Old Ring Neck, the goose, who came each year to Black Pond to rear her wild brood, one season hatched out nine fine goslings, and when the time came she piloted them to the water for their first swimming lesson. All the way the little ones kept up a timorous "peep, peep, peep," which, of course, Methuselah heard plainly enough, for he happened to be right on the edge of the bank sunning himself. Deftly and silently he slid into the water, and from behind a knot of tangled lily roots he watched and laid his plans.
One after another the trusting goslings slipped into the water, their shadows from below looking like floating lily pads, only behind each shadow trailed two pink, webbed feet. Bubbles began to rise from the knot of lily roots below them, but the old goose did not see them; she was too taken up with the young ones. The old Tyrant was making ready to rise.
As soon as the floating shadows of the goslings came just over his hiding place, silently he began to paddle with just one flipper, while his wicked eyes were fixed upon a certain pink foot. Even before the innocent gosling could utter one warning "peep," the old Tyrant had pulled it quickly under water, and borne it off among the matted water-weeds. That day the old goose lost two of her brood in the most mysterious manner. How they had gone, or where, she never found out, and in time Methuselah managed to steal most of her brood, just as he had the young herons. Oh, there was no question about it, the sly old turtle was about the worst Tyrant the pond had ever known.
Now it happened that because the catfish in Black Pond were large and biting unusually well that summer, the two Newton boys, who lived in a lumber camp the other side of the mountain, used often to come there to fish. Frequently they had caught sight of old Methuselah as he lay sunning himself upon the bank, and never in all their lives had they seen such a giant turtle, and they had often spoken about him in the camp.
"You boys better look out for that old turtle," advised one of the lumbermen as the boys were about starting for the pond; "they're ugly customers, them snapping turtles, when you tackle 'em."
"Guess you boys better not go in swimmin'," spoke grandfather from his corner. "I remember a swim I took in Black Pond once when I was a boy, an' say—I left part of one of my toes behind there somewhere; always thought some old snapper got it. We caught a buster there once; managed to hold him, three of us, long enough to cut a date on his shell, but he was so 'tarnal sassy and strong he got away from us. This might be one of his relatives," chuckled the old man.
The boys were allowed to drive the colt and make a day of it. They fished until afternoon, but at last the fish failed to bite and the gnats bothered them so, they left the fishing and tramped alongshore to look at some snares they had set.
"Say, Dick; hi, come here and look at the track I've struck," called Joe; "believe it's our old friend, the snapping turtle. Yes, here he is, fast asleep. Ain't he just a corker?" The two boys had come upon the old fellow as he lay sunning himself.
"Let's wake him up and have some fun with him," suggested Joe. "I'll get a stout stick; you watch him and see that he don't get away."
Methuselah had not been asleep, however, so he just raised one cold eye and stared after the boys insolently, as much as to say, "Who's afraid?"
Soon the boys began to prod the old fellow rather too much for his comfort, for there are certain vulnerable places upon a turtle, and one of these is his wrinkled neck. The stick bothered him so he began twisting his snaky head about angrily and snapping at the boys, hissing savagely, finally clinging obstinately to the stick, so that the boys managed to raise him and turn him upon his back where he waved his flippers helplessly, trying in vain to right himself and crawl away.
"Oh, oh, Joe, look! see! why, here's a date. It says—why, it says '1825'; it surely does, see!"
"Great Scott, Dick, it surely does," cried Joe excitedly, as he read the worn date cut in the shell. "Why, it's grandfather's old snapper, the one he thinks bit off his toe when he was a boy. This old fellow must be terribly old; he was big when grandfather first saw him and grandfather's awful old. Oh, if we could only get him back to camp. Tell you what, before anything happens, let us carve a date right under this one. Give me your knife, Dick." So, together, the boys carved 1913 right under the old date. By prodding the old turtle they made him seize the stick again firmly and together they managed to lift him into their wagon, leaving him helplessly waving his flippers, flat upon his back.
Soon they started for home, but not a minute too soon, for a thunderstorm was beginning to travel over the mountain. Before they were half-way home it began, and the colt, frightened by the rattle of the thunder in the mountain passes, broke and ran. The old wagon swayed and bounced from side to side and the boys had all they could do to manage the colt. They were glad enough to reach camp, finally, and not until they drove to the shed did they remember the snapping turtle, but, to their dismay when they looked for him, he was gone.
"It's a shame!" exclaimed Dick. "I wanted grandfather to see him. Hold the lantern, Joe; perhaps he's slid away under the seat." But they searched in vain, for during their wild ride the old Tyrant had righted himself and slid off the tail end of their wagon.
Away back on the mountain road lay Methuselah, somewhat stunned by his fall. All night he lay there with a piece nicked from his shell. At sunrise he was off over the rough road heading for the pond. He crawled along aimlessly at first. Finally reaching a rise in the ground, all at once he lifted his snaky neck, scenting moisture—the pond. Raising himself high upon his great flippers, his horny head stretched out like a racer, he ran scrambling over stones and through matted jungles of weeds. At last he saw the gleam of the pond lying steel-like and sullen ahead. The hot sun heated his thick shell to furnace heat, scorching his flesh beneath; he longed to plunge into the cooling water. Finally, in desperate haste having reached a high place in the bank, he rolled the remainder of the distance and fell with a loud splash into the pond, straight down into the oozing mud to the bottom, scattering catfish and small fry in all directions.
And there he is still, old Methuselah, the Tyrant of Black Pond, and no one actually knows his age, for 'tis saidsometurtles have lived a thousand years. But if you ever run across the old Tyrant you may recognise him readily if you have courage and strength enough to turn him over upon his back, for there you will find upon his shell the two dates—1825 and 1913.
A strange, uncanny scream rang out over the sullen waters of Black Lake one night in June, and, although there was no human being near the desolate spot to hear the awful cry, it was quite scary enough to startle certain of the wild inhabitants all alongshore. There were others among them, however, who were unafraid; they had heard the same cry before and recognised it. They knew that Mahug, the Great King Loon, and his wild mate had arrived at the lake, where each year they came from warmer climes, to build their hidden nest in some secluded spot among the rushes.
This lonely spot had always suited the King Loon so well that, no matter how far off he had wintered, he invariably made for Black Lake during nesting time. Mahug, like all his tribe, was a mighty diver and, for water-fowl, he had very fashionable habits, spending a portion of each year near the salt sea, usually camping upon some desolate island, fishing, swimming, and diving with thousands of other water-fowl, yet never mingling at all familiarly with them, or encouraging acquaintances in a sociable way, because the loon is a very solitary bird. So, when nesting time came, Mahug always went off as far away from the crowd as he possibly could go. Quite frequently he and his mate would fly thousands of miles in order to be exclusive and alone. The old loon was a large, imposing bird, his wing and back feathers of a glossy, metallic black, while his beautiful breast was dazzling, pearly white, the feathers very soft and thick. When Mahug stood erect, at first sight, he appeared to be wearing a dark coat thrown back from a pearl-white waistcoat. His head was beautifully marked, the top of fine, iridescent feathers, the neck ringed about with green and bronze. On the wing, you never would have suspected how very awkward Mahug could be upon his feet. On land he just waddled about in the most ungainly fashion, choosing to fly, usually, rather than walk, because his clumsy webbed feet were not intended for tramping. They were set so far back upon his body that they were of small use to him excepting when he used them for paddles in the water.
Mahug was in his element in water or upon the wing. And my, how the old King could dive! In fact, the loon family are all noted divers, for they not only dive deeper than other birds, but they can also stay under water a long time. So quickly could old Mahug dive, that several times in his life when a hunter had fired at him, even before the bullet touched water, the old King Loon was already deep down in the depths of the lake among the snake-like lily roots, safe.
This June when Mahug and his mate reached the shores of Black Lake, he sent his great cry of triumph abroad, for he was glad to be there. Then he and his mate nested low among the sedges and rested for the night, but the very next morning, even before the fog lifted from the lake, both set about their nest building. Right upon the ground they built it, and not very carefully, I am afraid, their main idea being to conceal it cleverly behind a thick curtain of reeds and matted water-weeds, but not so very far from the water. In due time three baby loons pipped their dark green shells, and queer looking little specimens of birds they were—bare, homely and always hungry.
Although it appeared desolate and lonely enough, still, if one but knew, back in the thick undergrowth about the lake, hidden by thick jungles of blackberry vines and dark spruces, there were many secret coverts and dens where the wild of the forest made their homes. The lake itself was almost completely surrounded by treacherous, oozy bogs and morasses, so that it was seldom visited by man. For this very reason the wild things felt safe, and the old King Loon had especially selected the spot, for the loon is the wildest of all wild water-fowl.
Few of the other birds cared to meet the loon in battle, because of the mighty strength of his great wings, which could soon beat out the life of anything upon which they descended, while his heavy coat of feathers protected their wearer well. So when the loon sent its uncanny scream across the lake, more than one timid, wild thing cowered close to the ground and shook with sudden fear.
DOWN LIKE AN AVALANCHE HE CAME, SNATCHING THE MINK IN HIS BEAK.DOWN LIKE AN AVALANCHE HE CAME,SNATCHING THE MINK IN HIS BEAK.
As soon as the young loons could tumble over the edge of their comfortless nest among the sedges, they made for the near-by water, and speedily began to imitate their elders, diving far down among the matted water-weeds and chasing minnows and little chunky perch, which they would gobble at one mouthful. At first Mahug and his mate watched the young loons, taking pains to give them diving lessons, and then encouraging them to take short flights, as soon as their wing feathers sprouted. Gradually the old birds left them more to themselves. So it happened one day that one of the young loons waddled forth from the nest and began to follow in the wake of a heron who was leisurely fishing alongshore. The loon mounted upon a large round stone, as he supposed; he did not notice that the stone moved a trifle. It did, and that which the young loon took for a mud-caked stone, was nothing less than a very old, giant snapping turtle, which lay there sunning himself. So old was this particular turtle that his flippers were covered with large scales and his shell looked to be fairly moss-covered. Over the top of the shell waddled the young loon, while the old turtle, without moving its ugly, snake-like head, watched with its hateful beady eyes every movement of the loon. It climbed over the top of the shell and when it came within reach of the turtle's long neck, like a flash it was snapped up by the old fellow. The heron gave a loud "kreay, kreay" of alarm, but no one heard him, so when the old loons got back to the nest one of the baby loons was missing. They flew out over the water, searching, screaming loudly, calling in and out among the sedges and tussocks, but of course the young loon never answered their wild calls.
Mahug strongly suspected someone of the muskrat family, so he began watching a colony of them which had pitched their huts alongshore. Even at night, especially if it was moonlight, the old King Loon would skim low over the water, uttering scream after scream as he followed the trails of the muskrats swimming about the lake. If Mahug had caught one of them he would have made short work of it, so furious was he. But somehow the muskrats always escaped, for they kept sentinels upon duty, who always slapped their tails upon the water, at which signal the muskrats always vanished.
Almost before Mahug had forgotten about the disappearance of the first small loon, another one disappeared. This time Mahug was quite certain that the old bald-headed eagle, which lived far above upon a cliff the other side of the lake, had gone off with it. Now there were several young eaglets up there on the cliff and the old birds foraged for them all day long. They took anything they could find upon the shore, especially if it were young, tender and unprotected. Mahug and the old eagle crossed each other in the air and they had one terrible battle together, but the eagle proved to be more than a match for the loon. The King of the Air had sharp talons and a razor-like beak which tore through the heavy feathers of the loon and bit into his flesh sharply, so at length he had to settle down among the sedges and own himself beaten for once.
The summer moon, round and yellow, came peeping over the tops of the tallest spruces upon the summit of Mount Cushman and lighted a broad path right across Black Lake. Out in the centre of the lake the horn-pouts and pickerel were leaping, and over in the shadows on the far shore Mahug, the old loon, screamed and suddenly dived for a fish in the moonlight. All manner of wild things of fur and feathers were stirring. The muskrats were playing, squeaking merrily and chasing each other in and out of their huts and leaving long silvery trails behind them as they swam about. Back in the thickets of rushes dozed one lonely little loon, last of the brood of Mahug. Too young to venture forth upon a moonlight fishing trip, it cuddled down flat, its webbed feet beneath its scantily feathered body, uttering a plaintive little sound whenever it heard the old loons screaming out on the lake.
Because of these little lonely cries, the dark, fur-clad stranger who had been feeling its way alongshore, in and out among the tall reeds, paused, erecting its small ears, trying to locate the whereabouts of the sound. Long and lithe of body was the stranger, a full-grown mink. Its dark fur coat mingled well with the shadows, but when a streak of moonlight touched its breast, its pure white breast-plate of fur shone dazzlingly white. The mink's legs were short, so it crouched low along the ground as it crept nearer and nearer the lonely nest among the reeds.
The next instant it poked its hateful snout through an opening and saw the loon. Already its fetid breath reached the little loon, which gave a startled, whimpering call out into the night. The call had been heard just in time. Like a great black shadow something flew across the strip of moonlight, and with a wild whirl of giant wings the old King Loon charged for the nest. Instantly his fierce eyes sighted the sneaking mink, then down like a perfect avalanche he came, snatching the surprised mink in his beak and soaring out over the water. Somehow the mink managed to free its neck and its sharp teeth met in the pearly breast feathers of the old loon. For a second it seemed as though Mahug would loosen his hold upon the mink, but, instead, uttering a terrific scream of rage and vengeance, which fairly awoke the echoes alongshore, the great bird plunged straight into the water and dived and dived; far down into the muddy depths he sank, never loosing his terrible hold upon the mink. Now the mink is quite as much at home in the water as a muskrat. But never had the old King Loon stayed under water so long before. In vain his mate screamed for him alongshore, but only the whip-poor-wills answered her call. At last, when she had almost given him up, from out the centre of the lake arose old Mahug, amid a perfect shower of whirling spray, and he wasalone. He had been able to stay under water longer than the mink.
Mahug joined his mate, and then, as it was late and the moon was very low, the two great birds gave up their fishing and went back to their nest in the reeds. There in the darkness, with no light but the little flitting fireflies twinkling in and out among the sedges, while the whip-poor-wills sang a lullaby, they guarded their one nestling through the night. And when the time came to leave Black Lake,threeloons flew away together.
Star Nose, the mole, loved best of all very dark places. In fact he spent most of his life underground, so that whenever he did venture abroad into strong sunlight, the glare would nearly blind his tiny, almost concealed eyes. It was on this very account, more than any other, that he preferred to come forth from his underground home about twilight. Now if you chanced to come across Star Nose above ground, at first sight you might judge him to be a very slow-moving, dull-witted creature. In reality he was just about the most fierce, blood-thirsty little fellow on earth or under it. For, if Star Nose had actually been about the size of a lion, instead of a tiny mole, he might readily, with one grasp of teeth or claws, so it is said, tear a great ox asunder. So it was just as well for everybody that he was a mere mole.
Wonderfully fine and soft, beyond words, was his smoke-grey, plush-like coat, and by special providence the fur of this coat did not grow in just one direction like that of most furred animals. Instead, you might stroke it either way, up or down. For this reason Star Nose was able to travel backward or forward with equal speed. So strong was Star Nose that he could upheave a long section of the hardest earth, no matter if a steam roller had gone over it. Sometimes, when travelling swiftly through one of his subway passages, his velvety coat would become caked with soil; then he would give himself a quick shake which sent it flying from his back, thus cleaning his fur.
It is never well to judge anything by mere appearances, so, although Star Nose had tiny bits of eyes and no visible ears, he was by no means a dullard. Nature, ever helpful, had shown him exactly the way to take care of himself, and, unlike his cousins, the plain little shrews, Star Nose wore upon the tip end of his small pointed snout a pink star. This star was not given him for just an ornament; it helped him wonderfully in finding his way about underground and, besides, he used it in rooting out deep holes, precisely as a pig uses its flattened snout. Star Nose spent most of his life digging, and for this very reason his claws, instead of curving inward when shut, as do those of most other animals, were arranged in quite a queer fashion—they curved back. This was a great help to him, for he could use them precisely as though they were little spades to toss aside the dirt out of his road. So quickly did he work that, if you but turned your head away for a minute, by the time you looked again Star Nose had dug a hole and was out of sight.
Of all the burrowing tribes which live below ground Star Nose was perhaps the prize digger. He was not content to dig out a burrow for himself a little distance below ground and then sit still in its doorway as did his neighbours, the gopher family. No, nothing would suit Star Nose but a regular city subway, with such straight streets that you wondered how, with his half blindness, he could ever manage to dig them. In addition to this, there were spacious chambers, passages, and regular galleries—long roads which led to his feeding places. You would soon have lost your way in such a maze, but Star Nose never did. He lived in a great bank, and the entrance to his home he had concealed beneath a bush where you would never have seen it, so deftly was it hidden. There was just a little spot raised in the earth which led straight into a large chamber. Five passageways descended from this, connected by galleries lower down, and from this ran many subways and long roads which were worn quite hard and smooth by the passage of old Star Nose, the hermit mole. It was very well for him that these walls were solid, otherwise his whole home might have come tumbling in upon him during a storm.
Now the real reason why Star Nose happened to be occupying such a grand apartment alone was this. Last June he had chanced to meet and select for his mate a little silver-coated mole. But one of his plain, shrew mole cousins had upset all his well laid plans. Happening to meet Star Nose and his companion just outside their burrow, he actually tried to persuade her to go off with him. This was entirely too much for Star Nose to stand; it made him so furiously angry and jealous that he fell upon the impudent shrew, and right there under the home bush they had a dreadful battle. Long and hard they fought there; they scratched and tore and bit each other's beautiful fur coats until they were in tatters, uttering fierce squeaks of rage, rolling over and over in a deadly grip, each mole quite determined to win little Silver Coat, while she, poor thing, sat stupidly by, wondering what it all meant. As she sat there shaking gently, old Golden Eyes, the hawk, went sailing overhead, and making one swift lunge downward bore her away. Neither Star Nose nor his antagonist noticed that she was missing; they kept on with their awful fight, biting each other savagely, as they had in the beginning, until finally the shrew had to give up; he was getting the worst of it, and crawled miserably away. Then Star Nose, for the first time remembering what the fight had been about, searched vainly for his little companion. He peered anxiously everywhere, nosing the earth on all sides and searching; then, thinking perhaps she had gone down into the burrow, down he scurried, peering up and down the long roads and galleries, calling softly to her with little muffled squeaks; this because of the earth which sometimes filled his nostrils. In vain he searched. He did not find Silver Coat. Discouraged and worn out on account of his terrific struggles, he gave up, huddled himself in a soft little ball, covered his head with his flat claws, and took a long sleep in the main chamber of his home, hoping to forget his troubles.
All that summer Star Nose lived alone, and so he became a kind of hermit mole. Of course he was not so very happy; in fact his disposition had become sadly changed. So upset was he by the loss of his little mate that he felt disagreeable with everything which happened to cross his path. Sometimes, so fiercely jealous and full of hate was he that he would enter the subways of the shrew family when they were away, and when he came across a nest full of baby shrews would bite and kill them viciously, in the meanest way. Finally all the shrews for miles about dreaded the approach of old Star Nose and avoided his trails. Even the sight of his star-tipped snout seen breaking through the earth, on a moonlight night, would put them in a panic and they would scurry away.
Star Nose cared nothing for them. He now laid all his troubles to the shrew tribe and so planned in this unjust way to get even with them.
At last the warm, autumnal sunshine no longer shone down and warmed the bank with its rays. As it grew colder, many of those who lived in underground homes, the fur-coated burrowing tribes, began to make ready their winter quarters. The chipmunks had laid in their stores, the woodchucks, now sleek and very fat, had gone into their inner chambers and closed up their front and back doors snugly that they might sleep warm all winter. So there were really very few among the wild ones stirring abroad. Colder and bleaker grew the hillside, but thicker, softer and more elegant became the velvety coat of old Star Nose. He didn't care how cold it grew; in fact he worked all the harder, even beginning new subways deeper down in the ground, which ran far beneath, so the frost could not enter. Star Nose did not close up his doors as had the woodchuck family, for he loved to creep outside and gnaw among the roots and grasses. When the sun came out it warmed his thick fur coat very pleasantly. He took even longer journeys underground, digging frantically in new directions, and he never forgot the fright he had once when in digging he actually broke right through into the hut of Musquash, the muskrat, where it faced the water. It chanced to be vacant, and while he was busy exploring the hut, wondering what kind of cement Musquash used to harden its walls, he heard the slap of a muskrat's tail upon the water. Peering out he saw bubbles rising, then a brown pointed snout, and two indignant eyes looking right at him. Star Nose tried to back out down a passageway, but he was not quick enough, and even before he could turn about Musquash, with a squeak of rage, had him right beneath his claws. Sly old Star Nose thought his time had come then, but, strangely enough, he managed to wriggle his soft body free and had slipped quickly off down a long, narrow passage, too small for the muskrat to follow him. Star Nose realised he had had a narrow escape that time. But, I suspect, if the truth were known, Musquash did not happen to be very hungry, for he had just had a fine meal of lily roots; then, too, Star Nose is not reckoned so great a dainty, for he carries such a disagreeable scent of musk about him, even stronger than that of Musquash himself; 'tis said no wild thing will devour him unless very, very hungry.
After this escape, you may be quite certain Star Nose did not visit the huts of Musquash again. One day Star Nose poked his snout out of a runway of earth which he was raising, and soft white snow feathers came whirling down. He crept forth, and finally the little flakes were sprinkled thickly over his heavy fur coat. He enjoyed the snow although it cut off his food supply above ground. This fact did not worry him, for deep down below the frost line in the earth, grew a matted network of all kinds of succulent roots, some of them terminating in bunches of little, juicy ground nuts. The teeth of the mole were sharp and fine as needles, so all he had to do was to dig and then feast as he worked, which was pleasant, for he was always coming upon some unexpected dainty ahead of him.
At last the snow fell; deep and soft it covered over the hill with a white, thick blanket. Yet beneath the blanket worked and travelled Star Nose. All winter long his trails ran just beneath the deep snow and in the spring, when the ground became bare once more, one is able to see all these blind trails for oneself. The first warm sun shone out at last. It was the beginning of the spring thaws; then the snow blanket upon the hill began to grow thinner each day. Already the great snowy owl had begun to think about a nest, and certain of the fur tribes had ventured to come out, at least upon sunny days, for they were terribly hungry after their long winter sleep.
Right out upon the white snow crust finally crept Star Nose, the mole. At first the glare almost blinded him, he had stayed so long under ground; besides, he loved night best of all. However, he liked to feel the grateful sun warming his back, so there he lay, a soft, blind, stupid bunch of fur, out in plain sight upon the white snow. A long, slim figure, fur-clad, all in white, excepting the tip of its tail, which was brown, came mincing along, picking its way warily over the snow, craning its long neck and peering, first to this side then the other. Over the little snow hummocks it crept, its crafty yellow eyes searching everywhere for food. This was just Kagax, the weasel, wearing his winter coat of white fur, which did not show against the snow, and Kagax was glad, for he was very, very hungry. He spied the little grey heap of fur upon the snow, saw Star Nose huddled there, covering his blinded eyes from the glare, and instantly he pounced upon him, and carried him off.
So this was the end, finally, of Star Nose, the cruel, crafty old hermit mole; such a fierce creature that even his own relatives feared him. And now his fine, secret chambers which he worked so long building, and all his subway passages are vacant, temporarily. But I dare say by spring some of the shrew family will move into his old home.
Far out on the bosom of the wide ocean lay Lonely Island, a small, rock-bound hummock of sand against which the breakers roared and dashed furiously. So wild and barren was the spot that no one visited it, for no human being could live there; nothing throve but rank grasses and stunted beech plum shrubs. Over upon the south side of the island were steep ledges, shelving down into deep water, and this spot alone was never lonely or still, because it was inhabited by thousands of screaming water-fowl.
Down between the cliffs in the lowliest tenements dwelt the snipe and petrel families, the latter seldom at home except during their nesting season. Along the shelf-like places of the rocks above dwelt the gannets, the terns and all other tribes belonging to the gull family. High up in their home crannies the sea birds could always catch the pearly shimmer of the breaking of an approaching school of herrings, even before they reached the line of tossing foam below. Then, swift and sure, they would dart out to meet them. It was wonderful to watch the herring gulls at their fishing, now skimming low over giant, green waves, now sinking into the trough of the sea. Then, with a sudden swift splash of feathery spray, behold the sharp-eyed gull secures the fish and is back again in his own nest upon the cliff. Strangely enough, although the cliff was swarmed with other gull families, each cranny bearing its nest looking precisely like another, never did a returning gull make a mistake or intrude upon another family.
For many seasons the gulls and their kindred had nested upon Lonely Island, but one year hunters discovered their retreat, and set up a temporary camp upon the barren sands. They had come to hunt for terns, killing and slaughtering them by hundreds, just for the sake of their beautiful, delicate feathers for which they were to be paid much money. Finally the hunters abandoned the island, leaving behind them many wounded, besides scores of deserted young birds, not out of the pin-feather age, who would finally pine and die alone upon the lonely ledges, when the parent birds failed to come back to feed them.
For a season, fear and chaos reigned among the gull settlements. Day after day the frightened sea fowl circled wildly about their cliffs, their weird, lonely calls alone breaking the silence, ringing even above the noise of the breakers below them. So many of the colonies were broken up and disturbed that they flew off in detached numbers, perhaps seeking some safer retreat inland.
High up, perched upon one of the topmost crags of Lonely Island, sat all alone a solitary gull. Below, within sight, upon a shelf-like rock, a smaller bird, his mate, sat disconsolately upon the very edge of her dismantled nest, unwilling to tear herself away from two featherless young gulls, her babies, who would never stretch out their long necks to her for food again. They were limp and dead—the hunters had wantonly thrown down loose rocks and broken up the nest.
Although Silver Wing, the old leader of the gull tribe, felt badly enough over the loss of the little gulls, he was much older and wiser than his mourning mate; he had lived through many seasons and similar tragic events in his life. So even while his mate sat mourning, his sharp eyes had been fixed upon a certain wave crest out beyond the breaker line.
With a sudden swift rush of his wide wings he launched himself from the cliff; a wild plunge and he rose from the great wave bearing aloft a glistening herring. With a graceful sweeping detour, he swerved in toward the cliff, and finally landed close beside his mate, where he dropped the fish beside her with a little crooning, plaintive cry, which meant, of course, "Take this nice herring which I have brought you, and be comforted, little mate." With another swirl of his wings he flew to fish for another herring before the school could get away.
HE ROSE FROM THE GREAT WAVE, BEARING ALOFT A GLISTENING HERRING.HE ROSE FROM THE GREAT WAVE,BEARING ALOFT A GLISTENING HERRING.
In spite of the efforts of Silver Wing, who tried for days to rouse his mate and tempt her to fly off over the water upon fishing trips, she continued to linger around the old nest until he became almost discouraged. Finally he determined to leave Lonely Island, start off and found a new home, as many of his kindred had already done after the invasion of the cruel hunters. Accordingly, Silver Wing, in some manner known to his tribe, induced his companion to accompany him upon a long flight. One fine day, in company with others of the colony who decided to follow their old leader, they started for the far distant coast.
Occasionally they would halt upon some small, lonely island, but, as it happened, none of them proved to be exactly suited to the gulls' needs. The islands were often flat and sterile, mere strips of white sand and beech grass, with no rocky ledges suitable for nest building. So on and on flew the gulls, with heavy wings. Sometimes they would sight what appeared to be a small island, from which would trail long streamers of smoke. When the gulls came up close to these islands they would be terrified by strange, uncanny hootings and tootings. Besides, whenever they gained courage to hover over these strange, floating islands, they always proved to be filled with people, creatures like the hunters. One thing they discovered was that by following in the wake of the floating islands they always found plenty to eat, strange food of all kinds upon which they eagerly fed.
For a sea bird the worst storms at sea have small terror. The petrels, or "Mother Gary's Chickens," as the sailors call these birds, love best, it is said, to ride upon the very crest of a giant wave during a wild storm, and the gulls are equally at home upon the bosom of the ocean. It is only when straying birds are adrift, seeking a new country, and are driven ahead of a storm toward the coast, that they are occasionally overcome by the elements. So it happened that a great storm arose and struck the colony of fleeing gulls, sweeping them inland. On their great wide wings they flew ahead of the gale, on and ever on through the blackness of the inky night, until at last the poor wind-driven things finally sighted an object big and bright, beckoning, winking to them out of the darkness; and toward this the gulls, and a host of other smaller straying birds who were swept ahead of the storm, made their way. Hopefully they neared the bright beacon. The next rough, whirling gale caught them and dashed them pitilessly against the lantern of the lighthouse, and down again upon the blackness of the cruel rocks beneath them.
Fortunately. Silver Wing, the brave, giant gull, whose broad wings were still strong and unwearied, had penetrated the inky darkness with his sharp eyes. He had seen the danger ahead, and just at the right instant had swerved aside, with powerful wing strokes, just clearing the great lamp, which had almost blinded his eyes. So he with his mate, who invariably followed his lead, were swept coastward ahead of the mighty gale, but to safety.
When morning broke, Silver Wing and his mate found themselves upon the bank of a great river. Here were plenty of other gulls, but of a strange, new tribe. The river was bordered with mud flats, which at low tide formed splendid feeding grounds. Crayfish, and shoals of small, shining fish abounded. But, to tell the truth, neither the old gull nor his mate were very happy or contented with the river bank. They had known only the wild life of their lonely ocean island and missed the booming breakers along the cliffs, the companionship of the sea bird colonies, the terns, the gannets, and the little roving petrels. Besides, this new, almost tame tribe of gulls was vastly different in other respects. Silver Wing and his mate felt they could never mix with these small, brownish plumaged birds who fought and wrangled among themselves, who were content to brood for hours in the black mud of the river flats. More than once during their stay Silver Wing had really to thrash one of these bold, foolhardy brown gulls for presuming to pay attention to his own mate, and at last he came to hate the very spot, becoming wildly jealous of every brown gull who crossed him in any way. He and his mate determined to go off and seek a new home, for it was almost nesting time again, and Silver Wing realised the importance of settling as soon as possible. So, one day he gave the starting signal, and after hovering triumphantly overhead above the gormandising brown tribe upon the mud flats beneath them, screaming back a loud, lonely challenge, off they flew.
For many days they flew along the shores of the sound, now skimming low to dip their grey wings in the blue waves, flirting the spray high in silvery showers, or feeding along the beaches for little tender mussels or soft-shell clams, and playing tag with the funny little sandpipers who ran across the sands, and scattering them just for fun. At last they reached a desolate, rocky strip of coast, and after much flying about they finally settled upon a convenient cliff beneath which stretched a long line of sandy beach, while out beyond tumbled their dear, familiar breakers. Down below the cliff were jagged, brown rocks, over which trailed long, emerald green and brown sea kelp, where the water came in and out with the tides, leaving in the shallow places shoals of little fish, sea anemones, and starfish. Through these the gulls would pick their way daintily, with their pink, webbed feet, searching out the barnacles which clung to the rocks, pecking at tiny, sheltering shells where lurked sweet morsels to be had for the cracking.
The busy season came at last, however, and two young gulls had to be fed, so all day long Silver Wing and his mate foraged and fished for them. They brought young, tender herrings which the small gulls, as they grew older, would swallow at one gulp. Occasionally they carried shell-fish to the nest; these they would prepare for the young gulls by dropping them upon the rocks beneath and cracking the shells.
One day the mother gull chanced to be long away. Already had Silver Wing travelled alone, so many times back and forth from the nest to the water with food for the little gulls, that he began to think his mate was trying to leave all the work for him, and he actually grew indignant at the very thought of such an imposition. He resolved to hunt up his lazy mate and make her do her share. With wide, swift strokes of his grey wings he started off, scanning with his sharp eyes every flashing wing to make sure it was not his mate. In vain he flew far and wide, even across to the other beach, more than a mile away; still no trace of her could he find.
Finally he began to fly low over the beach, searching in and out among the little coves. At last he heard a shrill cry; plaintive and beseeching, and it belonged to his mate. With great, wide sweeps he soon reached her side. She was down upon the sandy beach and seemed to be fluttering wildly. As Silver Wing drew near he saw her trouble; she had been caught, and was being firmly held by one foot, by nothing less than a giant clam.
Meantime, slowly but surely the tide was coming in; each wave that broke upon shore swirled just a little closer to his trapped mate. Soon she must be caught by the tide, and, entrapped as she was, held as if in a vice by the giant shell-fish, she would surely drown.
At first Silver Wing rose in the air in bewilderment, calling wildly for his mate to join him, beating up and down the beach, hovering over her, then rising high in the air and screaming his commands. Still she did not follow him. At last the great gull seemed to have sized up the situation, and like a plummet he fell from the air and began a savage attack upon the hard shell of the clam. With his strong beak he hammered, while his mate continued to beat her wings helplessly upon the sand, screaming wildly.
Smash, smash, rang the beak of the gull, while in swirled the creeping tide, each time a little nearer the struggling gulls. It broke now in little foamy ripples close beside them. If the shell-fish failed to loosen its hold, the tide would soon cover them all. Down like a chisel came the strong beak of Silver Wing, while with his great webbed, sinewy feet he held the shell of the clam firmly, delivering his blows now always upon the one spot.
Another blow, still another. Would the great shell-fish never loosen its grip? Another ringing, cracking blow, and just as a larger wave came creeping stealthily inshore and broke over them, the giant clam loosened its awful hold upon the foot of the little mother gull, and the two birds with long, plaintive cries mounted into the free air. Dipping low just once over the incoming tide to snatch a herring from the waves in their beaks, away they flew swiftly back to the little gulls, who were impatiently awaiting their coming back upon the lonely ledges, far above the breakers.
Heaps of strange events in Nature go unexplained. Some say 'tis because the wonderful old Indian story tellers who knew many wood secrets are gone. Long ago the little Indian children loved to squat beside some smouldering lodge fire and listen to these tales—these hidden secrets told of their little brothers of the wood. They were told how Moo-wee-suk, the racoon, always wore five rings about his plumy tail, why the red-winged blackbird is branded with two spots of living fire on its jetty wings, why the woodpecker carries a bright splash of fresh blood upon his crest, and also why the badger is always a kind of joke, just because of his war-paint markings. Some tales remain untold and one of them is how Kos-ko-menos, the great kingfisher, won his beautiful blue belt.
Dee-dee-askh, the blue jay, had wintered in the deep pine forests instead of flying south one autumn. Wild berries had been plentiful that year and the greedy jay hated to leave behind such good feasting, so he remained behind the migrating birds. He was glad though when the long, cold months of "The Snow Shoes" passed, for he was tired of feeding upon pine-cone seeds, or anything which he could pick up in the forest. The snow had begun to melt away from the south sides of the hills and the mountain brooks roared tremendously, breaking free from their strong ice prisons, making pleasant music through the valleys and in the rocky passes of the mountains.
The crows were colonising, coming out from their retreats in the thick pine coverts, where they had huddled all winter to keep from freezing. They cawed hoarsely to each other. The jay screamed loudly, trying to drown their cries and break up their council. Dee-dee-askh is not popular with the wood people, for he has always had the bad reputation of being a thief. He loves to watch smaller birds at their nest building and rob them of their eggs or the very young birds; no wonder he is unpopular.
Dee-dee-askh filled the woods with his harsh, strident screams and swooped down the valley, following Otter Creek until he reached a spot where it broadens. One side is a steep bank, and across towers the mountain, green with thick spruces to its summit. This forest was where the jay and his mate decided to build their nest. Year after year they had built there and Dee-dee-askh had managed to rid himself of very near neighbours, fighting them savagely if they intruded upon his privacy, so remained a sort of monarch. He loved to conceal himself in some thick bush and frighten more timid birds, or little furry things.
"Kee-oo, Kee-oo," would scream the jay, imitating to perfection the harsh scream of a hawk; then how he would chuckle to himself to see the frightened things scurry, or fly off to hide themselves in the thick woods.
One day Kos-ko-menos himself, King of all the kingfisher tribes, came journeying down the creek; he was looking for a new building site, for, as it happened, the old fishing pool where he had lived the season before was too shallow, owing to the drought. So the fish had all gone up-stream seeking deeper pools. It was important that the kingfisher should build near good fishing, because soon there would be young birds to feed.
Taking six little flapping short flights, then a glide, on came Kos-ko-menos, followed closely by his smaller mate. His beautiful crimson eyes searched up and down the creek as he flew, trying to decide upon the best building site. But when he came to the clay bank, he knew he need search no further; nothing could be better. Without even waiting to rest themselves, Kos-ko-menos and his mate soon began to make the dirt fly in all directions as they excavated deeply for their new home. Round and smooth was their doorway, just large enough to admit one kingfisher at a time. About half-way up the side of the bank it was placed, and ran fully six feet, straight into the clay. Into a little hollow at the very end they threw a few fish bones and loose leaves, then the beautiful eggs were laid, which in time would become three goggle-eyed, frowsy-headed little kingfishers, very ugly, but handsome to their parents, of course.
Kos-ko-menos darted back and forth, flashing like a great blue jewel, as he took up his sentinel-like position upon a stake in the water, where he could peer straight down into the deep water for fish. He preened his feathers, shaking out the clinging clay, and gave loud screams, he felt so happy about the nest.
"Kerrr-ik-r-r-r," he screamed triumphantly, making a terrific sound, just exactly like that of a harsh, wooden toy rattle, only louder, if possible. The very mountains rang with his cry. Then all the furry tribes knew for certain that Kos-ko-menos had come to live in that spot. Many of them disliked the idea very much; they dreaded his harsh scream which made the more timid jump and disturbed their babies, it was such a horrid cry. The kingfisher has always been considered a kind of outcast among other birds. They imagine that he is uncanny; that is, because of his wonderful skill at fishing, and because he can dart into the water quickly and stay under a long time, so they think perhaps he is himself more of a fish than a bird. They cannot understand why he does not walk properly, but has a way of waddling which is very funny because his legs are very short and placed far back upon his body. His great bushy crest makes him appear almost top-heavy and his appearance is ungainly. I think, however, that the real reason why he is shunned by some birds and shabbily treated, is because they are, secretly in their hearts, jealous of the beautiful feathers which Kos-ko-menos wears, because, no matter how homely his body may be, it is beautifully clothed. Upon the top of his head he wears a long, high crest of rich, dark green, which colour extends down his neck, and each little feather is flecked with spots of blue of a wonderful hue. Violet and blue is his coat, his tail a deep indigo blue. Over each crimson eye and just beneath it, is a cunning dot of black. He wears a thick, feathered waistcoat of yellowish-white, and his beak is jet black.
Once more Kos-ko-menos screamed his wooden-rattle cry. Then like a flash he darted straight into the deepest part of the pool, and before the spray had fallen he was out again with a fine, wriggling fish. As he was about to kill the fish upon a near-by stone, a blue, flashing fury came dashing out of the woods with a harsh, angry scream, and Dee-dee-askh landed upon the crest of the kingfisher. They had a terrific battle; back and forth, back and forth over the creek they flew, showers of light blue feathers barred with black and white fell, and a few speckled green ones. Mrs. Kingfisher poked her head curiously forth from the bank to see what all the screaming meant. At last the jay flew back to the woods with a portion of his proud crest gone, and the kingfisher, smoothing down his ruffled feathers, gave another scream and went back to his fishing. 'Tis said that certain of the wood creatures who witnessed the conquering of the jay chuckled and grunted with joy, remembering sundry robberies of nests and burrows by Dee-dee-askh, the cruel one. After this they began to have a little more regard for Kos-ko-menos, the kingfisher; but this was just thebeginningof things.
Musquash, the muskrat, lived under the bank of the creek. Many of the little muskrats used to stray out upon the bank right in plain sight of an old pirate eagle which lived on the mountain, and which used to come sailing down the creek, watching to swoop down upon anything alive which he saw below.
Musquash himself was old and almost blind; he could not detect the eagle when he soared high above. One after another the young ones were stolen by the old pirate, old Bald Head. This had happenedbeforethe kingfisher came to live in the bank. One day Musquash himself ventured up the bank after roots; he did not see old Bald Head high above, watching him.
But Kos-ko-menos sat upon his sentinel post watching. He thought he saw a faint white dot in the sky—the flashing of the sun upon the bald head of the old pirate.
"Khr-r-r-r-rrr," screamed the kingfisher defiantly, as the old pirate was hovering his wings, making ready to drop down upon poor, old blind Musquash. Before he reached earth, Musquash, heeding the warning scream of Kos-ko-menos, was paddling straight for his hut under water.
The kingfisher was glad to see the old sky pirate outwitted, and so glad to save Musquash, that he dived down after the fish he had been watching, caught it, and all the time he was eating the fish he kept up a little glad, chattering chuckle, deep down inside. Many had seen how the kingfisher had saved old Musquash, and finally they all came to depend upon him to warn them when danger came that way. Kos-ko-menos never failed them.
The jay family raised three young, impudent jays. Already the young ones in the kingfishers' nest had stuck their fuzzy heads out of the hole in the bank, and both Dee-dee-askh and Kos-ko-menos had all they could do to get food enough for their families. One day the jay caught a fine catfish, and he thought to himself that he might as well gobble it all up instead of taking it home. He flew quickly to a near-by stone to beat the catfish, lest it sting him with its sharp horn. As he was about to swallow the fish whole, he heard an angry scream from his home. His mate had been watching him all the time. Again came the cry, which sounded not unlike the sharp striking of metal, then a loud, shrill scream, "Cray-cray, cray!" Dee-dee-askh saw a whirl of light blue feathers approaching. In his haste to bolt the fish whole, lest his mate take it from him, he choked and choked and swallowed. But alas, greedy fellow! The fish was too large for just one mouthful, and he began to flutter helplessly upon the rock, while the tail of the catfish protruded from his mouth.
Kos-ko-menos saw it all and chuckled to himself, but he had a kind heart. Flying straight to the jay, he gave one sharp, strong tug at the tail of the catfish, and the greedy jay was saved. Some say therealreason the kingfisher seized the catfish was because he wished to gobble it down himself—but that point is not certain. Kos-ko-menos had certainly saved his neighbour from choking to death, which showed he bore no grudge against the jay. Of course all the wood people saw the kind act of Kos-ko-menos, and it made a deep impression upon them; they marvelled, because the jay had been so rude to the kingfisher. It was nice of him to forget his mean treatment, they thought.
Down deep in a certain pool of the creek lived old Kenozha, the pickerel, dreaded and feared for years by all the inhabitants of the banks who swam in the water, or fished for a living. The sly old fellow had a cruel way of coming up just beneath them when they were in the water, and before they knew it he had nipped off a toe, a tail, or even a head. The turtles had lost claws, the giant bullfrog, leader of the spring choruses, was minus a foot, and even the wary old loon had lost a toe. Kos-ko-menos, who knew all about the old pickerel and his crafty ways, determined to rid the pool of him, and took to watching for him, as many another had before him; the jay, the loon, and the hawks had all fished for Kenozha, but this is why they had failed: the old fellow had seen theirshadowsupon the water. So wise Kos-ko-menos, the kingfisher, knew better than to let his shadow fall upon the water, but took good care to perch upon his watch tower at just the right angle so that he should throw no reflection, and the green, goggle eyes of the pickerel could not spy him. There was great excitement along the banks of the creek one day, when Kos-ko-menos arose from the creek bearing the struggling old pickerel in his strong beak, and much interest as they watched him subdue and beat Kenozha until he could struggle no longer. All were glad; even Dee-dee-askh came screaming out of the forest, while grunts and chuckles of approval might be heard from many a retreat where hid the wood brothers. And 'tis said that even a soft, murmuring song of praise stirred among the whispering pines up aloft.
Soon after that time, the watchful ones noticed the beginning of a faint blue band across the breast feathers of the kingfisher. Gradually it deepened and widened, finally becoming a well-defined belt right across the pale yellow waistcoat of the kingfisher.
And ever since that time Kos-ko-menos and all his tribe after him continue to wear this badge of honour, this belt of azure blue, like belted knights of old. The kingfisher is no longer an outcast among the little brothers of the wood.
It was full of the moon at the seashore, and the young field corn close by was ripe; each pearly kernel almost bursting with its milky-sweet contents. What a time for a corn roast or frolic; so thought all the boys along that particular strip of beach, which shelved its way down from a dense forest of spruce and hemlock to the edge of the water.
There were others, the furry things, the four-footed people of the woods, who knew just as well as the boys what good times were to be had at that particular season, and they made their plans accordingly. The boys had visited the beach that same night, roasted their corn and oysters, and left long before. The shore was apparently quite deserted. The ebbing tide was stealing out softly, scraping and rasping upon the little round pebbles, sending little golden shells tinkling musically against each other, as the water lapped and filtered through them. Overhead shone the great yellow moon, making a wide silvery path straight out across the water. One wondered where the road ended. Back from the beach in the dark woods, plenty of life was now stirring, for the nocturnal prowlers were waking up, though the small windows of the scattered farmhouses were dark and still. Above the noise of the ebb tide the katy-dids were heard contradicting each other tirelessly, hoarsely, "katy-did, katy-didn't." Crickets shrilled in the long, coarse beach grass; a distant screech-owl set up an occasional shivery wail. Then, from amid the thickets of scrub oak and barberry bushes, came another call—an unusual cry, not often heard, which began with a tremulous whimper, ceased, then went on; and was finally taken up and answered by another similar whimpering cry, and still another, from different parts of the woods. The first call had been given forth by an old hermit racoon, or a "little brother of the bear." He was something of a leader, and was sending out a summons for all his relatives to join him in a moonlight frolic.
The old hermit scrambled hastily down from his home tree, which happened to be the deserted nest of a great owl. Plainly the old hermit would soon outgrow this borrowed home, for when sweet corn is in the milk, and the little salt wild oysters are plentiful down on the beach, then the racoon became so very fat that he could barely waddle. Of course he felt obliged to fatten himself in late summer, for already he was making ready for his all-winter's sleep and his long, long season of fasting.
Having reached the ground, the hermit sent out another call—the rallying cry of his tribe; for dearly the racoon loves to feast and frolic in company and was becoming impatient to start off. The only reason, I suspect, why the old hermit lived absolutely alone, at this time, was merely because there was absolutely not an inch of spare room for another racoon in the nest.
To his joy, his kindred had responded, and soon from out of the shadowy places stole one waddling form, then another, until finally five racoons were in the party. Then with the hermit leading them, Indian file, they all made their way leisurely to the distant corn field. In and out among the tall rows of nodding, whispering blades they stole, and standing upon their little black hind feet, they would reach up the corn stalk, and deftly pull down a plump ear with their forepaws, which they used as cleverly as hands. They never made the mistake of selecting blackened, mildewed ears; these and the shrivelled, dwarfed ears they tossed disdainfully aside, and my! what havoc those coons did make in the corn field that night! They would strip off the silky green husks and eat out only the full, milky kernels, smearing their black noses and paws liberally with the juice, which they would hasten to rinse off at the first water they found.
OUT POPPED THE FUNNY PAINTED FACE OF THE BADGER.OUT POPPED THE FUNNY PAINTED FACE OF THE BADGER.
There were others in the field that night, but they never interfered with one another; there was plenty of corn for all. The woodchuck family also enjoyed sweet corn in the milk and, tempted by the moonlight, they had left their burrow to feast. Off beyond, skirting the edges of the tall corn, skulked a swift, fleeting shadow—Redbrush, the fox, bound for the chicken coops, or hoping to find a covey of quails or partridges sleeping in the edge of the wheat field. Back in a little creek which bubbled in places, broadening out into still, deep haunts for trout and pickerel, the moonlight found its way. Here and there you might discover the huts of the muskrats, mostly deserted, for the inhabitants were all abroad. You might see their brown heads above water, follow the wake of their silvery trails, and hear their playful squeaks as they chased each other from village to village. Oh, there were squeaks a-plenty that night all through the deep clover and among the tall grain, while beneath roofs, fast asleep and dreaming, were the children.
For the most part the wild things appeared to live together in peace and harmony; occasionally bitter feelings were felt when the racoons thrust their black paws into a woodpecker's nest and robbed it of eggs. Then, too, old Mrs. Diamond-back, the turtle, would deposit her eggs in a spot which she fondly imagined very secret, failing utterly to look up above, where, from a branch, the greenish inquisitive eyes of the hermit watched her every movement. Taking it altogether, there was little to disturb their happy life then. Times were going to change and very soon in an unexpected fashion.
Clown-face, the badger, had been routed out of his distant home-nest on the far side of the mountain by an enemy. Because he enjoyed roving, he took up the life of a tramp and made a trip to the seashore, for he dearly loved the little black mussels which he remembered having once found there. As it happened, badgers were not common in that section of the country; perhaps one of them had never happened to venture over upon that side of the mountain even, so none of the wild things had ever encountered this queer-looking fellow.
Queer looking he certainly was, and the funniest thing about him was that the sly old fellow, who had often looked at himself in some still pool, knew exactly how odd he appeared to others. He had wit enough to use this knowledge for his own purposes. Once seen, the clown face of the badger was not soon forgotten by other animals. He soon discovered that when a stranger appeared suddenly on the trail whom he did not care to meet, all he had to do usually was to stand still, and stare and stare at the intruder, who invariably would back out or side-step from the trail, leaving it clear to the badger; why, I will explain.
In the first place, the badger was just about as broad as he was long. His thick fur coat, which was flowing and parted in the middle of his back, nearly reaching the ground, looked for all the world as if he carried a goatskin rug across his back. His legs were short and he appeared not unlike a great, hairy caterpillar as he waddled along. But his fore feet carried two tremendously long hooked claws which, if cornered, he would use in fight, for his courage was very great. His head was broad and furry, with short ears. The strangest thing about the badger was his face, which was marked exactly like a funny clown. Although his back was grey—one may still hear the saying, "grey as a badger"—his head and neck were of short, dark brown fur, while like a dash of white paint ran a mark of snowy fur from the bridge of his nose, back to the nape of his neck. On either cheek was another dash of white, reaching from the tops of his ears to the corners of his mouth. Below this was marked out a little crescent of white, set off by a stripe of dark fur. Altogether, the badger always appeared to be wearing a kind of painted disguise. No wonder then, when he stared straight at any animal who had never seen such a funny face, that it turned and ran in an opposite direction. Such was the make-up of Clown-face, the badger. Even now he was making his way in the moonlight to new grounds, where he would be seen and feared. Clown-face was in search of a deserted burrow into which he could crawl and rest, for he was tired. He soon came to the deserted home of the woodchuck family. Into this he crept, taking care to crawl in and turn around, so as to leave his painted face right in the doorway; then he went to sleep.
After the hermit racoon and his friends had feasted upon sweet corn, they left the corn field and took a stroll down the beach. The tide was out. In among the wet pebbles scurried droves of little green crabs, while clinging to rocks were small, salt wild oysters, which racoons dearly love and which, for this reason, are sometimes called "coon oysters," so greedily do the racoons search for them. It was a funny sight to see the five fat racoons strolling along the beach by moonlight. When they came to a bunch of oysters, down they would plump and, taking the oyster in their hind feet, they would deftly crack it open against a stone and dabble it up and down in the water with their little black hands, washing it thoroughly. For the racoon, you know, from its habit of washing its food, is often called "Lotor, the washer." There the little company of coons stayed until turn of tide, when they went back over the wet sand, treading upon their toes and leaving their almost human five-fingered little tracks all along the beach, as they went back to the forest again.
The first to reach home that night was the woodchuck family. They were quite ready for sleep, in the fine burrow which they had spent days in digging. The bushes rustled as they swished them aside, and the rustling they made awakened the badger who had been dozing in the entrance of the burrow. Just as Dame Woodchuck came to her door, out popped the funny painted face of the badger right into her very eyes. It grunted at her fiercely and she hastily backed away with a cry of terror. Never had the woodchucks seen anything like the badger. They waited for it to come out, but it stayed right in the burrow, so the old woodchuck made bold to go to therearentrance, and squeezing her fat body flat she entered, only to be met by the awful clown-like face again. She hastily backed out. All night the badger remained in possession of the woodchuck's burrow and for days after, until finally they left it to him and began to dig a new burrow some distance away from the old one.
The next night all the wild kindred were again astir. The woodchucks had spent most of the day upon their new burrow. They still had to add chambers; it was at least a home, so off they went foraging with the others, for corn is not always in the milk and it is not always moonlight. That night the old hermit racoon had planned to go back into the forest to dig wake-robin roots. Often, after a great feast, the coons enjoy a diet of these roots, perhaps eating them as a sort of medicine, because they are hot and as fiery as pepper, although, with all their biting, peppery taste, the coons devour them greedily. In Indian file, off started the coons, and soon succeeded in finding a bed of the coveted wake-robin roots, which they began to tear up hastily.
Clown-face, the badger, was also abroad, hunting field-mice or any young, tender creature which he might track. Creeping through the matted jungles of undergrowth, he soon discovered the racoons digging up roots. Thinking to have some fun at their expense and perhaps drive them away from something which he might eat, suddenly he stuck his painted clown-like face through a dark opening of the bushes and grunted at them. The old hermit himself spied the horrible face first, and so frightened was he that without pausing to finish the root in his black paws, he tore off through the bushes with all the others following him. The hermit did not stop running until he reached his home tree, for never had he seen or dreamed of such a face as that which had peered out at him from the woods.
In time Clown-face, the badger, by using his wits managed to have things pretty much his own way there in the forest. He found where the young quails nested. He foraged in the unprotected huts of the muskrats and stole their young. He ate the turtles' eggs and made himself a great nuisance to all. The only living thing which Clown-face, the badger, dreads now is the hedgehog, for, being almost as ugly and strange-appearing as the badger, it does not fear him or turn aside. So between the two is a bitter feud, because Clown-face often ventures to devour the hedgehog's rations. Some time I know there is going to be a terrific encounter between them in the woods, because the stupid-appearing hedgehog never troubles himself to get out of the badger's way, but lies down in his very path, quite unconcernedly. One day Clown-face is going to get to the limit of his patience and rebel. Then I wonder which one will come off the better, the badger or the hedgehog?
Meantime, the wit of Clown-face, the badger, serves him very well. He still roams over the forest trails and along the beach unmolested by the dwellers of the wild.
It was nearing March, but deep snow still covered the hills up in the North country, and there were, as yet, scant signs of spring; not even a bird was to be seen, excepting occasionally a solitary crow. When the sun shone out in the middle of the day, the brown fence tops began to show above the white drifts down in the clearings. By night the freezing cold returned; everything froze up solid, and upon the snow crusts which were thick and glossy it was just the best kind of slide.
There were other important things for boys to think about besides fun and tobogganing; it was just the right sort of weather to begin making maple sugar. For when it freezes hard, then thaws, the sap will run; so up near the lumber camps, where Dick and Joe lived, the sugar season was commencing. Several miles beyond the camps upon the side of a wild mountain, rightly called Lone Mountain, grew a great forest of maples. The spot was too far away for most of the campers to bother about sugar making, but Dick and Joe did not mind distances, and as all the spending money which the boys had they were expected to earn for themselves, they were only too glad to have the privilege of tapping the maples on Lone Mountain. Even before the sap began to flow, they had actually counted over the money they would earn with their sugar and had really spent almost every cent.
They whittled out hundreds of fine ash spills to run the sap, then borrowed every crock and pail their mother could spare from the camp to hold it, besides two great black iron kettles, which they would set over an arch built of large flat stones, where they would boil their syrup. After packing provisions and all their outfit upon a sledge, off they started for Lone Mountain, a day's journey from camp.
Wild and lonely enough was Lone Mountain, a kind of scary spot at best for two boys to camp out alone, but they were not at all afraid, for they were used to wild places: having lived so long in the great spruce forests they felt quite at home. Several years before, they had found the remains of an old sugar house standing in the maple grove on the mountain below a great overhanging crag. Here they would live, and boil the sap outside the shack. After tapping their trees, they drove in the spills, hanging the buckets beneath. As fast as the sap collected they had to boil it, or it would soon sour and be wasted. So, as you can well imagine, both boys were kept very busy, collecting sap, keeping up fires under the great iron kettles, watching the boiling sugar, and testing it upon the snow to find out when it was boiled enough. When night came they were very tired, but they kept at their sugar making as long as the sap continued to run from the trees. They had been on Lone Mountain over a week. With the continued thawings and freezing, the sap kept on running, and the boys were glad, for it meant a fine lot of sugar and they were greatly elated over their good luck. They would carry back more sugar to camp than ever before.
"If we can only have two days more like to-day's run of sap, we'd make a pile of money this year," spoke Dick happily; "we could buy two fine overcoats, and have something toward our new sugaring outfit that we talked with father about buying."
"Yes, I know; great!" replied Joe, as he ladled out a great waxy spoonful of amber sugar upon a pan of snow, and after it had cooled a bit divided it with Dick.
"Bully, ain't it?" said Dick, cleaning off the spoon. "Best we ever made—fine and white; it'll fetch top price. But say, we could make it still better if we only had a new up-to-date outfit. We've got to get it somehow, I guess, even if we don't buy new coats this year; guess our old ones will go another year; we ain't dudes."
Sure enough, that day, to the delight of the boys, another thaw came and the sap ran as it never had done before and kept them jumping well to save it all.
"One of us will have to stay awake and tend fires and watch to-night. We can't finish up anyhow, and we can't afford to waste all this sap. I'll boil all night," said Dick, tucking the embers in around the great kettle.
"You won't tend alone. If you stay up all night I shall too," said Joe stoutly. "Guess we're partners on this sugar making, ain't we?"
"Of course. Tell you what we will do: I'll tend till midnight, while you sleep, then you can work the rest of the night while I sleep," suggested Dick. To which his brother agreed willingly.
The boys ate their supper, boiling their eggs in sap, and finishing up with brown bread spread thickly with soft, new maple sugar. And oh, how fine it tasted to the two tired boys. Soon Joe was fast asleep in the shack upon his fragrant bed of balsam boughs, rolled up in an old patchwork quilt his mother had made him take, for it always grows bitterly cold in the mountains before morning. Dick grinned to himself, as he worked alone and heard Joe's tired snores coming from the shack, and he made up his mind to let him sleep after midnight and get well rested. He kept very busy himself tending the bubbling syrup in both kettles and bringing firewood. It was somewhat lonely off up there in the mountain, now there was no one to talk to, thought Joe to himself. The wind sighed and whined in the tops of the spruces. Occasionally he heard a mysterious crack upon the snow crusts, off in the woods, where some hoof or paw broke through. Finally, an old owl began its lonely hoot above the shack somewhere, and once he heard a long, whimpering yell, far across the valley. He knew what that meant; a lynx was abroad, venturing down into the clearings after a sheep perhaps. Joe looked back into the shack rather longingly after the lynx yelled; he was almost tempted to awaken Dick, but decided, unselfishly, not to.
At last, long after midnight, Joe himself began to feel extremely worn out and sleepy. A great stillness had settled over everything; even the wind seemed to soothe him to drowsiness, while the sap bubbled and blubbered softly and monotonously in the iron kettles. In spite of all he could do, Joe's tired eyes closed together, and, untended, the fires under the black kettles burned lower and lower.