Part 7

Presently, while they were walking down the corridor, the merriest music burst on Virginia's ear. In a room all to themselves, the rabbits were rehearsing for a minstrel show. They were dancing in the most giddy fashion, and she could not help laughing aloud as she watched them.

But as she laughed, something happened, and the cat, who had just opened his mouth to say something, closed it with a sudden look of disappointment.

"You see, she spilled the berries, and fell asleep while trying to pick them up."

It was a familiar voice. Virginia turned around. Her mother and big brother and little sister were kneeling beside her in the ferns. It was evening and she could hear the cows calling to be let through the farm gate.

"And I never said good-by to Mr. Red Fox!" she exclaimed. Then she rubbed her eyes and smiled, for they were all kissing her, and big brother was putting her on his shoulder.

Her strange experience she kept to herself for a long time. But she talked it all over with Tiger Kitty, and he seemed to understand it, every word. Most of all when she climbed the attic stairs and looked at the bird's nest, it was of blue worsted, as plain as plain could be.

And she was sure then and for the rest of her life that the birds and the flowers loved the old home with its trees and its gardens as much as she did.

And she always thought of sweet Lady Orchid when she gathered wild flowers.

XVI

WHY MRS. CROW IS BLACK

It was the dead of night. Old Mr. Fox left his cozy den and went to call on his friend, the wise old Mrs. Owl. For many years it had been his custom to do this, for he found her the most engaging company. Her home was in a hollow tree and she was always obliging enough to put her head out the window and inquire who was there, if any of her friends knocked hard and long at the basement door. It was useless to call in the daytime: she was always asleep while the sun shone, and in the early evening she would be abroad hunting her supper. But after the cocks crew at midnight, and people in their beds were turning over to get their best sleep, Mrs. Owl would come flying through the woods and across the river, and up the hill to her own great tree, having eaten heartily of whatever she may have found. Then she was ready to sit on her window ledge for a visit with her friends.

So it was very late, and the woods was still as death, when _patter, patter_, through the underbrush came Mr. Fox to call on Mrs. Owl. Arriving at the bridge across the river, he jumped nimbly to the hand-rail and trotted on that narrow board as easily as a cat walks over the fence. For he was sure some dog would pass that way, come morning, but no dog would ever scent the wise fox who walks the rail.

"Always sniffing at the ground, these foolish dogs," thought Mr. Fox; and he laughed to himself as he jumped down into the bushes and ran on to the hill and the great cottonwood tree, whither Mrs. Owl herself had just returned.

With a big stick he hit the tree a hard blow. Then he barked politely and sat down to wait.

Way up in the top of the dead tree the window was open. Two great eyes looked out.

"Who's there? Who's there?" came in the most dreadful tones.

"Only your friend, a brother thief," laughed Mr. Fox; for in the company of Mrs. Owl he could afford this slanderous admission.

"Ha, ha!" screamed Mrs. Owl, who didn't mind being called a thief at all. In fact, she laughed so hard and long that every living being asleep in those woods awoke and shivered with a sudden terror. For it was the laughter of Mrs. Owl, you know, that made the blacksnake's blood run cold, and never has he been able to warm it up again, even by lying all day in the sun.

She scratched her ear and leaned a little farther out. After controlling her mirth, she grew very solemn and whispered down to Mr. Fox that she had discovered but an hour ago a certain roost with the most enticing hole in the roof.

"Easy and safe, you know," she giggled. "Two broilers and a fowl I've had this very night." Then she laughed again, "Ha, ha! Hoo, hoo!"

But Mr. Fox knew she was lying. She was only trying to get him into trouble.

"Thanks for the hint," he barked; "but it is easier to get in by the roof than out by the roof, you know, unless one is gifted as you are with wings, Mrs. Owl."

"True, true," she said, in her wisest tones.

"And I really came, dear Mrs. Owl, to ask a question of you. Can you tell me why the crows are black?"

There was a long silence, for Mrs. Owl must have time to think. All things were known to her, but she revealed her knowledge only with the greatest deliberation.

First she looked all around, then she laughed again, this time so loud and long that Mr. Fox thought she never would have done, and at last she exclaimed:

"Why, Mr. Fox, the crows are black for just the same reason that you ought to be black and I ought to be black too."

At this Mr. Fox was puzzled, but as Mrs. Owl seemed to think it such a joke he joined in her laughter, and between them they made the most distressing noise.

"You see," she said at last, while she held her sides and caught her breath. "You see, the whole miserable lot of them, the crows, used to be as bright and giddy as overgrown humming-birds. Red, white, and blue, they were. They would have been the national bird, I'm told, but the eagle always takes that honor by his overbearing ways. For my part, such honors are doubtful. I'd rather stand for wisdom than for politics. But, be that as it may, the crows were once the gayest of the birds. It was their mad career of theft and murder which brought the change."

At this they both screamed with laughter again, and it was a long time before Mrs. Owl could resume her story.

"Complaints against the crows came from everywhere. The robins--bless their souls--the larks, the pigeons, and every family you ever heard of, were determined to do something to the crows for snatching their young ones and stealing their eggs.

"Of course, you know, similar complaints have been lodged against me," she added; "but the point is, my family was never caught. Besides, the crows get corn and such to eat, and the whole world felt that the crow was stepping out of his class, you know, when he took to eating birds and eggs and frogs. It was the greediness of an upstart family. That's what it was."

The very thought of this aspect of the case made Mrs. Owl so indignant that she screamed and hooted loud and long.

"It was all long, long ago," she said. "The birds met in a great meeting. Something had to be done, and it was thought that war would be declared and the crows would all be killed or driven to live on a lonely island. But somebody, Mrs. Yellowhammer, I think it was, put in a word in their favor. She was a tender-hearted fool and recalled something decent the crows had done. She said that they had left her a lot of acorns one cold winter, and she felt so much obliged to them. The crows would have been done to death except for what she said. There were two doves on the jury, too; and they're a weak and sentimental lot, you know. At any rate, the sentence which the judge, a wonderful old owl, pronounced, was to the effect that the crows must forever go in black. They had to fly all the way to Egypt, where the little people live, to get their clothes changed.

"Oh, it was hard for them. Poor Mrs. Crow could think of nothing to say but _Caught! Caught! Caught!_ and that grew to be _Caw! Caw! Caw!_ after a while. Sometimes I feel a little sorry for her and her family; but, as you know, they are very much down on me. I can't imagine why."

She winked a long green wink at Mr. Fox. For she knew, and he knew, that Mrs. Owl had that very night eaten all the little crows she could steal from their nests. And he knew that Mrs. Owl would never dare to fly abroad in daylight for the crows. Then both of them made the woods fairly shiver with their laughter.

But it was growing light, and Mrs. Owl and Mr. Fox both felt that a night well spent deserved a long day of sleep, so they parted and Mr. Fox went to his home, greatly pleased to know why the crows are black, and why they must forever say, "Caught! Caught! Caught!"

XVII

MRS. MUSKRAT'S POOR RELATIONS

Mrs. Muskrat owned a beautiful home of her own on the edge of the mill-pond. She had built the house years ago, and had kept it in the best of repair. It was cleverly concealed at a point where tufts of grass and overhanging bushes afforded protection, and at the same time it was well out in the pond, quite inaccessible to Mrs. Muskrat's enemies.

The roof rose like an inverted bowl over a circular wall of mud and sticks; and so neatly were the straws and sticks matted over the top that the house seemed at first glance to be but an accidental confusion of dried leaves and old branches. This was as it should be, for Mrs. Muskrat, like many persons of good taste, preferred to have a home of interior elegance and ease to one with merely a showy exterior.

It was autumn and Mrs. Muskrat was congratulating herself upon her well filled larder and the prospects of a comfortable winter.

"I am always glad," she would say to the neighbor that happened in, "I am always glad that I moved down here from that upper pond when I did. It was a poor place to live and one was in constant danger of the water's being drawn off. Those farmers are so inconsiderate you can never tell when they will take it into their heads to drain the meadows, and then it is all up with us poor creatures."

She would then continue her narrative, after the manner of many people who take interest in no affairs but their own, and would probably burden her caller with the full account of how she had prevailed upon her husband, the young Dr. Muskrat, to leave the shallows of the upper home and set up for himself on the edges of the deep and permanent mill-pond.

"And," she would always conclude, "a mill-pond is so very much more aristocratic--not to mention a much better growth of provisions. Personally, I love deep water, and the sound of the mill-wheel is dear to my heart. No; I shall never go back to the upper pond."

Always the neighbors knew that Mrs. Muskrat, in alluding to the elegance of the mill-pond society, was, in point of fact, repudiating her poor relations, who had gone on living in the distant meadows. For, like many people who move to the town and prosper, waxing fat and successful, she was given to a feeling of pity that sounded a good deal like contempt for the poor relatives back in the country.

Little did she realize what the winter was to bring forth as she swam in and out of her front door, crossing to the opposite shores and back, always bringing the tenderest roots and lily stalks for her winter provisions. She was very content with the world, although she regretted the departure of her best friend, Mrs. Thrush, whose nest was in the alders almost over her very head, and she was sorry that the turtles had found it necessary to retire into the deep mud for their winter's sleep.

The sun was bright, however, and cheerful sounds came from the fields where men were loading pumpkins into the farm wagon, and from the orchards came the laughter of merry boys gathering apples. This drew her attention to the old, neglected tree which grew on the bank of the pond. Its fruit was bright, and there was much of it, but it hung high.

"If only there comes a good brisk wind to-night," she thought, "those apples will blow to the ground; and I can think of nothing more to my taste than a bit of fresh fruit."

Hardly had she indulged these pleasant thoughts of good eating, when she was surprised to see a visitor approaching her house. It was none other than the leanest and poorest of her cousins from the upper pond. Something in his presence told her of trouble to come. And her first question was not at all too polite.

"Why, what on earth are you down here for?" exclaimed Mrs. Muskrat. "Haven't you anything to do at home? I should think you would be busy putting in your own winter stores."

Before she could get any further, her lanky cousin interrupted her.

"Yes, yes; you would naturally think, Cousin Flattail, that we would be as busy as you are. But we have no longer any home to store things in, and we are at the edge of winter with starvation ahead of us. Farmer Jones drew the pond off yesterday. Already the shores of our poor meadow are drained of every drop. Our house is high and dry and we shall freeze to death if we stay in it."

With that they both looked up, for in the quiet society of the mill-pond a great confusion reigned.

All the poor relations were coming down from the upper meadows! Cousins, uncles, aunts, and brothers-in-law. It was an invasion--muskrats big and muskrats little.

Mrs. Muskrat gave one look and then bobbed down into the water and rushed through her house to lock the back door, scuttling again to the front to secure her main entrance by seating herself directly across it.

"There now!" she chattered angrily. "I'll watch any of you get into this house!"

For in the confusion of things people are often more distracted than need be, and Mrs. Muskrat was behaving very ugly and selfish because she hadn't taken time to think. All her neighbors behaved in much the same way at first; but when they saw the poor little baby cousins and reflected upon what this misfortune meant to the children, their hearts softened, and one by one the doors were opened, and the families invited in different ways to make the best of it. They must all live through the winter somehow.

But what they thought was going to be the season of the greatest hardship turned out to be the most brilliant winter that the muskrats had ever known, and the cousins all concluded that they never before had really appreciated one another.

Most exceptional, indeed, was Mrs. Flattail Muskrat's good luck, for she chose to live with her the cleverest of her nephews, the lively little Skinny Muskrat, who proved to be a wonderful musician. Every evening of the long winter they had delightful parties and dances in the snug quarters of their homes. All about them would be solid ice, and overhead, around the roofs, the driven, packed snow; but within, where all was warm and snug, there was the greatest merriment.

Little Skinny Muskrat was in great demand. His aunt always went with him out to supper or to spend the evening. And it was surprising how much more she got out of her neighbors than ever she had enjoyed at their tables before the adoption of this charming nephew.

It was the usual thing to say after supper: "And now won't Skinny give us some music? He plays so beautifully on his toe-nails!"

So the obliging Skinny would blow through his nails and produce the scratchiest and most exciting dance tunes in the world.

So eagerly was his society sought, that Mrs. Muskrat at last hit upon the idea of inviting her neighbors in, but with the hint that they bring their suppers with them. This was the crowning achievement of her thrift, and she never ceased to congratulate herself upon having thought of it. For her house was full of food from top to bottom, and she became the most popular person in the happy group of Muskrat society.

But winter melted very slowly into spring. And the provisions for everybody were growing low. Day after day Muskratdom peeped out into the cold world that was still black and gray. Not a sign of anything green; not even a bluebird in the orchards. Little by little the muskrats grew thinner and it was harder to be gay. At last, just as they were wondering why they had ever eaten so merrily, and ever been so prodigal with what they had, and several of the muskrat elders were up-braiding them roundly in an effort to put the blame on some one, what should they hear but a robin! And in a few days the cowslips began to show the green tips of their leaves. Then at last the grass on the edge of the pond showed sweet and green where it had lived all winter under the heavy snows.

Their hard times were over! And in all the general rejoicing, nothing gave them greater happiness than to think they had all weathered it together.

Nor was Mrs. Muskrat sorry to hear of the immediate marriage of her nephew Skinny with one of the prettiest little lady muskrats in the mill-pond. She was thereby able to congratulate herself again. This time as a matchmaker. And so long as Mrs. Muskrat could be thinking of how clever, or how thrifty, she was, her happiness was complete.

But you may judge of her neighbors' surprise when she left her snug house in the mill-pond and went back with Skinny and his wife, and many of the relatives who moved to the meadows. Something told her that the roots and the grasses and the tender bulbs would be engagingly delicious when the waters came back on the meadows; and she was a wise old muskrat, for those who went back lived a long summer on the fat of the land. Here again she felt the wisdom of her course, and she ventured to be truly hospitable by urging her adopted relatives to return with her, upon the approach of winter, to the deep, warm pond.

That is why there is both a winter and a summer residence in the highest society the world over. It is a sad lot for the muskrats who have not both a pond and an upper meadow to enjoy suitably and in season, as the good earth intends it to be enjoyed. But this last remark is a bit of wisdom from the mouth of Mr. Owl, and we must credit him with it.

XVIII

MR. WILD GOOSE AND MRS. GREBE

Far, far out on a great prairie there is a wide river which flows lazily between its banks, apparently going nowhere at all, but in reality bearing steadily toward the rising sun and the deep valley where another river rolls mightily to the southward and the ocean. The prairie is not level like a floor, but rises and falls in ridges that are sometimes miles apart, and between these rolling heights of the grassy land are unnumbered little lakes: bodies of sparkling water hidden in the folds of the land.

It was over this vast stretch of plains that the great birds of the Arctic were winging their way one early morning in the late summer, for they had started to their winter quarters in good season.

"_Honk, honk!_" the leader of the birds kept calling; and as he trumpeted, those in the rear would answer him, for even as they flew they had much to talk of, and just now the whole flock of them were discussing the subject of breakfast.

For they had been flying ever since the peep of dawn, and had come through mists and the cold upper air, covering a hundred miles of their journey before the sun really bathed the plains in light, and they were looking for the spot which was familiar to them as a good one for breakfast.

Lower and lower they flew as the leader kept signaling to them, until at last the wedge-shaped formation in which they traveled came like a pointed kite in long, sliding descents to within a few hundred feet of the earth.

They could see, of course, all the lay of the land for many miles around; but they were particular geese, a trifle fussy as you might say, and by no means would any one of the many little lakes suit their fancy. They were flying toward one spot out of all others which could afford just what they wanted for a meal.

At last they apparently settled down to a definite direction for they ceased to describe the slanting circles, and in one long slide through the air, their wings stretched perfectly motionless, they coasted to the ground.

The deep grasses almost hid them from view, but the little people who lived there saw them, and it was with great surprise that their friends turned from their feeding and pluming and bathing to exclaim over this sudden arrival.

There were Mr. and Mrs. Wild Duck, and their beautiful brood of little ones, and there were many of Mrs. Prairie Chicken's family, as well as crowds and crowds of little Redbirds and many of the handsome Kingfishers, all chattering at once over an ample breakfast table. For there was a solid growth of wild celery around this lake, a bed of plants so dense that it was for all the world like the heaviest moss. And of all things beloved by the wild fowl, this juicy and spicy celery is the favorite.

The leader of the newcomers looked about him. That was the first thing for him to do, under all circumstances; for he was the oldest and the wisest of the flock and as a watchman he was sagacious beyond all others in his family. While his mate and all the others fell to tearing at the tender shoots of celery, scarcely paying attention to anything but their voracious appetites, he was standing with head erect and eyes turning in all directions to be sure of no untoward sign. He could see and even scent danger a long way off.

Apparently he was satisfied for the moment, for he fell to and nibbled as the rest were doing, with his head almost buried in the rich tangle of celery. And as he progressed in his feasting, he came closer and closer to the edge of the lake, until suddenly he was just above a nest that lay almost entirely hidden from view.

It was the home of little Mrs. Grebe, the very handsomest and the shyest of the people dwelling here. She was right there by her nest of sticks, which literally floated on the water, and her shining neck of velvety feathers and her brown and silvery body were strikingly beautiful in contrast to the deep green of the rushes and reeds.

"Why, my dear friend!" the noble Wild Goose exclaimed. "How you surprised me! Though of course I knew you lived here. This is not the first year we have visited this place, by any means, and yet, when we flew North last spring and stopped here I do not remember seeing you."

"Oh, Mr. Goose," came in quick reply, "you can't imagine the misfortunes that have overtaken me; and it was on their account that I was not here in the early summer when you passed over."

With that Mrs. Grebe hung her dainty head, which was beautifully tufted about the ears, giving her the look of wearing a jaunty cap.

"I am the Widow Grebe," was all she could say.

Mr. Goose dried his eyes by rubbing them on his snowy breast. For, although he was a stern old gander, he had the most melting heart for the sad plight of widows and orphans.

And the fatherless ones were immediately discovered to view, for Mrs. Grebe moved ever so slightly and six tiny little Grebes twittered and chirped at her feet.

The sight was very moving, and the doughty old warrior commanded himself sufficiently to ask the particulars.

"Yes," the dainty little lady Grebe said. "We were a devoted pair, my husband and I. You know the Grebes, how they are like to die of broken heart if one or the other is killed. They're like the cooing dove, you know, very devoted. But my dear, beautiful mate was shot before my very eyes. Yes, the bullet was meant for me, because it is the mother Grebe's beautiful breast feathers that they are after. But it was he who was killed. We both dived, but when I came up from under the water after going as far as I could, I looked in vain for him. Men in a boat were reaching out for something, and it was my own mate they were lifting up from the water. When they saw it was not the mother bird, they threw his body back into the lake. After a while it sank and I knew that it was all hopeless."

Mr. Goose knew not what to say. But before he could even begin to express his feelings, the gentle Grebe added to her account of woes the fact that her first brood of the season had all perished, too.