Chapter V: Part 5

"The dam was built by the order of our chief," replied one of the men.

"Lead me to him that I may tell him the misery he has caused my people. Surely he will be merciful," said the runner.

But no one offered to lead the way. In a little while one of them pointed to the pond and said, "The chief lives there."

The runner went quickly to the edge of the pond and there, lying in the mud, he saw a monster whose bloated body of giant size was half hidden. His great yellow eyes bulged out like knots on a tree-trunk; his mouth reached almost from ear to ear. At the approach of the Indian this creature aroused himself and stretched out his great broad skinny feet.

In a hoarse frog-like voice the monster chief croaked, "What do you want? What do you want?"

"I came to see why the brook which brought our village water has dried up. It is because you have built a dam to stop its course," said the runner.

"What do I care?" lazily replied the chief. "What do I care?"

"We cannot live without the water from our brook," pleaded the Indian.

"What do I care?" again croaked the monster. "If you want water go somewhere else! Go somewhere else!"

"My people are dying from thirst! No one may rightfully keep for his own use the water from a mountain stream. The Great Spirit sent the brook to our village!" said the runner earnestly.

The monster rolled his great yellow eyes for several minutes. Then he said, "Shoot a hole in the wall of the dam with one of your arrows. Your people may have as much water as will flow through the arrow hole."

Very swiftly the runner sped an arrow. It pierced the wall and a slender stream of water trickled through the opening.

"Begone!" croaked the monster when he saw the water flowing. "Begone! Begone!"

Feeling encouraged at the hope that enough water would flow to supply the needs of his people the runner hastened back to the village. When he told what had happened there was great rejoicing, especially when the Indians saw a slender stream of water flowing into the brook's dry bed. But, alas! The water did not continue to flow. In a few weeks the people were again suffering from thirst. A council of all the men in the village was held and earnestly they implored the Great Spirit to help them.

After much deliberation it was decided that the bravest man among them should go to the Frog Chief, and challenge him to do battle for the mountain water. "Let us hope that our warrior will stay this monster whose selfishness is bringing destruction to us," said one of the leaders.

Many of the young men offered to go, each declaring his willingness to do battle, even at the greatest risk, with the monster chief. While several braves were clamoring for this great privilege of fighting for the good of the village, there appeared in the doorway of the council lodge a warrior who was marvelous to see. His flashing eyes were encircled with green rings; his cheeks were as red as blood. Great clam shells hung from his ears, and tall eagle plumes nodded on his head. It was Glooscap, the spirit who brought great blessings to the Indians and who sometimes took human shape in order to help them.

The silence of the council was broken by this mighty warrior who said, "I will undertake to do battle with the monster who has stopped the flow of water to your brook. He shall account to me for this wicked deed."

Then swiftly he departed and followed the mountain trail to the upper village.

In a short time he reached the place and sat down near the group of wigwams to rest. The people saw him, but they offered him neither food nor drink.

"Fetch me water to quench my thirst," said Glooscap to a small boy who came near.

After a long while the lad returned with a drinking vessel half filled with muddy water. Glooscap took the cup, emptied the contents on the grass and said, "I want clean water from the mountain brook."

"I cannot give it to you," said the lad. "Our chief drinks all the clean water."

"Then lead me to your chief," said Glooscap. "He shall give me pure water."

Quaking with fear, the Indian boy led Glooscap to the pond where the monster chief lay sunning himself.

"What do you want?" croaked the yellow-eyed creature.

"I've come to you for a drink of pure water," said Glooscap.

"Go somewhere else! Go somewhere else!" said the monster hoarsely.

The mighty Glooscap now rushed forward with his spear, thrust it through the chief's great body, and lo! a stream of water rushed forth with such force that it broke the dam and flowed down the mountain in a clear, sparkling torrent. The monster chief had swallowed all the pure water of the mountain streams.

Then Glooscap rose to a giant's height, caught the monster in his powerful hand and squeezed him with all his might. When he loosened his grasp there in his hand was a great bullfrog with crumpled back, yellow, bulging eyes, wide mouth, and broad, skinny feet. Glooscap flung the creature back into the pond and ever since that day croaking bull-frogs may be found in muddy streams.

WOODLAND WATERS

Through leaves of the nodding trees
Where blossoms sway in the breeze,
Pink bag-pipes make for the bees,
Whose slogan is droning and drawling,
Where columbine scatters its bells
And the wild bleeding-heart its shells
O'er mosses and rocks of the dells
The brook of the forest is calling.

You can hear it under the hill
When the wind in the wood is still,
And, strokes of a fairy drill,
Sounds the bill of the yellow-hammer.
By the Solomon's seal it slips
Cohosh and the grass that drips
Like the sound of an Undine's lips
Is the sound of its falls that stammer.

MADISON CAWEIN.

THE GRUBBIEST GRUB

J. BEVAN

"There's no use trying," said the newest newt; "you'll never be anything _but_ grubby."

The newest newt lived at the bottom of the garden pond. He was a very elegant newt. The orange spots on his waistcoat were the brightest to be seen in all the garden.

The grubbiest grub was not elegant. He was unquestionably the very grubbiest thing in the garden pond. However, he had ambitions.

"But there's no use trying," said the newest newt again. "I myself saw you fall from a willow leaf not so long since, and had ideas about you. I thought, perhaps, you might be some new kind of egg and hatch into a royal turtle. But I watched you, and you didn't hatch—you grew just like a tadpole. Only you didn't grow even into a frog."

The grubbiest grub said nothing. His heart grew a little bitter as he thought, "Not even into a frog."

"But cheer up," said the newest newt, "there's mud enough at the bottom of the garden spot for all of us. And it's not a bad place—aristocratic turtles in the neighbourhood, and I live here."

He was off with an extra swirl of his extra shiny tail. He was due at the turtles' ball at sunset. He was always being invited somewhere because of the orange on his waistcoat.

The grubbiest grub was never invited anywhere, and he didn't look like anything that anybody had ever seen, and didn't seem related to anybody. And his heart rebelled.

"Up above the pond there is light," he said. "I know that, and there is some strange thing—tall, and coloured like—like——" He couldn't think what. He had only pond grass and pond creatures to compare it to. "Like——" A little fish swam slowly past him, and, as it turned, the long light, sifting through the water from the sunset, caught colours on its body. "Like that!" said the grubbiest grub.

The fish was swaying slowly. Then it saw the grubbiest grub. "Good evening," said the sparkling fish; "and isn't there a party?"

"To be sure," answered the grubbiest grub, "but you see I'm not invited."

The sparkling fish looked again. "Why," she said, "I thought you belonged to that set of newts and turtles, and the better class of pond frogs. Anyway, why aren't you invited?"

"I'm far too grubby," said the grubbiest grub; "didn't you know?"

The little silver fish swam slowly around the grub.

"I think you belong above," she said at last; "don't you ever want to go up there?"

"I have dreamed of a thing gleaming like—like——"

"Rainbows," said the shining fish.

"Rainbows," repeated the grubbiest grub, "and I have wanted so to find one. But I never could tell anyone. The newt would have died laughing."

"So you're afraid of being laughed at!" said the fish. "I think you _do_ belong to the turtle set." And she swam away.

Suddenly something seemed to sting and burn into the heart of the grubby grub. The look the silver fish had given him was worse than the laughter of any number of newts. "I _will_ go and find the thing I dreamed," he said.

The grubbiest grub started slowly up a mass of tangled roots and thence on to a long, thin stem. The wave that rippled round the stem saw the grub coming. "You don't belong here," he said.

"Please," entreated the grub, and his poor grubby face looked so sad that the wave paused a moment before he brushed him off.

"Well—what do you want here?" asked the wave. "We can't have grubs eating out our lily hearts, you know."

The grub took a deep breath, and clung on tightly to the lily stem. He was terribly afraid of being laughed at, but he thought of the silver fish and the pain that was worse than any laughter. "I don't want to eat your lily's heart," he said; "I'm only looking for a thing I—dreamed."

Strange, the wave didn't laugh. He only looked more closely at the grubby grub. "Oh, you're _that_ kind," he said. "Sure enough. Well, go along. Take the first turning by the moss roots, and good luck to you."

The grubbiest grub went on. He found moving upward easier as he grew more used to it. At the place where the moss roots clung most closely to the lily stem, he turned off, then along the moss roots to the edge of the pond, and on up to a broad shaft of green pointing still higher.

The grubbiest grub paused. He was very, very tired, and everything was new and strange to him. He had never breathed the air before, nor seen the stars.

About him were many voices, and there were points of light and trails, and flashes of gold, such as the silver fish had scattered in the water. There was darkness, too, reaching beneath to clutch him.

The grubbiest grub clung tightly to the shaft of green. "What am I doing here? What am I doing here?" he asked himself, and his back ached and his sides ached, and his heart was numb with aching.

"Why, you are waiting for the morning," said a little voice beside him. "Don't be frightened. I've seen your kind before. You came up from the mud, and if you wait till daylight you'll have wings and fly away. The children in the big house will clap their hands and say, "Look, look, another dragon-fly! Your wings are like rainbows."

"You can't be laughing at me," said the grubbiest grub; "your voice is kind."

"Why should I laugh?" said the little voice. "I am one of the grass-blade spirits, and I love all things with wings."

"But I have no wings," said the grubby grub, "and it seems darker."

"No, no," said the grass-blade spirit. "It's only the moon gone for a moment. But, oh!" she cried, as the moon flickered through on the broad green shaft again, "your shell has broken open."

And sure enough, there sat a pale wisp of a dragon-fly in the moonlight. "But I have no wings," he cried in disappointment. "I cannot fly."

"Only wait," said the grass-blade spirit, and he waited in eager, trembling excitement.

He waited while the stars turned round the heavens and the moon sank.

Then his heart lifted up, and he felt his wings, and he flew.

He flew, trembling, quivering, white but touched with iridescent colour, on, on above the pointed shaft, on still in the dawn.

The grass-blade spirit watched. "Yes! yes!" he cried from below; "splendid—O beautiful spirit—but higher!"

Higher he went, and then he sank exhausted.

"You have found your dream," cried the grass-blade spirit, as the dragon-fly felt the warmth about him.

He opened his eyes. He saw blue and gold and yellow of sunlight flashing in the dawn. About him was fragrance and rest and peace.

"I love you," said the iris flower, where he had fallen; "and I have waited for you—it is day."

So the poor grub, with the funny, blinking eyes and the puffy face had fallen on the petals of a great sweet iris flower. Of course, as you know, every flower is the house of a fairy. And this house was a palace of blue flowers veined in gold, and blue fringes and tassels in the inmost inner room, where the wonderful fairy lived who was the flower princess.

The iris-flower princess rose from her couch of lavender and gold. It was then that she said, "I have waited for you—it is day."

And it was day, sparkling and gleaming on all the grass-blades.

The grubbiest grub—who was a dragon-fly prince now, in green velvet and a silken cloak, shimmering like wings behind him—and the flower princess stood on the flower palace steps, and looked out across the grass-blades.

All the little grass-blade spirits cried, "All hail, Prince Dragon-Fly!" and the flower princess—who would be queen now of all the winged folk as well—called to the grass-blade spirit who had urged Prince Dragon-Fly to find her. And as the little grass-blade fairy knelt there at her feet, she proclaimed him "Knight of the Grass-Blades, Keeper of the Dewdrops, and Lord High Admiral of the Garden Pond."

The folk at the bottom of the garden pond, however, went on just the same in spite of the New Dewdrop—High Lord, Grass-Blade Admiral. In fact, they didn't even know that there was a new admiral, and they never dreamed of the great coronation ceremony that was to make the poor little despised grubby thing the king of the winged creatures. They just thought about themselves as usual, and the success of the last ball, and the aristocratic turtles, and the extra shiny mud floor where the newest newt with the orange spots on his waistcoat had danced so beautifully with Sir Fat-Frog's fattest daughter.

THE DRAGON-FLY

To-day I saw the dragon-fly
Come from the wells where he did lie;
An inner impulse rent the veil
Of his old husk! from head to tail
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail.

He dried his wings: like gauze they grew;
Through crofts and pastures wet with dew
A living flash of light he flew.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

ON THE WING

Out of a tuft a little lark
Went higher up than I could mark,
His little throat was all one thirst
To sing until his heart should burst,
To sing aloft in golden light
His song from blue air out of sight.

JOHN MASEFIELD.

When birdies sing on every tree.
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylarks sing with me,
O what sweet company.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

HOW WOODPECKER CHANGED HIS
COLOURS

(MICMAC LEGEND)

Long, long ago Woodpecker wore a plain suit of dark grey feathers with a few white patches on it. He often looked admiringly at the bright colours which many of the birds wore, and sometimes his gay companions taunted him about his plain clothes. Then Grey Woodpecker would leave the woods for awhile and flit about an Indian village.

Here he made friends with an Indian girl whose name was Pretty-Dancing-Maiden who was the pride of her people. There was no sport she loved so much as dancing, and the graceful movements of her slender figure and dainty feet made all the people call her the best dancer in the village.

Whenever this maiden dressed for a dance Grey Woodpecker helped her paint her face with many colours. When she was ready he would hop a little distance off and, with his head on one side, say, "Pretty-Dancing-Maiden is more beautiful than any bird of the forest."

One day after she had finished painting he looked admiringly at her but said nothing. The maiden laughed merrily and asked, "What colour needs deepening, Grey Woodpecker?"

"Red! _Red! Red!_" was his answer, for the bird loved the brilliant colour best which the maiden used on her cheeks and smiling lips.

Then Pretty-Dancing-Maiden always took up the bits of wood which she used for brushes, dipped them into red paint, and again touched daintily her cheeks and lips. And with a merry good-bye to Grey Woodpecker she ran lightly out of the wigwam to the dance.

It happened one evening after the maiden had gayly dressed for the dance and waved good-bye to her little feathered friend, the bird looked intently at the bits of wood which the maiden had used to put on the beautiful red paint. In a little while his eyes twinkled merrily and he said, "I'll make myself beautiful too! I'll use Pretty-Dancing-Maiden's red paint brushes and brighten my suit of plain grey and white."

He took up the wooden brushes and rubbed the red paint over his ears. Two brilliant stripes he made, for there was plenty of the colour on the bits of sticks. How happy he was!

"The birds of the forest shall never again call me a bird of plain clothes," said he.

And ever since that far-off day the woodpeckers have worn red stripes over their ears.

A RETORT FROM THE CATBIRD

I heard the Catbird in the bush
With breathless ecstasy;
No bobolink or fluttering thrush
Made carol sweet as he.

It bubbled like a mountain rill
Drenching the weary day,
With eddying turn and rippling trill,
A magic roundelay.

I heard the Catbird once again.
A harsh, discordant note,
Which pierced the shuddering ear with pain,
Came from the selfsame throat.

O bird perverse! That heavenly voice
Tuned to so sharp a key!
Why cease to make the air rejoice
Debasing minstrelsy?

Why not be ever at your best?
Again the peevish mew
Answering, accusing me with zest:
"Are you?" he cried, "are y-o-u?"

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN.

WOODPECKER LIFE

MARGARET COULSON WALKER

On the thirteenth of July a red-mutched woodpecker knocked on the stricken bough of a lofty elm to crave of the Dryad within hospitality for a season. Yes, her wish would be granted, but only on condition that she would dig out a shelter for herself there in the hard, dry wood.

What had gone wrong in the woodpecker family that she was in need of shelter this late in the year? Earlier in the summer she and her mate had burrowed out a comfortable home in a great oak tree not two hundred yards away. Then they were on the best of terms and had relieved each other at the task of digging out their dwelling place. Twenty or twenty-five minutes at a time was thought long enough for either of them to devote to so labourious a task in the springtime; then the other spent an equal time at the work, while the one off duty hurried away to partake of refreshments or to seek rest in change of occupation.

Then there seemed to be some joy in their lives, for when they had occasionally found time for recreation, they had chased each other around the tree trunks and given utterance to their enjoyment of the game in many a peal of cackling laughter. Near the base of a tree the game began, and, spirally round and round its trunk, they pursued each other, the one in the lead every now and then casting a challenging look behind, then hurrying upward faster than before. Their playtimes were brief, however, for the unfinished burrow was calling.

When this was completed and later a half dozen or more eggs were laid, though madam spent most of her time in dispensing warmth to them, her mate also did his share. Together they had devoted their energies to providing for the little ones that pecked their way out of the round, white eggs. Many long journeys were they compelled to take, and many were the hours spent in search of suitable food for their hungry offspring; but on their return their throats were always full to the brim with the nourishment which they pumped into infant throats as, hanging head downward over them, they clung with their claws to the entrance of their home. And when, after a time, the chicks were old enough to scramble about on the trunk of the tree outside their home, a wheezy call from one of them was enough to bring one or both of the parents, with throat distended with the best the wood afforded, to minister to their wants. Together they had driven away the over-solicitous squirrels and meddlesome sparrows who came to visit them. Together they had guided their asthmatic young family about the wood, teaching them by example, if not by precept, where food was to be found, and how to meet the dangers they were likely to encounter at any moment.

The accidents of nature had depleted the brood, till now but two of them were left. A ball of baby feathers in the home of an owl living in the wood told the story of the passing of one of them; the gladness which attended the home-coming of a foraging mother squirrel marked the taking off of another; so they had gone, till only these two remained, wheezy and exacting.

Of late the care of them had fallen mainly on the father, who picked up a living for them as best he could. At times he seemed to try to get away from them—a futile effort, for when they did not follow his undulating flight in their awkward up-and-down fashion, they went in search of him if he was gone a few minutes overtime.

Here on the thirteenth of July was the mother seeking shelter away from her former home. Had there been a family disagreement? Was the home-nest no longer large enough for the parent birds and their now almost grown-up family? Was she planning for a new brood? Surely not! It would be impossible to rear in a single season two broods requiring so much care.

Whatever her purpose, here she was, drawing her plans on the under side of the dry old bough. Soon she began to peck out an entrance, and it was not long before the chips were flying in every direction. More than an hour she worked, then flew to the dead top of a tree across the way, where she sat for a brief time resting and sunning herself. Twice she left her perch to dart out after passing insects, then returned to her labour. Occasionally she swung around to the top side of the dead branch, and tore off bits of bark either for the purpose of seeing if the hole was going clear through or for securing the insect fare lurking under it. This part of the work continued at intervals, till the bark was removed from all the excavated portion of the bough. All day, until about five o'clock, she spent at her task with but little rest, then there was a long visit to the rest perch in the neighbouring treetop.

The early morning hours were probably devoted to commissary tours; for it was almost eight o'clock when she appeared on the scene of her labours and again began to wield the pick. About ten o'clock her spouse appeared and arranged himself comfortably on the same limb about a foot away from the hole she was digging, but not by so much as a single stroke did he assist her. Soon a wheezy, whistling cry called him to duties as insistent as home building, and he departed.

After watching the progress of woodpecker affairs for some time, a dweller in the house under the tree decided to lend a hand. A worm-eaten hitching-post stood near, on which was placed pieces of bread for the hungry little wielder of the pick. This not only satisfied her wants, but served also to bring her mate and offspring near occasionally. At first the young members of the family refused to pick up this food set before them, but, instead, clung to a neighbouring tree and called vociferously for help. Then the father took the bits of bread and pushed them far down into the screaming throats. The young Romulus must have possessed wonderful powers of endurance if the woodpeckers of old ministered to him as vigorously in response to his infantile wails as the woodpeckers of to-day respond to the screaming demands of their own offspring. How gentle the wolf must have seemed in comparison!

Several times the young woodpeckers followed the father to the limb in which the mother was chiseling a home. Together they watched her work, but during the first three days seemed to take no interest whatever in the hole she was making. Then the father went in and examined the opening, but flew away without giving any real aid. And all through the work his assistance seemed to be limited to inspection.

In her digging, the mother woodpecker clung with her claws to the opening of the burrow, and, head downward, pecked rapidly. Sometimes she would throw out chips—which were little more than coarse sawdust—after three or four blows; again, she worked for a minute or two, then threw out several billfuls at a time. In throwing out these chips she slipped backward and forward over the lower edge of the opening, after the manner of that old-fashioned toy called a "supple jack." First she threw her chips to one side, then to the other, till the ground beneath the burrow, for a space thirty feet in circumference, was generously sprinkled with them.

Though several persons were watching her, and though squirrels were springing about among the branches, she was not disturbed, but went steadily on with her task. While she was away on short vacations, the wren, dwelling in the porch roof beneath, frequently investigated the hole she was digging—sparrows examined it, and squirrels looked into it, but it was very noticeable that they all had an eye on her return. Once, in her absence, one of her own young woodpeckers scrambled to the edge of the hole, and peeped in for a moment, then scuttled back again to the place where the dead branch joined the trunk of the tree, and, in his usual noisy manner, demanded food.

It was near the end of the third day's labour that the woodpecker was first seen "trying on" her new home. Then she went into it, and, nestling there, with head up for the first time, looked out of the window. Evidently, the pocket was neither deep enough nor wide enough, for after this she worked on both bottom and sides of it, scattering chips as before. The work periods were shorter now and the rests more frequent, showing that her strength was failing. On the afternoon of the fifth day, when the burrow was finished, completely exhausted, she made her way to the roof of the house, where, with wings spread, she lay for more than an hour. Seemingly too tired to reach her usual resting place in the treetop across the way, she lay there gathering strength for the longer flight.

Though the sexes are alike in the redhead family, it was not difficult to distinguish them in this case, for the feathers about the head and neck of the mother were much more worn than those of her less industrious mate. Yet it may be an injustice to him to accuse him of indolence, for was he not purveying to their younglings?—a task which may have taxed his energies to the limit. Perhaps, after all, it was only a case of division of labour.

After the completion of the burrow, though the woodpecker was anxiously watched for, for several days, she was not seen near it again, though the usual bits of bread placed on the hitching-post brought her to its neighbourhood.

The experiment was tried of putting some of the crusts on the top of the post and stuffing others tightly into the large worm-holes. The latter were invariably taken first. Though the young birds came there regularly to be fed, more than a week passed before they made the slightest effort to help themselves. They would cling to the sides of the post, and, with upward-pointing, open bills, whistle asthmatically for the food, which the parents were compelled to place in their throats. Whether it was wilfulness or inability that caused them to act as they did, it was impossible to determine.

The whistling of the young birds, which was once believed to predict rain, or to be a demand for it from a thirsty throat, always precedes or accompanies the taking of food. It is, doubtless, a little more frequent before showers, for at such times the older birds are able to collect more beetles and other insects that come out then from their shelters into the open.

The old belief that woodpeckers are ever athirst because of their inability to drink any save the rain that falls into their open throats or the drops that fall from the leaves, may have some foundation. In the case of this family, though a basin of water was always conveniently near, and though sparrows, robins, bluejays, and wrens constantly patronized it, no woodpecker was ever seen to refresh himself from it—many as there were of them in the vicinity.

When more bread than the four birds could consume was placed in the post, the older ones carried a part of it away—usually the larger pieces on top—for future use, or pounded it tightly into worm-holes in the same post, but never into the ones in which they found it.

Several weeks after the burrow was finished, one evening just about sunset, a redhead was seen peeping from the window in the treetop; then it was drawn back, and again it appeared and was withdrawn to be seen no more during the evening. It was a dormitory, then, that you hollowed out for yourself, was it, my lady?

One morning, near the close of August, it was noticed that the entrance to the lodging was distinctly larger, and that a patch of daylight showed through from the other side. Whether, for some reason, the bird herself had enlarged the opening before departing for the South, or whether this had been done by mischievous squirrels on murder bent, is not known; but certain it is that the red-mutched labourer was gone. Others of her kind lingered in the grove for a week or more, and though food was placed on the accustomed post, neither she nor any of her immediate family appeared to claim it.

When he is gone, the most accomplished songsters are not missed more than the red-headed woodpecker, whose broad patches of clear colour enliven the wood. Though he may no longer assist in the growth of the forests by bringing refreshing showers, as he is said to have done in the long time ago, he certainly is doing much in his own way to preserve them. Well might the ancients have made a god of him. He still possesses one of the gifts which won that honour for him—the power of producing thunder—and in a way that mortals can understand. Hear it rumbling among the dead treetops, as the bird drums rapidly on the dry wood and sets it to vibrating, then quickly lays his hollow bill against it to add resonance to the peal. Vulcan himself could not have felt greater satisfaction than he, as he stops to listen, in conscious pride over his accomplishment.

Whether he is a god made manifest in feathers, or merely an old woman under a curse, expiating the crime of selfishness in picking up a living where there seems to be no life, and in sharing this scant fare with the hungry, as we see this bird with breast flattened and shoulders bent by hard work, while our sympathies are awakened, we bless the day that gave to the world this tireless little labourer of the woods.

KINGFISHER'S NECKLACE AND
RUFFLE

Kingfisher is very proud, indeed, of his white collar and ruffled head-dress, but there was a time in the long, long ago when he had neither of these ornaments. He wore a plain suit of gray-blue feathers and his head was as smooth as a robin's.

In that far-off time Kingfisher lived near a large lake, which was bordered by long stretches of pine trees. He chose this place for a home because he could catch plenty of fish in the clear waters of the lake. Also, he had made a friend of Wolf, who lived with the great spirit, Manabozho, in a bear-skin wigwam, which stood on the shore.

Wolf was a mighty hunter and provided Manabozho with plenty of food. It happened one season that game was scarce in the forest near the wigwam, and Wolf decided to hunt in the woods on the opposite side of the lake.

"Brother Wolf," said Manabozho, "see how dense the pine woods over there are. No hunter has ever ventured into that tangled forest."

"That is why I shall surely find plenty of game there," answered Wolf.

Accordingly, early next morning Wolf ran around the long margin of the lake until he came to the thick forest. He soon caught all the game he could carry, but instead of returning with it to the lodge, he stopped to fish on Big Rock, which jutted out into the lake.

Kingfisher, perched on one of the tall pine trees, called out: "Wolf, do not fish from Big Rock. The sea-serpents are lurking near, and they will catch you."

"I want some fine fish to take to Manabozho," answered Wolf. "I'm not afraid of the sea-ser——!"

He had not finished speaking when, in a very mysterious way, something gave his fishing-line a mighty jerk, and Wolf was pulled headlong into the water.

Manabozho had no game for supper. All night he listened for the footsteps of his faithful hunter, but Wolf did not return to the lodge. In the morning the great spirit began to search for his companion. He traveled all around the long margin of the lake, but not a single trace of Wolf could he find. Near Big Rock, on a tall pine tree, sat Kingfisher. Manabozho had never before spoken to the plain little bird, who was very much surprised when the great spirit said, "Kingfisher, can you tell me what has happened to Manabozho's brother Wolf? I'll give you a beautiful necklace of wampum if you can help me find him."

Kingfisher flew down from the pine tree to a branch near the great spirit and said, "Yesterday I saw your brother Wolf fishing from Big Rock. A sea-serpent pulled him under the water. If you would rescue him you must watch on this side of the lake. When the sun is highest the sea-serpents come to the rocks to sun themselves."

Manabozho was so pleased with the information that he put a necklace of beautiful white wampum around Kingfisher's neck.

"You must not tell the serpents that I am watching for Wolf," said Manabozho.

But Kingfisher was looking in the mirror of the lake, admiring his new necklace, so he did not hear the great spirit's words. Manabozho became suspicious and seized the little bird by the head. Kingfisher wriggled and twisted, and finally freed himself from the hand of the angry Manabozho and flew away. But the feathers on Kingfisher's head were very much ruffled in the struggle, and he has worn them so ever since; also, to this day, he wears Manabozho's gift of the beautiful white necklace.

OWL WISDOM

FRANCES WRIGHT

Once upon a time the owls were the largest and the most dull and stupid of all the birds of the air. While the eagle soared above the mountain's crest to hail the sun before his rising, and the lark carolled his matin in the blue fields of ether, the owls were snoring; when the thrush and the blackbird, retreating from the heat of noon, filled the deep groves with their melody, the owls snored out the sylvan concert; and when the soft cushat poured his evening tale of love into the ear of his listening mate, the owls were still snoring in their unbroken and dreamless sleep.

It chanced, most naturally, that when towards midnight, the heavy, big-headed creatures half-opened their stupid eyes, and half-stretched first one drowsy pinion and then the other, that their stomachs craved for food; whereupon, after much yawning and stretching, they dragged themselves from their holes and went prowling after bats and mice in the dark. Tired with their hunt, and not over content with their supper, which was both coarse and scanty, they thus laid their heads together, and, however dull by nature, and doubly dulled by sleep, they were for once stimulated by hunger and disappointment to something like ingenuity.

Said an old gray-headed owl: "This barbarous exercise ill suits with my years and my gravity."

"And this barbarous fare," said a pert, idle youngster, "ill suits with the youthful activity of my stomach."

"I'll stake my reputation upon it," said a third, shaking his dull head, "but that proud, self-sufficient gormandizing eagle has eaten a whole sheep for his supper."

"And I'll stake mine," yawned a fourth, "that his first cousin, the vulture, and his second cousin, the hawk, have feasted; the one on a fat lamb, and the other on a hen and chickens."

"Chut," said the first old grey-beard, "we'll feast ere long on sheep, lamb, hen, chickens, and all; ay! mayhap on the eagle's own little ones, to say nothing of his cousins."

"How so," hooted out the whole junto—"you would not fight the king of birds?"

"Let me alone for that; there are better weapons than beak or talons; and so he and his subjects shall find. But you must all aid in the enterprise."

"If there be no fighting, and not too much labour, and not too much——"

"Peace! there shall be nothing but sleeping!"

"Sleeping?"

"Ay! and some talking. But leave that to me."

Here all the heavy heads poked forward, closing in a circle round their Nestor; while all their great round eyes opened in full stare upon his.

"To-morrow you must all sleep as usual, until I give a long hoot; then you must all open your eyes and observe what shall chance."

Tired with so unusual a debate, all went to sleep accordingly, and snored louder than usual; until, just as the sun had awakened to full life and stir all the feathered tribe, the old owl hooted and screeched forth such a yell, as first terrified and then attracted on wings, spurred by curiosity, though still trembling with fear, every bird of the air from the giant eagle to the diminutive wren.

"A vision! a vision!" cried the owl; and again he screeched and again he hooted, rustling up all his feathers, flapping his wings, blinking his eyes, and tumbling head over tail like a bird distracted.

Every creature present stared and wondered.

"A vision, a vision! A miracle, a miracle!" again shouted the owl.

"I have seen a bird larger than the ostrich and stronger than the eagle. Lightnings flame from his eyes, and thunder roars from his beak. He has spoken; and lo! his command was: _The owls are my servants and to them I make known my will. Let all the birds of the air_ _hearken to their voice. Let them do their bidding, respect their repose, and feed them with the fat of the land; or, behold, I will feed upon them._"

Thereupon, the owls set up a hoot in chorus, and all the birds scattered to the four winds to collect food for the servants to eat, lest the unseen master should eat them.

From this time forth these stupid owls were deemed the wisest of the birds of the air; they supped every night upon fat yearlings; and when they hooted all the feathered tribe clapped their wings and sang a song of praise.

BIRDS' NESTS

ERNEST INGERSOLL

A bird's nest is a bird's house. Sometimes it is strong, well made and tightly roofed, and sometimes it is not, just as with men's houses. The principal difference between the bird's house and ours is that we build ours to be used all the year round, while the bird prefers to make a new one each summer. There are some birds, such as the fish-hawk, however, that keep the same nest many years in succession, repairing it each spring; and I think more birds would do so were it not that their houses are usually made so slightly that the winter's gales knock them to pieces when the owners are absent at some Southern health resort. This is a pity, too, for many of our commonest nests are exceedingly pretty and call for a great deal of work and care on the part of the builders, whose only tools are their feet and beaks.

Take, for instance, the lovely hammock-like basket, hung by its rim beneath the fork of some low branch, which is made by the little grey, red-eyed vireo, which carols to us all the early summer days from every garden and orchard. Such a nest was hung in a maple close to my porch. The bird had built it within arm's length of where we were constantly passing, yet we never saw it until it was quite finished; and the only way we could get a look at it then was by pulling aside a branch. This care was not taken from fear of us, but in the hope that the cradle would escape the sharp eyes of red squirrels, weasels, bluejays, and other creatures who hunt for and rob birds' nests of eggs and young to get food for themselves. I am happy to say, however, that the vireo's nest was not disturbed.

How to hide their nests safely is the great question in the minds of all the little birds. The big, strong ones do not need to worry about that so much, because they can drive away most robbers; therefore, we find that the hawks and crows, jays, kingbirds, and others able to take care of themselves, usually set their baskets in the crotch of some tree, where they can be seen easily enough, but all nests of this kind are strongly made, and fastened so that the winds shall not rock them out of their places or spill the contents.

But the _little_ birds try to hide their homes in various clever ways. A good many seek holes and crannies. The woodpeckers are able to dig these for themselves, for their beaks are like chisels. Others, like the wrens, bluebirds, nuthatches, chicadees, and so forth, find knot-holes, places where a branch has broken off, and various small hollows, in which to make their beds, where the young will be snug in bad weather, and pretty safe from all enemies except snakes.

Others, like the kingfisher, the sand-swallow, and certain sea-birds, make or find holes in earth-banks and rocky cliffs, so that their babies are born in a tiny cave. All of our swallows, before the country was settled by white people, lived in this manner or in hollow trees; but as soon as civilization came those we soon named barn-swallows left the wilds and put their nests under the roofs of barns and other outbuildings. Then some one, remembering the ways of old England, began to put bird-houses in the gardens; and now, in all parts of the United States, you may find those cousins of the swallows, the purple martins, living by the dozen in these lofty little hotels on the top of a pole.

The nests of the cliff-swallows are little jugs of mud, plastered by their bases to the face of the rock. The birds make them by bringing pellets of mud in their bills from some stream-side, and putting them one upon another, until each pair has formed a windowless, bottle-like house, with a front door like the neck of the jug, so small that no big bird can enter it. These are very safe and snug nests, and the birds can sit in their doorways and gossip with each other very sociably, for the nests are crowded together like the houses in a city block. This is the same kind of swallow that now puts its nest in rows along the outside of our barns under the eaves; but often they are mere cups instead of jugs, because the barn roof sheds the rain, and a clay roof is no longer necessary to protect the feather bed inside.

Another one of the small birds that is more and more coming to seek our protection and sympathy is the greenish-brown flycatcher that (as some folks think) calls out her own name every few minutes, _Phoebe, Phoebe_. She makes her home very solidly of mud and moss, lined with horse-hair, and in the old days always rested it on a ledge of rock, as many still do. Most of the phoebes, however, now think it easier and safer to get under a roof, and so they put their mossy cups on the stone piers or supporting timbers of bridges, among the rafters of sheds and porches, and in similar places.

A great number and wide variety of birds make their houses upon the ground. Most of the sea-birds do so—along the ledges of the sea-cliff. Nearly all the water fowl and game birds (except herons) also do so; and most of the ducks and similar birds nestle among the wet reeds of marshes, where their rude bedding is damp all the time and sometimes soaking wet. To keep their eggs warm when they have to leave them for a time, many of the ducks pluck a large quantity of downy feathers from their breasts with which to cover the eggs. The eider of the arctic regions is the foremost in this practice, and the eider-down sold in shops is gathered from their nests; but it is a habit of many other ducks. One of the most interesting of these ground-nest birds is the least bittern, a solitary bird frequenting swamps and marshy places.

Not only the water-birds, however, but some of the smallest and prettiest of our songsters choose to dwell and lay their eggs close to the ground, although they seem to be exposed there to many more dangers than are those in the treetops or elsewhere. None try more anxiously to hide their homes than do these ground-nesters, arching the grasses above them, or building little sheds of leaves to protect and hide the shining eggs. (Adapted.)

HATTO THE HERMIT: THE
LEGEND OF A BIRD'S NEST

SELMA LAGERLÖF

Hatto, the hermit, stood in the desert and prayed to God. The storm was on, and his long hair and beard blew about him as wind-whipped grass blows about an old ruin. But he did not brush back the hair from his eyes, nor did he fasten his long beard to his girdle, for his arms were raised in prayer. Since sunrise he had held his gaunt, hairy arms out-stretched toward heaven, as untiring as a tree stretching out its boughs, and thus he would remain until evening. It was a great thing for which he was praying.

He was a man who had suffered much from the wickedness and dishonesty of the world. He himself had persecuted and tortured others, and persecution and torture had been his portion, more than he could endure. Therefore, he had gone forth into the wilderness, had dug himself a cave on the river bank, and had become a holy man whose prayers found hearing at the throne of God.

Hatto, the hermit, stood on the river bank before his cave and prayed the great prayer of his life. He prayed God to send down the Day of Judgment upon this wicked world. He cried to the angels of the trumpets, who are to herald the end of the reign of sin.

Round about him was the wilderness, barren and desolate. But a little up the bank stood an old willow with shortened trunk, which swelled out at the top of a round hump like a queer head, and from it new, freshly green twigs were sprouting. Every autumn the peasants from the unwooded flatlands robbed the willow of her fresh new shoots. But every year the tree put forth new ones, and on stormy days the slender, flexible twigs whipped about the old willow, as hair and beard whipped about Hatto, the hermit.

It was just on this day that a pair of water thrushes, who usually built their nest on the trunk of the old willow between the new twigs, had decided to begin their work. But the wild whipping of the twigs disturbed the birds. They flew up with their bits of dry grass with nothing accomplished. Then it was that they caught sight of old Hatto.

No one now living can picture to himself how moss-grown and dried-up, how gnarled and black and generally unlike a human being, such an old desert hermit can become. His skin clung so close to forehead and cheekbones that his head looked like a skull, and only a tiny gleam down in the depth of his eyeballs showed that there was still life in him. The dried-up muscles gave no curve to the body; the outstretched naked arms were merely a couple of narrow bones, covered with hard, wrinkled, bark-like skin. He wore an old black cloak, clinging close to his body. He was tanned brown by the sun and black with dirt. His hair and beard alone were of a lighter shade, for rain and sunshine had faded them to the grey-green hue of the under side of willow leaves.

The birds, flying about uneasily and seeking a place for their nest, took Hatto the hermit to be another old willow cut off by axe and saw in its heavenward striving. They flew about him many times, flew away and returned again, took note of the guide posts on the way to him, calculated his position in regard to protection from storm and birds of prey, found it rather unfavourable, but decided to locate there on account of the close vicinity of the stream and the reeds, their chief source of supply. One of the birds shot down suddenly and laid a bit of grass in the hermit's outstretched hand.

The storm had abated a little, so that the straw was not blown from his hand at once, but the hermit did not pause in his prayer, "Come soon, O Lord, come to destroy this world of sin, that mankind may not more increase its load of guilt."

The storm roared out again, and the bit of grass fluttered out of the hermit's great bony hand. But the birds came again and endeavoured to erect the cornerstone of their new home between his fingers. Suddenly a dirty, clumsy thumb laid itself over the grass spears and held them in firm position, while four fingers reached over the palm, making a peaceful niche where a nest would be safe. The hermit continued his untiring supplications, and before his eyes danced fever visions of the day of judgment. The earth trembled, the skies shot fire. He saw the black clouds of hurrying birds beneath the glowing firmament; herds of fleeing animals spread over the earth. But while his soul was filled with these visions of fever, his eyes began to watch the flight of the tiny birds that came and went with lightning dashes, laying new straws in the nest with little chirps of pleasure.

The old man did not move. He had made a vow to stand the entire day with outstretched arms, in order to force God to hear him.

The little thrushes built and built busily all the day, and their work progressed finely. There was no lack of material in this wilderness of rolling ground with stiff grass and brush, and on the river bank, with its reeds and rushes. They could not take time for dinner or supper. They flew back and forth, glowing with interest and pleasure, and when dusk came they had reached the peak of their roof.

But before evening fell the hermit's eyes had come to rest on their labour more and more. He watched them in their flight; he scolded them when they were clumsy; he grieved when the wind spoiled their efforts, and he became almost angry when they stopped a moment to rest.