Part 8

"These little fellows are but just hatched," she went on. "They will never know their dear father; but what happened to the first brood of the season is the worst. We were, as you know, far south of here. Another lake where we go for the winter. No one knew that in that lake dwelt the worst of snapping turtles. But such was the fact. In one month our brood of dear little chicks was, every one of them, seized while swimming and dragged under by the great turtles!"

Then, like so many people who have suffered as much, Mrs. Grebe began to apologize for telling her woes.

"It is only because you are so very traveled and wise, Mr. Goose, that I tell you all my afflictions. Nothing, of course, can amend the loss of my dear mate. But how I am to protect my children from all my enemies I cannot say. I am sorely troubled."

Mr. Goose all this time had only pretended to eat, for he was too much interested and too deeply concerned to do aught but attend to Mrs. Grebe's sad plight.

He thought for a long moment, and then said that he would give her two pieces of advice, but that she must wait a few moments until he had thought over his many observations and experiences.

"True," he said, "I have seen many ways of caring for children. And you are without assistance. Now my nest is built in almost inaccessible places, and Mrs. Goose has few enemies in the water to fear. Our chicks are too large to be pulled under the water by turtles, and our nest is too well defended by the sentry goose for us to fear the fox or the wolf. But you, poor Mrs. Grebe, you are indeed sorely put to it. You must do two things. First, I am sure, you must build farther out from the shore; and, second, you must take your children with you on your back when they first venture over the pond.

"And," he added slyly enough, "don't grieve too long. Perhaps you will fall in love again."

Just then, however, he seemed to be suddenly mindful of his own family. For a distant shot was heard in the air. Everybody stopped eating, and listened, but nothing more was to be heard. The hunters were far off, although their presence anywhere within hearing was full of alarm.

"Remember what I say," the splendid traveler called back, for he was marshaling his flock.

Mrs. Grebe could scarcely comprehend what was going on, for it seemed but a second before all the beautiful geese were in the air again, flying low over the plain. They would elude the hunters. That she knew. But she wished the wise captain of them all could have stayed just a little longer to explain what he meant. How could she carry her young ones with her? And how build on the water?

But it is long practise that works out in perfection; and Mrs. Grebe was soon able to teach her babies to climb on her back and to perch there with their beaks buried in her soft feathers, and their little toes digging ahold of her. And she began pushing her nest farther and farther out into the water until it seemed scarcely to have any connection with the land at all. Alone, and fearing to leave her nest unguarded, to this day she covers it with sticks and straw, and when she turns the eggs over that she is hatching, she smears them with mud until they are very hard indeed to find. For she is the most suspicious of birds.

But if she was indebted to Mr. Wild Goose for his advice, he, on his part, felt that he had only drawn on his learning as a great traveler. Had he not seen the tropic swans with their young riding upon their shoulders? And he knew what it was for. So he was only a generous and observant bird when he made the suggestion.

Later that season, however, when a great prairie fire swept the region and burned everything to the very edges of the lakes, Mrs. Grebe was thankful indeed that she could carry her babies with her to the center of the lake, and there ride in safety with them while the reeds and the grasses blazed on the margin.

And of this she told Mr. Goose the year after, when he came back. He had helped better than he knew. But of her second marriage she said very little, and he did not embarrass her with questions.

Oh, yes, there is much that the great Wild Goose knows and he is not too proud to draw upon his wisdom when it is a matter of helping even such little stay-at-home people as Mrs. Grebe.

XIX

BABY FOX AND MRS. BEAR

There is a great river which comes rushing through the mountains, where the cliffs are dark with trees, and the heavy snows are slow to melt, even when spring has made the valleys green and warm. Here, on a cliff, snug and warm beneath the roots of a great tree, lived Mrs. Bear and her family of cubs. Three baby bears there were; and in their fine black coats with dark brown edges they were very handsome.

For their playmate, however, there was a little stranger. Just a funny little fox, whose fur was the color of a flame of fire. He was a rare little fox, being of such a lovely color. Had the hunters in the valley dreamed that he was living on the mountain above their very farms, they would never have rested until they got him, for his skin would bring a fortune in the world of men and money.

But of this the little fox knew nothing, for ever since the day that good Mrs. Bear had found him, lost and weak and hungry, where he had fallen down to sleep in the snow, he had led the happiest of lives with the little baby bears. They could not run as fast as he could, nor could they bark as prettily, but they were wonderful at turning somersaults, and at playing leap-frog, and they were more than generous to him. They gave him the best place at dinner, and when they all went to sleep, they cuddled him up between them, while the big Mrs. Bear slept with her nose to the door. Blow the wind as it might, they were all as warm as toast.

But one fine day in early summer Mrs. Bear broke the news to her family that the foxes, one and all, were looking for their child. One way or another, the news had gone down from the mountain to the high pastures and fields at the edge of the farms, and it was joy to the heart of the fox mother, to learn that her beautiful Fireflame was alive.

Of course he must go back. And by an arrangement most agreeable to Mrs. Bear, she was to venture with her adopted baby as far as the blackberry patches and the great maple groves at the foot of the mountain. The foxes would meet her, and with sweet little Fireflame safe in the bosom of his family, all would be well.

Just as it was planned, the excursion was made; but all the way down the mountain Mrs. Bear kept finding more and more berries to eat.

"Here I must stop on my way back," she would say.

"And here is another wonderful patch! Such blueberries I have never seen in my whole life."

So it was late when at last she came to the clearing, and Fireflame kissed the motherly Mrs. Bear good-by. And it was night before that good lady could tear herself from the berry patches and trundle herself home to her family.

Alas! She had lingered too long. Stray dogs from the farms had scented her presence; and although she had followed a brook until she was well on her way to the cliff, and her footsteps were hard to follow, they had soon learned her whereabouts. Back to their masters they had gone, and it was scarcely morning when the hunters set out. The dogs were barking and their great tongues were lolling from their mouths. And the men with their rifles, and the knives for skinning the bear when they got her, were striding up the mountain, laughing and shouting as they went. No sooner were they near the woods, however, than their laughter ceased and the hounds grew deathly quiet; for that is the way of the hunter. He must be quiet and quick, for he is the companion of death, and that terrible creature walks abroad only with cruel men who have learned his craft.

The foxes took in the situation at once. But none of them dared to stir. To cross the path of those hunters was a terrible risk. They shivered and shook in their deep burrows to hear the hounds.

"It's lucky for us that the wind blows up the mountain," was all they could say.

"And what are they after?" cried poor little Fireflame. "Whom are they hunting?"

But then the truth dawned on him. Old Grandpa Fox and good Mother Fox were quiet, for they did not dare to tell Fireflame that it was dear Mrs. Bear who was being trailed. Besides, they were ashamed; for it was plain that something must be done, yet no one dared to move.

"She ought to have crossed and recrossed the river," said Grandpa Fox. "That's the way to do it. But I mistrust she was engaged too long with those tempting berries. She was not discreet."

"They'll get her and her young ones too!" wailed Mrs. Fox, who was nearly beside herself. For it is a terrible thing to know what you ought to do, but to be lacking in the courage to do it.

Little Fireflame could stand it no longer. In a bound he was out of the burrow. The whole Fox family screamed after him to come back; but he paid no heed. He was well up the pasture, and far into the woods before their voices ceased to ring in his ears.

It was a test of his wits, and he was very young. No dog could overtake him if he ran, and he had the start; but to catch up to the hunters and pass them, and so reach Mrs. Bear in time, was a task that would try the wits of the wisest fox.

Now a beautiful bird flew past, and although he never knew why he did it, the brave little Fireflame followed that bird. Over the brook and back again he went, always bearing upward to the crest of the mountain. It was not the path by which he had come the day before, but higher he went and higher, with the far, snowy peak in front of him.

The bird would vanish, but after Fireflame had gone as fast as his beautiful legs would carry him and when he was so tired that he could not see for the mist in his eyes, the silent wings would be beside him, then in front; and Fireflame would bend to his race as though it were just begun.

Soon he was on the narrow edge of the cliff. The sun lay full and bright upon the foaming river far below, and Fireflame recognized the spot. By a path that no one knew, he had come to the home of Mrs. Bear. There she was, the three little bears with her, playing under the fir tree.

He bounded in upon them, but not before the bird had brushed his cheek with its wings and then flown away, straight as an arrow, into the sun.

Fireflame gasped out his news in one breath.

It was quick work that brought the Bear family to the edge of the river. There Mrs. Bear and her cubs began their journey to the fields of snow, and the caves that were safely beyond the reach of the hunters. She could not thank Fireflame at all. She could only look at him with tears of gratitude; while the three little bears, greatly confused, were as solemn as though they had never played tag in their lives.

"But you will visit us some day," the biggest baby bear said, clinging to Fireflame's paw, "and we will all play together again."

The hunters climbed up to the deserted cliff; but they never caught the trail of Mrs. Bear again. For the good river and the soft snows are friendly to the hunted people, and whatever they know they take with them to the great ocean, where it is of no use to any one.

Fireflame went home. He knew that he was safe, so he took his time.

But to the end of his days, he never knew what bird it was that showed him the way in the dark and unfamiliar woods.

XX

CHRISTMAS EVE

Tabby Green was alone in the snowy street. The wind which blew with gusts of the finest snow had nearly taken Tabby off her feet as she crept around the corner, and she was so cold and tired that she could hardly take another step. Just as she was preparing to make a final jump for the shelter of a flight of steps, a great white dog came trotting through the snow and, to her great alarm, they ran into each other.

"I beg your pardon," said the dog, in the politest way.

"My fault, I'm sure," said Tabby Green, for she was such a well-bred kitty that no dog, even if he had the finest manners in the world, could be more courteous than she.

Then, "Why, bless me!" she exclaimed. "Can it be you, dear Bobby Gordon? How glad I am to see you once again!"

And to show how pleased she was, poor Tabby rubbed her thin sides against the good dog's legs.

Together they crouched under the arch of the high stone steps, where, from a grating in the sidewalk, came a breath of good warm air. It was close to somebody's furnace room, and only such poor wandering creatures as the hungry cat and the dog who had known better days can appreciate the air from a warm cellar.

They sat close together and Tabby tried to purr, but she was nearly dead and purr she could not.

"There, there!" soothed Bobby Gordon, as he licked the snow from poor kitty's back in the gentlest way. "I wouldn't purr. It's very kind of you to try, but it's a bad thing to do in the open air. They say it hurts the voice."

"And I have no voice left these days," admitted Tabby sadly. "Really, if it were not for these warm cellar-ways and the few stray scraps of food that one finds in such shocking places, I wouldn't be alive."

"But," said Bob, "you're just a poor tramp cat, and no one's bound to kill you. I'm a dog without a collar, all alone and afraid to be seen. I can't let any one come near for fear they'll tell the officers about me. Once I had a collar--such a beauty, too! But it came off within a week of my great misfortune. You know my master went away, and the wicked people in the house were going to get rid of me. I knew it. I wasn't wanted any more. I had to go."

Great tears stood in Bobby Gordon's eyes but he brushed them away with his paw.

Tabby was overcome. In all her wanderings she had never met a case so sad.

"Poor Mr. Gordon!" was all she could say. "My poor, hunted friend!"

Then she thought of her own fireside, the cozy home that she had known. And simply to think of the saucers of cream, and the plates of dainty pieces from her mistress' table, made Tabby Green's poor mouth water.

"Ah, me!" she sighed, and was pretty near to crying when a thought flashed to her mind. "There's one more chance!" she suddenly exclaimed. "You have a fine strong voice, and you can make folks hear. Now just below this house, where that shoemaker's sign hangs out, is a little girl, and a boy whom I know to be her brother. They stopped and spoke to me but this very day. I felt that they were kind and understood my case. But, although I followed to their door, they didn't see me. And, call out as loudly as I could, my poor voice has grown so weak I know they didn't hear me."

"It's little use," was all the weary dog could say. "I've barked at a hundred doors."

Kitty waited and yielded to his discouragement. Of course it was no use, she thought. They must simply wait and wait until the cold and hunger did its work.

The wind howled, and the snow, which was piling higher and higher on the steps, was drifting around them.

"We Scotchmen die hard," said Bob at last. "The Gordons are a brave lot. I have to remember that."

"My mother purred away her life in song," cried Tabby Green. "She was mindful of her kittens to the last. She said almost in her dying breath: 'Remember, children! Never scratch, and always dry your tails when you come in out of the rain.'"

Suddenly a voice came through the cold night air. It was a child's voice, as sweet and clear as a bell.

"Kitty! Kitty! Come, Kitty, come!"

In an instant the poor, starved cat and the lame, hungry dog looked out and leaped into the drifting snow.

A shaft of lamp-light lay wide across the street. The door at the shoemaker's house was open. There stood a woman, and, with her, two little children, all wrapped in shawls and blankets. Their little feet were tucked in bed slippers and their eager faces peered into the night.

"It's no use, your calling," said the woman. "You were only dreaming. Any cat out in this storm is a dead cat now."

"Oh, but I know I heard a kitty."

"And I heard it, too," cried the little boy.

"Yes, and you made me get you out of bed to stand here and catch your death o' cold. I hope you are satisfied."

Scarcely had she spoken, and just as she was about to close the door, Bobby Gordon and Tabby Green came bounding past her feet into the hall.

"'Twas naught but the Christmas angels brought them here!" the woman said, when they had all seated themselves in the little parlor, which was the poor shoemaker's shop and kitchen too.

The Christmas night was turning into morning. Tabby and Bobby Gordon were sleeping by the stove, and in the bedroom, tucked deep and warm under their blankets, were the two children who had called the wanderers in.

Santa Claus was near, and thousands of lovely angels, drifting like the snowflakes, whispered to him and beckoned as they flew over the housetops.

"This way, this way," they kept singing. And Santa Claus came to the shoemaker's chimney with such a pack of toys as he takes only to the sweetest, kindest children in the world. For Santa Claus and all the good, sweet spirits know the children who love to keep the kitty warm and happy, and who would never let the poor, deserted dog go friendless.

"And tell me," whispered Santa Claus to Tabby Green, "tell me every child that so much as said, 'Poor Kitty!' to you in your wanderings. I shall take them what they want the most for Christmas."

So Tabby Green, as fast as she could think, and the dog with the fine manners told all they knew of the children. And when they had finished, Santa told them that before another year was out they must have news of other good children, like the shoemaker's little boy and girl.

So there are many Tabby Greens and Bobby Gordons, forsaken and driven and chased by the cruel people of the world. But sometimes a little girl or boy stops to pet the straying animal, or even calls it home. And you may be very sure that Santa Claus hears of it.

XXI

MOTHER RABBIT'S ADVICE TO HER BABIES

Mother Rabbit and her five babies lived among the sand-hills down by the sea. Their cozy home was a small cave in the side of the hill, and it had two separate entrances, one at each end. These assured her escape in case a dog or a weasel should enter her home.

One evening, just as the moon was showing itself, big and round and yellow, over the tops of the pine trees, Mother Rabbit led her children out of their cozy home to the big out-of-doors, which they had only begun to know. Their education must begin, she felt, for they were nearly one month old and already able to jump and skip around as nimbly as Mrs. Fox's young sons. She feared that, if left in ignorance longer, they were likely to become overbold.

"It is, first of all, my dears, necessary to be cautious in life," she said. "You must follow me now very quietly to the edge of the wheat-field, where we will sit down to talk. There are things you must know."

So they bounded along behind their mother, so lightly that they made not a sound on the driest leaves of the woodland, and when they came to the edge of the field they took the first high jump of their lives, for the mother selected a place between the bars of the fence and leaped through it swift and clean.

"Do it that way," she said. "You must never run under anything in the dark if you can jump over it."

Once within the pleasant field, where there was so much green wheat that the little rabbits wondered how in the world all of it ever could be eaten, Mrs. Rabbit seated her family around her and began by telling the babies all about their noble father.

"Ah, my dears, your father was such a rabbit as one seldom sees. Such stout legs, and short, too, just as they ought to be! Such a long, graceful body--and what magnificent ears! They were like flowers, and stood up in such a taking fashion! Could you but see him, dancing in the moonlight, hitting his heels together in the air, and wagging those wonderful ears at the stars, his tail as white and fluffy as a full-blown rose, why, my children, you would burst with pride. I shall never see his like again."

"But where is Daddy Rabbit now?" the babies cried in one voice, fearing that their mother spoke with sadness. "He isn't dead, is he?"

"Dead? No, no, my dears," she replied. "He's traveling; you'll see him yet, I'm sure. He has a way of coming back.

"But in case he doesn't return, you must know how brave he is, and what he can do. For you must grow up to be as like him as you can.

"Any of the neighbors can tell you of his clever ways, and his bravery. He rid this field of a dreadful dog, once, and the history of these parts will always relate that exploit. It made him famous."

At this the little rabbits cocked their ears in wonder.

"You see," Mother Rabbit went on, "it was this way: Once he returned to his burrow below the hill over there and discovered, by means of his keen sense of smell, that a terrier dog was in the burrow. He immediately called for a friend, and together they closed up the entrance to the burrow and smothered the dog to death. That's what _I_ call bravery. And that's the kind of father you had. The world will expect much of children of your parentage.

"Your father and I first met on the hillside one evening, and we liked each other at once. Every evening after, we would meet out there to play hide-and-seek in the grass and sand. Perhaps he will come to see you some day, and I want you to be smart and handsome, so that he will be proud of you.

"But I have said enough, dear Jacks, and now I must teach you some of the wise things he knew. He learned at an early age that each rabbit must procure his own food, and has many foes to shun. To do these things one must have a sharp wit.

"Always sleep during the day while other animals are prowling about, and come out only evenings when it is cool, to seek your food. Young wheat, fresh onions, lettuce and cabbages make splendid food for rabbits. Of course, it is rather dangerous to cultivate such expensive tastes, for lettuce and onions usually grow only in gardens and people are apt to set traps to catch you. So be careful never to go near a trap, or bite at anything that looks as though man had placed it there for you. It is said that your father prided himself on destroying traps.

"Our family is blessed by being both watchful and swift. Just watch me how I can run."

Mother Rabbit sprang to her feet, and over the field she sped like lightning. The children stared in wonderment, and then shouted for glee at their mother's rapidity. Finally Mrs. Rabbit returned as quickly as she had departed.

"Now, that is the way you must learn to run. And the next most necessary thing for you to acquire is the ability to stand on your hind legs like this."

To their amusement, Mother Rabbit stood up like a walking dog or a bear.

"An enemy can be seen at a long distance from such a position," she explained; "and it is well never to run until you have taken in the situation. Many rabbits have lost their lives by failing to observe that simple precaution. Once your Uncle Cotton heard a dog coming, and turned to run in the opposite direction without having stood up to survey the land. As a result, we found only his bones on the hillside the next day. It is supposed that he ran right into the jaws of another dog. Dogs are clever and often hunt together.

"But that's enough for the first lesson," she concluded. "Some evening we'll come again and I'll teach you to dance, and we'll play till the moon goes down in the West."

They jumped up, skimmed through the fence, and ran after their mother, who had them home and tucked them in bed almost before they knew it.

XXII

THE MICE AND BABY STORK

"I find it very hard," said the learned watchdog, "to speak well of the rats and the mice."