IV
Eustace had grown old. He was nearly seven, and a widower. Hardships had seared and toughened him; so that the dread of a culinary fate, which lurks in the breasts of softer-constituted fowls, no longer beset him.
What did cause him distress, however, was the worldliness of the younger generation. Their aims were deplorably low. They went about seeking only the things of earth. Crass, superficial, they were satisfied with merely scratching the surface. And the fowl with the greatest following was ever he that bore the biggest morsel of food.
Even the land had changed for the worse. The large tract which enclosed the barnyard—that gorgeous Natural Park, scene of many a happy vacation tour, where grew stately thistles and forests of majestic weeds—had, after a disgusting orgy of fertilizer, degenerated into a sordid, monotonous, soul-less field of wheat.
Saddened by all this, Eustace plead earnestly but vainly with his fellow fowls, entreating them to moult themselves of evil. But they would not. They merely shrugged their wings and called him "the old hoot owl." But he—their taunts rolling off him like water—ceased not to warn them; for he knew that some terrible visitation must be in store.
One day it came. Along the far edge of the field moved a grim red Monster, overwhelming and ravening the wheat in its path. It had a great black-and-white pinion with which it swept the ground destroyingly; uttering the while a gruesome roar, like the grinding of huge teeth.
At sight of it Eustace was aghast. (He happened to be meditating in the solitude of the wheat stalks.) Scudding home madly, he panted:
"Look! See what has come upon us!"
The turkey, official observer for the community, stretched his tall periscope neck and studied the situation critically.
"Pooh!" he said. "The thing's gone past."
Then he settled down comfortably in a dust bath.
Soon, however, one of the well-groomed pigeons lolling on the veranda of their pole-top club house, condescended to inform the rabble below that the Unpleasantness had not really gone, and would be visible again in a few moments, even tothem.
"But of course," added the pigeon, smoothing an unruly quill, "what goes on in the underworld is of small interest to us."
"But, of course," added the pigeon, "what goes on in the underworld is of small interest to us."
"But, of course," added the pigeon, "what goes on in the underworld is of small interest to us."
"But, of course," added the pigeon, "what goes on in the underworld is of small interest to us."
Eustace was shocked at the callousness of High Society.
"I just wishthey'dhad to grub for a living!" he said indignantly, and then resumed his task of spreading the alarm.
An old deaf gander to whom he was obliged to repeat the story three times, offered the sage comment:
"Indeed! I suppose this may complicate our foreign relations. But I am too old and too much of a philosopher to allow myself to be disturbed by it. Those fowls whose duty it is to attend to such matters will no doubt do so. For myself,"—(he paused in contemplation of an unwarily-ambient bug)—"for myself, I have learned to take things as they come."
Saying which, the philosopher reached out solemnly and consumed the erring one.
Martha, unable to appear because of her confinement, clucked virtuously from within the coop:
"Well, I'm glad to say I've never bothered my head over things that don't concern me!"
Clarence took the matter more seriously.
"Man broil it!" he swore. "This may spoil my chief place of assignation!"
But the attitude of the community as a whole was voiced by the Guinea fowls, who said:
"How intensely interesting! We'd love to have you tell us more about it. But the dinner pan has just sounded, so we can't stay. Awfully sorry."
And so Eustace found himself a second Cassandra.
With horror he watched the Monster approaching. It was at that moment quite a distance away, but, because of the peculiar conformation of the wheat patch, it happened to be headed straight in the direction of the barnyard.
"Defend your nests!" he cried.
Not a bird heeded him.
"I think the meals here are getting awfully skimpy," remarked one hen to another.
"Indeed they are. I almost wish I'd stayed at home and gotten a pick-up lunch. Still, we can go over after this to the cold buffet at the pig pen."
At one side of the social gathering Clarence was chatting with the turkey.
"Come on, let's get over here out of this mob of hen-folks. They get on one's nerves sometimes.—Have a chew of spear-weed?"
"Thanks."
"Say. Heard a good one the other day. There was a young pullet who had never laid an egg, and she...."
"Heavens!" cried Eustace. "Howcanyou joke at a time like this!"
They eyed him curiously.
"So you take even yourdinnersolemnly?" drawled Clarence.
The gobbler threw back his head and guffawed till he was purple in the face.
"You know very well what I mean," retorted Eustace. "What are you going to do about that Monster?"
"Why ...youfeed it."
"Yes," chimed in the turkey. "You're always so kind-hearted, and like to set us an example of charity and that sort of thing. This is just your chance."
"Ah, do be serious! Don't youhearthe horrible thing?"
"Certainly I do. I hear lots of unpleasant things without getting wrought up about them."
"But this is something we've got to face!—Listen to me, fellow denizens," he said, raising his voice and addressing a group who were just settling down for their post-prandial siesta. "The enemy is drawing nearer every moment! If you doubt my words, come up on this mound and see for yourselves."
A few, who had curiosity, did so.
"Dear me! I'm glad it's way out there instead of here!"
"But can't you see that it'scominghere?"
And so it was. Gradually this fact dawned upon one fowl after another, till all were in commotion.
"Well, what would you have us do about this Monster of yours?" demanded a hen querulously. She felt that since Eustace had, so to speak, flaunted the objectionable thing in their faces, it was for him to get them rid of it.
"I would suggest, madam, that you retire to a place of security. We males will defend you."
Then going again to the rooster and the turkey, he said:
"Clarence, you had better take command. You know more about fighting than any of the rest of us."
"Very well," replied the rooster without enthusiasm. "But I'm not much at this military business. All my fighting experience has been in the line of duels—just formal affairs between bird and bird for the sake of ladies' favors—and I can't say I'm very keen for a proposition likethis. But Jim, here, ought to be able to make an impression on it: he's the most formidable blusterer going."
"I'm afraid you overrate me," said the turkey hastily. "I—er—I'm willing, of course, to do my share in any general plan that may be decided on. But I should not advise you to count on me too heavily, for, while I am able to maintain a bold front and a resolute tail against such light skirmishers as cats, lapdogs, babies, and so forth, I could hardly cope with this modern machinery of destruction."
Meanwhile the Monster continued its ever-diminishing spirals. Its proximity appeared particularly menacing on the side of the barnyard which was unprotected by a fence. Here Clarence, at the earnest suggestion of Eustace, drew up all the males who would respond to his call for volunteers. Most of them were afraid. Their beaks chattered.
Behind them a hysterical crowd of females shrieked, cackled, and plucked their disheveled feathers. Wives and morganatic mates, who in the past had been ready to peck each other's eyes out, now wept on each other's wing in sympathy. Hens who had always been most careful of their reputations, cried: "Oh, my Clarence!" One poor thing was so overcome that she laid an egg before assistance could be brought her.
Through the midst of this frantic crowd Bertram, the swan, pinioned his way, remarking coolly:
"I see no reason for becoming excited. The Monster won't go into thepond. Any bird's perfectly safethere."
"But we can't swim!"
"Then you should have learned. Come, Gwendolyn; let us withdraw from this unseemly confusion."
And together the swans swept down the bank into the water.
"They all think only of themselves!" thought Eustace sadly.
"Hurry, Johnnie! Don't stop to peck at that!" called a Guinea hen to the straggler of her brood. "See how far ahead of us Papa is!"
"What! Surely you're notdeserting!" cried the drake.
None of the Guinea caravan paused to answer, but set out across the field as fast as they could scoot.
"Go!" shouted Eustace after them. "Fly to the wilderness, Gypsies, renegades! We have no need of cowards!"
The gobbler, too, was filled with exasperation as he watched the spryness of the keet family.
"Confound it!" he muttered under his comb-appendage. "Why aren'touryoungsters hatched and in traveling condition!"
Eustace did not hear. He heard and saw only the oncoming Monster, which had ravaged all the wheat save a last slender strip, and this it was in the act of devouring; and as if this slight morsel could not glut its hunger, it reached out voraciously into the barnyard. All fowldom seemed about to be destroyed.
"Now, Clarence!"
The rooster started forward, then hesitated.
"Then follow me!"
Disregarding the fear he could not subdue, Eustace flung himself desperately in front of the Thing, quacking:
"Halt! You shall not...."
And he aimed at it the fiercest bite of which he was capable.
Gashed, bleeding, dying, he lay at the edge of the barnyard.
"The Thing has gone!" cried somebird.
"Eustace drove it away!"
"Look! See it slink off without making a sound! Its wing is broken!"
In truth the Monster, having laid low all the wheat in the field, was now retreating to its lair with steelly pinion bent up.
"He has saved us!"
They rushed to him and tried to bind up his wounds.
"Thanks," he said weakly.
Reverently, with tear-dimmed eyes they crowded about him, ministering.
"Thank you, good friends. But your cares are of no avail. My time has come."
"Don't say that, old bird!" protested Clarence huskily. "We need you too badly! No; you're going to live and be the leader of this barnyard."
The drake shook his head feebly.
"Yes, indeed! You're going to have every honor we can give you! Why, man roast me!—you're the bravest bird that ever was! You've got the real stuffing in you! When I think of the way you showed us as a bunch of yellow-legged white-feathers, I realize I'm not fit to scratch worms for you.—And so here, before everybody, I resign my job as leader right now."
"No, Clarence; they depend on you. And I must pass on."
The rooster turned away to hide his emotion,—he was crying like a chick.
"Ah, do not leave us!" pleaded a sweet-faced adolescent. "All of us young fowls look to you for guidance."
Eustace smiled with peaceful tenderness.
"Bless you! You are all my children!"
At which a hen who had the unfortunate habit of taking things literally, exclaimed:
"What's that?"
But luckily Eustace did not hear her. Still addressing his neophytes, he said:
"And you will remember the things I have taught you?"
"Yes, yes! We've resolved that when we grow up we'll be just the sort of birds you'd have us. And I've made up my mind never to have but one wife, and I'm going to win her with my spurs in the open tournament, like a true knight."
One after another, the young fowls told Eustace of the ideals he had implanted in them,—how they would respect henhood, remember the stranger within the crates, hold their crops up resolutely, and never stoop to anything unworthy, even if it looked edible.
Hearing these assurances, Eustace was very happy. An expression of blessed calm o'erspread his bill.
"Now I can go in peace," he murmured. And, after a little: "My eyes are becoming dimmer. I can hardly see your faces.—But now I am beginning to have a glimpse of that Land Beyond. Oh, it is wonderful!"
"He is having a vision!" they whispered.
"I see streets of opalescent mud, and lovely gardens teeming with delectable insects, and crystal fountains full of goldfish, and puddles everywhere. I see little radiant-feathered chickibim.
"And there is Gertrude! She is wearing a golden top-knot, and her quacking is above the music of a thousand nightingales.—She is calling to me!... Yes, Gertrude, I am paddling over the river to you!"
Eustace tried to rise, made an ecstatic movement with one web, then fell back lifeless.
All remained silent.
At last the rooster, clearing his throat with an effort, said:
"Friends, we have lost a great prophet, a martyr, the savior of the whole barnyard. He was the paragon of poultry: throughout his life he was impeckable."