Chapter 3
He had chosen a branch about thirty feet from the ground. Mother Oriole quietly answered back that it suited her perfectly. They both flew down to the ground, then back to the tree. And every time they travelled they had little pieces of grass or bark in their bills. But Mother Oriole did most of this work, which was quite proper, for mothers always do most of the work about the house, don't they? Father Oriole, you see, was more interested in getting fat beetles and caterpillars for food. And that was quite right too. But once he sang out louder than ever, for he had found a bit of string from Jehosophat's broken kite.
"The very thing, the very thing," he said to her.
And once Mother Oriole found, caught in the shutter, little threads of Hepzebiah's hair.
Then the three happy children woke up. They rubbed their eyes. They had been dreaming in the warm sun.
But their dream was true and the fairy story was true.
For there were the two birds, very pretty and very much alive. They were busily flying to the earth again and back to the elm branch. And they were carrying the materials for their new home in their beaks.
They perched on the branch and crocheted with their beaks. Yes, crocheted the little bits of bark and string and grass and hair into a tiny nest. Hanging down from the branch, it looked like the pretty soft grey bags which ladies carry, only it was very small.
And between whiles Father Oriole would whistle in delight and Mother Oriole would answer back quietly.
They were very happy birds and were quite content with the warm sun and the cool elm leaves and the pretty apple blossoms and their breakfast and dinner and supper. And they were very grateful to the good God who had given these things to them, grateful and happy as all little children should be.
But that is not the end of the fairy story. No, that is--but the Little-Clock-with-the-Wise-Face-on-the-Mantel won't let us tell any more. His silver voice says:
"Ting--ting--ting--ting--ting--ting--ting," which means:
"Tell--that--tale--a--noth--er--time."
So good-night.
TENTH NIGHT
THE HAPPY ENDING OF THE ORIOLE'S STORY
All stories should have an ending. It's fine, isn't it, when they end happily?
And this story of the Orioles did end happily--oh, so happily!
It was this way, you see.
The little grey house on the elm was finished.
It hung down from the end of the green branch, under the leaves. It looked both like a fairy house and a little crocheted bag.
Now for some days Mother Oriole didn't go out very much. She stayed in her little house.
But Father Oriole kept about his work, hunting for the little brown crawling things and the green crawling things that made their food.
He would whistle every once in a while to tell Mother Oriole that he was near. Sometimes it was just a few notes to say:
"I'm still here--my dear, Still here, still here, still here."
Sometimes:
"All right, my love!"
Sometimes just:
"All's well!"
But if a strange man came too near the tree his song was sharp and angry.
"Look out, look out, look out! He's a rogue, an awful rogue, look out, I say!"
But somehow he didn't seem to mind the children.
"Why does Mother Oriole sit so quietly on her nest?" Marmaduke asked his own mother.
"I wish I could lift you up so that you could see. But the nest is too high up. It's out of harm's way. Dicky Means, who has a cruel heart and robs birds' nests, can't reach it way up there!"
"What's in it, Muvver?" asked little Hepzebiah. You see her little tongue didn't work just right. She never could say words with "th" in them.
"Little eggs, dear. They are white, with little dark spots and funny dark scrawls on them as if somebody had tried to write with a bad pen."
Then Marmaduke asked:
"And is she keeping them warm?"
"Yes, so that they will hatch out. They will, very soon now."
So for a number of days in the warm weather, and in the rainy weather too, Mother Oriole sat faithfully on her nest. Bird mothers and the mothers of little children are always very patient. Then came one fine morning when the sun was particularly jolly and bright, and the blossoms smelt very sweet and were beginning to fall from the trees. The three happy children stood under the elm and looked up at the tiny hanging nest.
They heard new noises, strange noises.
It sounded like babies.
Yes, the little Oriole babies had broken their shells and had been born at last.
They didn't have many clothes on. But some day their feathers will be as pretty as their father's.
How they did cry for food! Somehow baby Orioles cry more than other bird babies. They seem to want to eat all the time.
And how Father Oriole did work to keep them fed, whistling every once in a while to make things pleasant for his family! I wonder if they appreciated all the things he and Mother Oriole did for them. And the days passed and the little birds grew fatter on the bugs and the beetles which their father brought, just as fat as the little boys or girls on their oatmeal and bread and milk, which their fathers work hard to earn for them.
The little Orioles were certainly noisy little birds, and when they cried sometimes the children saw funny little heads and beaks poking out of the nest.
Then more days passed and Father and Mother Oriole taught them to fly, just as Father and Mother Green had taught little Hepzebiah to walk. Marmaduke remembered how his Mother had held Hepzebiah and Father stood a little way off. Then Hepzebiah had started. She was a little frightened at first but she made the journey. It was only a few steps and her father caught her before she fell. She tried this often and soon she could take a great many steps.
And that was something like the way Father and Mother Oriole taught their children to fly. The parent birds would fly to a branch a little way off. Then they would call the little birds. And one by one they would fly to the branch. Their wings were weak at first like Hepzebiah's little feet. But soon they grew strong and before many weeks had gone they could fly as fast as the old birds. And before the summer was over they were as big as their parents. You see birds have shorter lives than real people. They do not live so many years. So they have to grow up quickly or they wouldn't have much time for work and play, would they?
So the children decided that the story of the Orioles was a very pretty fairy story, indeed, and they liked it better because it was true.
And they found others--oh, so many stories like it.
For sometimes Mother and sometimes Father and sometimes the Toyman showed them other little bird homes.
They climbed a ladder and found the barn-swallow's nest plastered under the eaves of the barn. They liked the barn swallow who flew through the air, almost as if he were so happy that he danced as he flew. And his dress was so pretty, for he was dark blue on top, brown on the throat, and his little stomach was white. His tail was forked too, cut like the coat of the man in the circus who cracked the whip and made the horses perform tricks.
The barn swallow's nest was so cunningly made. It was plastered of mud and grass, and had a soft grass lining. The little eggs in it were white and had tiny brown spots.
Right near the bay window, in the thick lilac tree, Marmaduke spied Red Robin's nest. He was a great friend of theirs. They always liked the cheery way he hopped over the lawn, and his cheery red vest, and his song which always said:
"Che-eer up--che-eer up!"
His eggs were the prettiest of all, a greenish blue, a robin's-egg blue, the dressmakers call it. Mother Green's summer dress was coloured just like it.
And in a bush by the roadside, Hepzebiah spied the brown thrush's nest. His eggs were blue and spotted with brown.
And in the elderberry tree they found the grey cat-bird's nest. He was a funny bird, always crying like a lost pussy. And his eggs were green-blue.
So in the fields and the woods Jehosophat, Marmaduke and Hepzebiah saw all kinds of birds and all kinds of nests and all kinds of eggs. They saw them because their eyes were bright and sharp as yours must be too when you go into the beautiful country.
And from the eggs funny little birds were born and grew up and flew and sang.
And so the three happy children decided that the really true fairy stories of Mother Nature were the prettiest of all.
And oh--we almost forgot! Perhaps we can tell the rest before that Little-Clock-with-the-Wise-Face-on-the-Mantel tells us to stop.
Over near Neighbour Brown's fence they were peeping through the green leaves at the song-sparrow's nest. Mother was with them and they saw someone come out of their neighbour's house.
"Wouldn't you like to see her?" the strange lady whispered to Mother.
"Oh yes," Mother whispered back, "but they mustn't wake her up."
Who could they be talking about? Then they went through the gate.
"Be very quiet," said Mother as they entered the door, "and you'll see the end of another true fairy story."
So they tiptoed in.
There in a bed lay Mrs. Brown, looking very happy.
And curled up in her arm she had--well, what do you think she had?
A little sleeping baby!
Like the little Orioles Baby had been born just a few days ago.
"That," said Mother, "is the prettiest fairy story of all."
And the children thought so too.
There--we've finished just in time. We hear the Little Clock. There goes his silver tongue now.
Good-night! Sweet Dreams.
ELEVENTH NIGHT
MOTHER HEN AND ROBBER HAWK
Jehosophat and Marmaduke were whispering together.
"Let's try it," said Jehosophat.
"An' see what happens," added Marmaduke.
So they tiptoed into the House of the White Wyandottes and placed the big duck's eggs in with the smaller eggs under the setting hen.
Mother Hen did not like that, oh no!
She stirred in her nest. All her feathers puffed up and she looked very much hurt.
"Duck, duck, duck!" sniffed she scornfully. And to herself she added: "What a mean way to treat a decent, respectable hen!" For White Wyandottes are very particular and very exclusive.
But after the two little imps had tiptoed out of her house, she made the best of a bad matter. She couldn't kick the big duck's eggs out of the nest in the box. The sides of the box were too high. So she settled down on her eggs again.
"I must keep my very own warm, anyway," she decided.
About three weeks later there was much excitement in the House of the White Wyandottes. From the nest in the box came little noises.
"Chip, chip, chip," sounded faintly from inside the eggs. And before the sun climbed over the Big Gold Rooster, who swung on the weather-vane on the barn, all the new little chickens had broken their eggs.
"How nice it is to be born!" they cheeped together in a merry chorus, as they arrived in the wonderful world.
Very proud of her family was Mother Wyandotte when the little yellow balls began to run about. A few days later she was prouder still when they scampered this way and that, pecking at little bugs and ants. They worked hard for their breakfasts and dinners and suppers.
Even Father Wyandotte, the great white rooster with the magnificent red comb and curling white plumes on his tail, forgot that other rooster of whom he was so jealous. For the rooster who was always perched on the weather-vane on the barn was up so high and he shone like gold.
But now Father Wyandotte was not jealous. He walked around in his lordly way, cocking his eye at his little yellow sons and daughters as they chased the fat little bugs.
At first he would not say just how proud of them he was. He did not like to tell all his feelings at once. Sometimes he thought fighting and crowing better than being a family man. But all of a sudden he flew up on the tallest fence-post he could find, and flapped his wings. He threw back his head, opened his yellow beak, and crowed up at that gold rooster:
"Sure, sure, sure! You couldn't do it, you couldn't do it--couldn't do it, do."
No, the Gold Rooster on the weather-vane on the top of the barn, though he shone like the sun, could neither crow nor raise a family.
But Mother Wyandotte didn't bother about anything so high in the sky as the sun and the rooster. She was busy playing nurse-maid to her little yellow children and helping them find food.
But in the afternoon she did look up at the sky. That was when something like a dark shadow sailed in the air far above the home of the White Wyandottes.
It was a great bird with wide-stretched wings, much bigger than Jim Crow. He sailed in circles, while his evil eye looked down at the frightened, scampering White Wyandottes.
"Um!" How he would like a nice chicken for lunch!
"Robber Hawk!" called all of Mother Hen's uncles and aunts in the barnyard.
"Robber Hawk!" screamed all of her great-uncles and great-aunts too.
"Robber Hawk!" screamed all of her cousins, first, second, and third.
Loud and long barked Rover and Brownie. And little Wienerwurst stopped chasing the pretty pink pigeons.
And even Mr. Stuckup, the turkey, had to join in the hubbub.
"Horrible robber, horrible robber," he gobbled.
But Mother Wyandotte had called to her children. She opened her wings and under them quickly in fright they ran, all huddling together. Her wings hardly seemed large enough to cover them all, but she took them all in, every one of her children.
She was a nervous old thing, but she was a good mother, and good mother hens, good animal mothers, and our own mothers too, never seem to think of themselves when there is danger around. They just look out for their little ones.
"Robber Hawk, robber! Shan't touch 'em--robber!" she said.
Then--quick as a wink--there was another loud noise, just like that day when Jim Crow fell in the cornfield.
"Bang, bang!"
Jehosophat, Marmaduke and Hepzebiah jumped.
They looked around.
There stood the Toyman with the gun at his shoulder.
Little puffs of smoke like white feathers floated away from the muzzles of the gun.
"Winged him, anyway!" cried the Toyman.
They looked up.
Robber Hawk wasn't sailing in the sky any longer.
He was falling, falling, like a stone--just like Jim Crow.
"The Toyman's a good shot," exclaimed Jehosophat. "My, how I wish I could shoot like that!"
Mother Green came to the back door.
She called to the Toyman:
"He's fallen on the barn, Frank."
"Roof, roof, roof!" barked little Wienerwurst to explain it more clearly.
Sure enough, Robber Hawk dropped on the roof of the barn, right by the Gold Rooster who swung on the weather-vane.
The Toyman scratched his head.
"Quite a climb for these stiff legs," said he.
But he fetched a tall ladder and placed it against the side of the barn.
The three children watched him, their heads bent back so far that they almost snapped off.
Mother held the ladder at the foot, for nobody wanted anything ever to happen to the Toyman.
"Careful!" she warned him.
"All right, Mis' Green," he said. "I haven't been up in the maintop for nothing."
You see, once upon a time, he had been a sailor. There was nothing that the Toyman hadn't done.
He reached the top of the ladder, then swung out on the roof. At last he reached the ridge.
There stood the Gold Rooster, never crowing or saying anything at all. And under him lay Robber Hawk, and he didn't say anything either.
Carefully the Toyman climbed down from the ridge of the barn, holding the rascal in his hands. Then one by one down the rungs of the ladder he came.
When he reached the ground Jehosophat, Marmaduke and Hepzebiah gathered round.
Robber Hawk hung limp from the Toyman's hand.
His dark brown feathers never stirred. His white breast with its dark bars and patches never moved.
"Robber Hawk," spoke the Toyman, "your old curved beak will never feed on any more good chicken."
Then he turned to the children.
"We must bury him by Jim Crow."
So Jehosophat, Marmaduke, Hepzebiah, Rover, Brownie, Wienerwurst and the Toyman marched with Robber Hawk on towards the cornfield.
There by the side of Jim Crow they buried him.
And the Toyman took two pieces of wood. On these he cut with his knife:
JIM CROW KILLED 1918 THIEF
ROBBER HAWK KILLED 1918 THIEF AND MURDERER
At their heads he placed the two boards side by side.
"There we will leave them," the Toyman spoke sternly, "as a warning to all evil-doers."
So they walked back slowly to the House of the White Wyandottes where Mother Hen clucked contentedly once more and all the yellow chickens ran around, chasing the little bugs in their game of hide-and-seek. A fine game it was too, only it was more interesting for the chickens than the bugs, you see.
The three happy children noticed that one of the little yellow fellows was larger than the others. He--
"Ting--ting--ting--ting--ting--ting--ting!"
"End--that--tale--to--mor--row--night."
So says the Little Clock. He must be obeyed. So good-bye for a little while.
TWELFTH NIGHT
ABOUT DUCKIE THE STEPCHILD AND THE LITTLE SHIP
In the door of the workshop stood the three happy children, watching the Toyman.
It was one of the very nicest places on the whole farm. Tools of all sorts, bright and sharp, lay on the table. Lumber of every kind lay piled against the walls. The shelves were filled with cans of paint. All the colours of the rainbow were in those cans. The children could tell that by the pretty splashes of the paint dripping down their sides.
Back and forth, back and forth swung the arms of the Toyman. He was very busy over something--something very important it must be, for he never talked, only worked and whistled away.
"Oh dear! I wish I knew what it was," sighed Marmaduke. Anyway he knew it was something for _them_. Father Green had given the Toyman a holiday, all for himself, to do as he liked. And _of course_ he'd make something for _them_.
On the edge of the table was a vise, a big tool with iron jaws. In the iron jaws was a block of wood. The Toyman screwed the vise--very tight--so tight the wood couldn't budge. Then he shaved this side of the block, then the other side, with a plane, a tool with a very sharp edge. Clean white shavings fell on the floor, some of them twisting like Hepzebiah's curls.
"I wonder what it's going to be," Marmaduke repeated.
Jehosophat was pretty sure he knew.
"I'll bet it's a boat," he said.
The Toyman chuckled.
"Right you are, Son. It's the Good Ship--well, let's see. All boats have a name, you know. What do you think would be a good name for a fine ship?"
Jehosophat had one, right on the tip of his tongue.
"The Arrow."
The Toyman thought this over.
"That isn't bad," said he.
Then he turned to Marmaduke.
"What's your idea for a name, little chap?"
Marmaduke thought and thought. He looked out through the door and saw the Party Bird, the vain Peacock, parading up and down, showing off its beautiful tail, and "Peacock" was the only name he could think of.
Jehosophat laughed out loud.
"That's no name for a boat."
And Marmaduke had to shout back--as little boys will, losing his temper:
"_'Tis too!_"
The Toyman stopped the quarrel, just as he always did, with something pleasant or funny he said. Then he leaned over and picked up three chips of wood.
"I'll write the names on these little chips," he explained, "and we'll choose."
Putting his hand on Hepzebiah's sunny curls, he asked that little girl:
"What name do _you_ think would be nice for the boat?"
Now Hepzebiah really didn't know just what it all was about. But she had heard Marmaduke say "Peacock," so she took her finger out of her mouth just long enough to point at the Guinea-hen, who was screeching horribly out in the barnyard.
"The Guinea-hen! Ha, ha! That's a good one!" The Toyman was forever saying that and laughing at the funny things the children said.
Hepzebiah, thinking that this was a nice sort of a game, took her finger out of her mouth and pointed again--this time out at the pond where the swans were sailing, like pretty white ships themselves.
"The very thing," exclaimed the Toyman. "White Swan's a _fine_ name for a boat!"
And he wrote "White Swan" on one chip, "Peacock" on another, and "Arrow" on the last. Then he held them towards the children.
"The smallest must choose first," he said, and Hepzebiah took one of the little white pieces of wood from the Toyman's hand. He turned it over and read:
"White Swan."
"We'd go a good ways before we'd get a better name," he decided. "When the boat's all finished and all sails set, she'll sail away just like a swan; you see if she doesn't."
The hull of the boat was finished now, and on the bow, at the very front, he nailed a thin little stick, with tiny nails. This was the bowsprit.
On the keel at the very bottom, he fastened a piece of lead so she wouldn't "turn turtle"--turn over, he meant, when her sails were set and the wind blew too hard.
Then choosing some sticks--very carefully, for they must be straight--he tucked the boat under his arm and, with the three children close at his heels, walked over to the pond and sat down under the Crying Tree, where the sun shone bright and warm.
Out came the magic knife and he whittled away at the little sticks; whittled and whistled and smiled all the time.
Sliver after sliver of the wood fell on the ground. Sometimes one would drop into the water and float away like a fairy canoe, with the green willow leaves that fell from the Crying Tree.
So under the magic knife the little ship grew and grew, till the masts were fitted too, and set fast and tight in the clean smooth deck.
"But where are the sails?" asked Jehosophat impatiently.
A funny answer the Toyman made.
He just said:
"Hold your horses, Sonny."
The teacher in the Red Schoolhouse up the road would have reproved him for this, but the children thought whatever the Toyman said was all right.
Of course he meant not to be too impatient and--but just then the dinner horn sounded, way out over the pond and over the fields, and the children ran into the house, just as you would have done too.
It didn't take long to finish dinner that day. For desert they had blackberry pie, very juicy and nice, and they didn't even wait to wash the red marks of that pie from their faces but just ran for the Crying Tree.
The Toyman felt in all of his six big pockets. And out came needles and thread, and pieces of clean muslin besides.
Stitch, stitch, stitch went his fingers, for a thousand stitches or more. And bye and bye the sails were all cut and sewed and fitted on the three little masts.
Then the Toyman stopped.
"We haven't christened her yet," he said. "We should have done that long ago."
In his pockets he rummaged again, those pockets which always held just the right thing. It was a small bottle this time, all filled with tiny pink pills. Much nicer these were, the children thought, than that yellow stuff in the big bottle they hated so.
The Toyman poured the little pills out.
"What's the use of medicine on a nice day like this," said he.
And he filled the bottle with water and put back the stopper.
"When ships are launched," he explained, "folks break a bottle over the bow when they name her."
"All right, I'll do that," said Jehosophat, but the Toyman stopped him.
"Hold on there, Sonny, that's the _ladies'_ job."
Then he called Hepzebiah and gave her the bottle.
"Now, little girl, you stand here and say: 'I christen thee White Swan.'"
But, "I ckwithen Wite Thwan" was the best she could do.
"Now drop the bottle!"
She opened her fingers and, sure enough, the little bottle fell right on the deck and broke all in little pieces, and the glistening drops splashed over the bow, and so the good ship "White Swan" got her name.
Into the water the Toyman pushed the little ship. The wind filled her sails and off she went, racing away before the wind to join the beautiful birds for whom she had been named.