Chapter 8

"Listen to me, then," said the Crocodile. "Almost every day a nice fat Hen,--Oh, Mbambi! so delightfully fat and tempting!--comes to my river to feed. Well, why don't I make her my dinner? you ask. Now hearken: each time, just as I am about to catch her and carry her to my home she startles me by calling me '_Brother_.' Did you ever hear of anything so maddening? Twice I have let her escape because of the word. But I can stand it no longer, and I am on the way to Princess Nzambi to hold a palaver about it." (By "palaver" the slangy Crocodile meant a long, serious talk.)

"Silly idiot!" cried the Mbambi, not very politely. "Do nothing of the kind. You will only get the worst of the palaver and show your ignorance before the wise Nzambi. Now listen to me. Don't you know, dear Crocodile, that the Duck lives on the water, though she is neither a fish nor a reptile? And the Duck lays eggs. The Turtle does the same, though she is no bird. The Hen lays eggs, just as I do; and I am Mbambi, the great Lizard. As for you, dear old Hungry-Mouth, you know that at this moment"--here she whispered discreetly, looking around to see that no one was listening,--"at this moment in a snug nest dug out of the sand on the banks of the Congo, Mrs. Crocodile has covered with leaves to hide them from your enemies sixty smooth white eggs. And in a few weeks out of these will scamper sixty little wiggly Crocodiles, your dear, homely, scaly, hungry-mouthed children. Yes, we all lay eggs, my silly friend, and so in a sense we are all brothers, as the Hen has said."

"Sh!" whispered the Crocodile, nervously. "Don't mention those eggs of mine, I beg of you. Some one might overhear. What you say is undoubtedly true," he added pensively, after thinking a few moments. "Then I suppose I must give up my tempting dinner of Hen. I cannot eat my Sister, can I?"

"Of course you cannot," said the Mbambi, as he rustled away through the jungle. "We can't have everything we want in this world."

"No, I see we cannot," sighed the Crocodile, as he waddled back towards the banks of the Congo. Now in the same old spot he found the Hen, who had been improving his absence by greedily stuffing herself on beetle-bugs, flies, and mosquitoes until she was so fat that she could not run away at the Crocodile's approach. She could only stand and squawk feebly, fluttering her ridiculous wings.

But the Crocodile only said, "Good evening, Sister," very politely, and passing her by with a wag of his enormous tail sank with a plop into the waters of the Congo.

And ever since that time the Hen has eaten her dinner in tranquil peace, undisturbed by the sight of floating log or basking shape of knobby green. For she knows that old Hungry-Mouth will not eat his Sister, the Hen.

THE THRUSH AND THE CUCKOO

In the wonderful days of old it is said that Christ and Saint Peter went together upon a journey. It was a beautiful day in March, and the earth was just beginning to put on her summer gorgeousness. As the two travelers were passing near a great forest they spied a Thrush sitting on a tree singing and singing as hard as he could. And he cocked his head as if he was very proud of something.

Saint Peter stopped at the foot of the tree and said, "I wish you a good day, Thrush!"

"I have no time to thank you," chirped the Thrush pertly.

"Why not, pretty Thrush?" asked Saint Peter in surprise. "You have all the time in the world and nothing to do but sing."

"You mistake," cried the Thrush. "I am making the summer! It is I, I, I who make the green grass grow and the flowers bud. Look, how even now the world is growing beautiful in answer to my song." And the conceited little bird continued to warble as hard as he could,--

"To-day I shall marry, I and no other! To-morrow my brother."

Christ and Saint Peter looked at each other and smiled, then went upon their way without another word, leaving the Thrush to continue his task of making the summer.

This was in the morning. But before midday the clouds gathered and the sky darkened, and at noon a cold rain began to drip. The poor Thrush ceased his jubilant song and began to shiver in the March wind. By night the snow was felling thick and fast, and where there had been a green carpet on the earth was now spread a coverlet of snowy white. Shivering and like to die of cold the Thrush took refuge under the tree in the moss and dead leaves. He thought no more of his marriage, nor of his brother's, but only of the danger which threatened him, and of the discomfort.

The next morning Christ and Saint Peter, plodding through the snow-drifts, came upon him again, and Saint Peter said as before, "I wish you good day, Thrush."

"Thank you," answered the Thrush humbly, and his voice was shaky with cold and sorrow.

"What do you here on the cold ground, O Thrush-who-make-the-summer, and why are you so sad?" asked Saint Peter. And the Thrush piped feebly,--

"To-day I must die, I and no other! To-morrow my brother."

"O foolish little bird," said Saint Peter. "You boasted that you made the summer. But see! The Lord's will has sent us back to the middle of winter, to punish your boasting. You shall not die, he will send the sun again to warm you. But hereafter beware how you take too much credit for your little efforts."

Since that time March has ever been a treacherous and a changeful month. Then the Thrush thinks not of marriage, but of his lesson learned in past days, and wraps himself in his warmest feathers, waiting for the Lord's will to be done. He is no longer boastful in his song, but sings it humbly and sweetly to the Lord's glory, thanking him for the summer which his goodness sends every year to happy bird and beast and child of man.

* * * * *

Now after this adventure with the Thrush, Christ and Saint Peter went upon their journey for many miles. At last, weary and hungry, they passed a Baker's shop. From the window came the smell of new warm bread baking in the oven, and Christ sent Saint Peter to ask the Baker for a loaf. But the Baker, who was a stingy fellow, refused.

"Go away with you!" he cried. "I give no bread to lazy beggars!"

"I ask it for my Master, who has traveled many miles and is most faint and weary," said Saint Peter. But the Baker frowned and shook his head, then strode into the inner shop, banging the door after him.

The Baker's wife and six daughters were standing at one side when these things happened, and they heard all that took place. They were generous and kind-hearted bodies, and tears stood in their eyes at the Baker's rough words. As soon as he had gone out they wrapped up the loaf and gave it stealthily to Saint Peter saying,--

"Take the loaf for your Master, good man, and may he be refreshed by it."

Saint Peter thanked and blessed them and took the loaf to Christ. And for their charity the Lord set these good women in the sky as the Seven Stars,--you may see them to this day shining in love upon the sleeping world. But the wicked Baker he changed into a Cuckoo; and as long as he sings his dreary song, "Coo-coo! Coo-coo!" in the spring, so long the Seven Stars are visible in the heaven, so folk say.

THE OWL AND THE MOON

When the moon is round and full, if you look very carefully at the golden disk you can see in shadowy outline the profile of a beautiful lady. She is leaning forward as if looking down upon our earth, and there is a little smile upon her sweet lips. This fair dame is Putri Balan, the Princess of the Moon, and she smiles because she remembers how once upon a time she cheated old Mr. Owl, her tiresome lover.

Putri Balan, so they tell you in Malay, was always very, very beautiful, as we see her now. Like all the Malay women, Putri Balan loved to chew the spicy betel-nut which turns one's lips a bright scarlet. It is better, so they say, than any kind of candy, and it is considered much nicer and more respectable than chewing-gum. So Putri Balan was not unladylike, although she chewed her betel-nut all night long.

Now, ever since the day when Mr. Owl carelessly let the naughty little Wren escape from prison, the shamed and sorry old fellow had never dared to show his face abroad in daylight. Gradually his eyes grew blurred and blinky, till now he could not see anything by day, even if he were to try.

So it happens that there are many delightful things about which old Mr. Owl does not know,--things which take place while the beautiful sun is shining. But also there are marvelous sights, unknown to early-sleeping birds, which he enjoys all by himself. For at night his queer eyes are wonderfully strong and bright. All day long he sits in his hollow tree, but when the other feathered folk are drowsing upon their roosts, or are snugly rolled up in their little nests, with their heads tucked under their downy wings, old Mr. Owl puts on his round spectacles and goes a-prowling up and down the world through the woods and meadows (like Haroun-al-Rashid in the streets of Bagdad), spying all sorts of queer doings.

And this is how old Mr. Owl happened to see the fair Princess Putri Balan, smiling down from her moon upon the sleeping world of birds who had never seen her and never would see her in all her loveliness.

How beautiful she was! How bright and wonderful! Old Mr. Owl stared up in wide-eyed astonishment, and then and there fell in love with her, and resolved to ask her to be his wife.

Cramming on his spectacles more tightly and ruffling the feathers about his neck, he flew up and up and up, as high as ever he dared to go, until he was within hailing distance of the moon. Then he called out in his softest tones,--which were harsh enough to any ears,--

"O fair Moon-Maiden, O beautiful Princess, will you marry me? For I love you very dearly."

The Princess Putri Balan stopped chewing her betel-nut for a moment and looked down to see what daring creature might thus be addressing her. Soon she spied Mr. Owl with his goggle-eyes looking up at her adoringly. He was such a ridiculous old creature, and his spectacles glinted so queerly in the moonlight, that Putri Balan began to laugh and answered him not at all. She laughed so hard that she almost swallowed her betel-nut, which might have been a serious matter.

Mr. Owl continued to stare, for he saw nothing funny in the situation. Again he repeated in his hoarse voice, "O fair Moon-Maiden, O beautiful Princess, will you marry me? For I love you very dearly."

Again the Princess laughed, for she thought it a tremendous joke; and again she nearly choked. Mr. Owl waited, but she made him no other answer. However, he was a persistent lover. All night long he went on asking the same question, over and over again, until the Princess Putri Balan was quite worn out trying not to choke with laughter while she chewed the betel-nut. At last she said impatiently,--

"O Mr. Goggle-Eyes! Do give me a moment's peace! You make me laugh so that I cannot chew my betel-nut. Yes, I will say _yes_, if you will only leave me to finish my betel-nut undisturbed. I will marry you. But you must go away until I have quite done."

Then Mr. Owl was filled with joy. "Thanks, thanks, O most gracious lady!" he said. "I will go away and leave you to finish your betel-nut undisturbed. But I shall come again to-morrow night, and by that time you will have done with it, and then you will be mine!"

Mr. Owl flew back to his home in the hollow tree, for it was almost morning, and already he was growing so blind that he could hardly find the way. But the Princess Putri Balan went on chewing the betel-nut, and to herself she said,--

"How am I to rid myself of this bore? I cannot chew this little betel-nut forever; there must be an end to it before long. Mr. Owl will certainly come again to-morrow night, and then, according to my promise, I must become his wife. I cannot marry old Goggle-Eyes. Oh dear! What shall I do?"

As she chewed her betel-nut the Princess Putri Balan hit upon a plan. She would manage to cheat old Mr. Owl after all. She would never finish the betel-nut! She took the little bit that remained,--and it was a dangerously little bit, for the Princess had been chewing all night long, except when she was laughing,--and reaching out from the moon she tossed it down, down, down upon the earth. At the same time she said a magic moon-charm: and when the bit of betel-nut reached the earth, it became a little bird,--the same which the Malay people call the Honey Bird, with brilliant, beautiful plumage. And the Princess Putri Balan cried out to it from her golden house,--

"Fly away, pretty little bright bird! Fly as far and as fast as ever you can, and keep out of Mr. Owl's way. For it is you who must save me from becoming his unhappy wife."

So the Honey Bird flew away, a brilliant streak, through the Malay woods, and hid himself in a little nest.

When night came out stole Mr. Owl, with his spectacles in place, and up he flew to his Princess, whom he now hoped to call his very own.

"Good evening, my beautiful Princess!" he cried. "Have you finished your betel-nut at last, and are you ready to keep your promise?"

But the Princess Putri Balan looked down at him, pretending to be sad, though there was a twinkle in her beautiful eye; and she said,--

"Alas! Mr. Owl, a dreadful thing has happened. I lost my betel-nut, before it was quite finished. It fell down, down, down, until I think it reached the earth. And I cannot marry you, according to my promise, until it is finished."

"Then it must be found!" cried Mr. Owl. "I will find it. My eyes are sharp at night and nothing escapes them. Shine kindly on me, Princess, and I will find the betel-nut for you, and you shall yet be mine."

"Go then, Mr. Owl," said the Princess, smiling to herself. "Go and look for the betel-nut which I must finish before I marry you. Search carefully and you may find it soon."

Poor Mr. Owl searched carefully, but he could not find the bit of betel-nut. Of course he could not find it, when it had changed and flown away as a beautiful, many-colored bird! All that night he sought, till the sun sent him blinking to his tree. And all the next night he sought, and the next, and the next. And he kept on seeking for days and months and years, while the Princess Putri Balan smiled down upon him and was happy at heart because of her clever scheme.

Old Mr. Owl never found out the trick, nor suspected the innocent little Honey Bird, whom indeed he scarcely ever saw, because it was a sunset-sleeping bird, while he was a wistful, lonely, sad night-prowler. Up and down, up and down the world he goes, still looking for the betel-nut of the Princess Putri Balan, which he will never find. And as he flies in the moonlight he glances ever longingly at the beautiful lady in the moon, and sobs "Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!" in grief and despair. For after all these centuries he begins to fear that she will never be his wife.

THE TUFTED CAP

One dark night Master Owl left his hollow tree and went prowling about the world as usual upon his hopeless hunt for the Princess's betel-nut. As soon as he was out of hearing a long, lean, hungry Rat crept to the house and stole the dainties which the lonely old bachelor had stored away for the morrow's dinner. The thief dragged them away to his own hole and had a splendid feast with his wife and little ones. But the Owl returned sooner than the Rat had expected, and by the crumbs which he had dropped upon the way tracked him to the hole.

"Come out, thief!" cried the Owl, "or I will surely kill you. Come out and return to me my morrow's dinner." The Rat trembled with fear at these threatening words.

"Alas!" he squeaked, "I cannot do that, for already the dinner is eaten. My wife and hungry little ones have eaten it. Pity us, for we were starving!"

"Bah!" screamed the Owl, "I care little for that. It is for my dinner alone that I care. Since you have eaten it you shall certainly die," and he began to scratch fiercely at the mouth of the hole. The Rat trembled more than ever. But suddenly he had an idea which made his whiskers twitch.

"Hold!" he cried. "Dear, good Master Owl, permit me to live and I will give you something which is worth many dinners, something that men-creatures value very highly, and which with great labor and pain I brought away from one of their dens."

"Umph!" grumbled the Owl. "Let us see what it is."

The Rat crawled timidly out of his hole with the peace-offering; and what do you think it was? Why, a gimlet! Just a plain, ordinary, well-sharpened gimlet for boring holes.

"Hoo!" cried the Owl. "I don't think much of _that_. What is it good for?" Now the Rat had not the faintest idea as to what the gimlet really was, but he had another idea instead.

"That? Why--that--oh, _that_! That is a very valuable thing. It is able to give you the keenest delight. I will show you how it works. But you must do just as I say, or it will be of no use."

"Hoo!" cried the Owl. "Continue with the directions."

"Well, first you must stick the thing point upwards in the ground at the foot of this tree."

"Very good," said the Owl, doing as was suggested, and waiting expectantly for the next move.

"Now you must mount to the top of the tree and slide down the trunk," said the Rat solemnly. Old Master Owl was certainly very far from wise that night, for he obeyed the Rat's word without a suspicion. He flew to the top of the tree, and then, sitting back and giving a warning cry of "Hoo-hoo!" coasted down the trunk with the speed of lightning. But midway down he struck a knot in the tree and rolled heels over head. And when he reached the ground of course he landed fast upon the sharp point of the gimlet, just as the Rat had planned.

With bloody head, and hooting with pain, the Owl started off in pursuit of the Rat, resolved this time to kill him without fail. The Rat was nimble, and his fear added to his speed, but at last the Owl caught him. Ruffled and ferocious, the great bird was about to tear him in pieces, when the Rat once more begged his life.

"It was only a joke," he cried. "Only a silly joke. Spare me this once, dear Master Owl, and I will give you something that you really need. Look at your bleeding head. You cannot go about the world with that exposed. Spare my life, and I will give you a lovely cap of tufted feathers to hide the bite of the wicked sharp-thing-made-by-man. Pray, let me go, dear Master Owl."

The Owl considered for a moment, and then decided to accept the bargain. For he thought of Putri Balan, the Princess of the Moon, and knew that he should lose his last chance to win her if she happened to see him with this ridiculous wound in his head.

So the Rat gave him a nice cap of tufted feathers, which he wears to this day; and the Owl let the thief go free. But after that there was a coolness between them, as you may well imagine.

THE GOOD HUNTER

Once upon a time there was an Indian who was a famous hunter. But he did not hunt for fun; he took no pleasure in killing the little wild creatures, birds and beasts and fishes, and did so only when it was necessary for him to have food or skins for his clothing. He was a very kind and generous man, and loved all the wood-creatures dearly, often feeding them from his own larder, and protecting them from their enemies. So the animals and birds loved him as their best friend, and he was known as the Good Hunter.

The Good Hunter was very brave, and often went to war with the fierce savages who were the enemies of his tribe. One sad day he set forth with a war party, and they had a terrible battle, in which the Good Hunter was slain, and his enemies took away his scalp, leaving him lying dead in the forest.

The Good Hunter had not remained long cold and lifeless in the shadowy stillness, when the Fox came trotting through the woods. "Alack and alas!" cried the Fox, spying the body stretched on the leaves. "Here is our dear friend, the Good Hunter, slain! Alack and alas! what shall we do now that our dear friend and protector is gone?"

The Fox ran out into the forest crying the death lament, which was the signal to all the beasts that something most sorrowful had happened. Soon they came flocking to the spot, all the animals of the forest. By hundreds they came, and surrounding the body of their friend raised the most doleful howls. For, though they rubbed him with their warm noses, and licked him with their warm tongues, and nestled against him with their warm fur, they could not bring him back to warm life.

They called upon Brother Bear to speak and tell them what to do; for he was the nearest relative to man. The Bear sat up on his haunches and spoke to the sad assembly with tears in his eyes, begging each animal to look carefully through his medicine-box and see whether there might not be some balm which would restore the Good Hunter to life. Then each animal looked carefully through his medicine-box of herbs and healing roots, bark and magic leaves, and they tried every remedy that they knew. But nothing brought the color to their friend's pale cheeks, nor light into his eyes. He who had helped them so often was helpless now, and they could not aid him. Again the kind beasts sank back on their haunches and raised a mighty howl, a requiem for the dead.

Wild and piercing and long-drawn, the sound swept through the forest, such a sound of sorrow as had never been heard before. The Oriole, who was flying overhead, heard and was surprised. Soon his brightness came flashing down through the leafy boughs like a ray of sunlight into the gloom and darkness of the forest.

"What has happened, O four-footed friends," he asked, "that you mourn so mightily?" Then they showed him the body of the Good Hunter lying in the midst of their sad company, and the Oriole joined his voice of sorrow to theirs.

"O friend of the birds," he cried, "is there no bird who can aid you now, you who have fed us so many times from the door of your generous wigwam? I will call all the feathered tribes, and we will do our best."

So the Oriole went forth and summoned the birds to the forest council. There was a great flapping of wings, a great twittering and chirping, questioning and exclamation when the birds assembled to hear the sad news. Every one was there, from the tiny Humming Bird to the great Eagle of the Iroquois, who left his lonely eyrie to pay his respects to the Good Hunter's memory. The poor little birds tried everything in their power to bring back to life their dear friend. With beak and claw and tender wing they strove, but all their efforts were in vain. Their Good Hunter was dead, and his scalp was gone.

Then the great Eagle, whose head was white with years of wisdom and experience, spoke to the despairing assemblage of creatures. From his lofty perch above the world the Eagle had looked down upon centuries of change and decay. He knew every force of nature and all the strange things of life. The hoary-headed sage said that the Good Hunter could not be restored until his scalp was found. Then all the animals clamored that they might be allowed to go and seek for the missing scalp. But to the Fox was given this honor, because he had first found the body of the Good Hunter in the forest. The Fox set out upon his search, in his foxy way. He visited every hen-roost and every bird's-nest, but no scalp did he find. "Of course not!" screamed the birds when he returned from his fruitless quest, "Of course no bird has taken the Good Hunter's scalp. You should have known better than that, Master Fox."