Part 4

The work was so briskly done, that it was indeed completed before the admiring circle could gasp out its astonishment. While the chips and the saw-dust were flying, Major Wolf was moved to observe in the most pious tones:

"How marvelous that these poor little cousins of ours, these smaller, gnawing creatures (if I may call them such without hurting their feelings) should alone be able to serve the purposes of us more noble beasts."

And he waved his paw to include the bear and the panther in the nobility.

But the gentle Mrs. Deer knew what a terrible hypocrite Major Wolf was. And she moved with her children to the other side of the meeting; for she had watched his mouth water even as he spoke such wonderful sentiments.

The squirrel was boring away at the great giant's limbs, carving and cutting; and even the slow old turtle, with his powerful nippers, was pruning the tangle of vines from the feet.

But the morning was close at hand. The wood creatures had barely enough time to complete their work and scamper off. They crouched in the bushes to await the effect of their scheme. And even though they knew the giant was no giant at all, but just a great, dead tree, they were awestruck at the result of their work.

As if to add to the strength of their purpose, the sun was rising in a terrible glory of red, with the blackest of clouds all round.

It was terrible. The red light of the morning, through the gaping mouth and awful eyes, the waving arms and the immensity of the giant were frightful.

The wood-cutters came. But only one of them got as far as the tree. With a howl of fear, he turned and fled, dropping his ax as he ran. He told of the awful giant with eyes and mouth of fire, and the others refused to come near.

The animals were greatly elated; but the wisest of them knew that some day the foolish wood-cutters would find out the truth. And such was the case; although it was a long, long time, and the great giant which the animals made warded off their enemies for many a year.

X

MRS. FOX AND THE EIDER-DUCK EGGS

Once upon a time the animals who live away up North, in the cold Arctic regions, came together for a feast in celebration of their blessings. The bears, the wolves, the minks, the sables, even the big, spluttery seals that swim in the icy water, were all on hand to make a great noise, singing and shouting and devouring the things that they all loved to eat.

All were there except Mrs. Fox, and why she was not invited no one knew. Maybe Mr. Penguin, who wrote the invitations, was responsible for the omission, but at any rate it is a fact that the fox family was left out in the cold.

Of course, Mrs. Fox felt herself sorely slighted. She and her six children came near enough, however, to learn that after the celebration and the dance, which was to be held on the ice floor of the Bear palace, there was to be a great supper in Mrs. Bear's kitchen. It was to be a feast of the eggs of the eider-duck. A supper, needless to say, that any bear or fox would travel night and day to enjoy.

On the night of the feast Mrs. Fox crept quietly up to the bears' house.

Mrs. Bear and all the ladies were in the bedroom, brushing down their rich winter suits, and prinking away to look their best before going down to meet the other guests. And, of all things, they were gossiping about Mrs. Fox! Just because she wasn't there (as they thought), they were speaking of her in the most slighting terms. It seemed as if they were all talking at once; but Mrs. Fox, whose ear was close to the chimney, could hear Mrs. Wolf's deep voice distinctly.

"That old coat of Mrs. Fox's is the shabbiest I have ever seen," she was saying in her severest tone. "One would think that a woman of her build, slinky and queer as it is, would put on white every winter. I would wear white myself if I didn't think this handsome gray of mine an elegant thing the year round."

They all agreed that Mrs. Wolf was indeed very elegant, and that Mrs. Fox was very shabby. Little Miss Ermine, who, as all the world knows, has the finest white coat in the world, piped up shrill and cross:

"Right you are, Mrs. Wolf. White's the thing in winter, but only for those adapted to it. It scarcely becomes every one."

At this she made a great showing of her own dainty figure, cutting several merry dance figures before the mirror.

Mrs. Fox had heard enough. She waited for the ladies to go downstairs to the great room where all the gentlemen sat about. She knew what they would do. There would be wonderful speeches by the biggest and oldest bears, about the midnight sun and other blessings; the walrus would make a long speech, too, mostly about seaweed and fish; and then, after a dance or two, they would all come trooping out to the kitchen. Old Uncle Penguin would make a very long prayer, and everybody would eat until he could eat no more.

Mrs. Fox was very angry. She resolved that there should be no supper for her mean, back-biting friends.

Cautiously she felt her way down the sides of the cliff which was the outside of Mrs. Bear's great house. As she expected, the eider-duck eggs were in a basket suspended from the pantry window. Quick as a flash she ran back for her children, and in another minute they were all beside her on the roof of Mrs. Bear's kitchen.

"Old Mrs. Sloth, who cooks for Mrs. Bear, is sound asleep by the fire. Don't wake her up. And do just what I tell you to," whispered Mother Fox.

The little foxes held their breath.

"Stand in a line! Now each one of you take hold of the next one's tail. Each of you except little Fuzzypaw. He's the quickest and the lightest and he is going to run up and down the ladder which the rest of you will make, and bring me those eggs, one by one. Just grip each other's tails as tight as you can, and don't make a sound!"

It was no sooner said than done. One after another the eggs were brought up to the edge of the roof by the little fox, who ran up and down the ladder as nimbly as a weasel. Mrs. Fox stowed the eggs away carefully in a brand-new basket she had brought with her, and in a few minutes the basket by Mrs. Bear's pantry window was quite empty.

Then off through the big woods the little foxes trotted gaily behind their mother.

What happened when the supper party found that it had no supper, Mrs. Fox never knew. For while Mrs. Bear and her guests were reduced to confusion and disappointment, the foxes were at home roasting eggs by the fire, and sitting up to all hours in the jolliest fashion.

The next year Mrs. Fox was invited. Old Mr. Wolf, who knew a thing or two, thought it would be the wisest thing to ask her. So all the other animals agreed; and Mrs. Fox never found society in the Arctic Circle more cordial than after the season it ignored her and she stole the eggs of the eider-duck from Mrs. Bear.

XI

SUNNY GOURD AND LADY TRUMPET-VINE

Very much out of the beaten track--in fact, only to be approached by an old road that had long fallen into disuse--stood a neglected cabin, a poor weather-beaten thing with sunken roof and decaying timbers.

Its door-yard had already begun to grow the young pine trees which come up in great plumes of long, green needles; and the little garden plot, which used to boast its vegetables, had become a mass of brambles and nettles.

"How sad this all is," the poor little cabin used to sigh. "Although I suppose it is better to be harboring rabbits and squirrels, and to have my beams plastered up with nests, than to have no living thing enjoy my shelter. Still, I wish spring when it comes would bring people to unlock my door and children to fill these poor little rooms with their laughter."

For the cabin could remember many children that had lived there, and sometimes it seemed to him that he heard them again, playing in the nearby woods, or running and calling down the road.

Sometimes he did hear such voices, for people often passed the cabin on the way to a distant plantation, and children were as likely to be among them as not.

But the squirrels and the rabbits had it pretty much their own way with the deserted cabin, running in and out beneath the underpinning; and the only noise around the place was that of Mrs. Yellowhammer when she came pounding at the roof for what the decayed old shingles might conceal.

"I declare, you poor old house!" the energetic bird would say. "It's terrible how the worms are eating at your timbers and shingles." Whereat she would fall to and nearly pound the life out of the poor old cabin, in her determination to get all there was.

But Mrs. Yellowhammer and the rabbits that danced in the moonlight were not the only visitors, for often in the summer time came the humming-birds to visit the trumpet-vine which covered nearly all of one end of the structure.

"I am the saving grace, the chief beauty of this establishment," the Lady Trumpet would say. "And I know it."

"Of course you are," Mrs. Yellowhammer would reply. "And it was a great mistake that you were ever planted here. A lady of your elegance, among such weeds and common things, and at the very edge of nowhere!"

"Oh, I don't mind it much, although we have little company now. But who's this coming this very minute?"

Sure enough, a man was passing. And he came through the old door-yard straight up to the cabin steps and stood there a minute, and then was gone. But not before he had thrown something over his shoulder which lighted with a dry rattle, like that of corn, in at the base of the old chimney.

"What a queer thing to do!" thought Lady Trumpet-Vine, thereby speaking her own mind and that of the cabin as well.

"Not at all," suddenly spoke up Mr. Rabbit. "That man is throwing seed over his left shoulder for his luck. I've seen it done before. And I'm glad he doesn't want my left hind foot, or whatever it is that such people like to carry in their pockets for good luck."

Immediately Mrs. Yellowhammer, who had been screaming to her friend, Red-necked Woodpecker, to come and enjoy this mystery, flew down to inspect the seeds which lay on the soil at the foot of the chimney. And Mr. Rabbit scampered to get to the spot also.

They looked long and hard at the little brown things; then Mr. Rabbit tried biting one of them.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed. "Bitter as poison!"

"I never taste things I am in doubt about," Mrs. Yellowhammer declared; "but I'm not a seed-eater anyway. What does Mr. Bob-White think they are?"

For a dapper little partridge was on the scene now, turning his head this way and that as he squinted at the mysterious seeds.

"Gourds!" he finally pronounced them. "Gourd seed. No good for eating. Even a sparrow wouldn't touch them."

Then the birds flew off and Mr. Rabbit skipped rope with himself all around the yard, for he wanted to restore his spirits; this curious incident having for a second clouded his buoyant nature.

This happened in the very early spring, before even a leaf was showing on Lady Trumpet-Vine, and before even a purple wood violet had shown herself in the borders of the deserted garden. Rains came; long ones that drenched the earth and gullied the roads. The eaves of the cabin dripped and dripped night and day, and it was not long before great puddles lay by the sunken door-step, and were soaking down into the roots of everything.

"What a pity there's nothing but weeds and those low-down gourd seeds to be benefited by all this!" sighed the Lady Trumpet. "I shall probably flower generously this year. But what's the use?"

Then she would grow very sad as the rain increased and out of the dark skies came the heavy south winds.

But when the sky cleared, the gourd seeds had sunk out of sight. That was good luck for them. Deeper down they went and at last their first little roots were feeling the rich soil that no plant had enjoyed in many a year. Then two bright green leaves, laden with halves of the old seed coverings, came up.

The glistening earth was trying to dry itself in the sunshine, and the jolly Woodpecker was looking out of his window in the trunk of the old cherry-tree.

"Well, I'm a crow!" he exclaimed, "or there are those gourd seeds up and out of bed so soon!"

He was so delighted with this that he told his wife; and soon all the other people around the poor neglected place were flying and running to take a look.

The little fellows, very sturdy and determined, were holding their leaves out exactly as if they were spreading their palms upward to catch the sunlight in their hands.

Time went on and the seeds became vines. The old chimney, built of sticks and mud, and very unsightly, was revived to new feelings.

"Not since my supper fires went out have I felt so much alive," it moaned as though it would like to be really pleased.

"If only I could smoke again, I should feel completely contented."

Soon the chimney and the eaves were green with gourd vine. Summer was underway, with its long hot mornings and its wonderful nights. Lady Trumpet-Vine was covered with buds, and she was already telling of how she would be visited by all the most beautiful creatures in the world.

"But nobody'll visit your flowers," she said to the gourd vine. "Nobody wants to. You're a bitter, ugly, common vine. That's what you are."

"I have some very respectable relatives, just the same," sang out Sunny Gourd, determined not to be utterly demeaned. "There's Mr. Watermelon and Mr. Cucumber. They are very well esteemed, you know. I think they are appreciated perhaps almost as much as you are."

"But not for their beauty, my dear," was the retort. "I am loved by all the world for my magnificence. Birds and men know beauty when they see it. Trust me in that."

Then, almost in anger, such was her queenly pride, Lady Trumpet burst a few of her buds. The full open flowers were wonderful, and a perfume exhaled from them which made her neighbor dizzy.

"It's no use," Sunny Gourd sighed. "I can't do that. My flowers are merely little no-account white things. No perfume to speak of. But I don't care, I've reached the roof anyway, and I can look up at the sky and watch the birds in these trees, and have a good time to myself. And I can look at you, too, Mrs. Trumpet."

The stately vine waved her tendrils and fanned herself gently. She couldn't help seeing that this gourd person was at least polite.

But the hardest thing in the world to bear is the idea that you are of no use to anybody. And it was this which hurt the robust gourd vine. Not a bird came for honey, and yet they hovered in ecstasy over Lady Trumpet. Humming-birds, as brilliant as flashing gems, came whirring like rays from a diamond shot from the sky. They would plunge their long beaks deep into the flowers to get the nectar, and then dart away, only to return again for more. Other beautiful creatures came to the deserted garden and sang madly with delight, simply trying to make their melody as intoxicating as Lady Trumpet's perfume.

But they studiously avoided Sunny Gourd. His leaves, big and green and very rough, and his sinewy stems, his modest flowers and the bitter juice of them, were odious to everybody. Yet he was green as emerald, and he had made a picture of his end of the cabin.

"But the birds, how I love them!" he kept saying to himself. "And they will have none of me!"

At last, however, to his great consolation, there came a little green bee to visit him.

"Well, well!" it buzzed. "Here you are! Just what I want!"

And the little visitor tried to hang in every flower. His visits lasted all day.

"Yes, I'm only a low ground bee," he remarked, after Sunny Gourd had confided in him. "Those aristocratic honey-bees don't recognize me at all. But I don't care. And you mustn't care. The birds will be mightily obliged to you yet."

And without a word more, he was off. Nor would this handsome little fellow ever explain what he meant. He would only say: "You just wait!"

Nor were there many weeks of waiting. For the autumn came, and the pinch of cold nights with it. Things began to shrivel, but the wonderful fruit of the gourd vine turned from green to yellow; lovely as gold. Sunny Gourd had produced a hundred dippers: some with handles curled and long, some straight as rulers, and some that were short and thick. They hung in yellow companies from the eaves trough, or they clustered over the roof. The best of them grew against the chimney, and yet all were as gourds should be, stout of shell and beautifully rounded.

"Very strange!" Lady Trumpet remarked. "Almost impressive. But I'm glad I don't have to do it. My seed pods are elegance itself, and yet they do not obtrude themselves that way. I call it vulgar."

But others thought differently. People began to go that way just to see the house that was covered with gourds, and in the last days, as the sap was drying in the vines, Sunny Gourd found that he was attracting much attention.

Yet he was not to guess just the thing that was to happen.

One day the man who had thrown the seeds for luck, returned. And he took but one delighted look.

Soon there was much going on and the old cabin came back to life again. And, just as the chimney hoped, it was smoking once more. There were children running around the weedy garden, and voices and laughter brought back the happiness so long gone. The blue-jays and the yellowhammers greeted the newcomers with delight, and Lady Trumpet could only wish that they had seen her in her July glory. But to Sunny Gourd happened the best of it all; for the man cut many of the gourds into bird houses and hung them to a pole which he planted by the door.

Then came the martins to build, losing no time at all. The beautiful yellow gourds hung high and happy, their hollow shells sheltering a dozen beautiful birds. And the best of the gourds, the one with the longest handle, which had swung clear of the door lintel all summer long, and had ripened to a magnificent color, was hung by the well. It made a dipper fit for a king; that is, if the king were a very good man.

Sunny Gourd knew no words for his happiness. And it was joy, not the cold of the winter nights, to which he at last succumbed.

"That's the way with this wonderful world," said Mr. Mocking-bird. "And I thought he was beautiful all along."

"And think what he did for me," the cabin kept saying.

So that even the proud Lady Trumpet knew her place at last, and she honestly hoped the dear Sunny Gourd would come back in the spring.

XII

THE END OF THE TIMBER WOLF

Far away to the North, where the great rocky capes point out through the sea toward the land where it is always snow and ice, there lived two shepherds whose little huts were almost the only habitations in many and many a mile of trackless forest. To be sure, they were within traveling distance of a market town. For had there been no place for trading the wonderful white wool which they sheared every spring from their sheep, there would have been no object in their living in a place so uncouth where year in and year out there were only the grandeurs of earth and sky and the thunderous roar of the seas to keep them company.

But the shepherds and their families were not unhappy, and the chances are that if you took them southward over sea and land to the great cities they would only have longed to go back to their own cloudy skies, to their wind-swept pastures, and the steep cliffs where the sea-gulls nest. And it is certainly true that their little boys and girls would never have been content to have stayed away very long from the faithful dogs, who are the most important members in a shepherd home. And it is of these dogs and what they did to the last of the wolves that the shepherds were always telling. For the memory of a brave act is slow to die; and when you add sagacity to bravery, putting wits with strength, you have something which men love to relate.

One of the dogs was Dan, and that was a suitable name, for he was what his master called "long-headed." The other was Denmark, for he was so great and powerful and possessed of so wonderful a voice and appetite, that both by power and dignity he resembled his people, the noble Danes, and no name in the world could fit him better than that of his native land.

Denmark had come to this far-away settlement when a ship from the Danish ports had gone to pieces in a storm below the cliffs. And the shepherds had taken him home. A dog that could swim ashore in such a storm as that had been, when the waves turned to ice as they dashed against the rocks, was a dog worth keeping.

But Denmark was not a shepherd dog. His shiny coat of black, his heavy build, with a neck as powerful as a young bull's, and his great square jaws made him at first sight a dog to be feared. But he was gentle and wanted to play and sport like any puppy, as soon as he had recovered from the shock of shipwreck and his icy hour in the water. But there was no one to play with in the family of the fisherman who had first rescued him from the water. And that worthy man, who was a brave and silent sort, was gone from home so long at a time that he was not sorry when the great Dane betook himself to another home.

Some children were passing the fisherman's hut one morning in early spring, on their way to gather wild flowers which grew in the crevices and little sheltered nooks of the headlands. They were laughing and chasing one another and singing. That was all the great dog wanted to hear, for he had lived a solemn and uneventful life during these weeks that he had lain around the fisherman's place. And the fisherman had not dreamed of entertaining his guest. He had not played tag in sixty years and you may be sure he was not going to begin again for the sake of a great overgrown dog.

Denmark introduced himself to the children in what he thought was a playful way; but his voice was so terrible that the children were at first terror-stricken. They had never seen any dogs except the beautiful Scottish kind which the shepherds keep. They screamed and ran in fear, taking up stones as if to throw them. But Denmark was not discouraged. At first he kept his distance, but he followed; and, once they were out on the green pastures that sloped and curved down to the steep shore, he began his most enticing efforts to please.

The children forgot all about their wild flowers then, and they romped and played for hours with the dog. Of course they took him home.

In this new home Denmark was a neighbor of Dan, the wise shepherd dog, who came to be his lifelong friend; for the shepherds did not live very far apart, and it was easy for the dogs to get together, as they always did at odd times of night and very early in the morning, when they would go far afield in a mad chase for rabbits or on the trail of a fox.

Every one had thought the two would fight when they met, but the shepherd dog only stood off on his dignity a few seconds, and then he spoke to the great Dane in the most courteous tones, which the Scotch can always employ to such effect. He well knew that he was no match for the gigantic stranger and he saw no necessity for making a fool of himself; besides he really was more than glad to find such a companion.