes. He just rebounded off the back of the dog like a rubber ball from the pavement. Up he went, breaking the woodchuck record for the high jump, back through the window, onto the board, down to the ground quick as a flash. The dog was after him, but Monax was six feet ahead. Away he went, past the barn; the auto was just backing out; it came over Monax that it wasn’t a barn after all. He dodged under the machine; the dog had to run around it; three feet more gained. He went by the big stone at full speed,--it looked more than ever to him like a cement horse-block. Past the two scarecrows; he could see that they had moved quite a little since he passed them coming out, and one of them had a gun now. Bang, it went; he felt the shot pass through his tail, and it increased his speed to forty miles. He didn’t have much time to reflect, but it did come over him that those were not scarecrows, but men, and that what he had overheard them say a half hour before about the “young uns being good to eat” might possibly have had some reference to himself. On he sped, through the garden; it was perfectly plain now that it had never been a cornfield, and on like a flash through the garden door into the log-house, and into his father’s room--fluttering, trembling, and more dead than alive.

“Did you turn to the right?” asked his mother.

“I did--on the way back,” said Monax.

MRS. BUNNY’S DINNER PARTY

ANNA E. SKINNER

Reprinted from “The Churchman.”

“Are you ready, my dear?” said Mr. Bobtail, looking at his large watch. “Mrs. Bunny will expect us to come in good time to her dinner party.”

“I shall be ready in a few minutes, Mr. Bobtail. I wonder how many are invited. We always meet fine people at Mrs. Bunny’s house.”

Mrs. Bobtail brought out her little gray silk bonnet, and Mr. Bobtail’s best birch cane.

“Come,” she said, “it is a good half hour’s walk to Bramble Hollow. Shall we go around by the way of Cabbage-Patch Lane?”

“Oh, no, my dear, let us take a short cut through the meadow.”

Off they started arm in arm across the sunlit fields.

“See, there are Mr. and Mrs. Frisk gathering nuts,” said Mr. Bobtail. “Jack Frost shook the trees last night. There are plenty lying on the ground.”

“Good morning. How are all the little Friskies?” called Mrs. Bobtail.

“Oh, how do you do! They are quite well, thank you,” said Mrs. Frisk.

“The nuts are fine this fall, Mr. Frisk,” said Mr. Bobtail, shaking hands with his friend.

“Yes, indeed. We have gathered a great many for our winter store. But you see we dare not stop long in this open field.” Mr. Frisk dropped his voice and glanced about in all directions. Then he added, “This is hunting season, you know.”

“What! Do you mean you are afraid of hunters?” asked Mr. Bobtail in surprise.

“Indeed, we are,” said Mrs. Frisk, coming a little nearer. “From our cosy home up in the hollow of this tree we saw two hunters crossing the field this morning. When their dogs sniffed about the ground and barked up the tree, we held our breath in fear.”

“Yes,” added Mr. Frisk, “and in a short time we heard ‘bang! bang!’ I tell you we didn’t venture down to gather nuts for several hours.”

“How dreadful! And we are on our way to Mrs. Bunny’s dinner party,” said Mrs. Bobtail, looking in all directions; “do you think we had better go on, my dear?”

“Of course! Of course! I’ve never had the least fear of a gun! Let hunters bang away as much as they please, they will never frighten me.” Mr. Bobtail straightened up as he spoke, and tossed back his head. “Come, Mrs. Bobtail. Good day, my friends.”

“Good day. We hope you will have a pleasant time,” said Mr. Frisk.

“Isn’t Mr. Bobtail wonderfully brave?” said Mrs. Frisk, looking after her friends.

When they came near Bramble Hollow, Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail met some of their friends. There were Mr. and Mrs. Pinkeye, Mr. and Mrs. Longears, Mr. and Mrs. Cottontail,--all on their way to the dinner party.

Mr. and Mrs. Bunny were waiting for their guests. The little Bunnies had been told how to behave.

“Now, my dears,” their mother had said, “you may play out-of-doors while we are at dinner. When we have finished I’ll call you. Now no matter how hungry you are don’t dare peep in at the windows. And if anything happens to frighten you slip into the kitchen and wait there quietly until I come.”

Away scampered four happy little Bunnies.

At noon all the guests had reached Bramble Hollow. Mr. and Mrs. Bunny welcomed them, and in a little while all were seated around the table laughing and talking merrily.

“What fine salad this is, Mrs. Bunny,” said Mrs. Longears. “The cabbage hearts are very sweet this fall.”

Mrs. Bunny nodded pleasantly and said, “Do have some lettuce, Mr. Bobtail. I’m sure your long walk must have made you hungry.”

“I hope you will like our carrots,” said Mr. Bunny, helping himself to another. “Come, Mrs. Cottontail, let me help you to another serving of turnip tops.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bunny. What a pleasant home you have here in Bramble Hollow. Do hunters ever wander into this quiet corner?”

“Well, yes. They stroll through the hollow sometimes.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Cottontail.

“Our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Frisk, were telling us that they saw two hunters crossing the fields this morning,” said Mrs. Bobtail.

“This morning!” cried some of the guests, pricking up their ears.

“Come, come, my friends,” said Mr. Bobtail, laughing, “I see I shall have to quiet you. I never could see why so many rabbits are afraid of a gun! I have often stayed quietly under a hedge while a hunter fired shots as near to me as----”

“Bang! bang! bang!”

Four little Bunnies leaped through the window, and jumped right over the table, upsetting many of the dishes.

Mr. Bobtail darted off his chair at the same time, and rushed to a corner of the kitchen, where he stayed, shaking with fear.

The other guests did not move or speak for several minutes. Then Mrs. Bunny caught sight of Mr. Bobtail in the corner. “Come out, Mr. Bobtail,” she called, “I’m sure the hunters have gone into the next field.”

THE NUTCRACKERS OF NUTCRACKER LODGE

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

Mr. and Mrs. Nutcracker were as respectable a pair of squirrels as ever wore gray brushes over their backs. They lived in Nutcracker Lodge, a hole in a sturdy old chestnut tree overhanging a shady dell. Here they had reared many families of young Nutcrackers, who were models of good behavior in the forest.

But it happened in the course of time that they had a son named Featherhead, who was as different from all the other children of the Nutcracker family as if he had been dropped out of the moon into their nest. He was handsome enough, and had a lively disposition, but he was sulky and contrary and unreasonable. He found fault with everything his respectable papa and mama did. Instead of helping with up nuts and learning other lessons proper to a young squirrel,--he sneered at all the good old ways and customs of the Nutcracker Lodge, and said they were behind the times. To be sure he was always on hand at meal times, and played a very lively tooth on the nuts which his mother had collected, always selecting the best for himself. But he seasoned his nibbling with much grumbling and discontent.

Papa Nutcracker would often lose his patience, and say something sharp to Featherhead, but Mamma Nutcracker would shed tears, and beg her darling boy to be a little more reasonable.

While his parents, brothers, and sisters were cheerfully racing up and down the branches laying up stores for the winter, Featherhead sat apart, sulking and scolding.

“Nobody understands me,” he grumbled. “Nobody treats me as I deserve to be treated. Surely I was born to be something of more importance than gathering a few chestnuts and hickory-nuts for the winter. I am an unusual squirrel.”

“Depend upon it, my dear,” said Mrs. Nutcracker to her husband, “that boy is a genius.”

“Fiddlestick on his genius!” said old Mr. Nutcracker; “what does he _do_?”

“Oh, nothing, of course, but they say that is one of the marks of genius. Remarkable people, you know, never come down to common life.”

“He eats enough for any two,” said old Nutcracker, “and he never helps gather nuts.”

“But, my dear, Parson Too-Whit, who has talked with Featherhead, says the boy has very fine feelings,--so much above those of the common crowd.”

“Feelings be hanged,” snapped old Nutcracker. “When a fellow eats all the nuts that his mother gives him, and then grumbles at her, I don’t believe much in his fine feelings. Why doesn’t he do something? I’m going to tell my fine young gentleman that if he doesn’t behave himself I’ll tumble him out of the nest neck and crop, and see if hunger won’t do something toward bringing down his fine airs.”

“Oh, my dear,” sobbed Mrs. Nutcracker, falling on her husband’s neck with both paws, “do be patient with our darling boy.”

Now although the Nutcrackers belonged to the fine old race of the Grays, they kept on the best of terms with all branches of the squirrel family. They were very friendly to the Chipmunks of Chipmunk Hollow. Young Tip Chipmunk, the oldest son, was in all respects a perfect contrast to Master Featherhead. Tip was lively and cheerful, and very alert in getting food for the family. Indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Chipmunk had very little care, but could sit at the door of their hole and chat with neighbours, quite sure that Tip would bring everything out right for them, and have plenty laid up for winter.

“What a commonplace fellow that Tip Chipmunk is,” sneered Featherhead one day. “I shall take care not to associate with him.”

“My dear, you are too hard on poor Tip,” said Mrs. Nutcracker. “He is a very good son, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he’s good enough,” said Featherhead, “but he’s so common. He hasn’t an idea in his skull above his nuts and Chipmunk Hollow. He is good-natured enough, but, dear me, he has no manners! I hope, mother, you won’t invite the Chipmunks to the Thanksgiving dinner--these family dinners are such a bore.”

“But, my dear Featherhead, your father thinks a great deal of the Chipmunks--they are our relatives you know,” said Mother Nutcracker.

“So are the High-Flyers our relatives. If we could get them to come there would be some sense to it. But of course a flying squirrel would never come to our house if a common chipmunk is a guest. It isn’t to be expected,” said Featherhead.

“Confound him for a puppy,” said old Nutcracker. “I wish good, industrious sons like Tip Chipmunk _were_ common.”

But in the end Featherhead had his way, and the Chipmunks were not invited to Nutcracker Lodge for Thanksgiving dinner. However, they were not all offended. Indeed, Tip called early in the morning to pay his compliments of the season, and leave a few dainty beechnuts.

“He can’t even see that he is not wanted here,” sneered Featherhead.

At last old papa declared it was time for Featherhead to choose some business.

“What are you going to do, my boy?” he asked. “We are driving now a thriving trade in hickory nuts, and if you would like to join us----”

“Thank you,” said Featherhead, “the hickory trade is too slow for me. I was never made to grub and delve in that way. In fact I have my own plans.”

To be plain, Featherhead had formed a friendship with the Rats of Rat Hollow--a race of people whose honesty was doubtful. Old Longtooth Rat was a money-lender, and for a long time he had had his eye on Featherhead as a person silly enough to suit the business which was neither more nor less than downright stealing.

Near Nutcracker Lodge was a large barn filled with corn and grain, besides many bushels of hazelnuts, chestnuts and walnuts. Now old Longtooth told Featherhead that he should nibble a passage into the loft, and set up a commission business there--passing out nuts and grain as Longtooth wanted them. He did not tell Featherhead a certain secret--namely, that a Scotch terrier was about to be bought to keep rats from the grain.

“How foolish such drudging fellows as Tip Chipmunk are!” said Featherhead to himself. “There he goes picking up a nut here and a grain there, whereas I step into property at once.”

“I hope you are honest in your dealings, my son,” said old Nutcracker.

Featherhead threw his tail saucily over one shoulder and laughed. “Certainly, sir, if honesty means getting what you can while it is going, I mean to be honest.”

Very soon Featherhead seemed to be very prosperous. He had a splendid hole in the midst of a heap of chestnuts, and he seemed to be rolling in wealth. He lavished gifts on his mother and sisters; he carried his tail very proudly over his back. He was even gracious to Tip Chipmunk.

But one day as Featherhead was lolling in his hole, up came two boys with the friskiest, wiriest Scotch terrier you ever saw. His eyes blazed like torches. Featherhead’s heart died within him as he heard the boys say, “Now we’ll see if we can catch the rascal that eats our grain.”

Featherhead tried to slink out of the hole he had gnawed to come in by, but found it stopped.

“Oh, you are there, are you, Mister?” cried the boy. “Well, you don’t get out, and now for a chase.”

And sure enough poor Featherhead ran with terror up and down through the bundles of hay. But the barking terrier was at his heels, and the boys shouted and cheered. He was glad at last to escape through a crack, though he left half of his fine brush behind him--for Master Wasp, the terrier, made a snap at it just as Featherhead was squeezing through. Alas! all the hair was cleaned off so that it was as bare as a rat’s tail.

Poor Featherhead limped off, bruised and beaten, with the dog and boys still after him, and they would have caught him if Tip Chipmunk’s hole had not stood open to receive him. Tip took the best of care of him, but the glory of Featherhead’s tail had gone forever. From that time, though, he was a sadder and a wiser squirrel than he ever had been before.

BUSHY’S BRAVERY

Mr. Squirrel was disappointed when he peeped his head out of his hollow tree early one morning. Not one nut was to be seen on the ground.

“Jack Frost did not come last night. I see no nuts anywhere. It will take a long time to get all we need from the tree, I fear,” he said to Mrs. Squirrel, who was standing close beside him.

“But Jack Frost will come to our tree,” she said. “He never fails. See, there’s Mrs. Bushytail out early. She seems to be looking around, too. Perhaps Jack Frost has shaken them down for her. Let’s run down and see.”

Away frisked Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel as fast as their legs could take them, to see what Jack Frost had done for their neighbour. But, no, he had not visited Mrs. Bushytail’s tree. She had looked all over the ground, and there wasn’t a nut in sight. She couldn’t explain it herself.

“Let us wait until to-morrow morning,” said Mrs. Squirrel, “he will be sure to come to-night. Then what fun Bushy and Frisky will have gathering them. They will have to work hard to get enough for our winter store. Boys love nuts, too,” she added with a sigh. “But we will wait.”

Morning came and frosty Jack had been there in earnest, for the nuts lay all over the ground.

“Now to work,” said Father Squirrel. “Come, Bushy and Frisky.”

It was a busy day for Mr. Squirrel’s family. They well knew how many, many nuts are needed for the winter’s store, and Mr. Squirrel kept telling Bushy and Frisky that they would have to work hard, and perhaps until the sun went down that day.

But alas for those little squirrels. “Boys love nuts, too,” Mrs. Squirrel had said over and over again, and when a rustle was heard in the bushes behind the trees, and the sound of boys’ voices came loud and clear, these little workers had to take to their heels, and whisk up the hollow tree. There they stayed trembling with fear. In a few minutes Bushy, a little braver than the rest, ventured to peep out of a small hole. Frisky stood just back of him.

“Boys--three of them--and they all have bags!”

Poor Bushy and Frisky. If there was one thing that these little squirrels loved to do more than another it was to gather nuts--and now their chance was spoiled, for the boys were really there, and would be sure to take every nut they could find.

“They’re working hard,” said Bushy.

“Will they leave any for us?” asked Frisky, not even daring to peep out.

“Sh! Listen, Frisky. I heard one of the boys say that there are some nuts under the other tree. Two of the boys are going there now. It’s Mrs. Bushytail’s tree. But look, Frisky, they have left two of the bags.”

“Where, Bushy?”

“One of the boys is sitting on one of them. He is cracking nuts, I think.”

“And the other bag, Bushy?”

“The other one is close by our tree,” and before any one could say a word, Bushy was out of the hole, down the tree, and close to the big bag. Mrs. Squirrel tried to call him back, but it was of no use. Up and down the bag he ran, first to the top and then to the sides. But he could not get in--the bag was tied tight. But Bushy’s teeth were sharp.

“Dear, dear,” said his mother, “here come the boys back, and they will surely see Bushy--dear, dear.”

Bushy caught sight of the boys coming toward the tree for their bags, and with a whisk and a scamper he was up the tree again and into his hole in no time.

“Dear, dear Bushy,” said his mother. “What a fright you gave us all. Just see those boys. There’s no telling what would have happened if they had seen you.”

Mr. Squirrel’s family watched the boys pick up their bags, throw them over their shoulders and go away.

“Why, Tom, look at your bag,” said one of the boys. “It has a hole in it. You must have lost ever so many nuts along the way.”

“A hole?” asked Tom in surprise, as he lifted the bag from his shoulder. “So it has--and a pretty big one, too. I wonder how it ever came there. It wasn’t there when I started.”

The boys were gone, and Mr. Squirrel’s family ventured out once more.

“It’s of no use, I fear,” began Mrs. Squirrel; “those boys were good workers and--dear me, here are nuts sprinkled all along the road. What does it mean?” asked Mrs. Squirrel.

“It is strange,” said Mr. Squirrel. “I really thought those boys had found them all, but perhaps boys’ eyes are not so sharp as we think.”

Bushy kept on gathering the nuts and smiling to himself. How sly he was. Not one of the family seemed to guess the truth. It was only when he and Frisky were going to bed that night that Frisky dared to whisper, “Bushy, did you put that hole in that bag?”

NUT GATHERERS

Hark! how they chatter
Down the dusk Road,
See them come patter,
Each with his Load.

What have you sought, then,
Gay little Band?
What have you brought, then,
Each in his Hand?

No need to ask it;
No need to tell;
In Bag and in Basket
Your nuts show well!

Nuts from the wild-wood;
Sweet Nuts to eat;
Sweetest in Childhood
When life is sweet.

There they go patter,
Each with his Load;
Hark! how they chatter
Down the dusk Road.
HAMISH HENDRY.

IN HARVEST FIELDS

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUMPKIN’

When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guiney’s, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylcoyer as he tiptoes on the fence,
O, it’s then’s the time a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

ORIGIN OF INDIAN CORN

Once upon a time an Indian chief sat alone in his wigwam thinking about the needs of his tribe. For more than a year food had been very scarce, and they were suffering from a scanty fare of roots, herbs, and berries. Many of the people had come to him in their misery.

“We ask you to help us, brave chief,” they cried. “Will you not entreat the Great Spirit to send us some of the food from the Happy Hunting Grounds where it is so plentiful? See how weak and thin our young braves are. Help us or we shall die.”

“I’ll go into the depths of the forest,” said the chief. “There I’ll live until the Great Spirit tells me how to relieve the misery of my people.”

He left his wigwam and walked far into the forest, where he waited for several days before the Great Spirit spoke these words to him:

“In the moon of rains take thy family and go to the stretch of land which joins this forest. Wait there until I send thee a message.”

The chief went back to the Indian village, and told what he had heard from the Great Spirit. And in the Moon of Rains he called together his honoured wife, his fleet-footed sons, and his graceful daughter, and said, “Follow me to the stretch of land beyond the forest.”

When they reached the great plain, they stood in a group waiting for a message from the Great Spirit. For three suns they stood patiently without once changing their positions.

The Indians of the tribe grew anxious to know what had happened to their chief and his family, and some of them slipped through the wood to the plain where they knew he had been directed to go. There they saw the group of figures standing with their hands uplifted, and their eyes closed. The Indians were filled with awe.

“The Great Spirit is talking to them,” they whispered, as they went back to their wigwams.

In a few days they returned to the plain. A marvelous sight met their eyes. Instead of the chief and his family standing like images of sleep, they saw wonderful green plants, tall and straight, with broad, flat leaves, and in place of uplifted hands they beheld ears of corn with silken fringe.

“The Great Spirit has called our chief and his family to the ‘Happy Hunting Grounds,’” they said, “and has sent us this food as a symbol of their sacrifice.”

They saved some of the kernels and planted them in the fields, and each year when they reaped a golden harvest they remembered the brave chief whose thoughtful care brought them the rich blessing of the Indian corn.

Sing, O Song of Hiawatha,
Of the happy days that followed,
In the land of the Ojibways,
In the pleasant land and peaceful!
Sing the mysteries of Mondamin,
Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields!
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

O-NA-TAH: THE SPIRIT OF THE CORN-FIELDS

HARRIET CONVERSE

O-na-tah is the spirit of the corn, and patroness of the fields. The sun touches her dusky face with the blush of the morning, and her dark eyes grow soft as the gleam of the stars that float on dark streams. Her night-black hair flares in the breeze like the wind-driven cloud that unveils the sun. As she walks the air, draped in her maize, its blossoms plume to the sun, and its fringing tassels play with the rustling leaves in whispering promises to the waiting fields. Night follows O-na-tah’s dim way with dews, and Day guides the beams that leap from the sun to her path. And the great Mother Earth loves O-na-tah, who brings to her children their life-giving grain.

At one time O-na-tah had two companions, the Spirit of the Bean and the Spirit of the Squash. In the olden time when the bean, corn, and squash were planted together in the hill these three plant spirits were never separated. Each was clothed in the plant which she guarded. The Spirit of the Squash was crowned with the flaunting gold trumpet blossom of its foliage. The Spirit of the Bean was arrayed in the clinging leaves of its winding vine, its velvety pods swinging to the breeze.

One day when O-na-tah had wandered astray in search of the lost dew, Hah-gweh-da-et-gab captured her, and imprisoned her in his darkness under the earth. Then he sent one of his monsters to blight her fields and the Spirit of Squash and the Spirit of Bean fled before the blighting winds that pursued them. O-na-tah languished in the darkness, lamenting her lost fields. But one day a searching sun ray discovered her, and guided her safely back to her lands.

Sad indeed was O-na-tah when she beheld the desolation of her blighted fields, and the desertion of her companions, Spirit of Squash and Spirit of Bean. Bewailing the great change, she made a vow that she would never leave her fields again.

If her fields thirst now, she can not leave them to summon the dews. When the Flame Spirit of the Sun burns the maize O-na-tah dare not search the skies for Ga-oh to implore him to unleash the winds and fan her lands. When great rains fall and blight her fields the voice of O-na-tah grows faint and the Sun can not hear. Yet faithful she watches and guards, never abandoning her fields till the maize is ripe.

When the maize stalk bends low O-na-tah is folding the husks to the pearly grains that the dew will nourish in their screening shade, as they fringe to the sun.

When the tassels plume, O-na-tah is crowning the maize with her triumph sign, and the rustling leaves spear to the harvest breeze.

MONDAMIN

Summer passed and Shawondasee
Breathed his sighs o’er all the landscape,
From the South-land sent his ardours,
Wafted kisses warm and tender;
And the maize-field grew and ripened,
Till it stood in all the splendour
Of its garments green and yellow,
Of its tassels and its plumage,
And the maize-ears full of shining
Gleamed from bursting sheaths of verdure.
Then Nokomis, the old woman,
Spake, and said to Minnehaha,
“’Tis the Moon when leaves are falling,
All the wild rice has been gathered,
And the maize is ripe and ready;
Let us gather in the harvest,
Let us wrestle with Mondamin,
Strip him of his plumes and tassels,
Of his garments green and yellow.”
And the merry Laughing Water
Went rejoicing from the wigwam,
With Nokomis, old and wrinkled,
And they called the women round them,
Called the young men and the maidens,
To the harvest of the cornfields,
To the husking of the maize-ear.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

THE DISCONTENTED PUMPKIN

Jack Frost visited Farmer Crane’s field one night, and the next morning the gold of the pumpkins shone more brilliantly than ever through their silver coverings.

“It is of no use,” said one large pumpkin to another lying beside it. “It is of no use. I was never made to be cut up for pumpkin pies. I feel I was put here for something higher.”

“Why, what do you mean?” said the other. “You never seemed dissatisfied before. You quite take my breath away.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I do not like the thought of being cut up and served on a table like an ordinary pumpkin. See how large I am, and what a glorious colour. Tell me, did you ever see a pumpkin more beautiful?”

“You are beautiful, indeed, but I never thought of being made for anything but pies. Do tell me of what other use can one be?”

“Well, I have always thought that I am not like the other pumpkins in this field, and when Farmer Crane pointed me out as the finest one he had, I heard him say, ‘That would be a fine one for a fair.’ It was not till then that I really knew for what I was intended.”

“I do remember,” answered the other. “Yes, I do remember hearing about some pumpkins’ being taken to a county fair once, but I never heard how they liked it. As for myself, I should be proud to be made into delicious pies and served on a beautiful plate.”

“How can you be satisfied with that thought? But there is Farmer Crane now. He is gathering some of the _smaller_ pumpkins to make pies with, I think.”

“Perhaps he knows best what you are made for,” answered the other.

Farmer Crane was soon at their side, and was looking from one to the other.

“What fine pies they will make. I had better take them now, I think,” he said, and they were quickly added to the golden heap already on the wagon.

How happy they all were--all but one that lay on the top of the large pile.

“It is hard to be thrown in with these ordinary pumpkins. If I could only slip off by myself. Perhaps there is at least a place at the bottom of the wagon where I can be alone.”

It was a long way from the top of the pile to the bed of the wagon, but it was very little trouble to slip away from the rest. It would take only a second, and then he could be away from the others. But alas! the discontented pumpkin slipped a little too far, and I’m sorry to say, soon lay on the frozen ground, a shattered heap.

“Dear me,” said the pumpkins in one breath; “see, that fine fellow has slipped off, and is broken to pieces. What a feast the cows and pigs will have.”

“It is too bad,” said one.

“And he was so anxious to be taken to a fair,” added another.

Hurrah for the tiny seed!
Hurrah for the flower and vine!
Hurrah for the golden pumpkin;
Yellow and plump and fine!
But better than all beginnings,
Sure, nobody can deny,
Is the end of the whole procession----
This glorious pumpkin pie!

BOB WHITE

I see you on the zig zag rails,
You cheery little fellow!
While purple leaves are whirling down,
And scarlet, brown or yellow.
I hear you when the air is full
Of snow-down of the thistle;
All in your speckled jacket trim,
“Bob White! Bob White!” you whistle.

Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows,
Are nodded there to greet you,
I know that you are out for play----
How I should like to meet you!
Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,
In this delightful weather;
What splendid playmates, you and I,
Bob White, would make together.

There, you are gone! but far away
I hear your whistle falling,
Ah! maybe it is hide and seek,
And that’s why you are calling.
Along those hazy uplands wide
We’d be such merry rangers;
What! silent now and hidden, too?
Bob White, don’t let’s be strangers.

Perhaps you teach your brood the game,
In yonder rainbowed thicket,
While winds are playing with the leaves,
And softly creaks the cricket.
“Bob White! Bob White!” again I hear
That blithely whistled chorus,
Why should we not companions be?
One Father watches o’er us!
GEORGE COOPER.

THE LITTLE PUMPKIN

EMMA FLORENCE BUSH.

Once there was a little pumpkin that grew on a vine in a field. All day long the sun shone on him, and the wind blew gently around him. Sometimes the welcome rain fell softly upon him, and as the vine sent her roots deep down into the earth and drew the good sustenance from it, and it flowed through her veins, the little pumpkin drank greedily of the good juice, and grew bigger and bigger, and rounder and rounder, and firmer and firmer.

By and by he grew so big he understood all that the growing things around him were saying, and he listened eagerly.

“I came from the seed of a Jack-o’-lantern,” said this vine to a neighbour, “therefore I must grow all Jack-o’-lanterns.”

“So did I,” said a neighbour, “but no Jack-o’-lanterns for me. It is too hard a life. I am going to grow just plain pumpkins.”

When the little pumpkin heard he was supposed to be a Jack-o’-lantern, he grew very worried, for he could not see that he was in any way different from any ordinary pumpkin, and if Mother Vine expected him to be a Jack-o’-lantern, he did not want to disappoint her.

At last he grew so unhappy over it that the dancing little sunbeams noticed it. “What is the matter, little pumpkin?” they cried. “Why do you not hold up your head and look around as you used to do?”

“Because,” answered the little pumpkin, sadly, “I have to be a Jack-o’-lantern, and I don’t know how. All I know about is how to be a little yellow pumpkin.”

Then the merry little breezes laughed and laughed until they shook the vine so that all the pumpkins had to tighten their hold not to be shaken off. “Oh, little pumpkin!” they cried, “why worry about what you will have to do later? Just try with all your might to be a little yellow pumpkin, and believe that if you do the best you can, everything will be all right. We know a secret, a beautiful secret, and some day we will tell it to you.”

“Oh, tell me now!” cried the little pumpkin, but the sunbeams and breezes laughed together, and chuckled,

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!
Just grow and grow and grow,
And some day you will know.”

The little pumpkin felt comforted. “After all,” he thought, “perhaps if I cannot be a Jack-o’-lantern I can be a good pumpkin, and I am so far down on the vine perhaps Mother Vine won’t notice me.” He looked around, and saw that all his brothers and sisters were only little pumpkins, too.

“Oh, dear,” he cried, “are we going to disappoint Mother Vine? Aren’t any of us going to be Jack-o’-lanterns?” Then all his little brothers and sisters laughed, and said, “What do we care about being Jack-o’-lanterns? All we care about is to eat the good juice, and grow and grow.”

At last came the cold weather, and all the little pumpkins were now big ones, and a beautiful golden yellow. The biggest and yellowest of all was the little pumpkin who had tried so hard all summer to grow into a Jack-o’-lantern. He could not believe Mother Vine did not see him now, for he had grown so big that every one who saw him exclaimed about him, and Mother Vine did not seem at all disappointed, she just kept at work carrying the good food that kept her pumpkin children well fed.

At last one frosty morning, a crowd of children came to the field. “The pumpkins are ready,” they cried. “The pumpkins are ready; and we are going to find the biggest and yellowest and nicest to make a Jack-o’-lantern for the Thanksgiving party. All the grandmothers and grandfathers and aunts and uncles will see it, and we are going to eat the pies made from it.”

They looked here and there, all over the field, and pushed aside the vines to see better. All at once they saw the little pumpkin. “Oh!” they cried, “What a perfect Jack-o’-lantern! So big and firm and round and yellow! This shall be the Jack-o’-lantern for our Thanksgiving party, and it is so large there will be pie enough for every one.”

Then they picked the pumpkin and carried him to the barn. Father cut a hole in the top around the stem, lifted it off carefully and scooped out the inside, and the children carried it to mother in the kitchen. Then father made eyes and a nose and mouth, and fitted a big candle inside. “Oh, see the beautiful Jack-o’-lantern!” they cried.

The little pumpkin waited in the barn. “At last I am a Jack-o’-lantern,” he said. After a time it grew dark, and father came and carried him into the house, and lighted the candle, and put him right in the middle of the table, and all the grandmothers and grandfathers, and aunts and uncles, cried, “Oh, what a beautiful, big, round, yellow Jack-o’-lantern!”

Then the little pumpkin was happy, for he knew Mother Vine would have been proud of him, and he shone--shone--SHONE, until the candle was all burned out.

AUTUMN

Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad,
As though he joyèd in his plenteous store,
Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad
That he had banished hunger, which to-fore
Had by the body oft him pinchèd sore:
Upon his head a wreath, that was enroll’d
With ears of corn of every sort, he bore;
And in his hand a sickle he did hold,
To reap the ripen’d fruits the which the earth had yold.
EDMUND SPENSER.

CHEERFUL CHIRPERS

THE NEWS

The katydids say it as plain as can be
And the crickets are singing it under the trees;
In the asters’ blue eyes you may read the same hint,
Just as clearly as if you had seen it in print.
And the corn sighs it, too, as it waves in the sun,
That autumn is here and summer is done.
PERSIS GARDINER.

HOW THERE CAME TO BE A KATY-DID

PATTEN BEARD

From “The Bluebird’s Garden.” Used by special permission of the author and the Pilgrim Press.

Long, long, long ago--so long that this story has had time to grow into a garden legend--two green grasshoppers went out, one fine day, to play with a cricket. They played tag, and I’m on gypsyland. At last they decided to have a game of hide-and-seek.

The goal was a blade of grass, and they counted out to see who should be goal man. It fell to the little cricket, Katy-did. She was to hide her eyes behind the grassblade, and count up to one hundred by tens, while the two grasshoppers went off to hide.

So the cricket hid her face so that she could not see, and began: “Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred! Coming!”

Though there were plenty of good places in which to hide in the garden, one green grasshopper had been slow to suit himself. He had not yet hidden when the little cricket turned about and caught him.

And he began, “You didn’t count up to a hundred! I didn’t have time to hide! You should have hollered, ‘Coming!’ It’s no fair! I’m not going to play any more--you didn’t count up to a hundred!”

At this, the other grasshopper came out of hiding. “She did count up to a hundred,” he said, “Katy did!”

“She didn’t”
“She did!”
“She didn’t!”
“Katy did, did, did!”
“Katy didn’t, didn’t, didn’t!”
“Did, did, did!”
“Didn’t, didn’t, didn’t!”
“Katy did!”
“Katy didn’t!”
“She did!”
“She didn’t!”
“Katy did!”
“Katy didn’t!”

To this very, very day, you can hear the dispute still going on in the garden, and the game of tag has never yet been finished. Ever since that time the grasshoppers who started the discussion have been called katydids, and the whole garden is full of the controversy. You can hear hundreds of little voices keeping it up, though nothing is ever decided. So it goes on eternally, Katy did--Katy didn’t, did, did, did, didn’t, didn’t, she did, she didn’t--for nobody has ever yet settled a dispute by contradiction. By this time, too, everyone has forgotten what the quarrel was about.

OLD DAME CRICKET

Old Dame Cricket, down in a thicket,
Brought up her children nine,----
Queer little chaps, in glossy black caps
And brown little suits so fine.
“My children,” she said,
“The birds are abed:
Go and make the dark earth glad!
Chirp while you can!”
And then she began,----
Till, oh, what a concert they had!

They hopped with delight,
They chirped all night,
Singing, “Cheer up! cheer up! cheer!”
Old Dame Cricket,
Down in the thicket,
Sat awake till dawn to hear.

“Nice children,” she said,
“And very well bred.
My darlings have done their best.
Their naps they must take:
The birds are awake;
And they can sing all the rest.”

MISS KATY-DID AND MISS CRICKET

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

Miss Katy-Did sat on the branch of a flowering azalia in her best suit of fine green and silver, with wings of point-lace from mother nature’s finest web.

Her gallant cousin, Colonel Katy-Did, had looked in to make her a morning call.

“Certainly I am a pretty creature,” she said to herself when the gallant Colonel said something about being dazzled by her beauty.

“The fact is, my dear Colonel,” said Miss Katy, “I am thinking of giving a party, and you must help me make out the lists.”

“My dear, you make me the happiest of Katy-Dids.”

“Now,” said Miss Katy, drawing an azalia leaf towards her, “let us see--whom shall we have? The Fireflies are a little unsteady, but they are so brilliant, everybody wants them--and they belong to the higher circles.”

“Yes, we must have the Fireflies,” said the colonel.

“Well, then--and the Butterflies and the Moths, now there’s the trouble. There are so many Moths, and they’re so dull. Still if you have the Butterflies you can’t leave out the Moths.”

“Old Mrs. Moth has been ill lately. That may keep two or three of the Misses Moth at home,” said the colonel.

“I thought she was never sick,” said Miss Katy-Did.

“Yes, I understand she and her family ate up a whole fur cape last month, and it disagreed with them.”

“Oh, how can they eat such things as worsted and fur?” then sneered Miss Katy-Did.

“By your fairy-like delicacy one can see that you couldn’t eat such things,” smiled the colonel.

“Mamma says she doesn’t know what keeps me alive. Half a dewdrop and a little bit of the nicest part of a rose-leaf often lasts me for a day. But to our list. Let’s see,--the Fireflies, Butterflies, Moths. The Bees must come, I suppose.”

“The Bees are a worthy family,” nodded the colonel.

“Yes, but dreadfully humdrum. They never talk about anything but honey and housekeeping.”

“Then there are the Bumble Bees.”

“Oh, I dote on them,” said Miss Katy-Did. “General Bumble is one of the most dashing, brilliant fellows of the day.”

“He’s shockingly fat!” said the colonel.

“Yes, he is a little stout,” nodded Miss Katy-Did, “but he is very elegant in his manners,--something soldierly and breezy about him.”

“If you invite the Bumble Bees, you must have the Hornets.”

“Ah, they are spiteful,--I detest them.”

“Nevertheless, one must not offend the Hornets, and how about the Mosquitoes?” asked the Colonel.

“They are very common. Can’t one cut them?”

“I think not, my dear Miss Katy. Young Mosquito is connected with some of our leading papers, and he carries a sharp pen. It will never do to offend him.”

“And I suppose one must ask all his dreadful relations, too,” sighed Miss Katy.

At this moment they saw Miss Keziah Cricket coming. She carried her workbag on her arm, and she asked for a subscription to help a poor family of Ants who had just had their house hoed up by some one who was clearing the garden walks.

“How stupid of the Ants,” said Katy, “not to know better than to put their house in a garden-walk.”

“Ah, they are in great trouble,” said Miss Cricket. “Their stores are all destroyed, and their father killed--cut quite in two by a hoe.”

“How very shocking! I don’t like to hear such disagreeable things. But I have nothing to give. Mamma said yesterday she didn’t know how our bills were to be paid,--and there’s my green satin with point lace yet to come home,” said Miss Katy, shrugging her shoulders.

Little Miss Cricket hopped briskly off. “Poor, extravagant little thing,” she said to herself.

“Shall you invite the Crickets?” said Colonel Katy-Did.

“Why, Colonel, what a question! I invite the Crickets? No, indeed.”

“And shall you ask the Locusts or the Grasshoppers?”

“Certainly. The Locusts, of course--a very old and fine family, and the Grasshoppers are pretty well, and ought to be asked. But one must draw the line somewhere--and the Crickets! Why, I can’t think of them.”

“I thought they were very nice, respectable people,” said the colonel.

“Oh, perfectly nice and respectable,--but----”

“Do explain, my dear Katy.”

“Why, their _colour_, to be sure. Don’t you see?”

“Oh!” said the colonel. “That’s it, is it? And tell me, please, who decides what colour shall be the reigning colour?”

“What a question! The only true colour--the only proper one--is _our_ colour to be sure. A lovely pea green is the shade on which to found an aristocratic distinction. Of course, we are liberal; we associate with the Moths, who are gray; with the Butterflies, who are blue and gold coloured; with the Grasshoppers, yellow and brown; and society would become dreadfully mixed if it were not fortunately ordered that the Crickets are as black as jet. The fact is that a class to be looked down upon is necessary to all elegant society, and if the Crickets were not black we could not keep them down. Everybody knows they are often a great deal cleverer than we are. They have a vast talent for music and dancing; they are very quick at learning, and would be getting to the very top of the ladder if we allowed them to climb. Now, so long as we are green and they are black, we have a superiority that can never be taken from us. Don’t you see now?”

“Oh, yes, I see exactly,” said the colonel. “Now that Keziah Cricket, who just came in here, is quite a musician, and her old father plays the violin beautifully; by the way, we might engage him for our orchestra.”

And so Miss Katy’s ball came off. It lasted from sundown till daybreak, so that it seemed as if every leaf in the forest were alive. The Katy-Dids, and the Mosquitoes, and the Locusts, and a full orchestra of Crickets made the air perfectly vibrate.

Old Parson Too-Whit was shocked at the gaieties, which were kept up by the pleasure-loving Katy-Dids night after night.

But about the first of September the celebrated Jack Frost epidemic broke out. Poor Miss Katy, with her flimsy green satin, and point lace, was one of the first victims, and fell from the bough in company with a sad shower of last year’s leaves.