Chapter 7

"As for you, Miss Pink-eyes," he said gruffly, "you keep careful silence. You are a dull table-companion. Pray, have you nothing to say for yourself?"

"Yes," exclaimed the mischievous Bat, "have you no words of praise for our kind host? Methinks he deserves some return for this wonderfully generous, agreeable, tasteful, well-appointed, luxurious, elegant, and altogether acceptable banquet. What have you to say, O little Dove?"

But the Dove hung her head, ashamed of her companion, and said very simply:--

"O Master Owl, I can only thank you with all my heart for the hospitality and shelter which you have given me this night. I was beaten by the storm, and you took me in. I was hungry, and you gave me your best to eat. I cannot flatter nor make pretty speeches like the Bat. I never learned such manners. But I thank you."

"What!" cried the Bat, pretending to be shocked. "Is that all you have to say to our obliging host? Is he not the wisest, bravest, most gallant and generous of gentlemen? Have you no praise for his noble character as well as for his goodness to us? I am ashamed of you! You do not deserve such hospitality. You do not deserve this shelter."

The Dove remained silent. Like Cordelia in the play, she could not speak untruths even for her own happiness.

"Truly, you are an unamiable guest," snarled the Owl, his yellow eyes growing keen and fierce with anger and mortified pride. "You are an ungrateful bird, Miss, and the Bat is right. You do not deserve this generous hospitality which I have offered, this goodly shelter which you asked. Away with you! Leave my dwelling! Pack off into the storm and see whether or not your silence will soothe the rain and the wind. Be off, I say!"

"Yes, away with her!" echoed the Bat, flapping his leathery wings. And the two heartless creatures fell upon the poor little Dove and drove her out into the dark and stormy night.

Poor little Dove! All night she was tossed and beaten about shelterless in the storm, because she had been too truthful to flatter the vain old Owl. But when the bright morning dawned, draggled and weary as she was, she flew to the court of King Eagle and told him all her trouble. Great was the indignation of that noble bird.

"For his flattery and his cruelty let the Bat never presume to fly abroad until the sun goes down," he cried. "As for the Owl, I have already doomed him to this punishment for his treatment of the Wren. But henceforth let no bird have anything to do with either of them, the Bat or the Owl. Let them be outcasts and night-prowlers, enemies to be attacked and punished if they appear among us, to be avoided by all in their loneliness. Flattery and inhospitality, deceit and cruelty,--what are more hideous than these? Let them cover themselves in darkness and shun the happy light of day. As for you, little Dove, let this be a lesson to you to shun the company of flatterers, who are sure to get you into trouble. But you shall always be loved for your simplicity and truth. And as a token of our affection your name shall be used by poets as long as the world shall last to rhyme with _love_."

The words of the wise King Eagle are true to this day. So now you know why a great many poems came to be written in which the rhymes _dove_ and _love_ have not seemed to make any particular sense.

THE FOWLS ON PILGRIMAGE

Once upon a time old Lady Fox was very hungry, but she had nothing to eat, and there was no sign of a dinner to be had anywhere.

"What shall I do, what shall I do?" whined the Fox. "I am so faint and hungry, but all the birds and all the fowls are afraid of me and will not venture near enough for me to consult them about a dinner. I have so bad a name that no one will trust me. What can I do to win back the respect of the community and earn a square meal? Ah, I have it! I will turn pious and go upon a pilgrimage. That ought to make me popular once more."

So the Fox started upon the pilgrimage. She had not gone very far when she met a Cock, but he knew the character of Madame Fox too well to trust himself near. He flew up into a tree, and from that safe perch crowed jauntily, "Good morning, Madame Fox. Whither away so fast?"

The Fox drew down the corners of her mouth, trying to look pious, and rolled up her eyes as she answered in a hollow voice, "Oh, Master Cock, I am going on a pious pilgrimage. I am sorry for my wicked life, and now I am going to be good."

"Ah," said the Cock, "I am indeed glad to hear that! Going on a pilgrimage, are you? Well, in that case I will go with you."

"Do, Master Cock, do," answered the Fox fervently. "It will do you good. Come sit upon my broad back and I will carry you."

The Cock thanked her and climbed upon her back, and so they proceeded on their pilgrimage together. After a while they came upon a Dove, which fluttered away hastily when she saw old Lady Fox, knowing too well her wicked tricks. But the Fox called to her in a gentle voice:--

"Do not be afraid, O Dove. I know why you start at my approach. But I have repented of my former sins and have turned pilgrim. My friend, the Cock, and I have just started upon our pious journey. Will you join us?"

When the innocent Dove saw the Cock upon the Fox's back she thought that certainly everything must be safe, so she answered:--

"Yes, Madame Fox, I will go with you."

"Jump right up on my back; there is plenty of room beside the Cock," said the Fox cordially.

A little further on they met a wild Duck, who waddled away quacking wildly when he saw the Fox trotting towards him. But the sly old lady called out to him, smiling:--

"Be calm, little brother. I have given up my former unkind tricks, for which I sadly repent, and now I am going on a pious pilgrimage. See, your friends the Cock and the Dove are my companions."

"In that case I will go along, too," said the Duck, "for you have a goodly party."

"That is right," replied the Fox approvingly. "I thought you would go. Kindly take a back seat with the others."

Now when these queer pilgrims had traveled for some time they came to a cave in the rocks, a deep dark cave which looked like a den. And here the Fox stopped, saying:--

"Dear brothers, it is time that we paused and thought more carefully about our sins. We must cross seas and rivers, and Heaven knows when we shall reach the end of our journey. Let us listen to one another's confessions, for I am sure we have all been miserable sinners. Come, Mr. Cock, come into the cave with me and I will hear you first."

The Cock followed her into the cave, saying with some surprise, "Why, Madame Fox, what have I done that is wicked?"

"Do you not know?" answered the Fox sternly. "Why, do you not begin to crow at midnight and wake poor tired people out of their first sleep? Go to! You ought to be ashamed! Then again you crow at the most inconveniently early hour in the morning and make the caravans mistake the true time, so that they start upon their journeys long before the proper hour and fall into the hands of robbers who prowl about before light. These are dreadful sins, Mr. Cock, and you deserve to be punished." So the wicked old Fox seized the Cock and ate him all up.

After the Fox had finished him she came to the entrance of the cave and called, "Now you come, little Dove, and tell me what you have done that is naughty."

"But I have done nothing," said the innocent Dove, wondering very much; "of what evil do you accuse me, Madame Fox?"

"When the farmers sow their grain you dig up the yellow kernels and eat them for your dinner. That is stealing, which is a wicked, wicked sin, and must be severely punished," cried the hungry Fox. And thereupon she seized the poor little Dove and ate her up.

Once more the Fox stood at the door of the cave, stealthily licking her chops, and she called out to the Duck, "Come in, Mr. Duck, and I will hear what you have to say."

"Well, I have not done anything wrong," said the Duck positively, "and you cannot say that I have; can you now, Madame Fox?"

"Oh, indeed and indeed!" exclaimed the Fox. "Have you not stolen the king's gold crown, and do you not wear it on your head, you wicked creature?"

"Indeed and indeed I have done no such thing. It is not true, Madame Fox, as I can prove. Wait a bit and I will bring witnesses."

So the Duck went out and flew up and down in front of the cave, waiting. Presently along came a Hunter with a gun, who espied the Duck and aimed the weapon at him.

"Don't shoot me," cried the Duck. "What have you against me, O Hunter? I can tell you where to find worthier game. Come with me and I will show you a wicked old Fox who eats innocent birds."

"Very well," said the Hunter, putting up his gun, "show me the place and I will spare you."

The Duck led him softly to the entrance of the cave, and pausing there cried out to the Fox inside, "Come out, Madame Fox, I have brought the witness."

"Let him come in, let him come in!" cried the Fox, for she had grown very hungry indeed and hoped for a double meal.

"No indeed," answered the Duck; "he insists that you must come out." So the Fox crept stealthily to the door, but as soon as she popped out her wicked old head the Hunter was ready for her, and Bang! That was the end of the Fox's pilgrimage.

The Duck also had had enough of being a pilgrim. He went home with the Hunter and became a tame Duck, and lived happily ever after on the pond near the Hunter's house.

THE GROUND-PIGEON

Once upon a time there was a little Malay maiden who lived in the forest with her father and mother and baby sister. They dwelt very happily together, until one day Coora's father decided to clear the ground on the edge of the forest and have a rice plantation, as many of his neighbors were doing.

So one morning early after breakfast he started out with his axe on his shoulder to cut down the trees and make a clearing.

"O Father, let me go with you!" begged Coora. "I do so want to see the plantation grow from the very beginning."

But her father said No, she must stay at home until the trees were felled.

"And after that may I go with you?" asked Coora. And her father promised that it should be so.

The days went by and at last the trees were all felled in the clearing. When Coora heard this she jumped up and down on her little bare brown feet until her anklets tinkled, and cried, "O Father! Now I may go with you to the clearing, may I not? For so you promised."

But again her father shook his head and said, "No, Coora, not yet. You must wait until the fallen timber has been burned off. Then you shall go with your mother and me to the planting of the rice."

Coora was very much disappointed, and the big tears stood in her eyes. But she only said, "Do you promise that I may help plant the rice, really and truly?"

And he called back over his shoulder, "I promise!"

At last the fallen timber was burned away, and the ground was ready for planting. One morning Coora saw her father and mother making ready to go out together. "Oh, where are you going, Father and Mother?" she asked.

"We go to the planting of the rice," answered her father, slinging a big bag over his shoulder.

"But you promised that I should go with you when that time came?" cried Coora wistfully. "Please, please may I not be your little helper?"

"No, no, Coora," answered her mother impatiently. "Do not tease us so. You must stay at home to take care of your little sister. Be a good girl this time, and when the rice is well grown we will all go together and harvest it. That will be great fun!"

"Shall I really go? Do you promise, Mother?" asked poor Coora hopefully, for she felt sure that her mother would not deceive her.

"I promise," said the mother, not looking her in the eyes; and the parents went away through the forest to plant the rice.

Time went by until the rice had grown tall and was ready for the harvest. Now Coora heard her parents talking of the matter, and she was very gay, for now she expected a happy, happy day. She dressed herself and made ready to go to the harvesting, as her parents had promised. But when she joined them, smiling joyfully, they turned upon her frowning and bade her return to the house and take care of everything until their home-coming. Then poor little Coora burst into tears and said, "O my Father and O my Mother, I have obeyed you without a word every time you broke your promise to me. And still you continue to put me off from day to day, when this is the thing I long to do so much that it seems as if my heart would break. Think of it! The clearing has been made, the timber burned, the rice planted and grown, and now it is ready for the harvest. But I have not even seen the place where all this has happened. O Father and Mother, why are you so unkind to me?"

"There, there!" cried her father and mother together, "do not make a fuss over so small a matter. You cannot go to-day; but wait until the rice is gathered and it is time to tread it out. Then we will let you help us, you may be sure. We promise, Coora, that you shall really and truly go."

"You promise!" echoed Coora bitterly. "You have promised me before and nothing came of it." But even while she spoke the unkind parents were gone.

Then Coora fell to weeping most sorely, for she knew that she could not trust the word of her father and mother; and that is a most terrible thing. At last she rose and wiped away the tears and looked about the little cottage where she had been patient through so many disappointments. And she said to herself, "I can bear it no longer. It is not right that I should be made to suffer like this when a little thing would make me so happy. I must see the rice field; I will go to-day."

Coora tidied the cottage, putting everything in its place and making it look as beautiful as she could. Then she took up the little sister who had fallen asleep on the floor, and kissing her tenderly placed her in the hammock which swung from wall to wall of the hut. Lastly Coora took off the golden bracelets and earrings and the tinkling anklets which she wore like other little Malay girls, and left them in a shining heap behind the door. But she kept her necklace about her pretty little neck.

Now Coora had learned a little magic from a witch, just enough magic to serve her turn. She went out and picked two palm leaves which she fastened on her shoulders and changed herself into a bird, a bright, beautiful Ground-Pigeon, with many-colored metallic feathers. But the necklace still made a band about her pretty little neck, as you may see on every Ground-Pigeon to this day.

Coora the Ground-Pigeon fluttered away through the forest until she came to the rice plantation where her parents were at work. She alighted on a dead tree close by them and called out, "Mother, O Mother! I have left my earrings and bracelets behind the door and have put my little sister in the hammock."

Astonished at these words her mother looked up, but saw no one, only a Ground-Pigeon perched on the tree over her head. "Father," she cried to her husband who was at work beside her, "did you not hear Coora's voice just now?"

"Yes, I thought so," answered the father angrily. "The wicked girl must have disobeyed me and have followed us here after all. I will punish her if this is so." They called to her, "Coora, Coora!" until the forest reëchoed. But no one appeared or answered.

"I will go home and see if she is there," said the mother. "Either I heard Coora speak or there is some magic in the forest." And she hastened back to the cottage. There she found the baby in the hammock and the bracelets and earrings in a shining heap behind the door, as the voice had said, but there was no Coora anywhere. Surprised and anxious, once more the mother ran back to the plantation.

"Coora is gone, husband!" she cried. "It must have been her own voice which we heard just now. Hark! She speaks again!"

Again from the tree they heard a sweet voice calling, "Mother, O Mother, I have left my earrings and bracelets behind the door and my little sister in the hammock. Good-by, Coo-o-o-ra!" As she spoke her own name Coora's voice warbled and crooned into the soft _coo_ of a Ground-Pigeon's note, and her parents glancing up saw that this bird must be their child, their Coora, magically changed.

"Let us cut down the tree and catch the wicked girl!" cried the father. And seizing his axe he chopped away lustily until the tree fell with a crash. But even at that moment the Pigeon fluttered away to another tree, crooning again the soft syllables which she has spoken ever since, "Coo-ra, coo-ra, coo!"

From tree to tree about the rice plantation the distracted parents pursued the Pigeon; but it was in vain to try to capture her. Ever she escaped them when they seemed about to lay hands upon her soft feathers. After following her flight for many miles they were obliged to return home, sad and sorry and repentant. For they knew now that it was their own unkindness and their broken promises which had driven their daughter away from the cottage, never to return.

The beautiful Ground-Pigeon still lingers near the rice plantations which she had so longed to visit. Still she plaintively calls her name, and still she wears the necklace about her pretty little neck. And the little Malay maidens love her very dearly because she was once a girl like them.

SISTER HEN AND THE CROCODILE

The Crocodile is one of the hungriest bodies that ever lived. When he is looking for a dinner he will eat almost anything that comes within reach. Sometimes the greedy fellow swallows great stones and chunks of wood, in his hurry mistaking them for something more digestible. And when he is smacking his great jaws over his food he makes such a greedy, terrible noise that the other animals steal away nervously and hide until it shall be Master Crocodile's sleepy-time. He is too lazy to waddle in search of a dinner far from the river where he lives. But any animal or even a man-swimmer had best be careful how he ventures into the water near the Crocodile's haunts. For what seems to be a greenish-brown, knobby log of wood floating on the water, has little bright eyes which are on the lookout for anything which moves. And below the water two great jaws are ready to open and swallow in the prey of Mr. Hungry-Mouth.

But no matter how hungry the Crocodile may be, he will not touch the Hen, even if she should venture into his very jaws; at least, that is what the Black Men of the Congo River will tell you. And surely, as they are the nearest neighbors of the big reptile they ought to know if any one does. Now this is the story which they tell to explain why the Crocodile will not eat the Hen.

Once upon a time there was a Hen, a common, plump, clucky mother Hen, who used every day to go down to the river and pick up bits of food on the moist banks, where luscious insects were many. She did not know that this Congo River was the home of the Crocodile, the biggest, fiercest, scaliest, hungriest Crocodile in all Africa. But one day when she went down to the water as usual she hopped out onto what looked like a mossy log, saying to herself:--

"Aha! This is a fine old timber-house. It is full of juicy bugs, I know. I shall have a great feast!"

Tap-tap! Pick-pick! The Hen began to scratch and peck upon the rough bark of the log, but Oh dear me! suddenly she began to feel very seasick. The log was rolling over! The log was teetering up on end like a boat in a storm! And before she knew what was really happening the poor Hen found herself floundering in the water in the very jaws of the terrible Crocodile.

"Ha, ha!" cried the Crocodile in his harsh voice. "You took me for a log, just as the other silly creatures do. But I am no log, Mrs. Hen, as you shall soon see. I am Hungry Crocodile, and you will make the fifth dinner which I have had this evening."

The Hen was frightened almost to death, but she kept her presence of mind and gasped frantically as she saw the great jaws opening to swallow her:--

"O _Brother_, don't!"

Now the Crocodile was so surprised at hearing the Hen call him Brother that he kept his jaws wide open and forgot to swallow his dinner. He kept them open for some time, gaping foolishly, wondering what the Hen could mean, and how he could possibly be her brother. And by the time he had remembered how hungry he was, there was nothing for him to eat. For the Hen had skipped away just as fast as her feet would take her.

"Pouf!" snorted the Crocodile. "Her brother, indeed! I am not her brother, and she knows it very well. What a fool I was to be caught by such a word! Just wait till I catch her again and we will see. I will _brother_ her!" And he swam sulkily away to hide his mortification in the Congo mud, with only the end of his long nose poking out as a ventilator for his breathing.

Now, though the Hen had had so narrow an escape, it had not sufficiently taught her a lesson. A few days afterwards once more she went down to the river, for she could not resist the temptation of the bug-dinner which she knew she should find there. But she kept her eyes open sharply for any greeny log which might be floating on the water, saying to herself, "Old Hungry-Mouth shall not catch me napping this time. I know his wicked tricks!"

But this time the Crocodile was not floating on the water like a greeny log. He was lying still as still, sunning himself on the river bank behind some tall reeds. Mrs. Hen came trotting down to the water, a plump and tempting sight, cocking her head knowingly on one side as she spied a real log floating out beyond, which she took to be her enemy. And as she scratched in the soft mud, chuckling to think how sly she was, with a rush and a rustle down pounced the Crocodile upon her, and once more, before she knew it, she found herself in the horrid gateway of his jaws, threatened by the double rows of long, white teeth.

"Oho!" snapped the Crocodile. "You shall not escape me this time. I am a log, am I? Look at me again, Mrs. Hen. Am I a log?" And he came at her to swallow her at once.

But again the Hen squawked, "O _Brother_, don't!"

Again the Crocodile paused, thunderstruck by this extraordinary word. "Oh, bother the Hen!" he cried, "what can she mean, really? How can I be her brother? She lives in a town on the land, and I live in my kingdom of mud and water. How could two creatures possibly be more unlike? How"--but while he had been thinking of these hows, once more the Hen had managed to escape, and was pelting back to her barnyard as fast as she could go.

Then indeed the Crocodile was angry. He determined to go and see Nzambi, the wise witch princess, about the matter. She would tell him what it all meant. But it was a long journey to her palace and he was awkward and slow in traveling upon land. Before he had gone very far he was tired and out of breath, and stopped to rest under a banana tree.

As he lay panting in the shade he saw his friend Mbambi, the great Lizard, hurrying past through the jungle.

"Oh, Mbambi!" cried old Hungry-Mouth, "stop a moment. I want to speak with you. I am in great trouble."

So the Lizard drew near, wagging her head wisely, for it pleased her to be consulted by the big Crocodile. "What can it be, dear friend, that is troubling you this day?" she said amiably. "Surely, no one would be so rude or rash as to offend the King of Congo River. But tell me your trouble and perhaps I can advise you."