Part 11

So there he lived all alone and in time he became known as a sort of a hermit. Ebenezer was really a fine, handsome fellow, with a black, pointed snout and stiffly bristling whiskers, deep, yellowish-brown fur, expressive, meditative green eyes, and small, alert, round ears, and when he moved about, or the wind blew across his fat back, his fur was so long and fine that it actually waved. But most remarkable of all Ebenezer’s many attractions was, perhaps, his fine, plume-like tail, of which he was inordinately vain.

Now Ebenezer Coon took what might be called “solid comfort.” The baying hounds never molested him, for just beneath and all around his home tree grew a perfect battlement of thorn bush, and often Ebenezer, from a safe retreat in some abandoned squirrel’s nest, would peek cautiously over its edge and with little rumbling grunts of satisfaction and fun he would watch the baffled hounds who had scented his retreat, while they gave up the chase in disgust, backing out with torn, bleeding ears and cruel spikes from the thorn bush piercing their inquisitive snouts.

One night, just as the big, yellow moon arose from behind the dark mountains, and its rays began to penetrate and filter through the thick dark pines, Ebenezer awoke from his customary, all-day sleep and began to pull himself up out of his nest. He dearly loved to go abroad on a moonlight night, enjoying the scenery while he leisurely foraged about for food. Having clawed his way up out of his hole he took up his position on a flat limb of the pine, gazing forth over the prospect with approval, and turning over in his mind just what he should do that night.

The owls were already out, hooting and calling soft answers back and forth to each other, and hermit thrushes were still singing their plaintive lullabies drowsily, in the thorn thickets, while down in the marshes the frogs and peepers had already begun their nightly serenade. Occasionally, from far off over the mountain, a whippoorwill called lonesomely. Even the bats were out foraging, for the soft night moths which they loved to hunt on the wing, and flapped, squeaking shrilly, close to Ebenezer’s head.

Ebenezer felt lazy, and began to stretch out first one black, claw-tipped foot, then the other, yawning and showing all his little sharp white teeth. At last he was quite awake and instantly began to realize that he was frightfully hungry. His pressing needs soon set his sluggish wits to work and he began to think longingly of a far-away field of ripening corn. True, the corn was a long distance from home, but Ebenezer never bothered about distances when he went hunting for sweet corn. It was the one dainty in all the world for which he cared most.

Now the more he thought about the milk-white, ripening kernels of corn, encased in their pale green, silken husks, the hungrier did Ebenezer become, until, unable to endure the situation longer, with sudden, desperate haste he began to slide and claw his way down the trunk of the oak tree. Ebenezer was now in fine spirits, for the night was simply perfect, and just suited his plans, so he frolicked along the forest path, often giving little ridiculous skips and bounds into the air for sheer joy. He skirted a deep ravine, then crossed the brook where he paused to dip his black snout into the bubbles, scattering a shoal of silvery minnows leaping and playing in the water.

Just before Ebenezer reached the corn-field he came across a queer, round bundle, or ball, lying directly in his path. Ebenezer never turned out for anything which happened to be in his road. He was far too indolent to do that--he always waited for others to make way for him. So he kept right on, and when he came close to the queer ball he playfully decided to see if it was alive, and have some fun with it. He reached forth, rather gingerly at first, and touched the thing with the tip of his paw. It did not move, so then he commenced to jostle it rudely about with his black snout. Just as he was beginning to rather enjoy the game, all of a sudden the supposed ball suddenly unrolled itself, stood upright and charged savagely at him. And then before Ebenezer knew it, he had been bowled over on his fat back, with his nose and cheeks stuck full of cruel sharp quills. The supposed ball had simply been a stray porcupine who had rolled himself up into a neat ball and gone to sleep.

Without stopping to even glance at poor Ebenezer, the porcupine, having revenged himself for being disturbed, turned and waddled back into the forest, grunting indignantly to himself as he traveled.

“Gar-r-r-r, gar-r-r-r,” snarled Ebenezer in a perfect frenzy of agony and rage, lifting his fore paws to his smarting cheeks and trying vainly to pull out the sharp, barbed quills which were penetrating his flesh. But he soon found out that the more he rubbed and scratched, the worse the cruel quills hurt him.

“Gar-r-r-r, gar-r-r-r,” howled Ebenezer again, more loudly and impatiently than before. Just then a white cottontail rabbit chanced to be passing that way, and heard the agonized cries of the poor raccoon and instantly saw what had happened, for once one of her own family had encountered a porcupine.

“Friend Raccoon, you seem to be in trouble,” said the kind rabbit, in the language in which the little wild creatures of the forest converse together. “Pray, let me help you, for I understand just exactly what to do.”

So saying, the white rabbit, with her soft little paws, deftly removed the cruel needles from the raccoon’s face, and then bidding him seek for a mullein leaf covered with night dew, and apply it to his smarting wounds, she left him.

Of course Ebenezer was most grateful to the kind rabbit for her timely aid, and he then and there made up his mind that if ever it lay in his power to repay the rabbit’s kindness he would go out of his way to do so. Then Ebenezer, after satisfying his hunger with corn, went back to his home, and rolling himself into a fur ball, went to sleep.

In spite of the fact that Ebenezer was indolent and lazy by nature, he possessed one very commendable trait of character. He was extremely neat and dainty in all his habits, and never dreamed of tasting a morsel of food which he might chance to find until he had first given it a thorough washing, whatever the food might be, if a turnip, an ear of corn or a land crab. Just as soon as Ebenezer found it he would always hurry away to the nearest pool and thoroughly rinse it before he ate it.

Some time after his adventure with the porcupine, he happened to be out hunting for food. Now there had been a great freshet in the land at that time, so food was very scarce and many of the little wild things had lost their lives, or been driven from their homes along the banks of the brook by the mighty, rushing waters. Of course the raccoon was quite safe, for his home nest was high above the freshet. Ebenezer chanced upon a floating corn-stalk that day, on which he was delighted to find an ear of corn. It was a lucky find for the hungry raccoon, and, very happy about it, he hastily stripped off the husk and leaning over the stream began to rinse the ear of corn in the water. Just as he had decided that it was properly rinsed, and that he might as well eat it, he suddenly heard a cry of fear and agony, and looking up-stream, he saw a strange sight.

Borne upon the rushing, muddy waters of the freshet he saw a log, and upon it were three little white rabbits. They were clinging frantically to the log, which came whirling swiftly on down-stream. Just below thundered and roared the falls, and should they plunge over them they must surely perish. Ebenezer saw their danger. At the same instant he also realized that now had come the opportunity to show forth his gratitude for the rabbit’s kindness to him.

That very instant the log swerved and was caught and held fast by the branch of a tree. Oh, would the branch hold it? With quick, bold strokes Ebenezer plunged straight into the roaring, rushing waters, and swam quickly out to the log. He realized, however, that he could never reach the shore again if the rabbits clung to his wet body and hampered his movements in the water, so instantly he told them just what to do.

“Quick, seize hold of my tail and hang on for dear life,” called Ebenezer to the first little rabbit. And then with the little, frightened thing clinging desperately to his plumy tail, Ebenezer swam quickly to the shore and left it and returning twice again, he succeeded in saving the last little helpless rabbit just as the log with a lunge went swirling down-stream.

Ebenezer Coon was very tired indeed after the rescue, and the last time he swam back to shore his fur was so heavy with water and the additional weight of the last little rabbit that it was all he could do to manage to reach the bank. So, faint and weary, for a while Ebenezer lay exhausted upon the bank, while the three little rabbits, after drying their fur in the sunshine, bade Ebenezer farewell and scurried back home to their mother.

After Ebenezer felt rested, he found his ear of corn again, nibbled a bit at it to stay his hunger, then dragged his tired body home, and clawing his way heavily up into the home tree, rolled himself up comfortably and slept.

Now all unbeknown to Ebenezer, while he slumbered, much excitement and gossip was taking place among all the little wild folk of the forest, for everybody was commenting upon the brave act of Ebenezer Coon in saving the three little white rabbits. And then the kind fairy of the woods, who watches and rewards all such little creatures for their good deeds and acts of bravery, especially, and knows everything which takes place in the animal kingdom, of course soon knew all about Ebenezer’s bravery, therefore planned out a little surprise which should be his reward.

So when Ebenezer finally awoke from his long nap, and came out as usual to sit and sun himself upon his favorite limb in the oak tree, then all the little wild things saw at once when they looked upon Ebenezer Coon that he had indeed been rewarded for his bravery, because the raccoon’s tail, which had always been just plain gray in color, like the rest of his coat, was now ringed about with five beautifully shaded jet-black rings--the decoration, the wonderful badge of distinction conferred on Ebenezer Coon for his bravery. And so ever since that time the beautiful, plumy tail of every raccoon in the kingdom has been marked with five jet-black rings.

XXII

THE NARROW ESCAPE OF VELVET WINGS

“Whir, whir, whir,” sounded the swish of many silken wings. The swallows had arrived from the South; thousands of them there were, long winged and dusky brown, with faintly russet breasts. So full of joyous bustle they were over their arrival, “cheep, cheep, cheeping,” making a great clamor as they separated into colonies, seeking to locate for the summer. The old red barn seemed to invite them; in fact, two colonies had a regular pitched battle over its possession, until at last the stronger band drove away the weaker, and took possession of the coveted spot. They swarmed into the old barn through small windows high in its peak, chattering together as they selected building sites, many of them hastily using last season’s mud-caked foundations. So great a disturbance did the swallows make in the silence of the dim, old barn that they disturbed and finally awakened many who had not aroused themselves from their winter’s torpor and sleep.

Far up in a distant peak of the barn, in a certain dim corner, where a great rafter lapped, forming a secluded sort of shelf, there hung, stretched across the corner, an unusually large cobweb curtain. The old gray spider who had spun the web had abandoned his web when cold weather came, and crawled down into the warm hay. Gradually thick dust collected upon the web curtain, and well it did, because back of it, upon the wide, dusty beam it covered, lay two torpid things, resembling nothing so much as two round balls of brown fur.

The strident chatter of the swallows had penetrated the small round ears of the two fur balls, perhaps, or it might have been the light from a stray yellow sunbeam, which at a certain hour of each day had a way of filtering through a crack and warming their retreat. At any rate, one of the torpid things began to slowly undo itself; a small, mouse-like head appeared first, having round, delicate ears of membrane, which appeared rather too large for its head. Its eyes, when it opened them, were exactly like two black-jet beads, and its rather wide, pink mouth was liberally armed with tiny, saw-like teeth, which the fur ball showed as it yawned sleepily, stretching itself, and spreading out its wings, to which were attached by a thin membrance its forearms and legs. Then, fully awake, it plunged straight through the cobweb curtain, tearing it apart from end to end, and sending back a sharp, encouraging squeak to the smaller fur ball to follow.

Of course the two ridiculous fur balls were just the bat family, and lifelong tenants of the old red barn, as everybody knows. The smaller, more timorous bat, soon followed her mate from behind the web curtain and joined him upon the broad beam. But so clumsy and half awake was she that the very first thing she did was to make a misstep and go pitching off the high beam into space. She landed upon the hay, fortunately, and then began the funniest sight. Did you ever chance to see a bat when it attempted to walk? They seldom use their feet, and when they do it is a droll sight.

As soon as Mrs. Bat recovered from her dizzy fall, she put forth one wing and a hind leg and began to walk toward a beam, for strangely enough she could not fly from so low an elevation, but must climb some distance in order to launch herself properly into the air. Hitching and tumbling along she finally reached a beam, and clutching it she began to climb it head downward, exactly as a woodpecker does. Then, having reached the desired height, she whirled away, and landed finally beside her mate.

The barn was a very silent place. The rasping of its rusty latch always gave ample time for all its little wild tenants to get under cover, so usually all you heard when you entered would be the hidden, lonely trill of a cricket or a faint, stealthily rustle in the hay.

Upon a broad beam far up over the loft where the oat straw was stored, lived rather an exclusive family, that of the barn owl. You would never have dreamed they were there, so well did the brown feathers of the owls blend in with the dimness of the shadows. Under the grain bins, far down below, lived a large colony of fat rats, while in among the dried clover raced and romped shoals of field-mice who wintered there. But there was another, a new tenant, feared and shunned by all the others. He came from no one knew where, exactly; still the farmer’s boy might have explained, for he had lost a pet ferret.

The ferret was an ugly creature to look upon, its body long and snaky, and covered with yellowish-white, rather dirty-looking fur; its movements were sly and furtive, and somehow always struck terror to every tenant of the barn whenever they saw him steal forth. All winter the ferret had been there, and the hay was literally honeycombed with its secret tunnels, and woe to anything which happened to cross its evil trail.

Each evening soon after twilight the swallows would return to the barn from their raids, and when the shadows grew quite dusky, far down beneath them, then the bats and the barn owl family would launch themselves out into the night.

“Squeak, squeak,” ordered the big male bat; then like two shadows they would flit silently off upon their velvety wings. All during the early part of the night they chased gnats and bugs, because they invariably got their best pickings before midnight, for after that time insects were harder to find because most of them crawl beneath sheltering leaves, as the night wanes, to get away from the heavy, drenching dew, or hide from their enemies before daylight overtakes them. Before the dim shadows began to lift, the bats and owls had returned, usually, but the bat family did not retire again behind their cobweb curtain; instead they hung themselves by their wing claws head downward from their beam, folding their wings closely over their beady eyes, and thus they would sleep all day.

Warmer days came, and livelier times were stirring among the tenants of the barn. Far up on her own beam Mrs. Barn Owl tended and fed two young downy owlets faithfully. Of course the owl mother knew the beam to be quite a safe spot for baby owls, but somehow she distrusted the skulking old ferret, whom she occasionally caught sight of; besides, rats sometimes climb beams, and once, before the owl eggs had hatched, something had stolen one egg; so that is really why there were but _two_ owlets instead of three.

The swallows were the busiest tenants imaginable, for each nest now held a circle of gaping, hungry mouths to feed. All day long, and far into twilight, the swallows were whirring incessantly, in and out. But up in the secret corner, partially hidden by the torn cobweb curtain, clung Mrs. Bat herself, and if you could only have peeped beneath one of her wings you might have seen the dearest little mite of a bat, with eyes of jet, clinging close to its mother’s breast as she folded it tenderly beneath her wing. There the helpless little creature stayed, close to its mother, until it became older and stronger, for among all the tiny, fur-bearing animals there is no little mother more considerate of her young than the bat. And rather than leave the little furry thing all alone upon the great beam when she had to go off for food, as she could not carry it _beneath_ her wing in flight, she would make a kind of little basket cradle by spreading out her wing, and thus the baby bat would ride with his mother, clinging close to her back with his wing hooks and tiny teeth, and he never fell from the wing basket nor was he afraid.

When the young owlets were out of the pin-feather stage they began to go out with the old ones. But once when they were left behind, sitting huddled together upon their beam, when the mother owl came back only one small, chuckle-faced owlet remained. Hunt as she might, the robber had left no clue behind. However, her suspicions centered upon the sly old ferret and she took to watching his movements more than ever. There she would sit, sullen and revengeful, far up among the shadows and beams, with her one owlet. She frequently saw the sinuous, snake-like body of the ferret creep forth, and even caught the sound of his peculiarly hateful hiss when he encountered anything in his path. Once, in a great fury she swooped clear down to the barn floor after her enemy, but she got there a second too late. The sly creature had heard the swish of the owl’s wings when she left the beam, and caught a fleeting glimpse of her blazing yellow eyes, so he hastily slid into the nearest runway, and the owl flew back to her beam defeated; but she never forgot, she simply waited.

More and more bold became the raids of the hateful old ferret. He robbed the swallows’ nests; frequently you might see his dirty-white, sinuous body stealing across some high beam, creeping, creeping, warily arching his back, holding his snaky head high, one foot gathered up, looking for an unguarded nest; then, if he found one, he would arch his snaky neck over the edge of the nest and suck every egg.

Velvet Wings, the young bat, grew very fast. He foraged for himself now, for his wings were as broad and fleet as his mother’s. Sometimes, however, he made a clumsy start and so got many a fall. So one night as he started forth he fell fluttering and squeaking and protesting, until with a soft thud he landed far below upon the barn floor. Completely stunned Velvet Wings lay there, his wings outspread and helpless, his little heart beating so hard it shook his whole body. Of course he saw nothing, so did not notice the peaked snout of the sly old ferret as he peered inquisitively forth from his lair in the haymow to see what the soft thud might be. The next instant the ferret had Velvet Wings in his cruel mouth, but instead of devouring him at once he began to have some fun with the poor bat, tossing it in the air, then pouncing upon it as it fell, mauling it as a cat does a mouse, pinning its wings down with both fore feet. A second more and Velvet Wings would have been lost, but that second was not allowed the ferret; for far up among the brown rafters a pair of great, blazing yellow eyes had been watching, and like a rocket from above fell the old mother owl, clear to the barn floor. “Swish, swish,” went her great wings, as she buried her talons in the back of the dirty-white fur coat. With a twist of his snaky, supple body, the ferret managed to free himself a second from that awful clutch, and arching its back, it began to slip away. But the owl was too quick; landing upon the ferret’s back, she took another, firmer hold and bore him, struggling and snarling, aloft.

Down through the center of the old barn a broad sunbeam entered. It left a long bar of light through the dimness of the dusky place. The barn was strangely silent, hushed, but many bright eyes had witnessed the tragedy and were watching to see the end, but all that they finally saw was just a few wisps of white fur, which came floating lazily down through the bar of light. It appeared not unlike floating thistle-down, but it had come from the owl’s nest, and was the last they ever saw of their enemy, the sly old ferret.

Up there in the dim shadows of the old red barn you’ll find them all, and should the yellow beam of sunlight happen to dance across their dark hiding-place, you may plainly see the bat family. There they all hang through the day, looking for all the world like a row of small velvet bags, their bright eyes shrouded by their soft wings as they sleep, head downward; while off in quite another corner, perched upon her own dusty beam, drowses the brave barn owl and her one chuckle-headed owlet.

XXIII

NEMOX, THE CRAFTY ROBBER OF THE MARSHES

Nemox, the fisher, who lived in the hollow of a great pine tree, in the depths of the marsh country, lay stretched out flat upon a lofty limb of his home tree, intently watching a clumsy black figure which shuffled through the aisles of the pines far beneath him.