Chapter 6

"Oh, I'm not afraid," said Mother Wa-poose. "None of us are afraid of you any more. Look all you want to. But don't come any nearer. I am afraid you will open a path for Kee-wuk the Red Fox, or for Old Boze the Hound. Both of them have been around here several times. They know that I and my babies are here, but they can't get in. Old Boze tried it the other day, but went back to the house with a pair of bloody ears for his pains."

"Yes, I noticed his ears," said little Luke, "and wondered what he had been up to."

The little boy sat down as comfortably as he could and looked at Mother Wa-poose and her babies.

"Mother Wa-poose," said he after a while, "what makes you wriggle your nose so?"

"Oh," said Mother Wa-poose, "I do that to keep my smeller clear. You see we have so many enemies that we have to be on the watch all the time, and I can smell a fox or a dog almost as far as I can see them. You see I always sit with my nose to the wind, and my ears in the other direction. My nose tells me who is coming in front; my ears tell me who is coming from behind; and my eyes keep watch on both sides. I sleep most of the day, but my eyes, my ears, and my nose are always awake. Why, I knew you were coming almost half an hour ago. My nose told me. It is only in such a place as this that my three sentinels ever get any rest.

"When I haven't any babies to care for, I like to sit in a more open place in the sun. So long as I have a chance to run each way, I am not much afraid of anybody. And if it wasn't for the men with their dreadful fire-sticks, we of the Wa-poose family would have a pretty safe and easy time of it."

Just then the deep bay of a hound was heard. "There," said Mother Wa-poose, "there's Old Boze now. Would you like to see how I can fool him?"

"I would indeed," said little Luke, "if you are not afraid. Old Boze is a wise, old hound, and he may catch you."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of that," said Mother Wa-poose. "You just sit here where you can see, and I'll go down there and give Old Boze the time of his life. I think he must be trailing me now by the sound. I was down in the garden last night after a meal of cabbage leaves, and I suppose he has found my track."

Mother Wa-poose sprang out of her hiding place and went down the slope ten feet at a bound. She crossed her old track near the pasture bars and hopped slowly on to the edge of the blackberry patch. There she sat till she was sure that Old Boze had found her new trail. Then she skipped here and there through the briar patch till she came out on the other side. With a great leap she cleared the fence and ran on down through the cornfield. When she was clear of that, she ran along beside the stone wall till she came to the creek. Over the creek she went at one leap; then down through the alder bushes till she came back again into the pasture. Two or three times she crossed the brook. Then she came around up through the woods to the brush pile, where little Luke was sitting. From its lower edge there was a good view all down through the pasture. There Mother Wa-poose sat up and watched the old hound, her big, round eyes shining with glee.

Old Boze followed her trail into the blackberry thicket. Round and round he followed the scent, pushing his way through the stout bushes. Every bush was armed with a thousand sharp hooks, and every hook clung to the old hound's skin. He fairly whimpered with pain. Now and then he gave tongue, until at last he came out on the other side. But his ears were in tatters and blood drops oozed from his skin in a thousand places.

At the fence he was balked. Up and down beside the fence he ran several times, nosing the ground for the scent.

"Look at him! Look at him," said Mother Wa-poose, fairly shaking her sides with laughter. "Isn't he a sight? But that won't teach him anything. He'll do it the next time. Rabbit chasing must be lots of fun for him."

"I really do think he enjoys it," said little Luke.

Old Boze jumped over the fence and found the trail again. He followed it until he came to the creek. There he was puzzled. But he crossed the brook and found the trail at last. Over in the pasture he lost it again. Mother Wa-poose had been too cunning for him this time. After nosing the ground in all directions for a long time in vain, the old hound gave it up, and went back to the house.

"You see," said Mother Wa-poose, "if it wasn't for the fire-sticks, the hounds would not bother us much. Why will the house people be so cruel to us? We never harm them. Last fall the fire-sticks killed six of my children." And Mother Wa-poose's eyes filled with tears at the thought.

"It is too bad," said little Luke, "but Uncle Mark says that if some of the rabbits weren't killed off every year, they'd soon eat all the grass from the sheep and cows, and we wouldn't be able to raise any cabbages or turnips at all. Besides, you know, the house people like rabbit's flesh to eat. I used to eat it myself, but I'll never do it any more."

"How dreadful!" said Mother Wa-poose. "I don't see how anybody can eat flesh. Clover, or a nice, tender cabbage leaf is a good deal better."

XXVI. MOTHER WA-POOSE AND OLD KLAWS THE HOUSE CAT

A few days after little Luke saw something that gave him a new feeling of respect for Mother Wa-poose.

He was going up to make her another visit. As he came near the brush pile, he heard a thump! thump! thump! "That's Mother Wa-poose," said he to himself, "and she's angry about something. I wonder what can be the matter."

He went around to the other side of the brush pile and then he knew. There was Old Klaws the House Cat, his tail twitching and his round eyes shining hungrily.

Just as the boy caught sight of the old cat, Mother Wa-poose sprang out of the thicket. She sprang straight at Old Klaws. The cat snarled and shrank to one side. But Mother Wa-poose was too quick for him. As she went over, she struck him a sounding thwack with her hind feet. It fairly made the old cat's ribs crack, and he rolled over and over down the slope. In a second he sprang up, snarling and spitting. Again Mother Wa-poose sprang at him. This time she hit him squarely on the side of the head. Old Klaws went down, rolling over several times before he could right himself. The last thwack took all the fight out of him. He scrambled to his feet and went flying down the hillside at his best speed.

"There," said old Mother Wa-poose, "I guess he'll know enough to keep away from here after this."

"Why, Mother Wa-poose," said the little boy, "I didn't know that you were such a fighter."

"Well," said Mother Wa-poose, "we of the Wa-poose family never fight if we can help it. We'd rather run. But we aren't really afraid of anything our size. And this time I couldn't run. If I had, Old Klaws would surely have carried off one of my babies. He got one of them this spring. You remember the one you took away from him. He is grown up and has gone out into the world for himself now. You know we Wa-pooses have three or four families each year."

XXVII. THE RABBIT DANCE

"Would you like to see a rabbit dance?" asked Father Wa-poose one day in September.

"Indeed, I should," replied little Luke.

"Come out to-night then," said Wa-poose, "and sit down in the shadow of the stone wall in the corner of the clover field. There you will see something you have never seen before."

"I'll be there," said the boy.

That night little Luke went up to his room early. He took off his shoes and threw them heavily upon the floor, and blew out the light. Then he jumped upon his bed, so that it creaked loudly. Without taking off his clothes, he got under the blankets, and when Aunt Martha looked in, he seemed to be sound asleep. She did not look into the closet to see whether his clothes were hanging up there or not.

When he thought Aunt Martha had gone to bed, the little boy got up quietly, took his shoes in his hand, and slipped softly down the back stairs. Silently he unlocked and opened the kitchen door, and went out into the moonlight.

He did not feel that he was doing quite right, but he was afraid to ask Aunt Martha. You see he was afraid that she might ask questions, which he could not answer without telling about the Magic Flower and his wild friends.

He went over to the clover field and sat down in the corner of the stone fence where some bushes hid him from view.

For some time nothing happened. Pretty soon he heard a queer thump! thump! thump! He looked up and there was old Father Wa-poose close beside him. He had come into the field so quietly that little Luke had not heard a sound.

"Hi! hi! there you are, Man-cub," said the old rabbit. "Now you sit very still, and you'll see something worth seeing. Of course we are not really afraid of you, but if some of the young folks should see you, they might get nervous. I'll just go out and get my supper, and when the fun begins I'll come back and keep you company. I don't care much for dancing. I leave that mostly to the young people."

Soon from all sides, rabbits came leaping over the fence into the field. There were young rabbits and old rabbits, big rabbits and little rabbits.

Sometimes one of them would stop and thump the ground with his hind feet. This seemed to be a signal; for when one thumped, another would come hopping toward him. The two would touch noses and then turn to on the sweet, young clover, that had grown up since the July mowing.

Their feast lasted for an hour or more. Then the fun began. Several of them would hop close together in the centre of the field. Then they would skip slowly about in a sort of stately dance. Little by little the movement became faster and faster until they were spinning around like a pinwheel in a brisk breeze. Round and round they went until it made little Luke's head dizzy to watch them.

Suddenly a rabbit stamped with his hind feet,--thump! thump! thump! Instantly every rabbit squatted motionless. It was a danger signal, but a false one. Nothing happened.

Soon the fun began again. Several of the rabbits had a game of tag. Round and round they went, leaping ten feet or more at each bound. Sometimes in the midst of their race, one of them would take a sky-hop. Up straight into the air he would go as if he were trying to reach the moon.

"Why do they do that?" asked little Luke of Father Wa-poose, who had come back and was sitting quietly beside him.

"They do that," answered the old rabbit, "to get a clear look all around them. You know we always have to be on the lookout for our foes."

Not far from little Luke two rabbits were having a boxing match. They stood up to each other just like men. Little Luke could hear a soft spat, spat, spat, as the blows went home. Their paws were so soft that the blows did not hurt and it was great fun.

Suddenly thump! thump! thump! sounded the danger signal again. Not for nothing this time! Ko-ko-ka the Great Owl came sailing over the clover field as silently as a ghost. But for all his great eyes, the old owl could not see a single rabbit. Neither could little Luke.

"Where have they all gone to?" he asked Father Wa-poose.

"Oh," said he, "they're all there. So long as they sit perfectly still old Ko-ko-ka can't see them."

"Why didn't they run away?" asked little Luke.

"What's the use?" replied the old rabbit; "so long as we know he is coming, we aren't afraid of Ko-ko-ka. If he should swoop at one of them, he'd just give a bound and get out of danger. Old Ko-ko-ka can't catch a rabbit who knows he's coming. It's the way he comes that makes us fear him. His wings are covered with down and do not make a sound. That's the reason we all dread him so. Ugh! I fairly shiver when I think of him. He nearly got me once. His sharp claws scratched my ears."

Ko-ko-ka was very hungry. He knew the rabbits were in that meadow, and hated to go off without one. While Wa-poose had been talking, he had been sailing slowly round the field. Now he was coming back again.

As he flew over little Luke's head he looked down. Perhaps he saw a slight movement as little Luke tried to look up at him. Instantly he swooped and his sharp claws struck the little boy's hat.

"Hi, there!" said little Luke in astonishment. It was Ko-ko-ka's turn to be astonished now. He dropped the hat, flapped his great wings, and floated off towards the woods.

Little Luke left his hat where it fell and waited to see what the rabbits would do. After a short time the fun began again. There were two young ones that little Luke noticed in particular. They began their race in the middle of the field. Round and round they went and each time round their circles became larger.

Now on the other side of the clover field there was an open gap in the fence. All at once the danger signal sounded again. Thump! thump! thump! Again every rabbit squatted, with ears and eyes alert to catch sound or sight of an enemy.

It was too late. Through the gate bounded a ball of reddish, yellow fur. Snap! And the teeth of Kee-wuk the Red Fox had seized one of the young rabbits by the neck. Swinging the limp body over his shoulders, he trotted quietly off through the gap.

That ended the fun. As they saw the Red Fox every rabbit sprang to his feet, and with a hop, skip, and jump went over the fence and out of the clover field. And little Luke saw them no more that night.

XXVIII. WHY THE WILD FOLK NO LONGER TALK THE MAN-TALK

Now in his talks with his wild friends little Luke noticed that they used many Indian words such as he had learned from Old John the Indian.

"Why is it," said he, one day to Wa-poose, "that you wild folk use so many of the Red Men's words?"

"Well," said the old rabbit, "that is a long story. But if you will sit down here beside me, I will tell you about it."

* * * * *

"In the first days," said Wa-poose, "when the world was new, the men and the wild folk were much alike. They all spoke one language.

"In those days it was always summer. All the year round the grass was green and the flowers bloomed. Twelve times a year the vines and bushes and trees bore fresh blossoms, and twelve times a year they were loaded with ripe berries, fruits, and nuts.

"In those times there was no hunting and no killing. All the wild kindreds lived in peace with each other and with the Red Men, who then dwelt in this land. You see there was plenty to eat and the weather was so warm and pleasant that the Red Men did not need the skins of their wild brothers to keep them from the cold.

"But after a while a change came. Pe-boan the dreadful Winter King came down from the North and made war upon Ni-pon the Queen of Summer. After many battles peace was made and the year was divided; half the year was ruled by the Queen of Summer, and half by the Winter King.

"Now it came to pass that after the war was over the vines and bushes and trees put forth their buds and blossomed and bore fruit but once a year. The Red Men and the wild kindreds suffered dreadfully from hunger, and their hearts became hard and cruel. Then the hunting and the killing began. The Red Men hunted many of the wild kindreds for their flesh and their fur, and the wild kindreds began to kill and devour each other. And so it has been since that day.

"In those times the Wa-poose folk were much larger than they are now, even as large as Mo-ween the Bear. But they refused to take part in the killing and flesh eating, and so they suffered more from hunger than some of the wild kindreds. Year by year, on account of the scarcity of food, the Wa-poose folk became smaller until they were as you see them now.

"In the beginning, as I have said, the Red Men and the wild kindreds spoke one language. Even to this day, the Red hunters have kept many of the watchwords of the wild folk, and by means of them are able to deceive and kill them.

"Now by reason of the great slaughter that was made by the Red Men, the wild kindreds gathered themselves together in a great council to discuss their condition. After much talk they decided to ask help of the Master of Life.

"'There is but one way,' said he, when he had heard their story, 'you must change your speech. Then the Red Men will no longer be able to deceive you so easily and slay so many of you.'

"The wild folk did as the Master of Life told them to do. They changed their language, and refused to speak any longer with the Red Men. But some of the Red Men's words they have kept to this day, and that is why you hear us use them."

XXIX. THE TALE OF SUN-KA THE WISE DOG

One day Old John the Indian came down the trail to the farmhouse. He was on his way to town to sell some baskets. As Uncle Mark was going to town with the team, he invited him to ride. Since the town was several miles away, the old Indian gladly accepted the invitation, leaving Ke-ha-ga his old hound at the farmhouse.

In the afternoon little Luke was sitting on the fence when old Ke-ha-ga came over to him. Putting his front paws on top of the fence, he licked the little boy's hand.

"Hello, Ke-ha-ga," said little Luke, "so you have come out to see me, have you? Can't you tell me a story?" he added as he gently patted the old hound's head.

"What kind of a story do you want?" asked the old dog.

"Oh, most any kind will do," said the boy. "Tell me a story about some dog of the olden, days,--the days before the white men came to this country."

"Very well," said Ke-ha-ga, "I'll tell you a legend that my grandfather told to me when I was a puppy." And he began the following tale.

"Many winters ago there was a wise dog whose name was Sun-ka. He lived with an old Indian woman. Now Sun-ka was a good hunter, and often brought home to the lodge rabbits and other small animals which he had hunted and caught by himself.

"But his mistress was a bad, greedy old woman. She took all the game which he brought, and used it for herself. What she could not eat at once, she dried and put away for another time. To Sun-ka she gave only the bones and other poor scraps, so that most of the time he was half starved.

"At last there came a season when game was very scarce. The old woman, it is true, had plenty of dried meat in her wigwam, but she gave none of it to Sun-ka. He almost died of starvation.

"At last he said to himself, 'Why should that old woman have plenty to eat, and I scarcely anything at all? Most of the meat which she has hidden in her lodge, I caught for her myself. It is as much mine as it is hers. Since she will not give me my share of it, I'll just take it without asking her.'

"But the old woman was very watchful. When Sun-ka tried to get the meat, she beat him over the head with a club until he ran away yelping with pain.

"The next morning one of his dog friends came to visit him. 'Good morning, Sun-ka,' said he, but Sun-ka made no reply. Indeed, his head was so swelled from the blows he had received, that he could hardly open his mouth.

"'Well, well,' said his friend, after looking him over carefully, 'you seem to be in a sad case. What has happened to you?'

"'Oh,' replied Sun-ka, speaking with difficulty, 'I tried to get my share of the meat, which my mistress has in her lodge, and she beat me for it. She beat me till I am stiff and sore, and can scarcely move.'

"'Well,' said his friend, 'I wouldn't stand it if I were you. The meat is just as much yours as it is hers. You caught most of it yourself and you helped her to catch the rest of it, I'll tell you what we'll do; well pay her off for it. I'll go and call our friends; I'll call Rainmaker, Stillbiter, Strongneck, and Sharptooth.' And so he did.

"Rainmaker caused it to rain, and it rained all the day through until dark, and when it was dark it was very dark. Then Stillbiter crept up softly to the lodge and bit off all the thongs which fastened the covering to the lodge poles.

"When this was done, Strongneck crept in and seized the meat and carried it away. Then Sharptooth ripped open the bag which held the meat, and before morning the six dogs ate it all up.

"When the meat was all gone, Sun-ka ran away and became a wild dog. What became of the old Indian woman I do not know."

"Served her right," said the little boy. "If she hadn't been so stingy with her meat, she wouldn't have lost it. And Sun-ka would have stayed with her to help catch more."

XXX. HOW THE DOG'S TONGUE BECAME LONG

It was hot. Little Luke sat on the doorstep in the shade. Over in the pasture Old Boze the Hound gave tongue. He was at his favorite sport of trailing rabbits all by himself. He really didn't have any spite against the rabbits, but when he struck a fresh trail, he felt that he just must follow it. And when he had puzzled out a balk or break in the trait, he couldn't for the life of him keep still.

But it was really too hot for trailing, especially when there was nothing in it but fun. The old hound would have stuck to it longer if Sam the hired man had been around somewhere, hiding behind the bushes with his thundering fire-stick. Old Boze wasn't afraid of the fire-stick. He liked to hear it roar, and see the poor rabbits fall before its deadly breath.

Well, after a while he gave it up and came back to the house. Going around to the doorstep, he lay down on the cool porch with his head close to the little boy's shoulder. He was tired, and his dripping tongue hung far out from his open mouth. The little boy looked at it.

"Old Boze," said he, "what a long tongue you have. Why is it that dogs have such long tongues?"

Old Boze shifted his eves uneasily and looked the other way, but said nothing.

"Come, now," said the little boy, "I am sure there is a story about that long, red tongue of yours."

"To be sure there is," said a voice that came from just behind the boy's ear. He looked around and there was Old Klaws the House Cat.

"What do you know about it?" asked the little boy.

"Oh, I know all about it," answered the old cat. "But ask Old Boze," he went on with a grin, "perhaps he'll tell you."

Old Boze got up slowly and with dignity. "I am too tired to tell stories," said he, "but I'm not too tired to shake the foolishness out of a cat."

"Here now," said the little boy, "no quarreling and fighting. I won't have it. And Klaws shall tell me that story about your long, red tongue, if he will."

"To be sure I will," said Old Klaws, delighted to be able to tease Old Boze safely. Of course there was another time coming when little Luke might not be at hand, but then the old cat trusted to speed and sharp claws to put himself up a tree and out of the reach of the old hound.

"All right," said Old Boze, "if you're fond of the company of a sneaking, mouse-eating, old tabby. I'm not. I'll take myself off. But my memory is good," he added, glancing at Old Klaws with a snarl that showed all his sharp, white teeth.

"Well, now for the story," said the little boy, when Old Boze was out of sight around the corner.

"Long, long ago," began Old Klaws, "when all the animal kindreds could talk the man-talk, the dogs were the greatest telltales in the world. They told everything they knew, and sometimes a great deal more. Their masters often flogged them for tattling, but it did little or no good.

"In those days there was a great hunter whose name was Man-e-do. He wanted a dog to help him hunt, but he did not want a tattletale. So he took a fine, young pup, and tried to bring him up to be a good hunter and to keep his tongue. He took good care of him. He often told him how foolish it was to tell everything he knew. The pup would promise not to tattle, but he was only a dog, and blood will tell after all.

"When the pup was big enough, his master took him with him when he went hunting for small game. The dog was a good trailer by this time, and together they killed many rabbits and other small animals.