Part 2

There were few lonely moments now for Ring Neck and his mate, for the young birds had to be taught to forage for food, and most important of all, as soon as their wing feathers grew, they must learn to fly, and strengthen their wings for long flights, for Ring Neck knew that before the lake filmed over with its first ice, the flock must be far away in the southern lagoon, where no frost or cold could reach them.

All summer long the old birds trained the young geese for their long journey, and then when the frost began to touch the tips of the tallest trees, down in the lowlands, and to nip the little fox grapes, the migrating instinct came to Ring Neck and his mate. Another bear came to Ring Neck; perhaps when the flocks began to move southward, the hunter would come back and once, as if to remind him, he heard the crack of the terrible rifle, off in the woods, and saw the thin trail of smoke, which he knew. That day he flew back almost panic-stricken to the island, and with his mate and family nestled hidden together in the thick tangles of water weeds all that night.

Early the next morning, before the mists had lifted from the bosom of the lake, they all took to the water to feed. But somehow, Ring Neck was overcome with his restless instinct of migrating, so that he failed to feed with the others. He would float about, nervously, ruffling his feathers, and flapping the water with his strong wings, uttering little short, wild calls to his mate, until at last she became as excited as he. Then, suddenly, afar off, from somewhere beyond the blue hills, Ring Neck detected a faint, strangely familiar sound.

“Honk, honk, honk-honk,” it sounded, every instant coming plainly nearer and nearer, until Ring Neck, almost wild with expectation and excitement, would make little sudden flights above the water, screaming and darting back to his mate again and again. Plainly he was trying to urge her to join him in long flight. She flew with him a short distance, then back to the water, uttering little, reassuring quacks, then Ring Neck joined her, and they urged the little ones to follow them. All the time the great, wild flock were coming nearer and nearer, and soon they were hovering right over the lake.

Ring Neck rose from the water, giving a strange, unusual cry, then from far above floated back a ringing, answering challenge; he had been answered, and recognized. It was his old, lost flock, and at their head flew Black Crest, his enemy, their new leader.

Winging with great, wide, swift circles Ring Neck soon caught up with the wedge, then followed a whirling, flashing of wings, far up there in space; a handful of feathers floated down, and when Black Crest, whipped and beaten as he had never been before, dropped back into second place as usual, Ring Neck, their old proud leader, took his position again at the head of the flying wedge. Swerving low, almost to the bosom of the lake, he led the flock downward, calling all the time in loud, commanding voice for his family to join him. Back came the answering calls of his faithful mate, as she and the young geese rose from the water in a body, and took their places, falling into the tail-end of the wedge, as the great wild flock, headed by Ring Neck, went “honk, honking” away to the southern lagoon for the winter.

III

THE REVOLT OF TIMOTHY

A little gray mouse, who lived in the wainscot, poked its nose cautiously out of a crack beneath the hearth, intending to snatch a morsel of food from Timothy’s plate, which always stood there, heaped with dainties, but the next instant the little mouse had changed its mind, for there sat Timothy himself right upon the hearth in front of the fire guarding his plate. So, with bright, bead-like eyes, trembling nose and whiskers, the mouse, taking courage, just stared at Timothy, monarch of the kitchen.

Such a majestic air had Timothy as he sat there in his own place, which none presumed to usurp; his silvery gray paws tucked neatly beneath his warm furry breast, his big, yellow eyes just mere slits of sleepiness. Timothy saw the gray mouse quite plainly, but he never felt hungry enough to bother much about chasing mice, and, just to show his supremacy, Timothy merely opened one eye and stared insolently at the mouse, uttering little muffled, rumbling growls deep down inside, which so terrified the foolish little mouse that he immediately scuttled off behind the wainscoting, squeaking as he ran.

After his nap Timothy lazily stretched first one gray velvet foot, then another, strolled indolently to his plate, turning over the food, carefully selecting choice bits, nosing out that which he scorned upon the clean hearth, for Timothy was a spoiled cat, and he allowed no one to interfere. Everybody waited upon him, moving their chairs even, for he was monarch of the hearth.

After his lunch, selfish Timothy took a stroll. Ah, if he only had suspected, everything would soon be changed for him in the kitchen, for even now the dearest little stray dog, with soft coat of white and tan spots, had been received into the family while Timothy was out. Upon his return he soon saw the little spotted dog occupying his place, and eating from his own tin plate.

Fiercely indignant at the sight, Timothy arched his gray back until the fur stood up in ridges, as he spat vindictively at the stranger, while his big yellow eyes glared with such sullen hate that the little spotted dog shook with fear. Still he did not offer to fight, or give back to Timothy his place on the hearth, and actually ate up everything upon the tin plate, while Timothy had to stand and look on, with deep, angry growls of jealous rage. Timothy felt sure if he stood there long enough he would be able to frighten away the dog, so he took up his position upon the opposite side of the hearth, and just glared and glared.

But the little dog was brave and did not go away, and soon Timothy decided to vent his displeasure upon the whole family by leaving the house altogether. Of course they would be so anxious to get him back they would surely send the spotted dog away, and then he, Timothy, would return to the hearth. So Timothy went away. Vainly they searched for him, even setting out his tin plate each day filled with chicken bones to tempt him back. But Timothy resolved to punish them all, and the pampered fellow had actually taken to the woods, for his heart was so filled with bitter hate and jealousy that he simply would not return to the kitchen. Now the woods where Timothy wandered alone were wild and lonely, and in them were fierce “Bob Cats,” ugly lynx with sharp, tufted ears, who snarled and fought at night, and many others whom Timothy had never met. The first night in the forest he crouched beneath a clump of spruces. Soon a hedgehog came grunting along, and when Timothy spat at the hedgehog it simply turned its back upon him. “My, you’re a sad coward. I’ll teach you a lesson,” said Timothy; then he began to cuff at the hedgehog and worry him. The next thing Timothy did was to climb a tree as fast as he could, for the hedgehog had turned upon him and driven his nose full of sharp spines. Most of the night he spent miserably trying to free himself from the sharp hedgehog needles. Next morning he was hungry. In a certain tree he found a bird’s nest, with three scrawny young birds, so he had just put forth a paw to select one for his breakfast, when down upon his back lighted the mother hawk, and drove Timothy off into the forest.

That night, faint with hunger, Timothy climbed a tall sycamore tree and tucking his paws beneath him tried to sleep. But he kept longing for the cozy, peaceful hearth which he had left, as chilly winds swept through the woods and moaned through the sycamore, making its brown, withered leaves flap and clatter in a lonely fashion, quite different to the customary cheery singing of the copper kettle upon the hearth. A family of hoot owls awoke in their nest in the sycamore. Soon they discovered poor Timothy, and began to peck at him viciously, hooting at him, and glaring at him with great, fierce eyes, so that Timothy hastily scratched his way down from the tree. Soon something soft and white came fluttering down from the sky, and little flakes of cold snow began to settle upon Timothy’s gray coat, while the wind began to howl, and the storm to break. Where could he go? Poor, miserable Timothy! The snow lay white upon the ground, and Timothy took long flying leaps to escape it. Occasionally he would pause to lift and flirt his feet, for he hated to get them wet; besides, they ached with the cold. A thought struck him; he would go back to the house and see if the spotted dog was still there; so he crept to the kitchen window and peered in, and by the light of the fire he saw that his place was still occupied by the little dog. So off again crept miserable Timothy to the great cold lonely barn. He slept upon the hay, where the cold snow sifted down upon him, and the wind whined and howled over his head all night. For days Timothy stayed there; he managed to catch a few stray mice after a long chase, but soon his sides grew thin, his soft gray fur shabby and coarse and dark, while his eyes were furtive and sullen. But Timothy’s proud, jealous spirit was nearly broken, and one night he decided to go back to the hearth. So he stole into the kitchen after everybody was asleep, and then a wonderful thing happened.

The little spotted dog stood up and welcomed him, wagging his tail so hard that his whole body shook, and he actually greeted poor Timothy with a bark of joy. Then lonely Timothy, pining for sympathy, ventured a trifle closer to the hearth, and the little dog sidled over to meet him, and actually began to lap Timothy’s rough fur tenderly, whereupon Timothy, to show that he bore no further ill will, sidled and rubbed himself gently against the tan and white spotted coat of the gentle little dog. Then Timothy and his friend ate together from the tin plate, sat down upon the hearth, and Timothy began a whirring, buzzing song of contentment which might be heard even above the singing of the copper kettle, as he washed and scrubbed his neglected fur coat, making a complete and fresh toilet suitable for the kitchen.

The next morning when the farmer’s wife came into the kitchen such a sight met her eyes; Timothy had come back, and slept upon the hearth nestled quite closely to the little spotted dog, and they remained fast friends forever after.

IV

THE LITTLE RED DOE OF DEER PASS

As soon as winter really set in in the North country and the snow began to drift upon the mountains and deepen in the passes, the little Red Doe and her mate sought safe sanctuary with the herd, in the thick cover of Balsam Swamp, where the balsams and spruces grew dense, and there they herded together in their winter “yard,” hidden away among the evergreen thickets where they fed all winter upon the mosses and lichens of the swamp. The herd would tread down the snow as it fell, and feed around the swamp in a circle, and when they had nibbled close all the moss and undergrowth, toward spring they would reach up and feed upon the tender budding shoots of soft maple and spruce and barks which grew overhead. While merciless blizzards raged all through the long winter, there they remained, for the deer always seek shelter in such a “yard,” seldom venturing out, unless they are pressed by hunger, and the snow crusts are strong enough to bear their weight without breaking through, for the slender leg of a deer is easily snapped.

It had been a long, bitter winter for the herd in Balsam Swamp, and there were so many of them to feed there that by spring the food supply where they had foraged had become so scant that only the older, taller deer of the herd could reach high and pull down the tender saplings. Thus it happened, as is frequently the case through winter, that many of the young, tender deer died from sheer starvation, because they did not care to leave the “yard” and were not tall enough to reach high for food.

They were all very glad, at last, when the first signs of spring appeared, and the bluebirds arrived, and the wild geese, coming back from the southland, went trailing over, “honk, honking” through the mists, high over the mountains, in the early morning. Winter was broken at last, and the little Red Doe and her mate came out into the open forest. The mate, a fine young buck, with strong, pronged antlers, with which he fought many a battle for her, led the way, glad to be out in the freedom of the mountain passes once more, after their long retreat. Their sides and flanks were lean from long fasting and privation, but soon they were feeding upon the short, sprouting herbage of the valleys. The maples were in bud; food was plentiful enough now, and all the herd scattered, glad to be free.

All summer long the Red Doe and her mate ranged together, care-free, through the mountains, climbing high up to the summit of Mount Cushman, gazing across upon other mountain ridges, where the tall pointed spruces stood out like sentinels against the sky-line. Going down at night into the deep solitude of the valleys, where the deep, purple night shadows fall early, into the woodsy smell of balsam and spruce, which becomes doubly fragrant after dew-fall. Here are the deer passes, where they rest at night in safety.

They were never molested in their travels, and should a fox or lynx cross their trail, the mate would bravely charge upon it with his strong horns, and send it slinking away into the shadows. And so the pair became bolder and tamer, and upon moonlight nights they would come close to the farmer’s dwelling; into the orchards to feed upon the early apples, and even find the gardens, where they did shocking work among the pea vines and young, tender, sweet corn. Almost every evening, just at twilight, you might see them steal forth from the spruce woods, cross the road together, and if they met a farmer, they would halt curiously to stare after him, heads held erect, gazing after him with great, gentle, inquisitive eyes, alert and wondering. Then, suddenly, like a flash, having satisfied their curiosity, they were off--over the stone fence together they bounded, and the next instant you caught just a fleeting glimpse of their short, white tails, held high, like a flag, vanishing, flashing in and out among the dark spruces.

They had one favorite resting place in Deer Pass, where the thick pines grew close together in a certain deep hollow, through which a brook bubbled musically. Here, deep down among the plumy, green ferns the Red Doe and her mate often stayed at night. Sometimes, in the early morning, if you chanced to pass that way, you might even catch a glimpse of two beautiful heads upon slender necks raised above the ferns, and if you did not come too close to their retreat, they would not offer to move.

Midsummer came, and then there were _three_ deep hollows among the sweet-scented ferns in their retreat, and a little spotted fawn followed the pair. Beautiful was the little creature, with soft, reddish-brown coat mottled with white spots, which looked like snowflakes, and such great, appealing, innocent eyes. The Red Doe and her mate were so fond of the fawn that they never permitted it out of their sight. Those were very happy days now in the deer family. But a change was in store for them of which they knew nothing.

In the month of October comes the hunter’s moon, and then the deer law is raised, up in that Northern country where the Red Doe lives; and the hunters are allowed to shoot the males for ten days, but must not molest or shoot the does or their fawns.

So when the maple leaves were red upon the sides of the mountains and the wild geese began to head for the south again, and the partridges to drum in the hedges, then came the hunters. The little Red Doe and her mate, and the fawn, had, by this time, become quite fearless of man, and almost tame, for nothing ever molested them; so, with no suspicion of their great danger, they camped in the old spot at night, for near at hand were sweet, frost-bitten apples, and besides, the fawn was not yet old enough to follow over long trails through stiff mountain climbs. So one morning they slept late in their old resting place, and the hoar-frost lay in little jeweled crystals, powdering their red coats as well as the ferns about them. Deep down, hidden together, they herded, and so they failed to see the hunter who came creeping stealthily toward their retreat, dodging warily from spruce to spruce. With gun in hand he stole, ever creeping nearer and nearer to their camping-place. Was it the cracking of a twig at last, or did the buck catch the man scent? Instantly he jumped to his feet, antlers held high and straight, waiting to give the signal of warning to his mate.

Too late. A loud report, a puff of smoke, and he fell, even as he gazed. In a second, the little Red Doe was off; off and away, the little dappled fawn following after as best it might. But alas, when the fawn reached a section of barb wire fence, it leaped too short, and fell back entangled in the wire. Meantime, the Red Doe, terrified and frantic, forgetting in her great panic even the fawn, bounded on and on, seeking safety in the deep forest.

When the hunter had secured his prize, the carcass of the buck deer, he began to follow the trail of the Red Doe, and soon stumbled upon the little helpless fawn. The little innocent thing knew no fear, and allowed the hunter to disentangle it from the wire. Then, thinking what a fine pet the little fawn would make for his children, the man carried the little creature home. After a time it became quite tame and used to the children, and so they built a small pen especially for it, close to the great barn.

Lonely and alone, after this, wandered the little Red Doe; all through fall she roamed, quite solitary, over mountains and through the passes, avoiding all the herd; she would mate with none of them. One moonlight night she strayed into the vicinity of a large barn seeking corn-stalks, and there, to her great joy, she discovered the lost fawn in its pen.

It was an easy matter, with her long, slim legs, for the doe to leap the fence, and soon the lonely mother doe was rubbing noses and fondly lapping the dappled coat of her lost baby. Again and again did the doe leap back and forth over the high board fence of the pen, vainly urging the fawn to follow her. But it was no use; the fence was far too high; the little fawn could not leap it, and so the mother doe had to go away.

But night after night the patient Red Doe came back into the pen with the fawn, bounding away with the first peep of day. Away, into the safety of the deep spruce woods, for she was no longer tame; she knew the terrifying fear of man, at last.

Soon winter shut down again, and the deep snow fell, and the visits of the little mother doe to her fawn became less and less frequent. And finally the fawn was taken into the warm barn, and she saw it no more. Then, the last time the doe failed to find her fawn, hungry and cold, in the midst of a great swirling snow-storm, she turned away, traveling wearily back over the old Deer Pass, over the trail to Balsam Swamp for shelter.

That year the herd was large in the swamp, where they circled round and round, feeding upon anything which offered itself as food, only trying to keep from starving until winter should break up again. By early spring everything within reach had been nibbled bare, as usual; then the stronger ones of the herd ventured out into the forests. The little Red Doe had lived through the winter, but she had fared badly, for she no longer had her mate to reach up, with his tall, antlered head, and pull down tender branches for her to nibble. She was very thin and weak as she dragged herself out of the “yard,” aimlessly wandering, loitering, separated from the herd.

Night came on, and she heard the spring chorus of the “peepers,” as they awoke, down in the bogs. Other night sounds came creeping through the great, silent places, and finally, close at hand, a sudden, wild, snarling yell echoed through the mountains. It was the cry of a hungry old lynx evidently out trailing game. The Red Doe was instantly alert. Was the lynx, an old enemy of the herd, trailing her? Then, before she knew where it came from, the lynx had sprung from an overhanging birch, and leaped upon her flank, burying its cruel teeth in her tender flesh.

A swift bound. The doe managed to shake off the clinging lynx, who was old and weak from lack of food. And before the lynx could gather itself together for another spring, she was off. Fleet as the wind she flew but she could never keep up the pace for long, for she had not the strength now; besides, the lynx had wounded her badly. But with wonderful courage she bounded on and on, leaping boulders and rough places, until she struck at last the old, familiar trail which led to the old camping place in Deer Pass. There she sank down at last, between the thick spruces, into a nest of brown, dried bracken and young fern shoots. Weak and spent she lay and rested the next day. By night she hoped to be strong enough to travel once more, for she must seek food.

Small and slim over Mount Cushman arose the crescent moon that night, and pale little stars twinkled overhead, but the Red Doe was too weak to journey on. Then, in and out of the shadows, among the pointed spruces, stole a slim, red figure on long, slender legs, its small head held erect, its soft eyes expectant and alert. And the Red Doe heard; she knew instinctively to whom those small, cleft hoofs, bounding so lightly to her over the mosses, belonged.

The Red Doe raised her slim neck with an effort, and peered over the tall brakes, and then out of the shadows, with little, eager bounds of joy, came her fawn. At last he had grown tall enough to leap the hateful pen, and all the subdued wildness of his nature had come back again with the return of spring, and guided by its instinct, the fawn had sought and found the old camp and his mother.

There they stayed together in their fern bed until morning, and comforted and rested, almost well of her wounds, the doe was able to travel once more. And so, just as the hermit thrush and bluebird started their morning chorus, the Red Doe and her fawn bounded off together, seeking new pastures in the secret places of the forest.

V

DAME WOODCHUCK AND THE RED MONSTER

Dame Woodchuck woke up early one Candlemas Day from her long, all winter’s sleep. She stretched her cramped claws drowsily, then waddled to the entrance of her burrow, and scratched and poked away the dry leaves, with which she had banked up her door in the fall to keep out Jack Frost. Then, with the tip of her snout and round black ears outside the hole, she sniffed in a deep breath of the keen, frosty air. It was still cold, very, but the sun shone and the next minute she had cocked her head one side to listen, for she had heard a bluebird’s note.

“Po-quer-ee, po-quer-ee. Spring is here; what cheer!” he piped.