Out beyond the camp, breaking through the snow crusts, unheard, stole a huge, black, shambling figure, closely followed by two smaller ones. A great black mother bear and her two very young cubs, and she was heading them straight for the boys' sugar camp. The cubs were so young they had difficulty in keeping up with their mother, for they were tired. It had been a long distance down from the den, but the mother bear did not spare them, and kept nosing them along impatiently when they halted along the trail. Now if there is one thing on earth a bear loves even more than honey it is maple sugar. The scent of the boiling syrup arose even above the woody, odours, and delicious enough it seemed to the old bear; she was eager to reach the camp.
At last the little trio came out into a small clearing surrounding the shack. The old bear halted, warily, but all was now silent. Inside the shack lay one boy fast asleep, rolled in his patchwork quilt, while half leaning against a tree slept another. The sugar had ceased to bubble and heave in the great kettles, for the fires were almost out. Between the kettles shuffled the old bear, followed by the cubs, whimpering wearily and crossly. The old bear arose upon her hind feet snuffing and grunting, but never offering to disturb the sleeping boys; all she cared about now was to find maple sugar. She was of monstrous size, and when she finally entered the shack, she completely filled up the rude doorway with her huge form. She nosed about, but did not find the stored sugar, so out she shambled, and cautiously approaching a great black kettle, she sniffed long and deliriously at its contents, blowing out the whitened ashes in clouds from the blackened embers with her breath. The cubs meantime seated themselves close by and watched her movements curiously.
Then the old bear did a very foolish thing. So eager was she to get a taste of the sugar in the kettle that she reached in with one great furry paw, burning it severely. She immediately lost her head, and in her rage upset the whole kettle full of hot syrup all over herself.Thenthere was something doing! With a terrific howl of pain and sudden terror, which made such a racket that the mountains fairly echoed back her cries, the old bear tore off into the woods in a perfect frenzy of agony, her heavy coat soaked with hot syrup, which burned its way deeper and deeper at every step. Without heeding the cubs, or what became of them, she ran wildly on, only seeking water where she might cool her burning flesh. As soon as Dick and Joe heard the first yell of the bear, they were wide awake, you may be sure. Joe saw the old bear just as she disappeared in the woods, and scared almost out of his wits he shouted:
"Hi, Dick, bears! Look! There goes one big as a house, and see, there's another one," pointing out one helpless, whimpering little cub which had been left behind by the old bear in her madness.
"Where?" inquired Dick sceptically, as he appeared from inside the shack, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "What,that thing? It couldn't hurt a fly; it's just a baby. I hope you aren't afraid of a bear cub that size."
"Well, I didn't say I was," replied Joe, rather touchily. "You just ought to have seen the big one I saw, and heard its yells. It was awful. It turned over almost a whole kettle of hot syrup. Look!" and Joe pointed to the overturned kettle.
"No wonder it yelled," grinned Dick; "though come to think, it got pretty well scalded; that's why it yelled so, I guess. And say, it won't come back here right off either, I'll bet. But look, he's wasted almost a whole kettle full of good syrup—meddling old thing. Say, why in creation didn't you wake a fellow up?"
"Oh, well, I guess, come to think of it, I must have been asleep. I seem to remember closing my eyes once or twice," confessed Joe.
"Great Scott! I should think you did. Let a bear come into camp and not wake you up; ha! ha!" jeered Dick. "But look here; we'reinsomething, if we did lose some sugar; we've got a bear cub, and my, ain't he a dandy?"
"Look, look, Dick! He's sitting up and rubbing his eyes with his paw and crying, just like a little kid. My, ain't he the funniest little fellow?" spoke Joe delightedly, watching the cub, and both boys had great fun over their new pet, which they meant to take back with them to the lumber camps.
"Sugaring all finished to-day," commented Dick, as the sun rose over the tops of the tall spruces, and they ate their breakfast, sharing their bacon rinds with the bear cub, which had seemed to take to them at once.
"Won't we surprise the folks when we lug all this sugar home, and a bear cub too?" spoke Joe. "Say, look at his head, Dick; see, he's got a funny mark from his nose to the back of his ears; I'll bet when he sheds his woolly baby fur, it'll be a regular white streak right across his face. I heard Indian Pete tell once about a white-faced bear; they're awful rare."
"Hope the folks will let us keep this fellow in camp," said Joe. "He'll make a fine pet, and Indian Pete 'll help us to teach him tricks perhaps."
"Say, what if the old bear comes back for her cub? She'll be awful mad at us, and I guess we better make tracks and leave here soon as we can," suggested Dick, peering back into the thick woods, almost expecting to see the old bear making for them.
"Huh, I ain't afraid; she's probably so badly burned, she won't think of anything else for a while. Just the same, we'll break camp," replied Joe.
So back to camp they went in triumph, their sugar packed on the sledge, and on top of the load sat the little, furry bear cub, which they had already named Whitey. Because Whitey was such a cunning little fellow he was accepted in camp, and soon became a perfect pet. He was full of mischief, however, and could never be left within reach of the sugar crocks. He broke and filched eggs, and even gnawed whole sides of bacon. To make up for his mischief he acquired many taking tricks. He soon learned to stand on his head, and beg for lumps of maple sugar, and was beginning to take a few clumsy, capering steps, which Indian Pete called dancing.
Evil days came, and as Whitey grew older he became cross, and would often bite and scratch roughly. So finally, the boys were told they would have to part with their pet. Now, as good luck would have it, an opportunity came to sell the bear to a man who dealt in trained animals. Dick and Joe went sadly to work, and built for him a rough coop with slats in front. In this coop Whitey was placed, and the following day he would be taken away. For the last time the boys visited him in his crate, which had been set behind the camp, in the edge of the woods, so that his whines might not disturb the camp through the night. Early the next morning before sunrise the team would take him away. The boys threw in lumps of sugar and things which their pet fancied most, and after shaking his rough paw, sadly they said good-bye to him, for Whitey would be gone before they were astir in the morning.
That very night, when everybody was asleep, from far across the valley travelled a great, shambling black bear. She had come from far over the other side of Lone Mountain. She shuffled her way to the boys' sugar camp first. In and out of the desolate shack she stole, stopped to sniff at the blackened firebrands, nosed anxiously about the spot where her cub had rested so long ago, when one cub had followed her back to the den and the other had been lost. Then, wheeling suddenly about, she took an almost worn-out, indistinct trail which led into the forest; and starting into a broken canter she headed toward the lumber camps.
Thus it happened when the team halted to pick up the wooden crate and carry the bear cub to town, there was no cub to be found. All that remained was a heap of broken, splintered boards. The boys soon spied out the small tracks of Whitey, and then Indian Pete pointed out two other great broad marks—the tracks of a full-grown bear. The mother bear had never forgotten her cub; she had come back for it at last, and just in the nick of time. The boys were secretly glad that their pet had regained his freedom. Surely, in the great, green spruce forests, where the red raspberries grew thick and sweet on the mountain sides, and the wild honey may be taken any day, Whitey would be far, far happier than capering and doing tricks to amuse a curious crowd.
Years after, a white-faced bear boldly approached the boys' sugar camp, and was seen by them, but they did not fear him, for they were almost certain it must be their old pet Whitey, who gained his freedom long before.
In the heart of a certain dense cypress swamp, in the middle South, lies a pond of water, which is fed by many streams winding and percolating their sluggish courses through the vast swamp lands. It is lonely and wild there. This is what makes the place such a safe retreat for the birds. Each spring they come back to this spot, the wood ducks, the bitterns, the teal, and the little blue heron family. Their flashing, brilliant plumage lights up the sombre darkness of the jungles, while their strident cries make the spot less lonely. Perhaps the little blue herons are the very noisiest of all. Wading in the water on their stilt-like legs, searching for minnows or crayfish, they are almost sure to have a quarrel if one of them gets a prize fish, and then what a clamour they can make. Away off in the swamp it sounds almost as if they were screaming back and forth, "Tell you what, tell you what," over and over again.
One spring day after most of the birds had arrived at the pond, peering skyward from their fishing, they saw two specks approaching. Gradually the specks drew nearer and nearer, and finally, when they reached the precise spot where they meant to settle, straight down, like plummets, they fell, right into the swamp. Then all the other birds set up a noisy, clamorous welcome, for the great Snowy Egrets, the most important newcomers of the season, had arrived. Beautiful beyond description is the great Snowy Egret. Snow white is its exquisite plumage, that wherever it appears it lights up the dark, gloomy swamps and jungles with its purity. The beak and legs of the egret are black, its eyes a golden yellow, while from its back trails a wonderful long spray of soft, snowy plumes, which float behind like a white robe as it flies. These beautiful plumes are longer on the mother bird, and at nesting time she uses them to cover the baby egrets.
Having found a choice place in a stunted cypress, the egrets soon set about their nest building, choosing a site about forty feet above the swamp. Very affectionate and loving with each other are the egrets; whenever the male bird leaves the cypress, on his return he makes such a fuss over his mate, greeting her as joyfully and tenderly as though he had been gone a week. In fact, the egrets are gentle, trusting birds, and have few enemies among the wild. The father egret does most of the hard work too, for he gathers all the twigs for the nest, which the mother egret carefully builds. Taking turns, the egrets sit upon the four eggs, and in eighteen days the little, homely, featherless egrets appear, naked except for a few tufts of down. This makes them very tender, and the mother egret covers them over during the intense heat of the day with her soft trailing plumes.
At daybreak the father egret would fly off, returning with a crop or pouch full of tiny fish, and while the mother was away getting her own breakfast the young egrets were fed. Clinging to the edge of the nest, father egret would stretch forth his long, snowy neck over the little ones. And one by one he would produce the fish which he had brought home, only partially swallowed, and which the little egrets would gobble up quickly. It took such a quantity of food to satisfy the baby egrets that the old birds made many, many, trips across the swamp to the water during the day.
Now, although the desolate swamp country appeared deserted enough, excepting for its bird and wild life, back on the edges of the vast wilderness Italian families had located, to begin clearing up the jungles of wild timber, and drain the swamp lands. So this is how it happened that Tony and Papita, his small sister, came to live in the swamps. Not a very pleasant place to live in, but their father and mother were there, so they did not mind; besides, as Tony and his sister were too young to work, they had fine times exploring together. In the swamps they found plenty of wild, new things, wonderful flowers, and long mosses, and queer toadstools. Tony came across an old dugout one day, abandoned by some swamper, and then the children began to go upon voyages of discovery. They paddled up and down the narrow, sluggish streams which wound through the swamp, and each day they would venture a little farther. They were never afraid of the loneliness, or any wild thing they saw. Often a great snake would slide heavily off a log into the water, as they stole by in the old boat. At first Papita would shiver, but Tony always laughed at her fears, and now she had become quite as brave at swamp sights as her brother.
One day Tony almost thought himself lost; they found themselves in such a dense, dark spot. At first there seemed no way of getting through.
"We best turn back now, Tony," suggested Papita; "it's the end, I think."
"No, see, the light comes through, soon—we go on a little further." Tony paddled on manfully, and they leaned low to avoid the long, snake-like vines of bamboo. Sure enough, a few tugs of the paddles brought them right through the dark place, out into such a wonderful new spot, they were glad they had kept on. At first such a noise began around them, as the old boat shot through into the light, that Tony and Papita were almost afraid, until they found out what it all meant. Hawks whistled sharply overhead, and the air was filled with water-fowl, which arose from a little island in the middle of the pond they had entered. Wings flapped, there were harsh croaks on all sides, while the blue herons set up their "Tell you what, tell you what," cry.
The children stared about them in astonishment, and, as they stared, a strange thing happened. Right out of the skies, so it first appeared to Tony, a wonderful, snowy form came flying, trailing behind it, what appeared to the children, a beautiful white robe. Its great snowy wings were wide spread, and it finally settled in a dark cypress, where its wonderful plumes shone out so pure and white that both the children were awed by the strange sight. Now there was one thing only which they knew about, and which they imagined bore a faint resemblance to this white-winged thing: their mother treasured an illuminated card with a pictured angel.
"Say, Tony," almost whispered Papita, "perhaps it is anangel."
"No, no," replied more sensible Tony. "It's a real bird, but akindof angel bird perhaps."
ON HIS WAY TO THE NEST WITH A POUCH FULL OF FISH.ON HIS WAY TO THE NEST WITH A POUCH FULL OF FISH.
Thus did Tony and his little sister catch their first sight of the great Snowy Egret. After that, having once found their way to its haunts, they often came to the hidden pond, to watch the egrets at their nest-building, taking care never to alarm them. At first the egrets, which are shy, did not like the children so near, especially in nesting time. Often, the male egret would hover over the old dugout, calling down impatiently, "Cruk, cruk, cruk," which meant plainly enough, "Go away, go away, go away." But the children came so often, that the egrets, even the blue heron tribes and other water-fowl, became accustomed to the old boat, and did not mind its coming and going.
It was an exciting time for the children when the little egrets came; then Tony and Papita came every day. They watched the feeding of the babies and heard the old egret call, "Cruk, cruk, cruk" on his way back to the nest with a pouch full of little fish. Soon the little egrets raised themselves in the nest and called back eagerly, "Kek, kek, kek," which Tony said meant, "More, more, more."
And now comes the sad part of my story, but it must be told, because every boy and girl should learn about the peril of the beautiful Snowy Egret, and know what happened to these wonderful "angel birds" which Tony and Papita so loved and watched.
It was Tony who learned about it first, so he told Papita one night before they went to sleep, up aloft in their shack, where the stars had a way of peeping in through the board roof and winking at them.
"Those men with guns, Papita, I don't like," complained Tony bitterly. "They shoot all our birds in the swamp. Once I seelong, white feathers. They're angel bird feathers, I think, only not white—no, all black with swamp mire. I see plenty andsome were red, Papita, red with blood. One man, the big one, he laugh and say, 'Plenty money for these fine plumes.'"
"What for they get those angel bird feathers, Tony?" asked Papita anxiously.
"Huh, I hear grand ladies buy white angel feathers, to make them fine," replied Tony. "Butno onecould ever be so beautiful as our angel birds."
"Oh, Tony, what if these bad men shootourangel birds?" Papita's voice trembled.
"I know, but wait; to-morrow we go at sunrise, quick, to the bird place," spoke Tony.
As soon as they neared the bird island the next morning they knew some one had broken through the jungles, for the vines were torn aside and the birds, still disturbed, were circling and screaming wildly about the pond. The first thing they looked for was the egret's nest. Perched upon the edge of the nest were the baby egrets alone, screaming shrilly, "Kek, kek, kek," calling vainly now for their parents, and to be fed; they wanted their breakfast.
Tony and Papita waited some time, but in vain; the father and mother egret did not come back to the nest.
"They don't come back ever, the big angel birds; but we go and look for them, Papita. You see, the little ones are so hungry; they die if we don't feed them." The children paddled up and down the swamp, searching everywhere, and finally found the old egrets—all that the plume hunters had left—just the two snowy bodies, from which the beautiful, long aigrette plumes had been roughly torn.
"Oh, oh, whatcanwe do? The little ones wait; they so hungry," spoke Papita, her eyes full of tears.
"Papita, I tell you what—we, you and I, we be father and mother now to these little angel birds. We bring the little fish, until they be large enough to get for themselves. But first, we hide them, these little ones."
"Oh, yes, yes, so no hunters find them, Tony," replied Papita, seizing her paddle eagerly.
Back the children went to the cypress tree, where the little egrets had been left alone to starve, and after much hard work, between them, they finally took the birds in the dug-out to the little, lonely island, where they placed them in an abandoned heron's nest, over which they managed to build a rude sort of cage of long bamboos to keep the birds from falling out. They had an old fishing net in the boat, and succeeded in scooping up enough fish from the edges of the pond to keep the little egrets from starving. The little things were so very hungry that they fed readily, showing no fear, but setting up a constant worrying "Kek, kek, kek" for more. Finally it was time to go home, but the children visited the young egrets each day faithfully. After feeding them, they would leave a supply of fish on the edge of the nest. Soon the young egrets had grown accustomed to the children, and became so tame that they would allow their heads to be gently scratched by Papita. One of the birds, the largest of the brood, would perch upon Tony's shoulder sometimes, to his great joy. This was a very happy time for the children, and they never wearied of watching their pets grow. The bamboo cage was finally taken away, and the egrets were able to fish for themselves. By early November they were almost full grown and Tony and Papita knew that they would not stay upon the island much longer, for already many of the other water-fowl had migrated to other and warmer climes.
One night a light frost visited the swamp, and the next morning the children came to the island, perhaps for the last time. They saw that the egrets were showing much excitement, flying back and then forth and screaming back to each other wildly, circling low over the children's heads, then darting up again, curving their long, graceful necks.
"Look, Papita! They like to tell us something—hear, they try to speak; they don't hear me even when I call; see." Vainly Tony tried to call the egrets to him. Usually, the large bird would come to him willingly enough, but now, as they watched the big fellow, he began to rise straight into the air, mounting ever higher and higher, and they could hear him calling back for the others to follow. Then, with wide-spread wings, the others mounted into the air, and then they all sailed off together to find the warm, safe shelter of another retreat, farther south. Tony and Papita, away down below them in the swamp, stood hand in hand and watched them, until they were lost to sight.
"They are gone from us, Tony," spoke Papita sadly.
"Yes, sister, but wait; another year they will come back to us, I know; for the birds do always find the way back again. And think—wesavedthem, those little ones, which was a brave thing to do. Now they are beautiful, big angel birds and their white plumes are safe."
The great plains lay hot and parched at sunset. Silent and lonely it was, too, for the drought of weeks had been so terrific that even the usually sociable little prairie dogs stayed in their holes to escape the scorching heat. At sunset they were beginning to liven up, and all other wild things which had stayed in the cool places were coming out. Between the dried, stunted clumps of mesquite trees, and the sagebrush patches, certain dark shadows skulked: the coyotes were starting off upon their nightly raids. The little prairie chickens had gone to roost, but the hooting of the small brown-barred owls which lived in the earth burrows, had begun among the sage-brush thickets.
A coyote, stealing in and out along its trail, suddenly squatted upon its lean haunches, resting upon the raised dirt of a dog village. From this site it peered curiously off into the distance, for its bleary, green eyes saw something moving against the sky-line. What the coyote saw was this: a great, black, hulking, moving object was stumbling its way westward, following the last golden glow of the sunset, and, as the creature watched, it made out another, smaller figure, following close beside the large one. Then, after satisfying its curiosity the coyote raised its lean snout, and howled dismally from sheer disappointment, for that which he hoped might be game had turned out to be nothing but just an old, sick or wounded buffalo, followed by her little calf. The sight so disgusted the half-starved coyote, that it started in an opposite direction on a slinking run, for with all its meanness it will not pursue another which is wounded.
The huge mother buffalo stumbled bravely on and on; she was very weak, for she still carried an Indian's arrow in her side. How she had managed to escape at all with her calf was a wonder. The herd had stampeded, and somehow, after they had gone, she found herself wounded, alone with her calf. Lowing to the little fellow, she encouraged it to follow her and all day they had journeyed over the long, hot trail. If she could only manage to find water, then she could wallow, and perhaps her stinging wound would heal. Occasionally she stumbled, almost breaking her leg as she plunged into the hole of some dog village which her glazing old eyes had not seen.
Suddenly she raised her great shaggy head, and roared out a low cry of triumph; she had scented water. She urged on the weary, tottering steps of her calf, pushing him on ahead with her nose, lowing gently and affectionately, encouraging it to hold out a little longer, for soon they would come to the beautiful, longed-for water hole.
They entered a small canyon between two notches, and right down in a hollow, a short distance off, the little new moon flashed a gleam across the water. As soon as they had quenched their dreadful thirst, the mother dropped down heavily among the undergrowth, and the little calf, already refreshed, stepped in and out of the thickets, cropping contentedly among the tender cactus sprouts and arrow weed. Mogul, the calf, perhaps wondered, the next morning as the sun beat its hot way into the canyon, why his mother did not rise as usual from her all-night resting place, and low for him to follow her. After a time he understood, for such is the keen instinct of the wild; she wouldneverrise again. Thus did Mogul, the calf buffalo, begin his lonely life. His brave mother had just managed to lead him into the safe canyon for water, and then had died.
Mogul was an unusually fine, large calf, for his age. He was full of courage and daring, but he stayed safe in the canyon, where the forage was plentiful and water never failed him, for a long while, every day growing bigger and stronger. When spring came and the passes began to grow bright with gay-coloured flowers, the water holes bubbled, and prairie chickens called their "Coos, coos, coos" from the thickets; then Mogul began to look about and long for companionship, for he was lonely. He noticed the happy frolics of the jack-rabbits with approving, gentle eyes. Contentedly chewing the cud, he would watch the prairie dogs romping happily in and out of the doors of their villages. A bark from the watching sentinel would sound an alarm note, and, like a flash, they would vanish into a hundred holes. With the sprouting of his small, sharp black horns came a sudden restlessness to Mogul. He remembered the herd, so he determined to leave the canyon and find them.
He had never encountered any real danger in his life as yet, never heard the swish of an Indian's arrow, or sighted a painted, brown body topped off with painted feathers, astride a loping pony. Once on the open plains he would soon find out about all these things for himself. Through the mouth of the sheltering canyon travelled Mogul, so full of courage and life that he gambolled and leaped playfully by the way; he would shake his huge, top-heavy head, and rip up great tufts of sage-brush with his sharp horns. Occasionally he halted, bellowing fiercely and stamping. A yellow, diamond-back rattlesnake presumed to coil and rattle at him impudently, right in his path. Knowing no fear, Mogul charged at it, sending it spinning high in the air, then stamping it out beneath his shining hoofs.
The sun baked down mercilessly upon his heavy coat out on the open plain, where there was no shelter. Almost he wished himself back in the canyon. Gnats bit right through his tough hide; he swung his great head incessantly and angrily, lashing them with his tail; still they clung, biting and stinging his flesh until blood flowed. The plains stretched on ahead with no companionship in sight. Poor, lonely Mogul! For days he had not tasted water. If he could but find a water hole, he would wallow and rid himself of the stinging pests. That night he reached a small, brackish pool of water and, dropping into a moist place, Mogul rolled about until he had made a fine hole about as long and wide as himself. Into this the water gradually oozed and, with a snort of joy, Mogul rolled his tormented body about, coating himself well with the wet clay which cured the biting stings. Early next morning a stray buffalo cow came to the pool; she was young and very pleasing, and Mogul's joy seemed complete, for he had found company. That night the pair caught up with the great herd and joined it. Black King, leader of the great herd, had never been crossed, but as soon as Mogul appeared he disapproved of him, because of his jealous disposition, for the old leader noticed that Mogul was fully as large as himself, and even more powerful—a born leader. The Black King was growing old; he feared this stranger might become a favourite with the herd, which might desert him, as they frequently did, for a younger leader. Whenever Mogul met Black King, the latter would charge savagely, bellowing mightily and throwing up great showers of earth with his hoofs and horns, to frighten Mogul. Then the eyes of Mogul would suddenly grow red with inner fires, and he would charge wildly at Black King. One day, somewhat to his surprise, the old leader actually backed off and away from Mogul, bellowing and calling his followers after him. Thus Mogul won a position of respect from the herd, a greater part of which took to following his leadership, others remaining loyal to Black King.
Grazing near the edge of a rocky canyon with a favourite cow and her calf one day, Mogul almost met his match in "Ezekiel," as the plainsmen had named the great grizzly bear—the terror of the Rockies. Ezekiel, full grown, and with four young cubs back in a den of the mountains with their mother, was seeking food. The young cubs needed fresh meat. Afar off, peering over the edges of the canyon, Ezekiel had sighted the three grazing figures of the buffaloes. Buffalo calf meat he intended to carry back to the waiting cubs. In and out crept the shambling figure of the great bear, taking care to keep low down among the underbrush, making for the site nearest the little calf, which was feeding somewhat apart from its mother's side.
With a snort, Mogul raised his heavy head; instantly he sighted the great hulking thing which was making its way towards the calf. With a wild bellow of rage, he charged straight for the waving underbrush, and as he came on Ezekiel, the terrible one, rose upon his great haunches and boldly faced Mogul, for the grizzly is absolute monarch of the plains, fearing no foe. For a moment Mogul, the fearless, was daunted by the sight of the tremendous creature facing him. With outstretched paws armed with great, razor-like claws, its wide, red mouth bared to show its cruel teeth, the bear came on with savage, thunder-like growls. It was unfortunate, however, that Ezekiel did not travel on all fours, for, seeing his advantage, the buffalo lowered its shaggy head, lunged straight for the unprotected stomach of the bear and, before it could even seize him in its terrible grasp, he had pinned its great body to earth, pressing his sharp horns, and making the bear howl for mercy. Then, after goring the bear well, without waiting to see whether Ezekiel was able to get up or not Mogul bellowed a summons; the cow and calf joined him, and they tore off to join the herd.
One day, as the herd was contentedly grazing together, Mogul and his followers, upon a small plateau which ended in a high cliff, across the plains came a band of hunting Indians. Once the herd becomes frightened it usually starts a stampede. One buffalo cow snorted in alarm, then the whole herd suddenly lost their heads, which was just what the Indians had planned. Wheeling about, Mogul led his herd straight away from the cliff, off towards a canyon. Alas for Black King! The Indians were behind him, and, completely losing his head, he charged across the plateau, heading for the cliff. Like thunder was the roar of the thousands of hoofs, which fairly shook the earth as they madly ran, following their leader to certain destruction. Roaring, bellowing, raising the dust in clouds, they ran. Too late! When at the very verge of the cliff Black King saw their peril, he swerved, bravely trying to turn back. Like an avalanche the herd rushed upon him, a great brown waving mass of heads and flashing hoofs, and over the cliff they fell. When the Indians went back to their village they held a festival and gave the great "dance of the war shield" to celebrate their fine hunt. They had enough buffalo meat to feed all the dogs of the village, and skins enough to keep the squaws busy curing them for many moons. Afterwards they had a great feast, and there was joy in every wigwam of the village.
Mogul led his herd for many years, and a mighty herd it became, spreading in thousands far across the plain. The mighty thunder of its passing might be heard very far off, and the dust, when it moved, arose on high until it almost reached the sky. Gradually, but surely, the great herd began to diminish and thin out. Once a terrific drought killed many of them. For days and weeks they journeyed, the vast herd seeking old, well-remembered buffalo wallows over the trails, but when reached they were found dried out. The buffaloes pawed and dug deeply into the arid, salt-caked holes for moisture, but none came. They died by thousands. Afterwards the settlers came across stacks of their bleaching bones, lying just where they had fallen. So, weakened and hungry, for the drought had killed off the scant herbage, they travelled on, ever westward. Merciless Indians drove them farther on, and hunters of the plains, who coveted their valuable skins, made after them. Finally the great herd, all that was left of it, split, as by common consent, and chose a younger leader for their thinned ranks. One day Mogul, the king of the old herd, found himself deserted, and left to wander alone upon the great plains. In vain he tried to follow the herd, but they soon out-distanced him, and he came to realise that his company was no longer wanted. For many years he wandered, always alone, occasionally seeing scattered remnants of the great herd, but gradually they dropped off, either killed by Indians or dying from starvation. Somehow, old Mogul managed to escape the wolves, the skulking coyotes, the mountain lions and the Indians. One day, utterly lonely, he sighted a vast herd. At first he thought they were buffaloes, but on coming up with them he saw they were long-horned red cattle, which had now taken the place of his lost tribe. Because he longed for company, Mogul joined the red cattle, and they did not molest or drive him away.
Now, out on a reservation, somewhere in the West, herding with the long-horned cattle of the plains, grazes Mogul, the old buffalo leader. His teeth are broken, but he still crops at the grass, and when he lifts his head you may see that he has but one horn; he lost the other in a fierce battle for his life with a grizzly. Sometimes the old buffalo lifts his great shaggy head and gazes straight out across the broad plains with his old, dim eyes and lows deeply and longingly, perhaps remembering his lost tribe and other days. When the cowboys round up the cattle, they often point out to strangers from the East a solitary old buffalo, grazing, usually somewhat apart from the cattle, on the edge of the herd, and then they say, not without some pride: "See that old buffalo out there. He was once leader of a well-known powerful tribe, but he is old, just how old we cannot say, and he's now the last great buffalo left of a mighty herd."
Tom and Ned Manning lived upon a farm in Northern Vermont. The Manning home was in a beautiful valley, and all about, as far as the eye could see, ranged the Green Mountains; the range which towered over this valley was called Cushman.
The boys were quite elated one day when their father told them he would have to send them over the mountain to a far-off lumber camp, upon a very important errand. This meant a two days' holiday for them, no school, and plenty of adventure in the woods.
"We'll start early," called Tom to his brother, already splitting his next morning's wood. "And if we have good luck, we can reach camp early in the afternoon. Snow-shoeing will be dandy, and say, we can just about ski down on the crusts, going down."
"That's so; it's going to be a bully trip," replied Ned, "and mother's sure to put us up a big feed. Say, somehow mother doesn't like the idea of us two going alone over the mountain. Guess it's because the Eatons have been losing their sheep; and now the Strongs have lost a young calf, some think there's something big and wild around loose on the mountain somewhere—a panther, or something like that."
"Joe Strong said their calfnever strayedaway," replied Tom, "but father thinks it did. He thinks dogs got the sheep anyway, and he says nowadays there isn't anything big enough on the mountains to carry off such a big creature as a calf—hasn't been, for years. Anyhow, I'm not a coward. Say, let's ask for grandfather's gun to take with us," suggested Ned.
The boys went to bed early that night, so as to get started by sunrise. The morning was keen, cold and sparkly, and the sun shone out upon the snow crusts as it came peeping over the pointed spruces on the summit of the mountain, and made them sparkle as if sprinkled with trillions of diamonds. They stowed away the ample lunch which their mother had put up, and Tom shouldered the old gun, while Ned carried the gum pole. They had decided to halt at a certain grove of giant spruces, half-way up Cushman, which they meant to visit for gum. The pole was long enough to reach into a tall tree, at the end was a sharp knife, and just beneath this a small cup, so that when the gum was chipped off, instead of falling down and being lost beneath among the pine needles, it dropped right into the cup.
Soon the boys left the steep hilly pastures, the foot-hills of the mountains, behind them, and began climbing the side of old Cushman.
"Look ahead, Ned; we're right in range of some dandy old spruces," called back Tom, who forged on ahead with the gun. "See, just beyond that ledge up there, we'll halt and get our gum, then we can soon climb up top and have our lunch. It won't take us long to go down. Come on; we must have that gum; it'll be good picking."
"Say, guess that ledge ahead must be Vulture Cliff; looks as if we're kind of off the main trail. We never strike off quite so far east as this, do we?" asked Ned, halting to look up at the great black, snow-capped crag which towered above them, jutting far out over the valley. They halted just below, and visited some giant spruces which, to their joy, yielded such a fine harvest of gum that they hated to leave the grove.
"We got to be making tracks now, I guess, Ned. Come on."
Just then Ned chipped off a splendid lump of amber gum from his tree, and still higher up he saw several large nuggets clinging temptingly to the brown spruce trunk. As prime gum would readily fetch a dollar a pound, these Vermont boys, to whom pocket money was rare, were reluctant to leave it behind.
Tom insisted upon their going on. "We've got to go on right off, Ned. But say, we'll come up on purpose some time when we don't have to go over the mountain."
Soon they were directly beneath the grim shadow of Vulture Cliff; it would be a stiff climb to go around it, and this they found they must do to reach the summit of the mountain. They had halted a second to get breath, when Tom spied a queer-looking object lying just beneath the crag upon the snow, and went to investigate.
"What is it?" called down Ned curiously.
"Come on down and see!" shouted back Tom, and soon the two boys were staring at their find—a great bone, the knuckle joint of a cow, having the hoof still attached. The bone had been gnawed, but was still fresh.
"Great Scott! What do you think of that?" exclaimed Tom excitedly. "It's surely some young creature's hoof, and whatever was gnawing it surely dropped it down from the ledge above, I believe." The boys had sudden misgivings. What could it have been?
"Say, Tom, it must have been something big and fierce and hungry to carry off a big bone like that. Perhaps the bone belonged to that heifer that was lost," suggested Ned.
"Might have," commented Tom, taking in the situation, which suggested to him the idea of getting away from the lonely spot as soon as possible. Besides, it was evident that much time had already been taken up with their gumming, more than they had meant to take, and now, to their dismay, they discovered suddenly that the sun had disappeared; great clouds were swiftly gathering about them, while down below in the valley, already the snow whirled thickly. A swift storm had arisen, as is often the case in these mountains. It had been brooding, but the boys had not noticed it. Already the giant spruces rocked and tossed far above, as the biting wind whined through their tops. The boys realised their best plan now was to make for the nearest shelter, or they were liable to be overtaken by a blizzard on the mountains, and so lose their way. Swifter and faster swirled the snow; it shut them off completely from everything, blinding them and stinging their faces like fine needles. Nothing but vapour and clouds all about, and they were off the main trail. They forged on ahead, climbing bravely up and up, sliding back at each step, but clinging to small spruces to keep from slipping.
THE PANTHER CROUCHED AT THE FOOT OF THE LADDER, MAKING UP ITS MIND TO CLIMB.THE PANTHER CROUCHED AT THE FOOT OF THE LADDER, ...MAKING UP ITS MIND TO CLIMB.
"Do you know where we are, Tom?" called Ned, trying to keep up with his elder brother, slipping over rocks, plunging down into deep gullies and over great fallen spruces.
"Not sure," called back Tom, above the howling gale. "We can't begin to get down the mountain, though, to-night. Look ahead; it's almost dark now. I hope we can strike the old mountain house, that is, if it isn't blown down. We'll try; come on." This old mountain house had originally been built for a cattle shelter, to protect the stock which ranged across the clearings in autumn. A desolate, barn-like structure upon the summit of Cushman which the fierce storms had done their best to demolish.
"I see it," called back Tom. "Look! It's right ahead—a big black thing; it's the mountain house all right. Brace up; we've got to get inside. We're in luck to strike even this crazy old place." The old house, black and forlorn, stood there, its windows gone; through its empty casements the wind howled and whined. The flooring of loose planks flapped and tipped as the boys stepped inside. There was a rude loft, some timbers thrown across beams, where hay had been stored; against one side stood a rickety ladder.
"Wish we could start a fire; I'm nearly frozen," spoke Ned.
"No matches, anyhow and no fireplace in this old shebang," replied Tom regretfully. "Tell you what: perhaps we can find some hay left up in the loft and make a bunk; it would keep us warmer than staying down here."
They climbed up the ladder, and creeping cautiously over the wabbling beams upon their hands and knees, they collected enough coarse hay to make a small bunk, selecting the most sheltered corner where the boards were closest. Here, snuggling in the hay, they ate their last doughnut. The place was dark and still inside; as the storm raged, and rattled the old building, it seemed as if it would be whirled off the top of the mountain at the very next blast.
"Guess we shan't sleep much up here," commented Ned dejectedly. "Gee, I'm hungry; wish we hadn't been such pigs and eaten up our lunch so soon."
"Well, we might as well turn in and try to get a few naps; though if the storm keeps up I don't know how we'll get through in the morning," replied Tom. They snuggled down in the hay in their bunk upon the precarious scaffolding, being careful not to move about lest they might fall below, and at last went to sleep. While they slumbered the fierceness of the storm abated, the moon came out and little twinkly, cold stars shone in through the roof above them.
Suddenly, a swift tap, tapping sound beneath on the old flooring awoke the boys. What could it be? Then, by the moonlight which shone through the windows, they suddenly spied a young buck deer which had leaped into the room below and stood panting, head raised, listening, watching.
"Look, Ned! It's a deer," hissed Tom, spying it first. "It's been running; hear it pant. It'safraid. See it stand watching for something. Look! look! it's going to jump out that back window. Something's chasing it. Oh, look, look!" As they peered down a great cat-like figure appeared in the opening of the window, crouching there and glaring inside. It was a huge tawny panther. Its wicked-looking head was thrust forward, and its eyes shone like living coals. The deer, off and away by this time, had escaped. Then, to the great dismay of the boys, the panther sprang lightly into the room beneath them, and they clung to each other in terror, for the next instant the beast had lifted its great flat head, giving a baffled yell of rage which shook the old rafters. To their horror, instead of chasing the deer, it began to lope about the old building, snuffling from side to side, finally halting at the foot of the ladder, and gazing up curiously at the two trembling boys, sighting them as they crouched together on the rickety scaffolding.
"It's a panther, ain't it?" whispered Ned shakily. "And can't they climb?"
"Yep," replied Tom briefly, fussing over the old gun. "Say, crawl over to the ladder, Ned, and knock it down somehow, can't you, while I load the gun. Quick! Don't be scared. I'll fire before you get there."
"S'pose it climbs upbeforeI get there?" hissed Ned shakily, not liking the job very well.
"It won't—not if you hurry. Go now, now, Ned, quick!" ordered Tom.
Meantime, the panther still crouched at the foot of the ladder, staring up at the boys with its wicked yellow eyes, evidently making up its mind to climb into the loft. Cautiously Ned began to creep over the beams to the ladder. Oh, if he could only reach it in time! Would Tom never get the gun loaded and fire? What if a beam should slip, and let him down below? Ned lay out flat upon the shaking beam; he succeeded in reaching the top of the ladder, then, putting all his strength into his arms, he gave it a swift shove, and it fell below with a crash. Just then the old gun rang out; the kick which it gave sent Tom sprawling backward into the hay. As Tom hoped, he had shot the beast; the panther gave another yell. Before the smoke cleared Tom missed Ned; at the same time he heard a faint call. But from where? Where had Ned vanished? Could it be that he had fallen down through the shaking beams to the floor belowwiththe panther?
"Quick, Tom, help, help!" called Ned. "I can't hold on any longer; my wrist's hurt." Then Tom saw what had really happened. Ned had slipped through the timbers and hung down below the loft, clinging to a beam with his hands. If he let go, he would fall to the floor below. So, leaping like a cat over the shaking beams, Tom had soon pulled Ned up on to the platform.
"Gee, that was a close shave, all right," grunted Tom, quickly reloading the gun, while Ned bade him hurry, for he just knew the panther would jump into the loft. "He don't have to wait for any ladder to climb up here."
Right across a wide streak of moonlight crept the panther, and then Tom, aiming for its gleaming eyes, fired the old gun again.
"Don't miss him this time, Tom," warned Ned tensely, "or he'll get us."
"Bang!" The trusty gun rang out once more, and the boys distinctly heard the sounds of a wild scuffling down upon the old, loose flooring below.
"Guess I fixed himthen," said Tom triumphantly. The panther gave a baffled howl of pain and rage, and deciding that the place was no spot to tarry in, it leaped out and disappeared.
"You hit him! I know you did," declared Ned admiringly.
"Had to; it was my last shot," replied Tom, wiping his damp forehead with his jacket sleeve. "And say, Ned, I call it a narrow escape."
"Think he'll come back?" asked Ned rather huskily, nursing his wrist.
"No, not to-night; he's scared stiff, I think; a good thing, too," grinned Tom. "See, it's almost daylight; he won't come back before night, I guess."
The boys climbed stiffly down from the loft. To their joy the snow crusts held up, and they soon struck the main trail, reaching camp in time for breakfast. When they returned home, a lumberman was sent with them, for the story of their brave fight with the huge panther had excited much interest in camp and they found themselves heroes.
All the remainder of that winter, the farmers were troubled for the safety of their stock, as soon as they heard there was a panther on the mountain. Strangely enough, it never appeared again in the valley, and some even doubted that the boys had actually seen a full-grown panther. The following spring hunters came across the dead panther in its lair, just above Vulture Cliff. Tom's last shot had put an end to it—the last panther ever seen on Cushman Range.
Nemox, the fisher, who lived in the hollow of a great pine tree in the depths of the marsh country, lay stretched out flat upon a lofty limb of his home tree, intently watching a clumsy black figure which shuffled through the aisles of the pines far beneath him.
He thought the black, shadowy figure must be Moween, the black bear, but not feeling quite certain about it, Nemox peeped down over the limb curiously, hanging over as far as he dared, keeping his position upon the limb by digging his claws in deeply. His eyes sparkled maliciously and cunningly as he made sure that it actually was Moween herself. Then he knew she had come straight from her den up on Porcupine Ridge to forage for food, because down below, on the needle-strewn floor of the forest, Moween knew she could find plenty of prey for the taking. Close hidden beneath the low-hanging branches of the spruce bush, she sometimes came across a frightened partridge, and the roots of the pines were simply riddled with rabbit burrows. One might always rout out a sleepy hedgehog or two, if there chanced to be nothing better, for Moween knew the secret of avoiding its terrible quills and searching out the creature's weak spot without injury to her own snout. So while Moween rummaged about, waddling in and out among the bushes, snuffing and grunting as she threw over a rotting log with her great padded foot, Nemox, the crafty one, continued to watch her and think deeply. Very well he knew that the old mother bear had left her two innocent furry little cubs back in her den, up on the side of the mountain. Nemox, the fisher, in one of his cat-like rambles, had run across them one day, just outside their door, cuffing each other about, and rolling over each other like kittens, as their mother watched them fondly. Well Nemox knew that the two cubs were still too young to follow their mother long distances, or down the steep ledges, so of course, he reasoned, they must be at home, alone and unprotected, this very minute.
Instantly Nemox had made his plans, and while the little black mother bear had buried her whole head in a hollow log, hoping to find honey, Nemox began to slide and claw himself down out of the pine tree, being careful, of course, to climb down upon the far side that Moween should not spy him. Then, like a fleet shadow, he slipped off through the thick underbrush, and following the wide swath of the mother bear's trail, he set out for her den.
Everybody knows that Nemox, the fisher, is the craftiest, most savage and powerful fighter of his age in the marshes, and most of his kindred feared him, giving him a wide berth. Nemox belonged to the cat family, and was sometimes called "the black cat of the woods." Sinuous of body and not unlike his cousin the weasel, only larger, he could readily leap forty or fifty feet, and always landed, cat-like, upon his prey. To all this was added great knowledge of woodcraft and reasoning powers, for the clever fisher had easily studied out the fact that the bear had left her cubs unprotected. No wonder then that the fisher was reckoned as a terror of the marsh country, for it took the craftiest of the wild to outwit him.
In and out between the rocky ledges and tall ferns, always heading for the bear's den, travelled Nemox, and just as he drew near the spot where the little mother bear had cleverly hidden her den, he came right upon the little cubs, who were just outside the entrance of the den, and lay rolling over each other, having a regular frolic, cuffing at a swarm of black butterflies which fluttered about the milkweed blossoms. But the pretty sight of the round furry babies of Moween at play did not for an instant touch the cruel heart of the fisher, who merely bared his sharp teeth as he hid behind a convenient blackberry bush, watching them.
With twitching tail and whiskers, cat-like, the fisher began to creep stealthily towards his prey, flattening his lithe body and keeping out of sight as he crept nearer and nearer the innocent cubs. A swift dart, and he shot straight through the air and launched himself upon one of the cubs, while the other one sat up in amazement and began to whimper like a frightened child. Soon Nemox was busy with tooth and nail over the limp carcass of the cub, when suddenly his keen ear caught the sound of a stealthy pad, pad, pad; so light a footstep it was that no one but Nemox could have heard it. Instantly, fearing the return of the mother bear, Nemox left the wounded cub, for he had no notion of letting Moween, the angry mother, catch him at his cruel work, as well Nemox knew that with one blow of her great paw, armed with its lance-like claws, she could strike him to earth. He realised he would be no match for her unless he chanced to catch her napping.
So the fisher drew off, watching his chances from a safe distance, for, if the truth were known, Nemox was in some respects, unless cornered, cowardly. He slunk into the shadow of a dark ledge, where his dark fur blended so well with the gloom that he remained completely concealed. He realised that he had taken himself off just in time, for the next instant the tall brakes were thrust aside; but instead of the mother bear making her appearance, who should peer out but Eelemos, the fox. Very cautiously the fox came forth from the bushes, and peered out in rather surprised fashion upon the scene before him; the badly wounded cub, and the other one, who still whimpered and whined helplessly, crying for its mother. Now the fox chanced to be very hungry, and the sight of the wounded cub tempted him. So he crept warily forward, his yellow eyes all agleam, and so intent was the fox upon the coming feast that he paid no attention to the other cub's little whine of joy and recognition as a great, black, furry bulk fairly tore its way through the thick jungle. Mad with rage and fear Moween's little red eyes flashed with anger as she caught sight of the fox and her wounded cub, and with one great bound she was upon him, growling terribly, and then, before the fox could even defend himself, the mother bear had laid him low, and soon all that remained of the proud, sly fox was just a battered red pelt, and a bedraggled, limp brush. Then Moween went back to attend to the little wounded cub, uttering low whines of distress, and lapping it tenderly, trying to revive it.
All this time Nemox, the fisher, was peering out at her from a crack in the ledge, and he had seen the awful fate of Eelemos, the fox, and was very thankful he had got away from the den just in time. Now the fisher had not chanced to select the best spot for his hiding-place, for at the back of the ledge was the home of Unk-Wunk, the hedgehog, who had been asleep inside all the time, curled up in a round ball, until, finally, Nemox had so crowded him that he became impatient and suddenly unrolling himself, just to teach the intruder better manners, he gave him a smart slap across his sneaky pointed snout with his dreadful quilly tail. Nemox was so taken by surprise that, stifling his angry snarls so the mother bear might not hear him, he sneaked back home to the pine forest, his snout full of sharp quills, and spent most of the night spitting crossly and trying to pull them out of his burning flesh.
Next morning, bright and early, Nemox started off hunting once more. He climbed many trees looking for game, but in vain; he even found no partridges roosting down in lower branches, as usual, for already they had left their nightly haunts. At last Nemox reached the foot of a giant larch tree, and right in the top of its branches he spied a great loose bundle of leaves and twigs.
"Ah," thought Nemox, "the hawks have a young family up there, or possibly there are eggs in the nest; so much the better," for Nemox loved eggs almost more than a young hawk. Very hungry was Nemox by this time, so he began to climb the tree. At last he reached a limb where he could peer into the nest. He was thankful that the old hawks were away, for there were eggs in the nest. Nemox knew he must hasten, for a brooding hawk is never long away from her eggs. Flattening himself close to the limb Nemox crawled to it, and had just sampled one egg when, with a sudden, wild rush of whirling wings, the mother hawk landed right upon his back, digging her sharp talons into his quivering flesh, as he snarled and spit and tore in her grasp. Finally, with a swift twist of his agile body, Nemox managed to reach the throat of the hawk, and in spite of the beating wings, which nearly thrashed the breath from his body, Nemox clung and clung to the hawk's throat, until they both fell to earth. And then Nemox had his first decent meal for days, and afterwards he climbed up to the nest and finished off the eggs, which he did not forget.
Now high above the nest of the hawk, and over towards the lake, stood a lonely hemlock tree, its limbs broken off by storm after storm. Upon the summit of this tree Quoskh, the great blue heron, came year after year to build her nest and raise her brood. From her high nest, where she sat with the young herons, now just out of their pin-feather age, the mother heron could plainly look down upon her neighbour the hawk, and saw all the terrible tragedy which took place. She saw the dark, slim body of Nemox, the robber of the marshes, as he battled with the mother hawk, and then the end of it all. Quoskh, the heron, was afraid for her own young, so much so that for a long while afterwards she dreaded to leave them alone long enough to fly off after food. Soon, however, they became large enough to fly to the lake with her, and she was glad. But Quoskh never forgot about the hateful fisher, and always hoped that some day she might get the better of him.
Right in the heart of the marsh-land lay Black Lake. Spread out like a sheet of molten lead it lay, its lonely waters walled about by thick jungles of sedge and cat-tails; a desolate spot, seldom visited by man, but known and haunted by all the kindred of the wild. You might trace their well-worn trails through the swamp on all sides. Here came Moween, the black bear, and her one cub, for the other she had lost. The sharp teeth of Nemox had done their work. On the edge of the lake Unk-Wunk, the porcupine, loved to loaf, digging out lily roots, and towards night, when shadows crept over the water, Nemox, the fisher, would sneak down, hoping to trap some little wild thing.
One day about twilight, when the little herons were half-grown, a large colony of herons came to the lake. It was approaching time for their annual colonizing plans, and they always meet and talk it over. Down they flocked in droves, on wide azure wings, calling to each other their lonely salute, "Quoskh, quoskh." And after standing on the pebbly shore solemnly upon one foot for a while, at a signal they all began to dance a most fantastic sort of a dance, which is called "the heron dance." Many were the curious eyes watching the strange dance of the herons. Among them was Nemox, the fisher, who almost forgot to hide himself, so taken up in watching the herons was he. However, as he watched them a sudden fascinating odour came to his nostrils and he forgot everything else—it was catnip.
Soon he reached the bed of catnip, all silvery green leaves, sparkling with dew. He nibbled and ate, until finally, overcome completely by the fascinating odour, he simply lay down and rolled about, purring like a cat for sheer delight. He felt dreamy and care-free. But just as he was enjoying himself supremely, down floated the wide wings of Quoskh, the great blue heron, and with two stabs of her sword-like beak she had blinded Nemox, and with her wings beaten the breath completely out of his body.
Then, triumphantly, the heron spread her great blue wings and flew off into the twilight, calling "Quoskh, quoskh, quoskh" to her mate across the silence of the marshes.
THE BOTOLPHPRINTING WORKS,8, GATE STREET,KINGSWAY, W.C.2