There is a great river which comes rushing through the mountains, where the cliffs are dark with trees, and the heavy snows are slow to melt, even when spring has made the valleys green and warm. Here, on a cliff, snug and warm beneath the roots of a great tree, lived Mrs. Bear and her family of cubs. Three baby bears there were; and in their fine black coats with dark brown edges they were very handsome.
For their playmate, however, there was a little stranger. Just a funny little fox, whose fur was the color of a flame of fire. He was a rare little fox, being of such a lovely color. Had the hunters in the valley dreamed that he was living on the mountain above their very farms, they would never have rested until they got him, for his skin would bring a fortune in the world of men and money.
But of this the little fox knew nothing, for ever since the day that good Mrs. Bear had found him, lost and weak and hungry, where he had fallen down to sleep in the snow, he had led the happiest of lives with the little baby bears. They could not run as fast as he could, nor could they bark as prettily, but they were wonderful at turning somersaults, and at playing leap-frog, and they were more than generous to him. They gave him the best place at dinner, and when they all went to sleep, they cuddled him up between them, while the big Mrs. Bear slept with her nose to the door. Blow the wind as it might, they were all as warm as toast.
But one fine day in early summer Mrs. Bear broke the news to her family that the foxes, one and all, were looking for their child. One way or another, the news had gone down from the mountain to the high pastures and fields at the edge of the farms, and it was joy to the heart of the fox mother, to learn that her beautiful Fireflame was alive.
Of course he must go back. And by an arrangement most agreeable to Mrs. Bear, she was to venture with her adopted baby as far as the blackberry patches and the great maple groves at the foot of the mountain. The foxes would meet her, and with sweet little Fireflame safe in the bosom of his family, all would be well.
Just as it was planned, the excursion was made; but all the way down the mountain Mrs. Bear kept finding more and more berries to eat.
"Here I must stop on my way back," she would say.
"And here is another wonderful patch! Such blueberries I have never seen in my whole life."
So it was late when at last she came to the clearing, and Fireflame kissed the motherly Mrs. Bear good-by. And it was night before that good lady could tear herself from the berry patches and trundle herself home to her family.
Alas! She had lingered too long. Stray dogs from the farms had scented her presence; and although she had followed a brook until she was well on her way to the cliff, and her footsteps were hard to follow, they had soon learned her whereabouts. Back to their masters they had gone, and it was scarcely morning when the hunters set out. The dogs were barking and their great tongues were lolling from their mouths. And the men with their rifles, and the knives for skinning the bear when they got her, were striding up the mountain, laughing and shouting as they went. No sooner were they near the woods, however, than their laughter ceased and the hounds grew deathly quiet; for that is the way of the hunter. He must be quiet and quick, for he is the companion of death, and that terrible creature walks abroad only with cruel men who have learned his craft.
The foxes took in the situation at once. But none of them dared to stir. To cross the path of those hunters was a terrible risk. They shivered and shook in their deep burrows to hear the hounds.
"It's lucky for us that the wind blows up the mountain," was all they could say.
"And what are they after?" cried poor little Fireflame. "Whom are they hunting?"
But then the truth dawned on him. Old Grandpa Fox and good Mother Fox were quiet, for they did not dare to tell Fireflame that it was dear Mrs. Bear who was being trailed. Besides, they were ashamed; for it was plain that something must be done, yet no one dared to move.
"She ought to have crossed and recrossed the river," said Grandpa Fox. "That's the way to do it. But I mistrust she was engaged too long with those tempting berries. She was not discreet."
"They'll get her and her young ones too!" wailed Mrs. Fox, who was nearly beside herself. For it is a terrible thing to know what you ought to do, but to be lacking in the courage to do it.
Little Fireflame could stand it no longer. In a bound he was out of the burrow. The whole Fox family screamed after him to come back; but he paid no heed. He was well up the pasture, and far into the woods before their voices ceased to ring in his ears.
It was a test of his wits, and he was very young. No dog could overtake him if he ran, and he had the start; but to catch up to the hunters and pass them, and so reach Mrs. Bear in time, was a task that would try the wits of the wisest fox.
Now a beautiful bird flew past, and although he never knew why he did it, the brave little Fireflame followed that bird. Over the brook and back again he went, always bearing upward to the crest of the mountain. It was not the path by which he had come the day before, but higher he went and higher, with the far, snowy peak in front of him.
The bird would vanish, but after Fireflame had gone as fast as his beautiful legs would carry him and when he was so tired that he could not see for the mist in his eyes, the silent wings would be beside him, then in front; and Fireflame would bend to his race as though it were just begun.
Soon he was on the narrow edge of the cliff. The sun lay full and bright upon the foaming river far below, and Fireflame recognized the spot. By a path that no one knew, he had come to the home of Mrs. Bear. There she was, the three little bears with her, playing under the fir tree.
He bounded in upon them, but not before the bird had brushed his cheek with its wings and then flown away, straight as an arrow, into the sun.
Fireflame gasped out his news in one breath.
"Fireflame Gasped Out His News in One Breath"
"Fireflame Gasped Out His News in One Breath"
"Fireflame Gasped Out His News in One Breath"
It was quick work that brought the Bear family to the edge of the river. There Mrs. Bear and her cubs began their journey to the fields of snow, and the caves that were safely beyond the reach of the hunters. She could not thank Fireflame at all. She could only look at him with tears of gratitude; while the three little bears, greatly confused, were as solemn as though they had never played tag in their lives.
"But you will visit us some day," the biggest baby bear said, clinging to Fireflame's paw, "and we will all play together again."
The hunters climbed up to the deserted cliff; but they never caught the trail of Mrs. Bear again. For the good river and the soft snows are friendly to the hunted people, and whatever they know they take with them to the great ocean, where it is of no use to any one.
Fireflame went home. He knew that he was safe, so he took his time.
But to the end of his days, he never knew what bird it was that showed him the way in the dark and unfamiliar woods.
Tabby Green was alone in the snowy street. The wind which blew with gusts of the finest snow had nearly taken Tabby off her feet as she crept around the corner, and she was so cold and tired that she could hardly take another step. Just as she was preparing to make a final jump for the shelter of a flight of steps, a great white dog came trotting through the snow and, to her great alarm, they ran into each other.
"I beg your pardon," said the dog, in the politest way.
"My fault, I'm sure," said Tabby Green, for she was such a well-bred kitty that no dog, even if he had the finest manners in the world, could be more courteous than she.
Then, "Why, bless me!" she exclaimed. "Can it be you, dear Bobby Gordon? How glad I am to see you once again!"
And to show how pleased she was, poor Tabby rubbed her thin sides against the good dog's legs.
Together they crouched under the arch of the high stone steps, where, from a grating in the sidewalk, came a breath of good warm air. It was close to somebody's furnace room, and only such poor wandering creatures as the hungry cat and the dog who had known better days can appreciate the air from a warm cellar.
They sat close together and Tabby tried to purr, but she was nearly dead and purr she could not.
"There, there!" soothed Bobby Gordon, as he licked the snow from poor kitty's back in the gentlest way. "I wouldn't purr. It's very kind of you to try, but it's a bad thing to do in the open air. They say it hurts the voice."
"And I have no voice left these days," admitted Tabby sadly. "Really, if it were not for these warm cellar-ways and the few stray scraps of food that one finds in such shocking places, I wouldn't be alive."
"But," said Bob, "you're just a poor tramp cat, and no one's bound to kill you. I'm a dog without a collar, all alone and afraid to be seen. I can't let any one come near for fear they'll tell the officers about me. Once I had a collar—such a beauty, too! But it came off within a week of my great misfortune. You know my master went away, and the wicked people in the house were going to get rid of me. I knew it. I wasn't wanted any more. I had to go."
Great tears stood in Bobby Gordon's eyes but he brushed them away with his paw.
Tabby was overcome. In all her wanderings she had never met a case so sad.
"Poor Mr. Gordon!" was all she could say. "My poor, hunted friend!"
Then she thought of her own fireside, the cozy home that she had known. And simply to think of the saucers of cream, and the plates of dainty pieces from her mistress' table, made Tabby Green's poor mouth water.
"Ah, me!" she sighed, and was pretty near to crying when a thought flashed to her mind. "There's one more chance!" she suddenly exclaimed. "You have a fine strong voice, and you can make folks hear. Now just below this house, where that shoemaker's sign hangs out, is a little girl, and a boy whom I know to be her brother. They stopped and spoke to me but this very day. I felt that they were kind and understood my case. But, although I followed to their door, they didn't see me. And, call out as loudly as I could, my poor voice has grown so weak I know they didn't hear me."
"It's little use," was all the weary dog could say. "I've barked at a hundred doors."
Kitty waited and yielded to his discouragement. Of course it was no use, she thought. They must simply wait and wait until the cold and hunger did its work.
The wind howled, and the snow, which was piling higher and higher on the steps, was drifting around them.
"We Scotchmen die hard," said Bob at last. "The Gordons are a brave lot. I have to remember that."
"My mother purred away her life in song," cried Tabby Green. "She was mindful of her kittens to the last. She said almost in her dying breath: 'Remember, children! Never scratch, and always dry your tails when you come in out of the rain.'"
Suddenly a voice came through the cold night air. It was a child's voice, as sweet and clear as a bell.
"Kitty! Kitty! Come, Kitty, come!"
In an instant the poor, starved cat and the lame, hungry dog looked out and leaped into the drifting snow.
A shaft of lamp-light lay wide across the street. The door at the shoemaker's house was open. There stood a woman, and, with her, two little children, all wrapped in shawls and blankets. Their little feet were tucked in bed slippers and their eager faces peered into the night.
"It's no use, your calling," said the woman. "You were only dreaming. Any cat out in this storm is a dead cat now."
"Oh, but I know I heard a kitty."
"And I heard it, too," cried the little boy.
"Yes, and you made me get you out of bed to stand here and catch your death o' cold. I hope you are satisfied."
Scarcely had she spoken, and just as she was about to close the door, Bobby Gordon and Tabby Green came bounding past her feet into the hall.
"'Twas naught but the Christmas angels brought them here!" the woman said, when they had all seated themselves in the little parlor, which was the poor shoemaker's shop and kitchen too.
The Christmas night was turning into morning. Tabby and Bobby Gordon were sleeping by the stove, and in the bedroom, tucked deep and warm under their blankets, were the two children who had called the wanderers in.
Santa Claus was near, and thousands of lovely angels, drifting like the snowflakes, whispered to him and beckoned as they flew over the housetops.
"This way, this way," they kept singing. And Santa Claus came to the shoemaker's chimney with such a pack of toys as he takes only to the sweetest, kindest children in the world. For Santa Claus and all the good, sweet spirits know the children who love to keep the kitty warm and happy, and who would never let the poor, deserted dog go friendless.
"And tell me," whispered Santa Claus to Tabby Green, "tell me every child that so much as said, 'Poor Kitty!' to you in your wanderings. I shall take them what they want the most for Christmas."
So Tabby Green, as fast as she could think, and the dog with the fine manners told all they knew of the children. And when they had finished, Santa told them that before another year was out they must have news of other good children, like the shoemaker's little boy and girl.
So there are many Tabby Greens and Bobby Gordons, forsaken and driven and chased by the cruel people of the world. But sometimes a little girl or boy stops to pet the straying animal, or even calls it home. And you may be very sure that Santa Claus hears of it.
Mother Rabbit and her five babies lived among the sand-hills down by the sea. Their cozy home was a small cave in the side of the hill, and it had two separate entrances, one at each end. These assured her escape in case a dog or a weasel should enter her home.
One evening, just as the moon was showing itself, big and round and yellow, over the tops of the pine trees, Mother Rabbit led her children out of their cozy home to the big out-of-doors, which they had only begun to know. Their education must begin, she felt, for they were nearly one month old and already able to jump and skip around as nimbly as Mrs. Fox's young sons. She feared that, if left in ignorance longer, they were likely to become overbold.
"It is, first of all, my dears, necessary to be cautious in life," she said. "You must follow me now very quietly to the edge of the wheat-field, where we will sit down to talk. There are things you must know."
So they bounded along behind their mother, so lightly that they made not a sound on the driest leaves of the woodland, and when they came to the edge of the field they took the first high jump of their lives, for the mother selected a place between the bars of the fence and leaped through it swift and clean.
"Do it that way," she said. "You must never run under anything in the dark if you can jump over it."
Once within the pleasant field, where there was so much green wheat that the little rabbits wondered how in the world all of it ever could be eaten, Mrs. Rabbit seated her family around her and began by telling the babies all about their noble father.
"Ah, my dears, your father was such a rabbit as one seldom sees. Such stout legs, and short, too, just as they ought to be! Such a long, graceful body—and what magnificent ears! They were like flowers, and stood up in such a taking fashion! Could you but see him, dancing in the moonlight, hitting his heels together in the air, and wagging those wonderful ears at the stars, his tail as white and fluffy as a full-blown rose, why, my children, you would burst with pride. I shall never see his like again."
"But where is Daddy Rabbit now?" the babies cried in one voice, fearing that their mother spoke with sadness. "He isn't dead, is he?"
"Dead? No, no, my dears," she replied. "He's traveling; you'll see him yet, I'm sure. He has a way of coming back.
"But in case he doesn't return, you must know how brave he is, and what he can do. For you must grow up to be as like him as you can.
"Any of the neighbors can tell you of his clever ways, and his bravery. He rid this field of a dreadful dog, once, and the history of these parts will always relate that exploit. It made him famous."
At this the little rabbits cocked their ears in wonder.
"You see," Mother Rabbit went on, "it was this way: Once he returned to his burrow below the hill over there and discovered, by means of his keen sense of smell, that a terrier dog was in the burrow. He immediately called for a friend, and together they closed up the entrance to the burrow and smothered the dog to death. That's whatIcall bravery. And that's the kind of father you had. The world will expect much of children of your parentage.
"Your father and I first met on the hillside one evening, and we liked each other at once. Every evening after, we would meet out there to play hide-and-seek in the grass and sand. Perhaps he will come to see you some day, and I want you to be smart and handsome, so that he will be proud of you.
"But I have said enough, dear Jacks, and now I must teach you some of the wise things he knew. He learned at an early age that each rabbit must procure his own food, and has many foes to shun. To do these things one must have a sharp wit.
"Always sleep during the day while other animals are prowling about, and come out only evenings when it is cool, to seek your food. Young wheat, fresh onions, lettuce and cabbages make splendid food for rabbits. Of course, it is rather dangerous to cultivate such expensive tastes, for lettuce and onions usually grow only in gardens and people are apt to set traps to catch you. So be careful never to go near a trap, or bite at anything that looks as though man had placed it there for you. It is said that your father prided himself on destroying traps.
"Our family is blessed by being both watchful and swift. Just watch me how I can run."
Mother Rabbit sprang to her feet, and over the field she sped like lightning. The children stared in wonderment, and then shouted for glee at their mother's rapidity. Finally Mrs. Rabbit returned as quickly as she had departed.
"Now, that is the way you must learn to run. And the next most necessary thing for you to acquire is the ability to stand on your hind legs like this."
To their amusement, Mother Rabbit stood up like a walking dog or a bear.
"An enemy can be seen at a long distance from such a position," she explained; "and it is well never to run until you have taken in the situation. Many rabbits have lost their lives by failing to observe that simple precaution. Once your Uncle Cotton heard a dog coming, and turned to run in the opposite direction without having stood up to survey the land. As a result, we found only his bones on the hillside the next day. It is supposed that he ran right into the jaws of another dog. Dogs are clever and often hunt together.
"But that's enough for the first lesson," she concluded. "Some evening we'll come again and I'll teach you to dance, and we'll play till the moon goes down in the West."
They jumped up, skimmed through the fence, and ran after their mother, who had them home and tucked them in bed almost before they knew it.
"I find it very hard," said the learned watchdog, "to speak well of the rats and the mice."
He was talking with his visitor, Professor Screech Owl, who perched on the peak of the kitchen roof and was engaged with him in a pleasant exchange of views and ideas. The moon was clear and everything was very still. All the world seemed asleep but the owl and the dog, and they were talking of many matters. For Professor Screech Owl was a knowing bird and he had, moreover, the most learned relatives.
"Of course, you know more than I do," Collie Dog hastened to add.
Professor Screech Owl nodded.
"And you may have heard in your travels of something which credits the mice with being other than thieves and rogues. But for my part, I am skeptical of all the good I hear of them."
"There are mice, and there are mice," said the Professor. For this is one of the best ways to open a subject and draw a distinction. "I have rarely inquired into their morals, preferring to take them as I find them. In the matter of one's living one must not be too squeamish. Probably I have eaten moral mice and immoral mice, with indifference. But I have heard that the mice in Belgium are the gentlest and sweetest of creatures. Have you heard of the Belgium mice, Mr. Dog?"
This was the point to which Collie Dog had drawn his visitor with intent. For no matter what subject you brought up, if you passed it over to Professor Screech Owl and showed him the respect and patience which is due to scholarly persons, he would refresh your mind with wonderful facts and you would be vastly improved and informed when he finished. So Collie Dog admitted that he was no book dog, and knew precious little about anything. This was not so, for he knew a great deal about sheep, the pasturing of cows, and the time for getting the mail, and he knew that the buggy meant business, and the surrey meant church, and he knew where his mistress kept the chocolate creams. Also he knew why the cook left, but he never told. But he pretended that blankness of mind which is a humility pleasing to superior students.
Screech Owl stared at the moon as though to recall what he could from his vast store of learning.
"The dates have escaped me," he began, "but it is the nature of the event, not the time which is important.
"Once long ago, as I was told by the great Arctic Owl, who is a sort of cousin of mine, the mice in the city of Ghent entered into a sort of league with the storks. Ghent, as you know, is in Belgium."
This was news to Collie Dog, but he wagged his tail as if to approve. He was glad to know that Ghent was in Belgium, and he wished to seem pleased.
"Don't wag your tail!" Screech Owl spat out at him. "I'm telling you history; I'm not asking you to have a bone. That's no way to act when I'm lecturing!"
Poor Collie Dog wished to laugh, but he only sat still and looked humbly at the conceited little owl on the peak of the barn.
Professor Screech Owl suddenly grew quite himself again, apologized for his agitation, and resumed:
"The storks are a noble lot, and have been renowned in Egypt and on the Continent. They dwell on the chimney-pots, I'm told, or build on the edges of steeples and such. Very proud they are, and given to the practise of medicine. The cranes in the country make great pretense of being cousins of the stork. But we all know the difference,—we who have traveled. Ha! Ha!"
Screech Owl screamed a terrible laugh. Collie Dog, to be polite, joined in; but he stopped short when Screech Owl's feathers began to ruffle up.
"In Ghent, long ago," the Professor went on, "the mice that lived in the barn of the mayor's place were many. They overran it and lived under the very eaves as well as in the cellars. And those nearest the roof became great friends of the storks who dwelt on the gables and chimneys.
"Now, so the story runs, the mayor's barn caught fire. The good lady stork had but just left her nest. The storks, you know, go far out into the country to get their food. I think it very foolish of them to live in the cities. But Mrs. Stork took her chances, as all mothers do when they leave their young ones for any length of time.
"Dr. Stork, the father of this particular family, was away on medical matters, and so the baby was alone. You can imagine what Mrs. Stork felt when she came flying toward the city and saw smoke pouring from the roof of the mayor's barn."
Collie Dog scented the drift of the story, and grew suddenly impatient for the slow Professor to reach the point.
"And was the baby stork burned to death?" he interrupted.
Professor Screech Owl only looked down and cleared his throat.
"The mice," he said, "are credited with singular humanity. They scrambled all around and in and out of the nest, and at last they grabbed the baby stork and dragged him down to the edge of the roof."
"They Grabbed the Baby Stork and Dragged Him Down to the Edge of the Roof"
"They Grabbed the Baby Stork and Dragged Him Down to the Edge of the Roof"
"They Grabbed the Baby Stork and Dragged Him Down to the Edge of the Roof"
"And then?" exclaimed Collie Dog, now really excited. "What then? Did he fall off and get killed after all?"
"The roofs of the houses in Ghent are not very high," came from Professor Screech Owl, in the deepest of tones, "but they are very steep. A plank was leaning against the wall and they slid him down on that, so that he reached the ground in safety.
"Since then the storks give all the feathers they can spare to the mice; and now these frisky creatures sleep on down. That is, the mice in Belgium do."
Professor Screech Owl came to a sudden stop and watched Collie Dog. Seeing his audience was profoundly impressed, he then went on:
"Those who were witnesses to this rescue say that Mrs. Stork's excitement was terrible. She went to Egypt for a year to recover her nerves—"
An unearthly screech pierced the night. The Professor and Collie Dog jumped in surprise. Old Tom Cat, who had listened to all this as he sat on the door-step in the dark, was trying to laugh. He was also making remarks about owls and mice in general. But just then the master of the house threw open the window and expressedhisviews.
Collie Dog retired quickly to his kennel to think over this wonderful chapter of history; and wise Professor Screech Owl flew silently from the peak of the barn to his nest in the hickory woods.
At the very peep of day Collie Dog and Setter Pup started out on a hunting trip of their own. Collie Dog called the place "my farm" and he had told his friend of all the wonderful sights there were to be seen on the place by a dog who could travel alone and do as he wanted. It was his habit, he said, to be abroad very early; sometimes, indeed, he would run over the fields and along the shore, or back into the woodland, for miles and miles before breakfast.
"And what do you do that for?" Setter Pup asked. For this youngster was just from the city, and he was not used to these country ways. "We never get up until long after the man with the milk cans has gone by the door, and the postman has come and gone," he yawned. "That's the proper thing in town."
Collie Dog laughed in a courteous way.
"And we get up before the milk cans start for town," he said. "That is, some of us do. But they'll take you out early enough when the hunting begins. And you'll be pointing birds all day in the fields and the swamps."
Setter Pup waved his tail proudly, for he meant to be a great hunter. That was why they had him in the country now—to teach him all sorts of things about guns and what to do when he smelt a covey of birds.
But Collie Dog was no hunter, being more of a scholar and a poet. His master, at any rate, had read him a great deal of poetry. And much of the poetry had been of a nature to discourage hunting; which was just what the doggie's master liked to do. He was thoroughly in sympathy with his pet, who couldn't endure a gun, either the sight or the sound of it. But, much as the gentleman knew about the fields and the woods, he would have known more could he have understood what Collie Dog would have loved to tell him. For that gentle dog was on the best of terms with every living creature for miles around. His early morning expeditions were always but so many rounds of visits.
Consequently, the newcomer, this eager and noisy young setter, was to make many new acquaintances on this daybreak excursion with Collie Dog.
Down the lane from the barn to the pasture they romped, the dew drenching their flanks as they brushed the tall weeds and bushes. Setter Pup, with his ears flapping in excitement, was plunging heedlessly ahead when Collie Dog called him back.
"Go easy here! We are sure to hear something," Collie Dog whispered.
And suddenly, while they walked almost on tip-toe, there came from the very edge of the field, a clear, ringing call:
"Bob! Bob! Bob!"
"Why, who can be down here in the hayfield at this time of the morning?" Setter Pup asked in surprise.
"Just wait!" laughed Collie Dog, delighted.
"Bob, Bob, Bob-White!"
The voice was as clear as a boy's.
"That's my best friend out here," Collie Dog explained. "It's little Mr. Partridge."
Then very quickly the beautiful, trim little Mr. Partridge hopped clear of the tangled grass and stood gaily on the fence-rail. He was speckled and shapely and his eyes were full of wonderful humor. But he caught sight of the strange dog, and was gone in a second. Then, to Setter Pup's great astonishment, there were many little voices, and wild scuttlings in the very path ahead of him. And two beautiful partridges, their wings apparently broken, were hobbling along almost before his very nose. They were dying, as it seemed.
Setter Pup was all for seizing them. Two such crippled creatures were easy prey. But his instincts were, after all, of another sort; for, although he had never done it before, he stood stock still and pointed his nose straight at the birds, his tail stretched out like a long plume behind him.
Collie Dog shook with laughter.
"Well, that gun shooting master of yours would be proud of you if he could see you now," he said. "You're pointing straight as a weather vane. But we're not out hunting birds this morning. Come here, and I'll show you something."
Setter Pup dropped his tail and stepped back. Then Collie Dog came softly up to the little birds that were cowering in the path. They knew him well enough. Even if he was a dog, he was a friend; and if there is a creature who knows a friend and would be on terms of friendship with the whole world it is Mr. Bob-White.
They were even pleased to meet young Setter Pup, when they found out that he was staying at the farm. They could not believe that a personal friend of their wonderful Collie Dog could be ill-disposed to such as the partridge family.
And Mr. Bob-White talked about "our farm" exactly as though it were his own. He said that he and his family could surely keep down the potato bugs that year; and that if it could only be known what his intentions were in this matter of eating up the pests that canker and destroy, he was sure no one would want to kill him.
"You always say that, poor Mr. Bob-White, and how I pity you," the gentle Collie Dog replied. For he was as quick to weep as to laugh, being so refined a dog. "And it's a shame. My master reads to me all about you. And we get very indignant when we think of how you are the one thing that these farmers can depend upon to eat up more bugs than anybody else could ever devour. You're so much better than poison and all the rest of the truck they sprinkle around."
"Yes; the poison just washes off in the rain. My family, if only we could be let alone, would do it all. Didn't you tell me that my cousin down in Texas ate up all the boll weevils in a county full of cotton?"
"That's the truth," answered Collie Dog. "Master read it to me. But you're safe enough on this farm anyway. You know that. My friend Setter Pup is not going to hunt here at all."
"And I shall never hunt partridges—never!" declared Setter Pup, who was sadly distressed. "I wish I had never been born"—he was crying now—"if I have to hunt down such folks as Mr. Partridge." For poor Setter Pup had found that he possessed a heart; and that discovery is the most distressing one in the world.
"Oh, you'll get over that," Collie Dog comforted him. "You'll have to. Your master will attend to you. But I'm sorry for you. And just look at these baby partridges."
One by one, as Mrs. Partridge had clucked to them, in a little voice like the ticking of a tiny clock, they had crept up to her. Ten little chicks there were, of a light brown, and nothing but fluffy down and beady eyes. One of them hopped right out from in front of Setter Pup, where it had hidden under a leaf.
"Good gracious!" he exclaimed. "There was that chicken, and I never saw it at all!"
"No," Collie Dog replied; "you would never guess where they go to when their mother gives the alarm. And then she runs off and tempts you to kill her. She hobbles and cries and lies down to die right at your feet. My own mother, who was a Scottish noblewoman, being an Argyle, used to say that she never saw such a wonderfully devoted mother as Mrs. Bob-White."
With a gay farewell to Mr. Partridge, the sprightly dog was off. And Setter Pup went racing after him. For there was much to see, and the sun was already clear and golden. The grass shone in waves of green, and as the dew dried there came the loveliest odors of wild honeysuckle and clover. It was a time to be gay, and Collie Dog did not want to have his young friend depressed. There were some wonderful mud-holes to visit, where they could get just as cool and as dirty as they pleased.
"And when the mud dries off," Collie Dog explained, as they plunged through the bushes, "your coat will shine as though it had been brushed."
It was a wonderful romp that they had in the mud-hole, deep in the swampy meadow, under the blackberry vines. And when they came out, disgracefully dirty, to dry themselves under a China-berry tree, they were rolling over and over on the grass, when a funny little voice called out from the branches overhead:
"Hello, Mr. Dog!"
Setter Pup jumped to his feet; but Collie Dog only looked up into the tree.
"'Morning, friend 'Possum; and how's your family to-day?"
"Oh, they're doing fine. Twelve of them and all getting plump. We like your turnip patch very much."
Then he laughed; a squeaky little laugh it was; and Collie Dog seemed to enjoy the joke too, for he sat up with a smile.
"Come on down and let's see you die," he requested. "My friend has never seen a 'possum play dead."
"No, indeed, Mr. Collie. I don't know your friend—and I don't think I care to. He's a hunting dog. But I'll die right here on this branch, if that will amuse you."
So Mr. 'Possum threw himself into a wonderful attitude and looked as dead as dead could be. His head hung over the branch and his mouth lolled open, and his little paws were all curled up.
"How queer!" Setter Pup exclaimed. "I suppose he's satisfied that nobody but a buzzard would touch him now. What a dandy trick!"
"It fools 'em, all right," said Collie Dog, who always delighted in this performance.
Then Mr. 'Possum winked a sly wink and slid like a big rat along the branch to a hollow place in the tree.
"He's gone in. Probably his wife wanted him."
And then Collie Dog was off again, bounding and racing across the field, with Setter Pup keeping beside him.
Miles they went, through the country. Young Setter Pup saw more than he ever had guessed could be seen. There was Mr. Blacksnake, who raced like mad over the leaves, making an astonishing noise. He carried his head very high and went such a zigzag course that the dogs lost sight of him.
"He's an ugly fellow, too, but he can't hurt you. He makes a funny noise with his tail, rattling it on the leaves if you corner him. He wants you to think he's a rattlesnake. But it's only a clever trick," said Collie Dog. "Sometimes on that sandy piece of road we've just passed, we'll come across Mr. Hognose. He's a queer little snake. He can scare you terribly by puffing and blowing, so that you would think he was very dangerous. But he can't bite at all, nor hurt you as much as a cat. He plays off at being dead too, just like Mr. 'Possum. But he never crawls out till the sun is high. He likes the heat. I've met him a great many times, but always when it was hot."
By this time it was a glorious morning, and as the two dogs trotted down the wood road and along the river bank, the birds were calling from every side.
"I like to come this way," Collie Dog went on. "There's a redbird, a very aristocratic cardinal, who flies ahead of me every time. He's had a whole story written about himself. Master's read it aloud to me. Does your master read aloud to you?"
Setter Pup was somewhat embarrassed.
"We read about guns and cartridges and Canadian guides, and fishing tackle," he admitted.
"H'm!" mused his companion. "Destructive, of course. Right in your line. But not my style. We prefer the other kind, my master and I. But not everybody can be a poet, of course."
Just then the cardinal-bird darted out of the honeysuckle and flew ahead of them, and in an instant a brilliant bluebird followed him.
"They fly together just that way. Master says they must like each other's color. Aren't they beautiful?"
And then, before they knew it, the birds were gone; and Setter Pup was surprised to see that this river path had been the way home, for they were almost at the farm door.
"If I could only go hunting with you instead of with those guides and guns," Setter Pup began; for evidently there was something on his mind and he wanted to talk.
But Collie Dog just wagged his tail. He understood. There was nothing to be said, for a dog owes everything to his master, and there are many kinds of masters. Besides, the door was open and there were voices upstairs. Setter Pup's owner was calling across the hall to his host.
"He ought to make a fine pointer. His mother was a prize bird dog, you know."
Poor Setter Pup looked wistfully at Collie Dog as they flopped down on the floor.
And Collie was truly distressed. But, then, as he often asked himself:
"What could a poor dog do?"
The long, dark winter was on the wane. Months of cold starlight and terrific winds, with numberless storms of heavy snow, had gone by. Little by little the streak of light on the horizon, the thin shadows which it cast over the snowfields, and the gentler quality of the air increased; so that every one who lived in this far Arctic region stirred in his winter sleep and there was preparation for a short and very busy summer.
Some of the animals had been abroad, indeed, throughout the whole dark night of the polar winter; such of them for instance as the lovely white fox and the great polar bear. For it was not their custom to crawl away, as many did, into the deep snow-banks, there to sleep it out; for they knew that even this season of blackness and appalling cold had plenty of food for them, and they were always insatiably hungry.
But Mr. Bear's wife was of a different turn of mind, and although she knew that her husband would not provide for her quite as she would like to be fed, she was willing to go deep into the snow and dig out for herself a warm bed away beneath the surface. There she had stayed, never so much as venturing to the opening after the real night had set in.
And there her cubs were born. Two of them there were. The good Mrs. Bear was so delighted with their beauty that she was impatient for the warm days to come when she could take them out and show them to her relatives and friends.
"Perhaps, too, their father will be back by the time summer comes," she thought.
And then she was suddenly glad that he was not around just now; for he was very quick-tempered, and if the babies annoyed him at all, he would be pretty sure to cuff them. And one blow of Mr. Bear's paw would finish the career of any baby bear in the world.
So the two little creatures, clad in the whitest of fur from head to foot, their claws as black as ebony, and their wide eyes as yellow as amber, lay snuggled against the great warm body of their mother for all the weeks of the departing winter.
Suddenly, as they rolled over and looked upward through the snow cavern, they saw for the first time what seemed to them a great big eye staring down at them.
"That's only the hole in the roof," Mrs. Bear explained. "And pretty soon you will see that it is all blue and beautiful above that window—and then we will go out and away."
What that meant they did not know; for life so far as they had known it consisted of meals and sleep and endless playtime on the icy floor of their cavern. But they were to know more about it very soon. A white wing flashed by one morning, and a land voice called down the depths of their cave.
It was Mr. Burgomaster, the good-natured gull. He had come purposely to call on Mrs. Bear, for he had two stirring pieces of information to give her.
He perched by the edge of her skylight, and wasted no words in relating the news.
"There's a whale being driven ashore; and the mists have hidden the birds."
He was gone before Mrs. Bear could so much as thank him for coming; and she was, indeed, deeply obliged. No one but good Mr. Burgomaster would ever have taken such pains.
What he said sounded strange enough, but it meant everything to Mrs. Bear. When a whale was disabled in the far depths of the sea, or had been caught in the currents and gales in such a way that he must surely drift to shore, he was as good as dead and devoured. For in shallow water he would be helpless and once his enormous bulk was stranded on the rocks or the jagged capes of ice he could only give himself up to his enemies.
Mrs. Bear, however, would have been very cautious about venturing to the scene of the banquet, if the great flocks of birds, which were sure to be on hand, were not hidden from view as they hovered above it. Clouds of excited gulls that came nearer and nearer to the shore were a signal of what was about to happen. And the bears, the foxes, and the wolves were not the only ones who knew it. Men, with their ferocious packs of dogs, their long lassos of walrus hide, and their terrible spears, knew well enough what the noisy birds were announcing.
But all would be well if the fogs hung low, and the gathering flocks of sea-birds were thereby hidden.
Mrs. Bear explained the situation to her cubs.
"Of course, your mother would not have built her nursery here," she ended, "if she thought those terrible creatures with the wolfish dogs and the ropes were within miles and miles of the spot. But you can never tell when they may turn up. They come with their dogs over endless tracks of snow and ice to find us, and they travel fast. You must lie as quietly as you can while I am gone. Amuse yourselves in only the quietest way. Don't call out at all; and go to sleep again, like good children."
With that Mrs. Bear rose to her hind feet and reached upward along the snow walls of her house. Then, balancing herself on a ridge of the ice which was for all the world like a side shelf, she made a ponderous leap through the opening into broad daylight. For at last it was the real day, and a glorious glimmer of sunlight behind the fogs showed that summer was coming.
It was good to breathe the free air, and Mrs. Bear shook herself violently to straighten out the creases of her heavy coat. She would have liked to roar, loud and long, but she was trained by experience never to speak in a fog.
"You can't tell who's hearing you," her own mother used to say.
So she only trundled her mighty bulk downward across the ice and snow, to its very edge, where it suddenly broke off and formed an embankment. Below this there was a narrow beach, or what appeared to be one—a strip of confused and tumbled blocks of ice and jagged rocks.
There was a sudden whizzing of wings above her head, and the wailing cries of a hundred little gulls and the many crowds of birds that were hurrying to eat of whale fat. Mrs. Bear broke off in their direction; and soon the sound of snarling voices, the yelps of the quarrelsome foxes, and the vicious bark of the wolves met her ears. Yes, she was none too early, for evidently the assemblage of animals, all as famished as herself, were fighting over the repast.
They were not so polite to Mrs. Bear as they might have been, for they begrudged her any share of the whale's body. But she paid little attention to any one, and went to work lustily on her first meal of the season.
After the first mouthfuls, however, she felt wonderfully good-humored; for such is the effect of a meal, and it is pleasant to stop and talk a bit when you know there is more to follow.
"I must thank you, Mr. Burgomaster," was her first remark. "You were kind to call me in time. This is a good beginning to the summer."
The white-winged gull, largest of all the birds that were present, and by far the best mannered, only begged Mrs. Bear to remember that they had been friends for many years.
"And I propose to name my children," Mrs. Bear announced, as this delicious dinner began to increase her fine spirits, "I propose to name the babies after you and your wife:OdinandOlga. That's what they shall be."
Mr. Burgomaster was at a loss how to express his gratitude for this compliment. But he needed to say little, for such a generous tribute is not repaid in words.
Something he said later on, however, in which he quoted Dr. Penguin, brought forth her assent on the subject of eating too much, for she added, "True, true, it is not wise to overeat at your first meal of the year. A relative of mine did that once, and was unable to climb over the path to his door."
So, taking as goodly an amount of provender with her as she could carry away, Mrs. Bear went home to feed her babies. They were far more interested in this new and appetizing breakfast than in the names which she gave them, you may be sure; and from then until the whale was used up and only his bones were left to dry in the winds, Mrs. Bear was continually carrying meals to her cave.
By this time the winter was gone, and the roof of the snowhouse fell in. The melting drifts drenched every ledge and cranny of their home, and it was time to be wandering.
"You must do exactly as I tell you," Mrs. Bear kept saying, "and you must never stray from me a minute. For we are going to start on our journey, and there will be a great many dangers to guard against."
When little Odin and Olga trotted along beside their mother, with the whole world before them, and a keen appetite with them, they were as alert and excited as any two bears in the world could be.
The great rolling, blue water, the ice that floated on its surface and shone like white ivory in the sun, the patches of green grass on the sides of the hills, and the rocks black with snow water, made a dazzling scene.
Their long day began with a wonderful feat on the part of Mother Bear. After they had swum to a low, wide ice floe, which was a little way from shore, and Odin and Olga were just learning to use the hairy pads of their feet in climbing the sides of the small iceberg, Mrs. Bear gave a sudden plunge into the water, and disappeared from view. She swam far out, her nose barely coming to the surface, and the rest of her body entirely concealed. Then, rising to the surface, she brought back with her a huge fish which she had stunned with a blow of her mighty paw.
"It's all in the way you slide into the water," she said; and then, as they ate greedily of this morsel, she told them of diving for sea-lions and of capturing them by coming up from under the prey.
"You will swim under water great distances, as soon as you learn to hunt," she said, "and you will learn to make no noise about it."
This was the truth, as not only the seals and the sea-lions, but plenty of the great fish, could bear witness.
But, as events of the day were to turn, little Odin and Olga were near to never growing up at all; for the very danger which their mother most dreaded was speedily approaching. While they were playing first on the ice cakes and then on the shore, and Mrs. Bear had about made up her mind that they would stay that night at a point not far distant, where she saw many sea-birds fluttering, and where, she reasoned, the fishing and seal hunting might be good, the hunters with their trained dogs were fast approaching the very spot.
For your Eskimos have their own way of reading the signs; and as many birds had been flocking in this direction, the men had steadily pursued the trail. Day after day they had traveled, and they felt sure that they were coming upon at least a herd of seals or of walruses. And they hoped, of course, to bag a great white bear.
But Odin's mother had assured herself that there was no danger, or it would have been revealed during the time that the whale had attracted such crowds of her brother animals. She did not perceive that her enemies knew exactly how prone the well-fed bear is to linger near the spot of her recent feedings.
"That is just the place to spend the night, out there," she said; "for on those points that reach out into the sea, you can escape by land or by water, as you have to. Remember that, too, children."
Little Olga stopped to rub her head at this. She was trying to remember so many things! Mrs. Bear told her it was nothing, and that learning things was the whole of life anyway.
When Mrs. Bear and her twins reached the icy point, there were the friendly Penguins to meet them and to exclaim over the children. They were having a fine visit when suddenly a dull roar far below them on the shore made every one sit up and listen.
It came again and lasted longer. It was a new sound to the children, but Mrs. Bear recognized it.
"That's an iceberg breaking up," she said at last. "Not a pleasing sound, but one you'll soon get used to."
Night came and they curled up, all three, in a snug corner under the ice shelves of the point. The wind was high and the sea was noisy, but they were too well tucked away to care.
And they little dreamed of what was going on around them.
For scarcely had the sun gone down, when the Eskimos with their teams of wolfish dogs were on the spot. Little by little they had crept to the end of the point, and one by one they stationed themselves at intervals to wait, like so many sentinels, for the morning.
Mrs. Bear would never reach the water alive; and escape back to the mainland was impossible. There were enough dogs and men on hand to cover the avenues of escape.
Before little Odin and Olga were awake sufficiently to see anything at all, Mrs. Bear had faced her first ambushed enemies. From where the cubs cowered in their corner, they saw their mother rear on her hind legs and then drop with a terrible force, hitting the dogs right and left as she landed among them. There were thunderous noises, and her own mighty roars were almost drowned by the snarling of the dogs and the shouting of the men, who were fast closing in. She was bleeding already and several of the dogs were lying dead around her.
Mrs. Bear stood truly at bay. One man, more courageous than the rest, came running up with his pointed spear, ready to take aim. A terrific noise arrested him—a noise in which all else was nothing. The land seemed to reel and topple; the great ice shelves came crashing down.
Men and dogs ran for their lives; and to save themselves they plunged bodily into the sea. For the whole point of ice had broken from the mainland and, like a ship that is rocking and righting itself, it was sending up mighty waves and eddies on every side.
The motions were less gigantic after a while, and the new iceberg had found itself. Already it was moving forward, and the wind was driving it foot by foot into the outgoing tide.
Mrs. Bear knew precisely what to do. Twice in her life she had traveled on ice floes, though never on so large a one as this.
"Here we are, and here we stay," she said. "By and by we'll come to islands, or so close to shore that we can swim back to land. It will be a long time before we are carried out beyond this gulf, and we're sure to escape before then."
She was a little too cheerful, perhaps, for some of her own kin had gone that way so far into the great southerly current that they were never seen again. But Mrs. Bear was one of those happy beings who always look for the best, not the worst; and she was too joyous over this sudden deliverance to heed any new perplexity.
Long weeks afterward, when Mother Bear's wounds were healed, and Odin and Olga had indeed learned how to live by diving and hunting under water, they came to a narrow bay where the land was green on both sides. The distance from their iceberg was but little; and they plunged in, while Mr. Burgomaster circled over them excitedly. He was a wonderful mariner, Mr. Burgomaster, and, being such a good friend, he had flown back and forth over land and sea, following them on their icy ship.
"You'll know where you are, Mrs. Bear, when this fog lifts," he said. "You will find that you have come to a beautiful shore where there are berries and all kinds of refreshing things that bears like. It was a good day that the iceberg started you on your trip."
"All things, Mr. Burgomaster," said wonderful Mother Bear, as she crawled out of the water and shook her shaggy fur, "all things happen for the best!"
THE END