"His Mother Was in a Great State of Delight over Him, of Course, and His Stately Father Eyed Him with Approval"
"His Mother Was in a Great State of Delight over Him, of Course, and His Stately Father Eyed Him with Approval"
"His Mother Was in a Great State of Delight over Him, of Course, and His Stately Father Eyed Him with Approval"
The beautiful young father had just arrived from the distant shore and was the first to feed the pretty youngster. He curved his graceful neck downward and when he kissed the baby, as you might say, it was to put into his tiny mouth the wonderful juice of the shell fish which the great bird had been eating. While he did this the mother preened her feathers, and took a few stately steps to stretch her legs, for she had been all night on the nest, and then she wheeled in a wonderful circle over the lagoon, mounting higher and higher until at last she was in line with many flamingoes who were heading with tilted wings against the wind, on their way to the beaches and sand-bars.
The sun grew very hot and the wind died away. The waters of the lagoon flashed in the burning light, and the heat was terrible. But over the nests where the babies lay the tall birds threw their shadows, and again and again little White Wing was turned over in his bed, and he was given innumerable feedings. So at last, when the sun went down and the air grew cool, he was surprisingly different from what he had been in the morning. He was already larger, and his wings and his feet were getting strength enough so that he could move, and he had found a little voice of his own.
With successive days he grew apace, and at last he tumbled himself out of the nest and began to walk. The nest was a mound of mud and sand, for all the world like a basket of sticks and moss reposing on an inverted flower-pot, and not so high but what White Wing could struggle back into it when the heat of the day came and his watchful father took his post by the side of the little home to throw the shadow of his stately figure over it.
At first White Wing was just like the other little flamingoes, and with them he began to play on the sandy floor of the flamingo city, and with them he very soon learned to take short flights as his wings developed. But just as a hundred or so of cousins began to shed their white down and to grow very brown and fuzzy, he began to get whiter and whiter. In a few weeks they were beginning to shed their brown clothes for the beautiful pink feathers which are the proper thing for the flamingo.
Little White Wing was somewhat distressed when his playmates began to jeer at him, and it was perplexing to note a lack of affection on the part of his beautiful father and mother. For his elders were greatly embarrassed. Nothing like this had ever happened in their family. And, so far as the handsome father could learn by inquiry among the oldest birds of Flamingotown, no one had ever heard of a white flamingo. But when the neighbors cast aspersions, and hinted that there must be some common blood in that family, then the father grew angry and the gentle mother had all she could do to keep him from killing little White Wing.
Every night the little fellow would bury his head close to his beautiful mother's ear, and say:
"Don't you think, perhaps, dear mother, that I'll be pink in the morning?"
And she would tell him to hush and be quiet and go to sleep.
But when morning came he would be as white as ever, and his long sad day would begin. No one would play with him and he was soon shifting for himself. Somehow he picked up a living of tiny fish in the long pools of tide-water that the waves left in the soggy lagoon, and when all his playmates had gone to bed and it was safe to come among them, he would step home, picking his way between the nests, and trying to reach his own without calling attention to himself.
All this was hard, but it speedily grew worse. The King of the flamingoes said that the white offspring must die.
"Begone, my child, begone!" the mother whispered to him, for she had heard that little White Wing was to die. "Go away, as far as you can. Sometime it will be all right. Remember that your mother loves you."
So that ended White Wing's childhood. Even before the first streak of dawn, the beautiful young bird flew out and away. Across the lagoon, miles and miles to the westward, over a wide stretch of sea he flew until his wings could hardly bear him up. Then he sighted land, and he strained every nerve to reach it. When at last he wheeled down to the sands in the shade of a great mangrove tree, his first day's flight was finished and he was a lonely, famished bird on a strange shore.
But a deep, sweet voice suddenly came to him. At first he could not place it. Then he saw to his astonishment a huge turtle only a few yards below him on the beach.
"Ah, ha!" she was saying in her most affectionate way. "So there you are! I've heard of you. They drove you out, did they? Didn't want any variety in the family. Well, well, Sonny, cheer up."
Then this large and hearty creature pawed her way heavily up the sands, and continued her remarks:
"Funny creatures, you birds. Now look at me and consider the difference. I don't care a clam what my children look like. I'm on my way up to that sand dune this very blessed minute to lay about nine pecks of eggs. And I hope they hatch and the young ones won't get eaten up. But they can come out of that shell any color they please, for all I care. We turtles don't worry. We just float along easy. That's the way to live."
Then she gave a hearty laugh and settled down to digging a pit in the white sands.
"S'pose you run along, Sonny, and pick up your supper. I rather like my own company when I'm laying eggs. But just come back a little later and I'll tell your fortune."
No one had ever called him Sonny before, and never had he dreamed that such high good humor existed anywhere. The good old turtle and her cheerful ways had suddenly made life worth living. And poor White Wing, on coming to himself, realized that he was very hungry. He feasted, indeed, ravenously on fiddler crabs, which he otherwise would have despised, and the moon was high and he was heavy with sleep when Mrs. Turtle, after hours of scratching and pawing, had patiently buried her eggs, and was ready to talk. What she had to say was brief, but it cast the life of White Wing in strange places, and it was on her words that he made his great journey.
"You're bound to be somebody," she began. "Probably a king. But this is no place for you around here. You must go where you are wanted. And that is a long ways from this quiet spot. There's a great Emperor who has a palace by the smoking mountains. He's been wishing for a white flamingo all his life. If you can get there, why, your fortune is made. If you fly with your feet to the sunrise until you come to the great river mouth, and if you follow that river long enough, you'll see the mountains with the fiery tops. That's the place. And you want to walk right in as though you owned the kingdom. Don't be scared when you get there. Just forget about those saucy cousins of yours back home and be as grand as you know how."
Poor White Wing was almost dizzy at this unexpected vision of good things. He did not reckon on what the journey meant. But the motherly old turtle was particular to tell him of the many islands he must pass, and the dangers that he would encounter. Then she bade him God-speed, and began her toilsome way down the sands, for she was intent upon reaching deep water again.
"I have a long way to go," she said; and added that sometime they would be sure to meet again.
The second morning found White Wing far out at sea once more, straining his eyes for the island where he was to get food and water, and cherishing to himself but one idea—to reach the great Emperor who wanted a white flamingo.
After many days and nights of lonely travel, he came to a mountain solid green and black, with palms and forest trees; where there were no white shores, but a heavy marshy line of wonderful vegetation. And from the height at which he flew he could discern the muddy strip of river water which stained the blue sapphire of the ocean. This, then, was the river, and far up its course must be the mountains and the city of the great Emperor.
He was right in his conjectures. For a black bird, with a yellow bill as big as a cleaver, greeted him with familiar and jovial laughter, and told him that he was indeed on the right path. This bird was a toucan and he told many things of his family to White Wing, adding much good advice. He was distressed that the beautiful stranger would not eat bananas, and explained that he owed his good health to an exclusive fruit diet.
"But then," he admitted with a noisy laugh, "somebody must eat the fish, I'm sure. And I'm glad if you like them."
Also this happy-go-lucky toucan volunteered to guide White Wing on his flight up the valley. But, like so many guides, he fell out before he accomplished all that he had promised. For scarcely had the two traveled a day's journey when they came upon a prodigious growth of wild figs, and the greedy toucan would go no farther.
Those were hard hours for poor White Wing. The river valley was dark and hot, and in the night he was perpetually wakened by the startling sounds around him. Such noisy parrots he had never dreamed of, nor such millions of burning insects that flashed and flashed their lanterns till the heavy vines and palm leaves seemed afire with them. And the screams of terror that rose from the dark depths of the forest when the great cats or the powerful snakes seized their prey, chilled his blood.
But the days brought him at last to higher ground, and finally to a wonderful plain where it all seemed but so many miles of lawn and clear smooth waters. He took heart. Suddenly the mountains came in sight. Yes, and one of them was sending out a thin stream of smoke into the cloudless sky. Another day, possibly that very night, he would reach the city of the Emperor.
Very wisely he waited for the dawn. He had seen the high walls, and the housetops, and the glittering armaments of the palace as they glowed in the sunset, and he had heard strange music, a sweet confusion of lovely sounds. But from the cliffs above the river he watched and waited and preened his beautiful white suit.
When morning came, just as the mountains were pink and the city was cool and gray, a grand procession mounted a great rock above the Emperor's palace. Trains of slaves and priests there were, the sounds of drums, and a heavy, solemn chanting. The Emperor was to greet the sun and they were all to worship the great light, for it was their deity.
Then White Wing soared high above them all. His great white form was suddenly thrown against the rising sun, and it was beautiful beyond comparison. No living bird had ever seemed so lovely. He could see the crowds of men and women and the ranks of priests start back in one motion of surprise. Then he floated down, slowly and with great calm, alighting on the stone altar where the Emperor was staring upward in amaze.
From that hour, after the court had recovered from its surprise, White Wing was almost an emperor himself. A park was made for him and slaves were in attendance. The tenderest of tiny fish and juicy snails were given him to eat, and he was a familiar of that barbaric household whose slightest inclination was taken to be law, and whose smallest preferences were translated into royal commands. He was ceremoniously tethered with a golden chain and a clasp of blue jewels to his thin leg, but even such a regal restraint was abandoned and the jewels and the beaten gold and the turquoise were made into a neck chain which he wore with great dignity.
Never could the Emperor enter into his councils and audiences without the Prince of the Dawn, as he was called; and White Wing was a sage and judicial counselor. He would stand for hours on one leg, his jewels flashing upon his breast, his head turned at a knowing angle, as if in the profoundest thought, a very embodiment of wisdom beside the throne. In reality he was sound asleep, a condition wherein he set an immortal example for ministers of state.
For years he dwelt in splendor and acquired great wisdom. And for the little princes and princesses, who were many and lovely, he had great affection.
But of his love for one princess in particular and of the jealousies which grew up so that his life was plotted against and he was at last to be undone, there is another story which the wonderful Mrs. Leatherback is always slow to relate.
She has been known to depart and pursue her business in foreign lands, returning at her leisure, before she will be induced to relate the rest of the story of Prince Flamingo.
In the gorgeous court of the Emperor, where White Wing had come into such great good fortune, the one person whom everybody feared was the splendid ruler himself. For rulers have been notable in history for their fickle ways and shifting affections, and this emperor was no exception to the rule. First it was one favorite who fell into disfavor, and then another, and even the priests and the councilors, who were the closest to him, were as unsafe as the meanest slave. For while an underling could be made away with quickly and at a word, the Emperor was no less willing to let his anger smolder through a long and carefully plotted revenge in the case of some person who might be next to him in rank. So there were mysterious things happening in the great stone palace, and White Wing observed soon after he came there that nobody seemed really to enjoy the wonderful splendors of the court itself but, on the contrary, they seemed always anxious to be in the parks or the city, or even out on the lonely plains around it, rather than in the vast rooms of stone and silver.
Nevertheless, White Wing had nothing to fear from the stalwart and imperious ruler, for the bird was truly his most treasured possession; and if he were in an evil mood, the Emperor would often betake himself to White Wing's splendid garden, and there he would toy with the bird, asking him many questions, and seeming always content to find his answer in the flamingo's sagacious looks, or a chance nod of the creature's head.
There were the troops of lovely children, too, whose quarters were a whole part of the palace itself, and these were a delight to White Wing, for they were gentle with him and fed him all sorts of dainties from their little brown hands.
Among these was a lovely little girl who grew to be a favorite of the Emperor's and was deeply attached to White Wing.
One day, to the latter's great distress, he saw traces of tears on the child's face as she came hurrying across the enclosed garden to the sunken pool where White Wing was looking down into the water at the gold fish. There happened to be no one in the great courtyard at that moment but the child and the stately bird. She looked around first, to be sure that what she was about to say would not be overheard.
"Oh, Prince of the Dawn, dear Prince," she began, "do you know what has happened? I have run away from the others just to tell you. It's the saddest thing in the world. The Emperor is sending all the children away to the farthermost corner of the land to keep them in hiding. And only the soldiers and the priests are to live here now. There is only one hour left, for down below the great walls there are thousands of bearers and mules laden with everything, and a whole army of escorts. Maybe we shall never come back."
Then she threw herself at White Wing's feet and clutched the flowers on the border of the fountain as she cried.
But this was only the beginning of the troubles in that great palace. What the princess had told White Wing explained much that he had observed, but what the child did not know, and what the Emperor feared the most, was the plotting that went on against his own life and the rivalries among his generals. The kingdom was being attacked to the eastward. Up that same valley that White Wing had followed in his flight, a terrible army was marching against the capital of this realm. It was an army of men from the other side of the world. Such conquerors they were as even the Emperor himself had never dreamed of.
But now excited slaves came rushing in and bore the child off. She had scarcely time to say farewell, and poor White Wing heard her sobs as they died away through the courtyards and arched corridors. Yes, his palace was being deserted, and he could walk through empty rooms and suddenly stilled hallways without meeting a soul. Everybody was in the lower courtyard watching the departure of the household.
But just as White Wing, much depressed and filled with wonder, came to a little doorway in a corner of the great upper hall, he heard voices. They were the Emperor's councilors, he knew, but why they should be there now when everybody was so busy elsewhere, he wondered. They were not talking as usual, but whispering, and a great curtain had been drawn across the doorway.
White Wing knew that the chamber was lighted by a window that opened to a tiny courtyard of its own. To reach this court without passing through the room was impossible to any one but such as White Wing. He could mount the walls by a short flight from the garden, and descend within the secret yard.
This he did, for he was bound to learn what the priests and councilors were up to. The Emperor was not with them, and he felt sure that it was something treacherous that they were doing.
He was just in time as he settled down on the stone copings outside the great window. First he looked to make sure that his shadow was not visible across the pavement. He was assured of his safety, and knew that his arrival there had not been betrayed by so much as a ruffle of his beautiful wings.
The voices were deciding the fate of the Emperor and of White Wing too. The priests were to tell the Emperor that he must sacrifice the thing that he loved the most and that he must do it with his own hand. And it was to be arranged that as he knelt at the great altar of black stone to kill the bird, an arrow should be sent from a secret place on the walls, so that the Emperor with his back turned to the court should perish then and there.
White Wing's blood ran cold. This, then, was why his great master had always been fearful and morose, and often cruel. His own house was full of men that hated him and were yet his own brothers. They were ready now, just as the kingdom was rallying to save itself, to seize it all into their own hands. They would be rid of him, and his mysterious bird too, for they feared in a childish way that White Wing had been sent to the Emperor by some divine agent, and they hated the innocent creature because they were both fearful and jealous of him.
They were now deciding which one of them should let fly the arrow which should kill the Emperor. White Wing could hear them rattling the jeweled discs or dice with which he had often seen them playing. Evidently the process of making the decision was a complicated one, for he heard the little carved discs rattling in their box a number of times. Then there was silence and a voice which he knew was that of the Emperor's half-brother spoke in clear tones:
"I am glad that it has fallen on me!"
Suddenly the sound of drums and horns and a great deal of shouting broke the silence. The Emperor had said farewell to his household, and in great clamor the slaves and the favorites and the troops of beautiful children were departing from the city. The Emperor's heralds were calling his councilors to the great audience chamber. White Wing heard the treacherous creatures scuttle from the little room in haste, and he heard the dice which they had been using rattle to the floor as they upset a table in their hurry to get out. Slowly and cautiously, he looked into the room. It was deserted. Then he went in and looked around him and picked up one of the little dice. It was a small, black jewel, curiously engraven. He tucked it under his wing and stalked quietly through the curtained doorway, and down the long corridor with its shadowy arches until it brought him to the sunny courts that bounded his own walled garden.
What he achieved by this simple act of sagacity is quickly told. The Emperor, who had known nothing of the secret council, guessed immediately that it had taken place when White Wing dropped the black counter at his feet. They were alone in the garden, and it was late in the evening. The bird little knew that this was not one of the gaming dice at all, but the sacred dice used to settle life and death decisions in the Emperor's secret debates with his court.
Puzzled as the Emperor was at first, he was not long in establishing his conclusions. He had just been told by the priests that he must sacrifice the white flamingo, and his half-brother had been alarmingly affectionate, having even caressed his shoulder as he thanked the great ruler for having placed him at the head of certain troops which were of the greatest importance in the forthcoming battles.
Then the Emperor knew what to do. He said nothing but was exceedingly watchful. Coming early in the morning to White Wing he bade the great bird good-by.
"You must fly over to your own people, dear bird," he said. "My enemies will eventually kill you if you do not go. And perhaps, when these great invaders have taken my city, I shall be reduced to slavery. You have been my greatest pleasure, and you have served here all that you were intended to. You have saved my life, for the scheme to kill me while I was to be offering you in sacrifice has all come out. I drew confession from certain of the councilors when I had them in the dungeons but an hour ago. Never would I have suspected them but for your wonderful means of warning me."
Then, in the earliest dawn, before the blazing sun had blanched the palace walls, White Wing soared slowly into the air, leaving the great Emperor standing alone by the deserted altar. There were no cheering crowds as there had been when he came to that terrible city, and in their stead were camps and tents and all the sights of preparing war upon the plains. But the Emperor's hands were upraised and his face was very splendid as he gazed off into the heavens whither his wonderful white flamingo was disappearing.
All that consoled the bird in the sorrow of leaving his master was the thought of having saved the great man's life. But for that, he would have died from misery, believing that he should have stayed there until his own life was taken. He little knew that thousands of his own kind were waiting for him. But such was the case, and he soon learned as he flew toward the setting sun, retracing his journey, that he was already the prince of birds. Whole flocks of beautiful parrots, and great orioles, and tropic thrushes would greet him and fly in hosts ahead of him. From the great city down through the wide valley and the dark forests to the coast, he traveled with couriers to tell all the birds of his coming. And as he passed, at last, out over the ocean to find the island whence he had come, there were flocks and flocks of flamingoes overtaking and surrounding him.
One strange thing he saw, and that was a fleet of ships with sails greater than ever he had dreamed of. These were galleons of the conquerors, come to destroy the city of barbaric splendors where White Wing had been a courtier. But he did not know this, and only marveled at the sight.
At last, when his escort had grown to such numbers that, flying as they did in single file, the line of birds seemed to arch the sky from east to west, he came to the coast which he knew to be his own. Then to the selfsame stretch of coral beach, where the palms were leaning over the dunes exactly as he had left them. With slackened speed and flying lower and lower until he caught the scent of the old familiar earth, he skimmed above the lagoon and was suddenly over his home! White Wing flew straight to his mother.
The thousand relatives and as many new ones were there too, and with the arrival of White Wing's friends, who had glided in, one after another, the confusion of greetings in Flamingotown was deafening.
From then until his death, which was not to be for many, many years, White Wing, whose adventures had become known until they were household words, was the ruler of all flamingoes everywhere.
That he was beneficent, you may be sure. And for one thing, quite the greatest thing in his life, he instituted a change in family life by decreeing that all the gentlemen should take their turn in helping the lady birds to hatch their eggs. It is from his reign that this admirable custom dates, as Mrs. Leatherback will assure you.
As for that generous lady, she came to have her part in the history of the times. For the great explorers who came to ravish the kingdom where White Wing received such honors, happened to take Mrs. Leatherback captive on one of the islands. They took her aboard ship and were all for taking her back with them to the great court of Spain. But even after they had branded her with the arms of the court of Castile and Aragon, and had secured her to the deck of the galleon, she eluded them and fell into the sea. Consequently she has lived these hundreds of years a member, as she is pleased to think, of the greatest court in Europe. She soon came in the round of her journeys to White Wing's island and there she visited him a long time. So they could recount their adventures; and he has never ceased to love her for the cheer she gave him that first night of his lonely journey. For her part, she is only too proud of her Prince Flamingo, as she calls him, thereby disputing honors with the gentle mother bird, who has always been too happy to talk much about her little White Wing.
So all the above is just as the Heron tells it. And he is the one who knows Mrs. Leatherback the best, and he has had it from her many times. Moreover, he always ends with the wish that in some way that old turtle could have the last desire of her life fulfilled. Strange as it may seem, she has never seen the wonderful device of the Spanish Arms which was branded and carved upon her back. It gives her a wry neck to attempt it and she has given up trying. So she always lives in hope of finding a looking-glass some day at the bottom of the sea.
But meanwhile she contents herself with getting her friends to tell her how it looks, and it is because the Heron is very particular to do this, and do it well, thereby making the old lady feel comfortable, that he can always get her to relate the story of Prince Flamingo.
Virginia was a very little girl when she visited the home of the animals under the garnet hill. She was the only person who had ever been there, as the good Mrs. Fox assured her, and the only way, indeed, that she can prove that she had actually been there at all is to ask her pet cat, who accompanied her, whether it is all true or not. Always the cat blinks his eyes with the most knowing air, and nods his head. So that is proof enough.
Virginia was gathering blueberries and she had strayed farther and farther away from the farm house until she suddenly found that she could no longer see the top of the red chimney, nor the peak of the barn. Never had her little feet carried her so far into the pastures as this. To make it worse, she could not seem to find her way back. The low birch trees and the sweet fern seemed taller, and the light beneath them was not so warm and bright.
Virginia started to run, but she had taken only a few steps when she tripped and fell. It almost seemed that the briary vine in the grass had reached out and entangled her. But she was a brave little girl and would sooner do anything than cry out. It was discouraging to have all the berries in her pail spilled over the ground, but she set to work picking them out of the moss and leaves, while she kept wishing that somebody would come to help her.
Then she pricked her finger on a thorn. It was then, she knows, that she began to hear lovely voices; for no sooner had she felt the sharp scratch than she heard a sweet sighing song all around her.
Of all the wishes in her life the greatest was to know what the trees and the birds were saying. Now she knew.
For on all sides the voices were as sweet as music. "What pretty blue eyes she has!" and "How lovely her cheeks are!" and "Just see her golden hair!" were remarks she caught between the sounds of silvery laughter.
She jumped up, leaving her berries on the ground, and started again to run. For she was suddenly afraid of these voices, even though they were so sweet.
A familiarMe-ewgreeted her. It was her pet cat, Tiger, who then began talking to her as plainly as though he had been to school and could read and write.
"How fine this is!" he exclaimed. "To think you can hear at last!" and he went on explaining that no one had ever understood what he was saying before.
"How often," he purred, "have I followed you into the pasture, hoping that you would prick your finger on the right sort of thorn, so that at last we could talk things over! My, but won't all the world be glad to know of this!" he added. "Why, it doesn't happen once in a thousand years!"
With that the beautiful gray cat ran off into the woods, only to return accompanied by troops and troops of beautiful little creatures: the field mice, who didn't seem to object to the cat at all, and the squirrels, even the shiny moles, and some very excited birds, who flew round and round the little girl, calling her name, and telling her how they loved her.
Why she should have followed the cat into the woods, Virginia did not know, but he ran ahead and bade her follow, and she seemed only too willing to do so. The trees spoke so pleasantly as she passed them that it was impossible not to go on.
"How she does resemble her great-grandmother!" said one of the trees. It was an aged oak who had known Virginia's family ever since it had settled in those parts. She felt that she must stop and return the greetings, for she was always carefully polite to old people.
"Why, it was my little brother," the tree continued, "who was ordained to the ministry in your grandfather's church. Your grandfather did the preaching, and my brother held the floor up. He also was cut by the builders to carry the major load of the roof. You see I have known your family a long while. I am the oldest white oak in this woodland."
But before he could say another word, a beautiful red fox jumped out of the bushes and told the tree to stop talking.
"Don't weary that little girl with all your memories," Red Fox said. "If you get started, you'll never stop. And she has an invitation to Mother Fox's Hospital. She must come immediately."
All this was very strange. Virginia wished to talk to the good old oak some more, but Red Fox gave her a knowing look and held out his hand in such a cordial way, and so urgently, that she bade the venerable tree good-afternoon and ran to catch up with her new friend, who was already beckoning to her from some distance ahead. Bounding along the path beside her came Tiger Kitty, whom Virginia was indeed glad to have with her.
She was no longer on familiar ground. The woods were dense, and she felt that she was running a long way from home.
But suddenly Red Fox stopped. They had come to what appeared a jagged and moss-grown rock. It was the side of an old pit that had been dug into the shoulder of the hill, and at any other time Virginia would have remembered it as the old quarry where once she had been taken by her brothers and sisters on a picnic. But now she saw that it concealed in reality a doorway. Moss-grown and dark, the door was hardly discoverable, but it opened easily enough when Red Fox applied his key. And standing there to greet Virginia and Tiger Kitty was a wonderful old fox, with spectacles and a frilled bonnet and the kindliest face in the world.
"This is my mother," said Red Fox; "she's the matron."
"Yes," the good old soul admitted, "I am Mother Fox, and this charitable home for the destitute of the field and forest is named after me."
Virginia was embarrassed, but only for a minute, for sweet old Mother Fox invited her into the parlor and then, after she had been offered the most delicious of cakes, and the creamiest of milk, and had eaten a refreshing supper, she was shown through the home.
Living there was every poor animal that Virginia had ever known. And they were all in such supreme comfort and having such a good time that she was sure she had never seen so many people so happy all at once, never in her whole life.
"Our only discontented inmate is Mr. Wolf," said the matronly Mrs. Fox. "Would you like to see him?"
She led the way down a long hall to where Mr. Wolf was seated in a little room of his own, gnawing and snapping at his nurses, who were none other than the hedgehog and the big snapping turtle.
"Two rather sharp people for nurses," Red Fox remarked, almost in apology; "but you see it takes some one with a good deal of character to handle him."
In a great room which was a dining-hall, with high tables for the big animals, and low ones for the little folk, she saw the animals that were privileged to be there eating the most tempting dishes. There was lettuce salad for the rabbits, and corn-bread for the field mice, and blackberry pudding for the whole partridge family, and persimmon jam for the 'possums, and even lily roots creamed and on toast for the poor old muskrats.
"All charity," said Red Fox. "All charity! Out in the world every one of these poor animals was cruelly hurt, or starved. Of course, we're hunted and stoned, and chased, and shot at. That's all men want—a chance to kill us. Here's where we take care of our cripples and paupers."
Virginia was wonderstruck and was about to ask a question, when a lame but beautiful lady tapped Mother Fox's shoulder and asked her to introduce the visitor.
"Oh, surely! Pardon me, Lady Orchid."
Lady Orchid put the sweetest, tenderest hand into Virginia's, and the little girl looked into the loveliest flower face in the world.
"I'm Lady Arethusa," the wonderful creature breathed, as she curtsied very low to the little girl. "You see I'm crippled. I was pulled up by the roots in such a careless way. You did it yourself, if you remember, only the other day."
The little girl wanted to cry, but the lovely orchid repented having come too close to the truth, and quickly added:
"No; it was your brother, possibly. At any rate, I beg you never to pull any of us out in that violent way again. I am sure we all love you too much. We Arethusas have lived on your place a great many years. The small white violets, by the way, that live by the door-step at your home, tell me that they can't get close enough to you and your sweet mother, they love you so. And there is a lovely begonia living here whom your mother lost, despite her care. Some one neglected it, and it died of thirst. Your mother was visiting at the time, I believe."
"Yes," said Mother Fox; "that is so often the case. Fathers and brothers are very careless in such matters. They are not so tender as a rule with their plant cousins under their roof."
Then, as they left the dining-room, where the animals were just reaching the dessert, who should come flying up to Virginia but a beautiful oriole. He too, it seems, knew the little girl.
"Yes, indeed, dear child," he sang out to her; "I have known you a long time. I live in the elm-tree. And I want to thank you for those lovely threads that you put out on the lawn for me when I was refurnishing my house. I am here to call on some relatives, but I will sing to you by your window in the morning."
Then Virginia remembered that a ball of beautiful worsted had been missing from her mother's work-basket after it had been left on the porch. This explained it all. She was astonished, but the gray cat laughed out merrily:
"Yes, he stole it; but the dear bird thinks you left it there for him. If you look out of the attic window when we get home you can see his nest in the elm. It's mostly blue worsted."
"Why didn't you tell me before, if you knew it?" Virginia asked, really grieved at Tiger Kitty's lack of confidence.
"Why," repeated the cat, and then he only smiled very broadly, "because you were always deaf, my dear."
Presently, while they were walking down the corridor, the merriest music burst on Virginia's ear. In a room all to themselves, the rabbits were rehearsing for a minstrel show. They were dancing in the most giddy fashion, and she could not help laughing aloud as she watched them.
But as she laughed, something happened, and the cat, who had just opened his mouth to say something, closed it with a sudden look of disappointment.
"You see, she spilled the berries, and fell asleep while trying to pick them up."
It was a familiar voice. Virginia turned around. Her mother and big brother and little sister were kneeling beside her in the ferns. It was evening and she could hear the cows calling to be let through the farm gate.
"And I never said good-by to Mr. Red Fox!" she exclaimed. Then she rubbed her eyes and smiled, for they were all kissing her, and big brother was putting her on his shoulder.
Her strange experience she kept to herself for a long time. But she talked it all over with Tiger Kitty, and he seemed to understand it, every word. Most of all when she climbed the attic stairs and looked at the bird's nest, it was of blue worsted, as plain as plain could be.
And she was sure then and for the rest of her life that the birds and the flowers loved the old home with its trees and its gardens as much as she did.
And she always thought of sweet Lady Orchid when she gathered wild flowers.
It was the dead of night. Old Mr. Fox left his cozy den and went to call on his friend, the wise old Mrs. Owl. For many years it had been his custom to do this, for he found her the most engaging company. Her home was in a hollow tree and she was always obliging enough to put her head out the window and inquire who was there, if any of her friends knocked hard and long at the basement door. It was useless to call in the daytime: she was always asleep while the sun shone, and in the early evening she would be abroad hunting her supper. But after the cocks crew at midnight, and people in their beds were turning over to get their best sleep, Mrs. Owl would come flying through the woods and across the river, and up the hill to her own great tree, having eaten heartily of whatever she may have found. Then she was ready to sit on her window ledge for a visit with her friends.
So it was very late, and the woods was still as death, whenpatter, patter, through the underbrush came Mr. Fox to call on Mrs. Owl. Arriving at the bridge across the river, he jumped nimbly to the hand-rail and trotted on that narrow board as easily as a cat walks over the fence. For he was sure some dog would pass that way, come morning, but no dog would ever scent the wise fox who walks the rail.
"Always sniffing at the ground, these foolish dogs," thought Mr. Fox; and he laughed to himself as he jumped down into the bushes and ran on to the hill and the great cottonwood tree, whither Mrs. Owl herself had just returned.
With a big stick he hit the tree a hard blow. Then he barked politely and sat down to wait.
Way up in the top of the dead tree the window was open. Two great eyes looked out.
"Who's there? Who's there?" came in the most dreadful tones.
"Only your friend, a brother thief," laughed Mr. Fox; for in the company of Mrs. Owl he could afford this slanderous admission.
"Ha, ha!" screamed Mrs. Owl, who didn't mind being called a thief at all. In fact, she laughed so hard and long that every living being asleep in those woods awoke and shivered with a sudden terror. For it was the laughter of Mrs. Owl, you know, that made the blacksnake's blood run cold, and never has he been able to warm it up again, even by lying all day in the sun.
She scratched her ear and leaned a little farther out. After controlling her mirth, she grew very solemn and whispered down to Mr. Fox that she had discovered but an hour ago a certain roost with the most enticing hole in the roof.
"Easy and safe, you know," she giggled. "Two broilers and a fowl I've had this very night." Then she laughed again, "Ha, ha! Hoo, hoo!"
But Mr. Fox knew she was lying. She was only trying to get him into trouble.
"Thanks for the hint," he barked; "but it is easier to get in by the roof than out by the roof, you know, unless one is gifted as you are with wings, Mrs. Owl."
"True, true," she said, in her wisest tones.
"And I really came, dear Mrs. Owl, to ask a question of you. Can you tell me why the crows are black?"
There was a long silence, for Mrs. Owl must have time to think. All things were known to her, but she revealed her knowledge only with the greatest deliberation.
First she looked all around, then she laughed again, this time so loud and long that Mr. Fox thought she never would have done, and at last she exclaimed:
"Why, Mr. Fox, the crows are black for just the same reason that you ought to be black and I ought to be black too."
At this Mr. Fox was puzzled, but as Mrs. Owl seemed to think it such a joke he joined in her laughter, and between them they made the most distressing noise.
"You see," she said at last, while she held her sides and caught her breath. "You see, the whole miserable lot of them, the crows, used to be as bright and giddy as overgrown humming-birds. Red, white, and blue, they were. They would have been the national bird, I'm told, but the eagle always takes that honor by his overbearing ways. For my part, such honors are doubtful. I'd rather stand for wisdom than for politics. But, be that as it may, the crows were once the gayest of the birds. It was their mad career of theft and murder which brought the change."
At this they both screamed with laughter again, and it was a long time before Mrs. Owl could resume her story.
"Complaints against the crows came from everywhere. The robins—bless their souls—the larks, the pigeons, and every family you ever heard of, were determined to do something to the crows for snatching their young ones and stealing their eggs.
"Of course, you know, similar complaints have been lodged against me," she added; "but the point is, my family was never caught. Besides, the crows get corn and such to eat, and the whole world felt that the crow was stepping out of his class, you know, when he took to eating birds and eggs and frogs. It was the greediness of an upstart family. That's what it was."
The very thought of this aspect of the case made Mrs. Owl so indignant that she screamed and hooted loud and long.
"It was all long, long ago," she said. "The birds met in a great meeting. Something had to be done, and it was thought that war would be declared and the crows would all be killed or driven to live on a lonely island. But somebody, Mrs. Yellowhammer, I think it was, put in a word in their favor. She was a tender-hearted fool and recalled something decent the crows had done. She said that they had left her a lot of acorns one cold winter, and she felt so much obliged to them. The crows would have been done to death except for what she said. There were two doves on the jury, too; and they're a weak and sentimental lot, you know. At any rate, the sentence which the judge, a wonderful old owl, pronounced, was to the effect that the crows must forever go in black. They had to fly all the way to Egypt, where the little people live, to get their clothes changed.
"The Birds Met in a Great Meeting. Something Had to Be Done"
"The Birds Met in a Great Meeting. Something Had to Be Done"
"The Birds Met in a Great Meeting. Something Had to Be Done"
"Oh, it was hard for them. Poor Mrs. Crow could think of nothing to say butCaught! Caught! Caught!and that grew to beCaw! Caw! Caw!after a while. Sometimes I feel a little sorry for her and her family; but, as you know, they are very much down on me. I can't imagine why."
She winked a long green wink at Mr. Fox. For she knew, and he knew, that Mrs. Owl had that very night eaten all the little crows she could steal from their nests. And he knew that Mrs. Owl would never dare to fly abroad in daylight for the crows. Then both of them made the woods fairly shiver with their laughter.
But it was growing light, and Mrs. Owl and Mr. Fox both felt that a night well spent deserved a long day of sleep, so they parted and Mr. Fox went to his home, greatly pleased to know why the crows are black, and why they must forever say, "Caught! Caught! Caught!"
Mrs. Muskrat owned a beautiful home of her own on the edge of the mill-pond. She had built the house years ago, and had kept it in the best of repair. It was cleverly concealed at a point where tufts of grass and overhanging bushes afforded protection, and at the same time it was well out in the pond, quite inaccessible to Mrs. Muskrat's enemies.
The roof rose like an inverted bowl over a circular wall of mud and sticks; and so neatly were the straws and sticks matted over the top that the house seemed at first glance to be but an accidental confusion of dried leaves and old branches. This was as it should be, for Mrs. Muskrat, like many persons of good taste, preferred to have a home of interior elegance and ease to one with merely a showy exterior.
It was autumn and Mrs. Muskrat was congratulating herself upon her well filled larder and the prospects of a comfortable winter.
"I am always glad," she would say to the neighbor that happened in, "I am always glad that I moved down here from that upper pond when I did. It was a poor place to live and one was in constant danger of the water's being drawn off. Those farmers are so inconsiderate you can never tell when they will take it into their heads to drain the meadows, and then it is all up with us poor creatures."
She would then continue her narrative, after the manner of many people who take interest in no affairs but their own, and would probably burden her caller with the full account of how she had prevailed upon her husband, the young Dr. Muskrat, to leave the shallows of the upper home and set up for himself on the edges of the deep and permanent mill-pond.
"And," she would always conclude, "a mill-pond is so very much more aristocratic—not to mention a much better growth of provisions. Personally, I love deep water, and the sound of the mill-wheel is dear to my heart. No; I shall never go back to the upper pond."
Always the neighbors knew that Mrs. Muskrat, in alluding to the elegance of the mill-pond society, was, in point of fact, repudiating her poor relations, who had gone on living in the distant meadows. For, like many people who move to the town and prosper, waxing fat and successful, she was given to a feeling of pity that sounded a good deal like contempt for the poor relatives back in the country.
Little did she realize what the winter was to bring forth as she swam in and out of her front door, crossing to the opposite shores and back, always bringing the tenderest roots and lily stalks for her winter provisions. She was very content with the world, although she regretted the departure of her best friend, Mrs. Thrush, whose nest was in the alders almost over her very head, and she was sorry that the turtles had found it necessary to retire into the deep mud for their winter's sleep.
The sun was bright, however, and cheerful sounds came from the fields where men were loading pumpkins into the farm wagon, and from the orchards came the laughter of merry boys gathering apples. This drew her attention to the old, neglected tree which grew on the bank of the pond. Its fruit was bright, and there was much of it, but it hung high.
"If only there comes a good brisk wind to-night," she thought, "those apples will blow to the ground; and I can think of nothing more to my taste than a bit of fresh fruit."
Hardly had she indulged these pleasant thoughts of good eating, when she was surprised to see a visitor approaching her house. It was none other than the leanest and poorest of her cousins from the upper pond. Something in his presence told her of trouble to come. And her first question was not at all too polite.
"Why, what on earth are you down here for?" exclaimed Mrs. Muskrat. "Haven't you anything to do at home? I should think you would be busy putting in your own winter stores."
Before she could get any further, her lanky cousin interrupted her.
"Yes, yes; you would naturally think, Cousin Flattail, that we would be as busy as you are. But we have no longer any home to store things in, and we are at the edge of winter with starvation ahead of us. Farmer Jones drew the pond off yesterday. Already the shores of our poor meadow are drained of every drop. Our house is high and dry and we shall freeze to death if we stay in it."
With that they both looked up, for in the quiet society of the mill-pond a great confusion reigned.
All the poor relations were coming down from the upper meadows! Cousins, uncles, aunts, and brothers-in-law. It was an invasion—muskrats big and muskrats little.
Mrs. Muskrat gave one look and then bobbed down into the water and rushed through her house to lock the back door, scuttling again to the front to secure her main entrance by seating herself directly across it.
"There now!" she chattered angrily. "I'll watch any of you get into this house!"
For in the confusion of things people are often more distracted than need be, and Mrs. Muskrat was behaving very ugly and selfish because she hadn't taken time to think. All her neighbors behaved in much the same way at first; but when they saw the poor little baby cousins and reflected upon what this misfortune meant to the children, their hearts softened, and one by one the doors were opened, and the families invited in different ways to make the best of it. They must all live through the winter somehow.
But what they thought was going to be the season of the greatest hardship turned out to be the most brilliant winter that the muskrats had ever known, and the cousins all concluded that they never before had really appreciated one another.
Most exceptional, indeed, was Mrs. Flattail Muskrat's good luck, for she chose to live with her the cleverest of her nephews, the lively little Skinny Muskrat, who proved to be a wonderful musician. Every evening of the long winter they had delightful parties and dances in the snug quarters of their homes. All about them would be solid ice, and overhead, around the roofs, the driven, packed snow; but within, where all was warm and snug, there was the greatest merriment.
Little Skinny Muskrat was in great demand. His aunt always went with him out to supper or to spend the evening. And it was surprising how much more she got out of her neighbors than ever she had enjoyed at their tables before the adoption of this charming nephew.
It was the usual thing to say after supper: "And now won't Skinny give us some music? He plays so beautifully on his toe-nails!"
So the obliging Skinny would blow through his nails and produce the scratchiest and most exciting dance tunes in the world.
So eagerly was his society sought, that Mrs. Muskrat at last hit upon the idea of inviting her neighbors in, but with the hint that they bring their suppers with them. This was the crowning achievement of her thrift, and she never ceased to congratulate herself upon having thought of it. For her house was full of food from top to bottom, and she became the most popular person in the happy group of Muskrat society.
But winter melted very slowly into spring. And the provisions for everybody were growing low. Day after day Muskratdom peeped out into the cold world that was still black and gray. Not a sign of anything green; not even a bluebird in the orchards. Little by little the muskrats grew thinner and it was harder to be gay. At last, just as they were wondering why they had ever eaten so merrily, and ever been so prodigal with what they had, and several of the muskrat elders were up-braiding them roundly in an effort to put the blame on some one, what should they hear but a robin! And in a few days the cowslips began to show the green tips of their leaves. Then at last the grass on the edge of the pond showed sweet and green where it had lived all winter under the heavy snows.
Their hard times were over! And in all the general rejoicing, nothing gave them greater happiness than to think they had all weathered it together.
Nor was Mrs. Muskrat sorry to hear of the immediate marriage of her nephew Skinny with one of the prettiest little lady muskrats in the mill-pond. She was thereby able to congratulate herself again. This time as a matchmaker. And so long as Mrs. Muskrat could be thinking of how clever, or how thrifty, she was, her happiness was complete.
But you may judge of her neighbors' surprise when she left her snug house in the mill-pond and went back with Skinny and his wife, and many of the relatives who moved to the meadows. Something told her that the roots and the grasses and the tender bulbs would be engagingly delicious when the waters came back on the meadows; and she was a wise old muskrat, for those who went back lived a long summer on the fat of the land. Here again she felt the wisdom of her course, and she ventured to be truly hospitable by urging her adopted relatives to return with her, upon the approach of winter, to the deep, warm pond.
That is why there is both a winter and a summer residence in the highest society the world over. It is a sad lot for the muskrats who have not both a pond and an upper meadow to enjoy suitably and in season, as the good earth intends it to be enjoyed. But this last remark is a bit of wisdom from the mouth of Mr. Owl, and we must credit him with it.
Far, far out on a great prairie there is a wide river which flows lazily between its banks, apparently going nowhere at all, but in reality bearing steadily toward the rising sun and the deep valley where another river rolls mightily to the southward and the ocean. The prairie is not level like a floor, but rises and falls in ridges that are sometimes miles apart, and between these rolling heights of the grassy land are unnumbered little lakes: bodies of sparkling water hidden in the folds of the land.
It was over this vast stretch of plains that the great birds of the Arctic were winging their way one early morning in the late summer, for they had started to their winter quarters in good season.
"Honk, honk!" the leader of the birds kept calling; and as he trumpeted, those in the rear would answer him, for even as they flew they had much to talk of, and just now the whole flock of them were discussing the subject of breakfast.
For they had been flying ever since the peep of dawn, and had come through mists and the cold upper air, covering a hundred miles of their journey before the sun really bathed the plains in light, and they were looking for the spot which was familiar to them as a good one for breakfast.
Lower and lower they flew as the leader kept signaling to them, until at last the wedge-shaped formation in which they traveled came like a pointed kite in long, sliding descents to within a few hundred feet of the earth.
They could see, of course, all the lay of the land for many miles around; but they were particular geese, a trifle fussy as you might say, and by no means would any one of the many little lakes suit their fancy. They were flying toward one spot out of all others which could afford just what they wanted for a meal.
At last they apparently settled down to a definite direction for they ceased to describe the slanting circles, and in one long slide through the air, their wings stretched perfectly motionless, they coasted to the ground.
The deep grasses almost hid them from view, but the little people who lived there saw them, and it was with great surprise that their friends turned from their feeding and pluming and bathing to exclaim over this sudden arrival.
There were Mr. and Mrs. Wild Duck, and their beautiful brood of little ones, and there were many of Mrs. Prairie Chicken's family, as well as crowds and crowds of little Redbirds and many of the handsome Kingfishers, all chattering at once over an ample breakfast table. For there was a solid growth of wild celery around this lake, a bed of plants so dense that it was for all the world like the heaviest moss. And of all things beloved by the wild fowl, this juicy and spicy celery is the favorite.
The leader of the newcomers looked about him. That was the first thing for him to do, under all circumstances; for he was the oldest and the wisest of the flock and as a watchman he was sagacious beyond all others in his family. While his mate and all the others fell to tearing at the tender shoots of celery, scarcely paying attention to anything but their voracious appetites, he was standing with head erect and eyes turning in all directions to be sure of no untoward sign. He could see and even scent danger a long way off.
Apparently he was satisfied for the moment, for he fell to and nibbled as the rest were doing, with his head almost buried in the rich tangle of celery. And as he progressed in his feasting, he came closer and closer to the edge of the lake, until suddenly he was just above a nest that lay almost entirely hidden from view.
It was the home of little Mrs. Grebe, the very handsomest and the shyest of the people dwelling here. She was right there by her nest of sticks, which literally floated on the water, and her shining neck of velvety feathers and her brown and silvery body were strikingly beautiful in contrast to the deep green of the rushes and reeds.
"Why, my dear friend!" the noble Wild Goose exclaimed. "How you surprised me! Though of course I knew you lived here. This is not the first year we have visited this place, by any means, and yet, when we flew North last spring and stopped here I do not remember seeing you."
"Oh, Mr. Goose," came in quick reply, "you can't imagine the misfortunes that have overtaken me; and it was on their account that I was not here in the early summer when you passed over."
With that Mrs. Grebe hung her dainty head, which was beautifully tufted about the ears, giving her the look of wearing a jaunty cap.
"I am the Widow Grebe," was all she could say.
Mr. Goose dried his eyes by rubbing them on his snowy breast. For, although he was a stern old gander, he had the most melting heart for the sad plight of widows and orphans.
And the fatherless ones were immediately discovered to view, for Mrs. Grebe moved ever so slightly and six tiny little Grebes twittered and chirped at her feet.
The sight was very moving, and the doughty old warrior commanded himself sufficiently to ask the particulars.
"Yes," the dainty little lady Grebe said. "We were a devoted pair, my husband and I. You know the Grebes, how they are like to die of broken heart if one or the other is killed. They're like the cooing dove, you know, very devoted. But my dear, beautiful mate was shot before my very eyes. Yes, the bullet was meant for me, because it is the mother Grebe's beautiful breast feathers that they are after. But it was he who was killed. We both dived, but when I came up from under the water after going as far as I could, I looked in vain for him. Men in a boat were reaching out for something, and it was my own mate they were lifting up from the water. When they saw it was not the mother bird, they threw his body back into the lake. After a while it sank and I knew that it was all hopeless."
Mr. Goose knew not what to say. But before he could even begin to express his feelings, the gentle Grebe added to her account of woes the fact that her first brood of the season had all perished, too.
"These little fellows are but just hatched," she went on. "They will never know their dear father; but what happened to the first brood of the season is the worst. We were, as you know, far south of here. Another lake where we go for the winter. No one knew that in that lake dwelt the worst of snapping turtles. But such was the fact. In one month our brood of dear little chicks was, every one of them, seized while swimming and dragged under by the great turtles!"
Then, like so many people who have suffered as much, Mrs. Grebe began to apologize for telling her woes.
"It is only because you are so very traveled and wise, Mr. Goose, that I tell you all my afflictions. Nothing, of course, can amend the loss of my dear mate. But how I am to protect my children from all my enemies I cannot say. I am sorely troubled."
Mr. Goose all this time had only pretended to eat, for he was too much interested and too deeply concerned to do aught but attend to Mrs. Grebe's sad plight.
He thought for a long moment, and then said that he would give her two pieces of advice, but that she must wait a few moments until he had thought over his many observations and experiences.
"True," he said, "I have seen many ways of caring for children. And you are without assistance. Now my nest is built in almost inaccessible places, and Mrs. Goose has few enemies in the water to fear. Our chicks are too large to be pulled under the water by turtles, and our nest is too well defended by the sentry goose for us to fear the fox or the wolf. But you, poor Mrs. Grebe, you are indeed sorely put to it. You must do two things. First, I am sure, you must build farther out from the shore; and, second, you must take your children with you on your back when they first venture over the pond.
"And," he added slyly enough, "don't grieve too long. Perhaps you will fall in love again."
Just then, however, he seemed to be suddenly mindful of his own family. For a distant shot was heard in the air. Everybody stopped eating, and listened, but nothing more was to be heard. The hunters were far off, although their presence anywhere within hearing was full of alarm.
"Remember what I say," the splendid traveler called back, for he was marshaling his flock.
Mrs. Grebe could scarcely comprehend what was going on, for it seemed but a second before all the beautiful geese were in the air again, flying low over the plain. They would elude the hunters. That she knew. But she wished the wise captain of them all could have stayed just a little longer to explain what he meant. How could she carry her young ones with her? And how build on the water?
But it is long practise that works out in perfection; and Mrs. Grebe was soon able to teach her babies to climb on her back and to perch there with their beaks buried in her soft feathers, and their little toes digging ahold of her. And she began pushing her nest farther and farther out into the water until it seemed scarcely to have any connection with the land at all. Alone, and fearing to leave her nest unguarded, to this day she covers it with sticks and straw, and when she turns the eggs over that she is hatching, she smears them with mud until they are very hard indeed to find. For she is the most suspicious of birds.
But if she was indebted to Mr. Wild Goose for his advice, he, on his part, felt that he had only drawn on his learning as a great traveler. Had he not seen the tropic swans with their young riding upon their shoulders? And he knew what it was for. So he was only a generous and observant bird when he made the suggestion.
Later that season, however, when a great prairie fire swept the region and burned everything to the very edges of the lakes, Mrs. Grebe was thankful indeed that she could carry her babies with her to the center of the lake, and there ride in safety with them while the reeds and the grasses blazed on the margin.
And of this she told Mr. Goose the year after, when he came back. He had helped better than he knew. But of her second marriage she said very little, and he did not embarrass her with questions.
Oh, yes, there is much that the great Wild Goose knows and he is not too proud to draw upon his wisdom when it is a matter of helping even such little stay-at-home people as Mrs. Grebe.