Once upon a time, long, long ago, Mrs. Rabbit lived down by the sea on a great sand-hill. She was a very kind neighbor and disturbed no one. She was poor, but she owned a great gray goose who laid wonderful big eggs.
The goose had come to her in the strangest way, years and years ago. For it happened one day that just as Mrs. Rabbit was locking up her house to go and visit her cousins, she heard a sad voice in the bushes cry, "Oh, Mrs. Rabbit, Mrs. Rabbit, please do help me in. I have broken my wing and fallen here, and all the other geese that were flying with me are gone. They left me where I fell."
At that Mrs. Rabbit gave up her intended visit, and took poor Downy Goose into the house, sent for Dr. 'Possum, and did her best to comfort her.
When Dr. 'Possum came, he took one look at the afflicted goose, shook his head, and declared he could do nothing for her. Mrs. Rabbit thereupon told the unfortunate wayfarer that she must live there always.
"You must make your home with me," she said, "and we will make the best of things. Even with your poor broken wing you can manage to get along, for there is a fine swamp below the ridge of this hill and near it is the best of green grass and shady bushes."
Poor Downy Goose was overcome with happiness. She could only dry her streaming eyes with a plantain leaf, while she kept saying:
"You are so kind, so very kind, dear Mrs. Rabbit! I shall do my best to lay an egg every day for you—omitting Sundays, of course, and the Fourth of July."
At this Mrs. Rabbit threw her arms around poor Downy's neck and they wept with joy. And from that day to this they have been the closest friends.
Nor did the good gray goose fail in her promise. Indeed, she did her best; and always by noon, while Mrs. Rabbit would be dusting and sweeping, or getting the boiled grass ready for dinner, the lady goose would sit in the door-yard mending socks or reading poetry, when suddenly she would lay an egg, and then, calling to her dear friend to bring the basket, they would put the egg away on the pantry shelf. Then they would betake themselves for the rest of the day to the field and the edge of the swamp where Mrs. Rabbit would nibble the tender grass, and Downy Goose would wade in the soft, cool mud.
Now, it was soon known among all the neighbors that Mrs. Rabbit and the strange goose were living together. Also it was soon told abroad that the goose was paying her board in eggs—big eggs—that she paid it every day, and that Mr. and Mrs. Rabbit were faring on the finest food. They had scrambled eggs, and omelettes and pound cake at every meal—and all this for merely taking in the poor, afflicted goose!
You would think that all who heard it would have been glad to know how happy the rabbits were, and they ought to have pitied the poor goose who could never fly again; but that is not the way of the world. Instead of saying nice things, they said ugly ones, and behind Mrs. Rabbit's back, the neighbors, Mrs. Fox in particular, expressed the bitterest jealousy.
Mrs. Fox, indeed, grew so envious of these big goose eggs that at last she could stand it no longer, and resolved upon a plan for stealing them. She put all her wits to work, for, to get such big eggs and carry them without breaking them open was a thing which only the cleverest thief in the world could do. Nevertheless, every day for five days, an egg disappeared from Mrs. Rabbit's pantry.
Mrs. Rabbit was greatly disturbed, but she never dreamed who was stealing the eggs. Finally she decided to watch the nest all the time; and to her surprise found that the thieves were her neighbors—Mr. and Mrs. Fox.
How cleverly they managed! Mr. Fox lay on his back and held the big egg while Mrs. Fox pulled him over the hill by means of a rope tied to his tail. In this way they got the egg home.
But Mrs. Rabbit laughed as she thought of how poor Mr. Fox's back would be skinned, and how she would get revenge.
Nor was it long before a way was opened for her to recover the lost eggs, and to put Mrs. Fox to confusion. For who should come walking in one morning but Mr. Bear, to say that invitations were out for a wonderful feast of goose eggs at Mrs. Fox's home on the following Saturday night. And he asked Mrs. Rabbit if she were going.
That was enough! Mrs. Rabbit determined to get back the eggs. But she would have to be very clever to fool Mrs. Fox.
Mrs. Rabbit knew that Mrs. Fox would come for the last goose egg soon. So she bored a hole in this egg at each end, and blew in at one end till the contents all flew out at the other and the shell was empty. Then she slipped inside, and Mr. Rabbit pasted small pieces of white paper over the openings.
And here Mrs. Rabbit waited for the thieves to come, while Mr. Rabbit hid behind a tree near by.
Soon they came, and after much effort the big egg was carried into Mrs. Fox's home. Mrs. Rabbit chuckled to herself as she saw the other five big eggs through a tiny peephole in the paper.
While the gay old foxes were in the next room, entertaining their guests, Mrs. Rabbit broke the paper at one end and slipped out. Then she called softly to her husband to bring the wheel-barrow; and they piled in all the eggs and carried them away.
"While the Gay Old Foxes Were in the Next Room, Mrs. Rabbit Slipped Out"
"While the Gay Old Foxes Were in the Next Room, Mrs. Rabbit Slipped Out"
"While the Gay Old Foxes Were in the Next Room, Mrs. Rabbit Slipped Out"
Nor were they more pleased to recover their lost property than was the obliging goose when she learned of all that had been going on.
"To think," she exclaimed, "that I have been laying eggs for those dreadful foxes!"
And Mr. and Mrs. Fox wonder to this day who stole the goose eggs.
Long, long ago Mrs. Frog lived on the hillsides. She was a goddess worshiped by all the fairies because she ruled the sunshine and the rain, and she was a friend to them all, being generous and dutiful.
With her seventy daughters, she spent the days in spinning the most beautiful cloth of gold for the fairies to wear, and the flax which she spun was as yellow as the biggest and ripest pumpkin you ever saw.
All the years that she served the fairies by her industry, and was dutiful in calling down the rains to refresh the earth, she was in great favor with the world, and no one was so much beloved by all the animals as Mrs. Frog.
But the seventy daughters who were so handsome, and who spun such miles of yellow thread, grew restless, and kept begging their mother for a holiday. She, too, owned to being a little weary, and would often remark with a yawn that it wasn't the spinning, nor yet the weaving, which tired her, but the lack of diversion.
"And think, dear Mother," they would say, "think of our lazy brothers, who do nothing but admire their shapely legs all day, and spend the whole night dancing and singing and eating suppers. It isn't fair!"
On speaking thus the daughters were very artful. For if there was one thing which angered Mrs. Frog, it was the laziness of her sons. Years and years ago she had given up trying to get them to do a single useful thing. And it was no consolation to observe that they got along in the world somehow, whether they did anything or not.
"Look at their awful stomachs," she would exclaim. "The lazy creatures, always eating and singing. What a life!"
It was thus that the seventy daughters played upon her feelings of disgust, urging her to adopt a change and give up spinning. Each one spoke to her alone, seven times a week, when she would reply:
"Yes, my daughter, I am listening, and I don't know but what you are quite right."
And then, when all the whole seventy spoke together, as they made a point of doing when they knew she was tired out and had the headache, she could only clasp her hands to her ears and flee to her bedroom.
At last the daughters won and Mrs. Frog began her holiday. She meant to take but a single evening and a day, hoping to get back to work there-after, rested and refreshed. But alas! once she began her career of dancing, and feasting, and staying up till morning to sing and laugh and watch the sun come up, the day never came that she was willing to spin the yellow flax.
Forty of the lovely daughters danced themselves to death within a week, but Mrs. Frog was so busy waltzing and marching and singing that in each instance, as the sad news came to her that another daughter was dead, she was too gay to care or even to ask, "Which one?"
Terrible disaster began to come upon the land. All the birds and plants were dying for water. Clouds passed by, but Mrs. Frog was too lazy to make the rain fall. If she wasn't dancing, she was sleeping, and so no time remained for her duties.
One day the animals from the forest came to call on Mrs. Frog, to plead for rain. The mother rabbits came from long distances to tell Mrs. Frog how their babies were perishing for water and for tender bits of green grass.
But Mrs. Frog had become hardened and told them to leave her alone.
"Please give us rain! Please give us rain!" the birds all pleaded; but Mrs. Frog only frowned at having been awakened.
Then came all the bees and the butterflies from the hillsides, tired, hot, and dusty.
"We are your neighbors and friends," they cried. "Do give us rain! The flowers are all dead and we have no honey to eat!"
"Go away!" croaked Mrs. Frog. "I must sleep during the day, and I have no time to worry with you! If you don't like the way I manage this hillside, go to the swamp lands!"
Next came the fairies for their yellow dresses, which Mrs. Frog was to have spun from the yellow flax. Mrs. Frog was fast asleep, but when they called and called her she awoke. She rubbed her sleepy eyes and awakened all the family to help her spin the flax; but the sun shone down on the hot, dry earth so burningly that all her spinning-wheels caught on fire and everything in her house was burned up.
"Oh, for a drop of water!" the birds and the animals were calling. "Help us, Mrs. Frog! Do help us!"
But it was too late. Even Mrs. Frog's wand, with which she called forth the rain from the clouds, was burned up. And Mrs. Frog was so terribly hot and thirsty that she didn't know what to do.
As a last resort she started for the swamp lands, thirty of her exhausted daughters trailing after her. They were all so tired they could no longer walk, and finally, being faint and bent over to the ground, they took to hopping.
Down, down, down, through the hills they hopped until at last they reached the dark, damp swamp. The daughters had become as lazy as the sons; and Mrs. Frog herself desired nothing in the world but a cool, muddy bed at night, and a good log or a lily pad to sit on throughout the livelong day.
But in her muddy bed she doesn't sleep; for all night long one may hear her calling: "More rain! More rain! More rain!"
While Mr. Frog croaks: "Knee deep! Knee deep! Knee deep!"
And all the little frogs: "Wade in! Wade in! Wade in!"
There was a time when the world was mostly forest. There were plains, to be sure, and rich valleys, but the trees were everywhere, so that even the towns and farms were hidden by them; and there were no great cities at all.
It was then that the animals lived in peace, and they were not driven to hide themselves, nor to be always moving farther and farther away to find new shelters.
But the days came when the forests were cut away. A little at a time, and always along the edges of the woods, men began to hack and to chop and to saw, until one by one the great trees came down. With them as they crashed to the earth came the birds' nests; and where the trees had stood, the mosses and the grass dried up and died, for the hot sun poured in where once it had been shady and cool.
In the days when this began it distressed the animals; so that the poor creatures at last resorted to a wonderful plan. To them the woods were very dear, and never were they frightened at what they saw or heard; although the depths of the forest were so full of terrors to foolish men.
News was spread through the glens and across the mountains that something was going to be done to save the woods. The birds and the swift, scampering little weasels, and the soft-footed wildcat, who can cover many miles and never be seen or heard, took the messages far and away. Time was allowed; for the beaver and the mud-turtle were necessary to the plan, and even at her best Mrs. Beaver is slow in her motions. It was none other than crafty old Major Wolf who had conceived the plan by which they would teach the wood-cutters a lesson.
"Such simple and foolish creatures they are!" he remarked. "We've only to frighten them out of their wits, by some device or other, and if we scare them enough they'll keep away from these woods forever!"
With that he snapped his terrible jaws and turned his great yellow eyes on the company. Before him and around him were all the animals of the forest. The deer, who could think of nothing to do but to run, the fox, who knew every possible way of deceiving his enemies, the bear and the panther and many of the small creatures, down to the sleek little mole, were all talking at once.
The bear and the wildcat were very impatient. They were all for fighting outright.
"You hug and I'll scratch," said the lynx to the bear.
"We can do up an army of choppers if we get the chance," added the panther; but he was lost in the debate, for the wisest of all, the great gray wolf, reminded them that if the men with their axes so much as caught sight of the animals, they would go away only to come back with their guns and to fill the forest with every conceivable trap.
Then he pointed to a great, dead tree which stood alone and on the brow of the hill. The animals looked and tried to get his meaning. Some of them yawned, such as the hedgehog, whose wits are slow; but the quick Mrs. Fox jumped and cried, "That's it, that's it! We'll make that tree into a giant to guard the path to our woods."
Then Major Wolf exclaimed that the sagacious fox had guessed his plan.
The wind and the frost had bent and broken the tree until it was like nothing in the world so much as a giant. Its arms were there and its shoulders; and its terrible body, as high as the church steeple, was bent forward as if to fall on any one so rash as to come near it. But it needed a great deal of what the heron called "touching up"; for the heron is an artist, and goes every year, they say, to study the sculptures of Egypt.
"It needs a mouth and two eyes, as any one can see for himself," the lynx remarked; and the mole and the hedgehog suggested that the feet might be improved. Here was the task for the beavers; for carving and cabinet work is their specialty. And to chisel great holes for the eyes and the mouth was exactly what the woodpeckers and the squirrels could do.
The work was so briskly done, that it was indeed completed before the admiring circle could gasp out its astonishment. While the chips and the saw-dust were flying, Major Wolf was moved to observe in the most pious tones:
"How marvelous that these poor little cousins of ours, these smaller, gnawing creatures (if I may call them such without hurting their feelings) should alone be able to serve the purposes of us more noble beasts."
And he waved his paw to include the bear and the panther in the nobility.
But the gentle Mrs. Deer knew what a terrible hypocrite Major Wolf was. And she moved with her children to the other side of the meeting; for she had watched his mouth water even as he spoke such wonderful sentiments.
The squirrel was boring away at the great giant's limbs, carving and cutting; and even the slow old turtle, with his powerful nippers, was pruning the tangle of vines from the feet.
But the morning was close at hand. The wood creatures had barely enough time to complete their work and scamper off. They crouched in the bushes to await the effect of their scheme. And even though they knew the giant was no giant at all, but just a great, dead tree, they were awestruck at the result of their work.
As if to add to the strength of their purpose, the sun was rising in a terrible glory of red, with the blackest of clouds all round.
It was terrible. The red light of the morning, through the gaping mouth and awful eyes, the waving arms and the immensity of the giant were frightful.
The wood-cutters came. But only one of them got as far as the tree. With a howl of fear, he turned and fled, dropping his ax as he ran. He told of the awful giant with eyes and mouth of fire, and the others refused to come near.
The animals were greatly elated; but the wisest of them knew that some day the foolish wood-cutters would find out the truth. And such was the case; although it was a long, long time, and the great giant which the animals made warded off their enemies for many a year.
Once upon a time the animals who live away up North, in the cold Arctic regions, came together for a feast in celebration of their blessings. The bears, the wolves, the minks, the sables, even the big, spluttery seals that swim in the icy water, were all on hand to make a great noise, singing and shouting and devouring the things that they all loved to eat.
All were there except Mrs. Fox, and why she was not invited no one knew. Maybe Mr. Penguin, who wrote the invitations, was responsible for the omission, but at any rate it is a fact that the fox family was left out in the cold.
Of course, Mrs. Fox felt herself sorely slighted. She and her six children came near enough, however, to learn that after the celebration and the dance, which was to be held on the ice floor of the Bear palace, there was to be a great supper in Mrs. Bear's kitchen. It was to be a feast of the eggs of the eider-duck. A supper, needless to say, that any bear or fox would travel night and day to enjoy.
On the night of the feast Mrs. Fox crept quietly up to the bears' house.
Mrs. Bear and all the ladies were in the bedroom, brushing down their rich winter suits, and prinking away to look their best before going down to meet the other guests. And, of all things, they were gossiping about Mrs. Fox! Just because she wasn't there (as they thought), they were speaking of her in the most slighting terms. It seemed as if they were all talking at once; but Mrs. Fox, whose ear was close to the chimney, could hear Mrs. Wolf's deep voice distinctly.
"That old coat of Mrs. Fox's is the shabbiest I have ever seen," she was saying in her severest tone. "One would think that a woman of her build, slinky and queer as it is, would put on white every winter. I would wear white myself if I didn't think this handsome gray of mine an elegant thing the year round."
They all agreed that Mrs. Wolf was indeed very elegant, and that Mrs. Fox was very shabby. Little Miss Ermine, who, as all the world knows, has the finest white coat in the world, piped up shrill and cross:
"Right you are, Mrs. Wolf. White's the thing in winter, but only for those adapted to it. It scarcely becomes every one."
At this she made a great showing of her own dainty figure, cutting several merry dance figures before the mirror.
Mrs. Fox had heard enough. She waited for the ladies to go downstairs to the great room where all the gentlemen sat about. She knew what they would do. There would be wonderful speeches by the biggest and oldest bears, about the midnight sun and other blessings; the walrus would make a long speech, too, mostly about seaweed and fish; and then, after a dance or two, they would all come trooping out to the kitchen. Old Uncle Penguin would make a very long prayer, and everybody would eat until he could eat no more.
Mrs. Fox was very angry. She resolved that there should be no supper for her mean, back-biting friends.
Cautiously she felt her way down the sides of the cliff which was the outside of Mrs. Bear's great house. As she expected, the eider-duck eggs were in a basket suspended from the pantry window. Quick as a flash she ran back for her children, and in another minute they were all beside her on the roof of Mrs. Bear's kitchen.
"Old Mrs. Sloth, who cooks for Mrs. Bear, is sound asleep by the fire. Don't wake her up. And do just what I tell you to," whispered Mother Fox.
The little foxes held their breath.
"Stand in a line! Now each one of you take hold of the next one's tail. Each of you except little Fuzzypaw. He's the quickest and the lightest and he is going to run up and down the ladder which the rest of you will make, and bring me those eggs, one by one. Just grip each other's tails as tight as you can, and don't make a sound!"
It was no sooner said than done. One after another the eggs were brought up to the edge of the roof by the little fox, who ran up and down the ladder as nimbly as a weasel. Mrs. Fox stowed the eggs away carefully in a brand-new basket she had brought with her, and in a few minutes the basket by Mrs. Bear's pantry window was quite empty.
Then off through the big woods the little foxes trotted gaily behind their mother.
"Off Through the Big Woods the Little Foxes Trotted Gaily Behind Their Mother"
"Off Through the Big Woods the Little Foxes Trotted Gaily Behind Their Mother"
"Off Through the Big Woods the Little Foxes Trotted Gaily Behind Their Mother"
What happened when the supper party found that it had no supper, Mrs. Fox never knew. For while Mrs. Bear and her guests were reduced to confusion and disappointment, the foxes were at home roasting eggs by the fire, and sitting up to all hours in the jolliest fashion.
The next year Mrs. Fox was invited. Old Mr. Wolf, who knew a thing or two, thought it would be the wisest thing to ask her. So all the other animals agreed; and Mrs. Fox never found society in the Arctic Circle more cordial than after the season it ignored her and she stole the eggs of the eider-duck from Mrs. Bear.
Very much out of the beaten track—in fact, only to be approached by an old road that had long fallen into disuse—stood a neglected cabin, a poor weather-beaten thing with sunken roof and decaying timbers.
Its door-yard had already begun to grow the young pine trees which come up in great plumes of long, green needles; and the little garden plot, which used to boast its vegetables, had become a mass of brambles and nettles.
"How sad this all is," the poor little cabin used to sigh. "Although I suppose it is better to be harboring rabbits and squirrels, and to have my beams plastered up with nests, than to have no living thing enjoy my shelter. Still, I wish spring when it comes would bring people to unlock my door and children to fill these poor little rooms with their laughter."
For the cabin could remember many children that had lived there, and sometimes it seemed to him that he heard them again, playing in the nearby woods, or running and calling down the road.
Sometimes he did hear such voices, for people often passed the cabin on the way to a distant plantation, and children were as likely to be among them as not.
But the squirrels and the rabbits had it pretty much their own way with the deserted cabin, running in and out beneath the underpinning; and the only noise around the place was that of Mrs. Yellowhammer when she came pounding at the roof for what the decayed old shingles might conceal.
"I declare, you poor old house!" the energetic bird would say. "It's terrible how the worms are eating at your timbers and shingles." Whereat she would fall to and nearly pound the life out of the poor old cabin, in her determination to get all there was.
But Mrs. Yellowhammer and the rabbits that danced in the moonlight were not the only visitors, for often in the summer time came the humming-birds to visit the trumpet-vine which covered nearly all of one end of the structure.
"I am the saving grace, the chief beauty of this establishment," the Lady Trumpet would say. "And I know it."
"Of course you are," Mrs. Yellowhammer would reply. "And it was a great mistake that you were ever planted here. A lady of your elegance, among such weeds and common things, and at the very edge of nowhere!"
"Oh, I don't mind it much, although we have little company now. But who's this coming this very minute?"
Sure enough, a man was passing. And he came through the old door-yard straight up to the cabin steps and stood there a minute, and then was gone. But not before he had thrown something over his shoulder which lighted with a dry rattle, like that of corn, in at the base of the old chimney.
"What a queer thing to do!" thought Lady Trumpet-Vine, thereby speaking her own mind and that of the cabin as well.
"Not at all," suddenly spoke up Mr. Rabbit. "That man is throwing seed over his left shoulder for his luck. I've seen it done before. And I'm glad he doesn't want my left hind foot, or whatever it is that such people like to carry in their pockets for good luck."
Immediately Mrs. Yellowhammer, who had been screaming to her friend, Red-necked Woodpecker, to come and enjoy this mystery, flew down to inspect the seeds which lay on the soil at the foot of the chimney. And Mr. Rabbit scampered to get to the spot also.
They looked long and hard at the little brown things; then Mr. Rabbit tried biting one of them.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "Bitter as poison!"
"I never taste things I am in doubt about," Mrs. Yellowhammer declared; "but I'm not a seed-eater anyway. What does Mr. Bob-White think they are?"
For a dapper little partridge was on the scene now, turning his head this way and that as he squinted at the mysterious seeds.
"Gourds!" he finally pronounced them. "Gourd seed. No good for eating. Even a sparrow wouldn't touch them."
Then the birds flew off and Mr. Rabbit skipped rope with himself all around the yard, for he wanted to restore his spirits; this curious incident having for a second clouded his buoyant nature.
This happened in the very early spring, before even a leaf was showing on Lady Trumpet-Vine, and before even a purple wood violet had shown herself in the borders of the deserted garden. Rains came; long ones that drenched the earth and gullied the roads. The eaves of the cabin dripped and dripped night and day, and it was not long before great puddles lay by the sunken door-step, and were soaking down into the roots of everything.
"What a pity there's nothing but weeds and those low-down gourd seeds to be benefited by all this!" sighed the Lady Trumpet. "I shall probably flower generously this year. But what's the use?"
Then she would grow very sad as the rain increased and out of the dark skies came the heavy south winds.
But when the sky cleared, the gourd seeds had sunk out of sight. That was good luck for them. Deeper down they went and at last their first little roots were feeling the rich soil that no plant had enjoyed in many a year. Then two bright green leaves, laden with halves of the old seed coverings, came up.
The glistening earth was trying to dry itself in the sunshine, and the jolly Woodpecker was looking out of his window in the trunk of the old cherry-tree.
"Well, I'm a crow!" he exclaimed, "or there are those gourd seeds up and out of bed so soon!"
He was so delighted with this that he told his wife; and soon all the other people around the poor neglected place were flying and running to take a look.
The little fellows, very sturdy and determined, were holding their leaves out exactly as if they were spreading their palms upward to catch the sunlight in their hands.
Time went on and the seeds became vines. The old chimney, built of sticks and mud, and very unsightly, was revived to new feelings.
"Not since my supper fires went out have I felt so much alive," it moaned as though it would like to be really pleased.
"If only I could smoke again, I should feel completely contented."
Soon the chimney and the eaves were green with gourd vine. Summer was underway, with its long hot mornings and its wonderful nights. Lady Trumpet-Vine was covered with buds, and she was already telling of how she would be visited by all the most beautiful creatures in the world.
"But nobody'll visit your flowers," she said to the gourd vine. "Nobody wants to. You're a bitter, ugly, common vine. That's what you are."
"I have some very respectable relatives, just the same," sang out Sunny Gourd, determined not to be utterly demeaned. "There's Mr. Watermelon and Mr. Cucumber. They are very well esteemed, you know. I think they are appreciated perhaps almost as much as you are."
"But not for their beauty, my dear," was the retort. "I am loved by all the world for my magnificence. Birds and men know beauty when they see it. Trust me in that."
Then, almost in anger, such was her queenly pride, Lady Trumpet burst a few of her buds. The full open flowers were wonderful, and a perfume exhaled from them which made her neighbor dizzy.
"It's no use," Sunny Gourd sighed. "I can't do that. My flowers are merely little no-account white things. No perfume to speak of. But I don't care, I've reached the roof anyway, and I can look up at the sky and watch the birds in these trees, and have a good time to myself. And I can look at you, too, Mrs. Trumpet."
The stately vine waved her tendrils and fanned herself gently. She couldn't help seeing that this gourd person was at least polite.
But the hardest thing in the world to bear is the idea that you are of no use to anybody. And it was this which hurt the robust gourd vine. Not a bird came for honey, and yet they hovered in ecstasy over Lady Trumpet. Humming-birds, as brilliant as flashing gems, came whirring like rays from a diamond shot from the sky. They would plunge their long beaks deep into the flowers to get the nectar, and then dart away, only to return again for more. Other beautiful creatures came to the deserted garden and sang madly with delight, simply trying to make their melody as intoxicating as Lady Trumpet's perfume.
But they studiously avoided Sunny Gourd. His leaves, big and green and very rough, and his sinewy stems, his modest flowers and the bitter juice of them, were odious to everybody. Yet he was green as emerald, and he had made a picture of his end of the cabin.
"But the birds, how I love them!" he kept saying to himself. "And they will have none of me!"
At last, however, to his great consolation, there came a little green bee to visit him.
"Well, well!" it buzzed. "Here you are! Just what I want!"
And the little visitor tried to hang in every flower. His visits lasted all day.
"Yes, I'm only a low ground bee," he remarked, after Sunny Gourd had confided in him. "Those aristocratic honey-bees don't recognize me at all. But I don't care. And you mustn't care. The birds will be mightily obliged to you yet."
And without a word more, he was off. Nor would this handsome little fellow ever explain what he meant. He would only say: "You just wait!"
Nor were there many weeks of waiting. For the autumn came, and the pinch of cold nights with it. Things began to shrivel, but the wonderful fruit of the gourd vine turned from green to yellow; lovely as gold. Sunny Gourd had produced a hundred dippers: some with handles curled and long, some straight as rulers, and some that were short and thick. They hung in yellow companies from the eaves trough, or they clustered over the roof. The best of them grew against the chimney, and yet all were as gourds should be, stout of shell and beautifully rounded.
"Very strange!" Lady Trumpet remarked. "Almost impressive. But I'm glad I don't have to do it. My seed pods are elegance itself, and yet they do not obtrude themselves that way. I call it vulgar."
But others thought differently. People began to go that way just to see the house that was covered with gourds, and in the last days, as the sap was drying in the vines, Sunny Gourd found that he was attracting much attention.
Yet he was not to guess just the thing that was to happen.
One day the man who had thrown the seeds for luck, returned. And he took but one delighted look.
Soon there was much going on and the old cabin came back to life again. And, just as the chimney hoped, it was smoking once more. There were children running around the weedy garden, and voices and laughter brought back the happiness so long gone. The blue-jays and the yellowhammers greeted the newcomers with delight, and Lady Trumpet could only wish that they had seen her in her July glory. But to Sunny Gourd happened the best of it all; for the man cut many of the gourds into bird houses and hung them to a pole which he planted by the door.
Then came the martins to build, losing no time at all. The beautiful yellow gourds hung high and happy, their hollow shells sheltering a dozen beautiful birds. And the best of the gourds, the one with the longest handle, which had swung clear of the door lintel all summer long, and had ripened to a magnificent color, was hung by the well. It made a dipper fit for a king; that is, if the king were a very good man.
Sunny Gourd knew no words for his happiness. And it was joy, not the cold of the winter nights, to which he at last succumbed.
"That's the way with this wonderful world," said Mr. Mocking-bird. "And I thought he was beautiful all along."
"And think what he did for me," the cabin kept saying.
So that even the proud Lady Trumpet knew her place at last, and she honestly hoped the dear Sunny Gourd would come back in the spring.
Far away to the North, where the great rocky capes point out through the sea toward the land where it is always snow and ice, there lived two shepherds whose little huts were almost the only habitations in many and many a mile of trackless forest. To be sure, they were within traveling distance of a market town. For had there been no place for trading the wonderful white wool which they sheared every spring from their sheep, there would have been no object in their living in a place so uncouth where year in and year out there were only the grandeurs of earth and sky and the thunderous roar of the seas to keep them company.
But the shepherds and their families were not unhappy, and the chances are that if you took them southward over sea and land to the great cities they would only have longed to go back to their own cloudy skies, to their wind-swept pastures, and the steep cliffs where the sea-gulls nest. And it is certainly true that their little boys and girls would never have been content to have stayed away very long from the faithful dogs, who are the most important members in a shepherd home. And it is of these dogs and what they did to the last of the wolves that the shepherds were always telling. For the memory of a brave act is slow to die; and when you add sagacity to bravery, putting wits with strength, you have something which men love to relate.
One of the dogs was Dan, and that was a suitable name, for he was what his master called "long-headed." The other was Denmark, for he was so great and powerful and possessed of so wonderful a voice and appetite, that both by power and dignity he resembled his people, the noble Danes, and no name in the world could fit him better than that of his native land.
Denmark had come to this far-away settlement when a ship from the Danish ports had gone to pieces in a storm below the cliffs. And the shepherds had taken him home. A dog that could swim ashore in such a storm as that had been, when the waves turned to ice as they dashed against the rocks, was a dog worth keeping.
But Denmark was not a shepherd dog. His shiny coat of black, his heavy build, with a neck as powerful as a young bull's, and his great square jaws made him at first sight a dog to be feared. But he was gentle and wanted to play and sport like any puppy, as soon as he had recovered from the shock of shipwreck and his icy hour in the water. But there was no one to play with in the family of the fisherman who had first rescued him from the water. And that worthy man, who was a brave and silent sort, was gone from home so long at a time that he was not sorry when the great Dane betook himself to another home.
Some children were passing the fisherman's hut one morning in early spring, on their way to gather wild flowers which grew in the crevices and little sheltered nooks of the headlands. They were laughing and chasing one another and singing. That was all the great dog wanted to hear, for he had lived a solemn and uneventful life during these weeks that he had lain around the fisherman's place. And the fisherman had not dreamed of entertaining his guest. He had not played tag in sixty years and you may be sure he was not going to begin again for the sake of a great overgrown dog.
Denmark introduced himself to the children in what he thought was a playful way; but his voice was so terrible that the children were at first terror-stricken. They had never seen any dogs except the beautiful Scottish kind which the shepherds keep. They screamed and ran in fear, taking up stones as if to throw them. But Denmark was not discouraged. At first he kept his distance, but he followed; and, once they were out on the green pastures that sloped and curved down to the steep shore, he began his most enticing efforts to please.
The children forgot all about their wild flowers then, and they romped and played for hours with the dog. Of course they took him home.
In this new home Denmark was a neighbor of Dan, the wise shepherd dog, who came to be his lifelong friend; for the shepherds did not live very far apart, and it was easy for the dogs to get together, as they always did at odd times of night and very early in the morning, when they would go far afield in a mad chase for rabbits or on the trail of a fox.
Every one had thought the two would fight when they met, but the shepherd dog only stood off on his dignity a few seconds, and then he spoke to the great Dane in the most courteous tones, which the Scotch can always employ to such effect. He well knew that he was no match for the gigantic stranger and he saw no necessity for making a fool of himself; besides he really was more than glad to find such a companion.
The comradeship of these two lasted long and only came near to its end when they cornered the great timber wolf in the sheep pen. This was Dan's crowning achievement, and no one was more proud of him than was the brave and courteous Denmark, who always gave to the shepherd dog the full credit of having planned the whole thing. To rid the countryside of this last wolf had been Dan's great desire. No one but he was really sure of the wolf's existence. The time had passed when the terrible packs of wolves descended on the sheep, and when the belated traveler over the snowy roads was in peril of his life from these stalking, famished enemies. But the shepherds were by no means sure that the wolves were entirely gone, and when they sat by the fireside telling stories of the dangers and hardships of the old days, they would always end by admitting that not yet were the terrible marauders hunted down.
Dan's back would bristle as he lay by the fire, and he would pound his tail up and down on the hearth as if he entirely agreed. Could he have spoken, he would have told them that often he had smelt the track of something that was not a bear nor a fox. Then his blood would freeze in his veins when the shepherds, talking in their slow way between sips of ale, told how powerful and ferocious the wolf can be. They knew of wolves that had snapped a dog's head nearly clean off the body with just one flash of their terrible jaws. And they agreed that a wolf could not be overpowered by any dog alone.
Dan always came to one conclusion in these recitals. If ever he could find the wolf, and could employ his friend Denmark to help him, they would show their masters that two dogs, at any rate, could get the best of the timber wolf.
It came about at last that a long, heavy winter drove the wolf to bolder and more risky operations among the sheepfolds. He ventured from the dark, forest lairs closer and closer to the sheep pens and the shepherd huts. The dogs knew this. But in the daytime the wolf was gone far beyond the barriers of the steep cliffs of the mountains. And at night the dogs could never venture far afield, for it was their duty to stay close by the barns and the pens where the sheep were sheltered.
With the coming of spring, Dan's master had to spend many a night at a pen some distance from the home. Down close to the shore he kept another flock and in it were many little lambs that were sick. For in the spring it is a common thing for the lambs that are winter-born to be stricken with a sickness which only the best shepherds can cure. Dan's master was up and about at all hours of the night, and poor Dan was greatly concerned in his efforts to keep guard over two folds. But if his dear master would take no sleep, Dan would take none. He was as wakeful and anxious as though he owned the sick lambs himself.
It was well past midnight and the air was full of the wet odors which denote the melting snows and the first coming of spring. As Dan was trotting up the path from the lower fold, a whiff of that strange and terrible odor which he knew to be the scent of the wolf, came to his sensitive nostrils. He stood still. He snuffed the ground around him, but he found no track. The wolf was near, but where?
Then a thought came to him. First, he must get Denmark. It would take him but a few moments to run across to the neighboring farm, and now was the time to put his plan into execution. He was much disturbed in his mind, however, for he had never before left his master at night. But the necessity was a pressing one.
Down the path and across the fields he ran, and came to Denmark's home. The great dog was lying by the barn door, under a little shelter which formed a kennel. He was wide awake and felt very much alert. He confessed to Dan that he felt particularly nervous about something. Yes, he was sure he could scent the wolf on the stagnant, heavy air.
Back they ran, their tails lowered, and their noses to the ground, for this was no hour to play. Once they were in sight of the hut where the shepherd and the little lambs were housed, Dan explained his plan.
"My master will presently go into that tiny room just beyond the pen where the ewes and the sick lambs are. He will lie down, and unless the lambs bleat again before morning, he will not wake up, for he is dead tired. He knows that I am close and on guard, and so he does not trouble himself about that shaky old door to the fold. The wolf could nose it open and not half try. But the wolf won't come here unless he thinks I am watching up at the big pen. So I shall go up there. You climb the steep steps that lead to the loft over the straw beds where the sick lambs are. Go softly, and wait. I will follow the wolf down here if he comes. And if he gets inside the pen, you spring down on him from the loft."
All this the canny shepherd dog had schemed and perfected as he was running after his friend. It was too good to be true, he felt, that here at last was the chance he had hoped for. And if he had ever feared the wolf, he did not fear him now, but was only afraid that the terrible creature would not appear.
Dan hid beneath his master's barn. From a corner in the heavy stone underpinning he could look down the yard to the lower pen. Nothing could approach that point without his seeing it, unless it came from the rocky shore. He waited long and the silence was unbroken save for the dripping of the water where the snow was melting on the barn roof and little rills of it spattered from the eaves.
Suddenly, so suddenly that his heart stood still, he saw two great yellow eyes staring out of the darkness. The wolf was in the yard and not ten feet from where Dan lay! Then the gleaming eyes turned and a great shadowy form hulked past. It was so huge that Dan trembled. It made no noise and moved slowly and with great caution.
Dan straightened himself out, full length, and crawled low in the mud, picking his foothold in such a way as to let no twig or pebble move under his weight. Any smallest noise would be fatal. His heart beat so fast that he could not breathe, but he stalked the terrible shadow step by step.
Suddenly he realized that if the wolf should turn, there would be no chance to escape. Perhaps the great jaws would kill him before he could even cry out, and Denmark would never know about it until too late.
The wolf's half-defined form suddenly vanished. He had made a great, silent spring into the center of the sheep pen. For such was the surpassing cunning of the wolf that he was into the pen and had seized one of the lambs all in a single leap.
There was a roar such as Dan had never heard. For Denmark had never spoken in such voice before. Then came sounds that woke up every one on the two farms and brought everybody running to the scene with lanterns and guns.
Denmark had come down on the wolf's back, and had gripped his throat. Dan rushed in and helped in pulling him down. But the damage to the dogs was frightful, for the terrible fangs of the wolf, hampered as the creature was, had ripped and torn his opponents. The three desperate animals rolled and tossed and flung themselves in such a frantic battle that the shepherd was many times thrown down in his attempts to get near them. He was afraid that he would stab the dogs instead of the wolf. But when the lights came, and the guns were pointed, there was no need of either knives or shot. The two dogs lay bleeding on the floor of the hut and the great timber wolf was twitching in death.
It was the greatest thing that the shepherds had ever heard of in their lives. They told of it for years, and Dan and Denmark became known for miles and were justly happy in their fame.
The wonderful adventures and the long, beneficent reign of Prince Flamingo are matters which would be lost to the world were it not for the venerable Mrs. Leatherback.
For Mrs. Leatherback is not only the oldest and the largest of the great turtles, but she is by all odds the most distinguished, and is gifted with the most accurate power of memory. And her adventures in the five hundred years of her life have been many. She swims the great Gulf from coast to coast, she knows the islands—every one of them—she has been far up the rivers which pour their floods into the tropic seas, and every bay and lagoon knows her presence. And there is no one whose arrival is more eagerly welcomed by the little people of the lagoons and the coral coves than she. For with her vast knowledge goes a power of recital which charms her auditors; and if she chances to spend a moonlight evening by some quiet swamp, or beneath a pleasant sand dune where the breeze is good and the outlook charming, you may be sure that the intelligent and conservative members of society, such as the Cranes, the Terrapins, the Black Swans, and perhaps one of the wise Foxes, will be gathered around the distinguished visitor.
And her stories, notably that of Prince Flamingo, have gone far inland, even to the remote North; for the Heron is himself a great traveler, and it is, indeed, as he has presented the story, rather than in the words of Mrs. Leatherback, that it is generally related. Perhaps it has gained something in its travels, for time and distance lend a charm, and the coral islands are beautiful in perspective. To put it simply, you remember what the wise old Mr. Rat said as he nibbled the Dutch cheese: "The best things come from a long way off."
So it is from a remote past, and from the most lonely and most beautiful of the tropic islands that the romance of the beautiful white flamingo has traveled down to us.
There is a great lagoon or inlet of the sea which widens itself into a vast marsh on the southernmost extremity of an island. Ships could never enter its shallow waters, and it is protected on the land side by miles of dense reeds and water growth. No place in the world could be safer for the city of the flamingoes. And of all birds, the great, pink flamingoes need a secret place to build their nests and rear their young.
Their wonderful city was populous with thousands of their kind on the beautiful morning when this particular little flamingo was born. For never had a hunter penetrated to their home, and their natural enemies were few.
Great flocks of flamingoes were wheeling in long, curving lines overhead. And they were so pink against the early morning sky that you would have thought them the reflection of the rosy dawn itself. And almost as far across the lagoon as one could see, they were standing by their nests feeding their babies, or preparing for flight to the distant feeding grounds. You could see nothing but their tall, red forms, thousands of curving necks, and wide, beautiful wings.
Everybody was talking, and the confusion would have been terrible except for the fact that no one seemed to pay any attention to anybody else, and each beautiful flamingo seemed to know exactly what he was about. Hundreds of other babies were being hatched that morning, and so little White Wing (as they called him at first) attracted no attention. His mother was in a great state of delight over him, of course, and his stately father eyed him with approval. But hundreds of other parents were in the same state of mind over their young, and congratulations had long gone out of fashion.