Part 10

Now although the Nutcrackers belonged to the fine old race of the Grays, they kept on the best of terms with all branches of the squirrel family. They were very friendly to the Chipmunks of Chipmunk Hollow. Young Tip Chipmunk, the oldest son, was in all respects a perfect contrast to Master Featherhead. Tip was lively and cheerful, and very alert in getting food for the family. Indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Chipmunk had very little care, but could sit at the door of their hole and chat with neighbours, quite sure that Tip would bring everything out right for them, and have plenty laid up for winter.

“What a commonplace fellow that Tip Chipmunk is,” sneered Featherhead one day. “I shall take care not to associate with him.”

“My dear, you are too hard on poor Tip,” said Mrs. Nutcracker. “He is a very good son, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he’s good enough,” said Featherhead, “but he’s so common. He hasn’t an idea in his skull above his nuts and Chipmunk Hollow. He is good-natured enough, but, dear me, he has no manners! I hope, mother, you won’t invite the Chipmunks to the Thanksgiving dinner--these family dinners are such a bore.”

“But, my dear Featherhead, your father thinks a great deal of the Chipmunks--they are our relatives you know,” said Mother Nutcracker.

“So are the High-Flyers our relatives. If we could get them to come there would be some sense to it. But of course a flying squirrel would never come to our house if a common chipmunk is a guest. It isn’t to be expected,” said Featherhead.

“Confound him for a puppy,” said old Nutcracker. “I wish good, industrious sons like Tip Chipmunk _were_ common.”

But in the end Featherhead had his way, and the Chipmunks were not invited to Nutcracker Lodge for Thanksgiving dinner. However, they were not all offended. Indeed, Tip called early in the morning to pay his compliments of the season, and leave a few dainty beechnuts.

“He can’t even see that he is not wanted here,” sneered Featherhead.

At last old papa declared it was time for Featherhead to choose some business.

“What are you going to do, my boy?” he asked. “We are driving now a thriving trade in hickory nuts, and if you would like to join us----”

“Thank you,” said Featherhead, “the hickory trade is too slow for me. I was never made to grub and delve in that way. In fact I have my own plans.”

To be plain, Featherhead had formed a friendship with the Rats of Rat Hollow--a race of people whose honesty was doubtful. Old Longtooth Rat was a money-lender, and for a long time he had had his eye on Featherhead as a person silly enough to suit the business which was neither more nor less than downright stealing.

Near Nutcracker Lodge was a large barn filled with corn and grain, besides many bushels of hazelnuts, chestnuts and walnuts. Now old Longtooth told Featherhead that he should nibble a passage into the loft, and set up a commission business there--passing out nuts and grain as Longtooth wanted them. He did not tell Featherhead a certain secret--namely, that a Scotch terrier was about to be bought to keep rats from the grain.

“How foolish such drudging fellows as Tip Chipmunk are!” said Featherhead to himself. “There he goes picking up a nut here and a grain there, whereas I step into property at once.”

“I hope you are honest in your dealings, my son,” said old Nutcracker.

Featherhead threw his tail saucily over one shoulder and laughed. “Certainly, sir, if honesty means getting what you can while it is going, I mean to be honest.”

Very soon Featherhead seemed to be very prosperous. He had a splendid hole in the midst of a heap of chestnuts, and he seemed to be rolling in wealth. He lavished gifts on his mother and sisters; he carried his tail very proudly over his back. He was even gracious to Tip Chipmunk.

But one day as Featherhead was lolling in his hole, up came two boys with the friskiest, wiriest Scotch terrier you ever saw. His eyes blazed like torches. Featherhead’s heart died within him as he heard the boys say, “Now we’ll see if we can catch the rascal that eats our grain.”

Featherhead tried to slink out of the hole he had gnawed to come in by, but found it stopped.

“Oh, you are there, are you, Mister?” cried the boy. “Well, you don’t get out, and now for a chase.”

And sure enough poor Featherhead ran with terror up and down through the bundles of hay. But the barking terrier was at his heels, and the boys shouted and cheered. He was glad at last to escape through a crack, though he left half of his fine brush behind him--for Master Wasp, the terrier, made a snap at it just as Featherhead was squeezing through. Alas! all the hair was cleaned off so that it was as bare as a rat’s tail.

Poor Featherhead limped off, bruised and beaten, with the dog and boys still after him, and they would have caught him if Tip Chipmunk’s hole had not stood open to receive him. Tip took the best of care of him, but the glory of Featherhead’s tail had gone forever. From that time, though, he was a sadder and a wiser squirrel than he ever had been before.

BUSHY’S BRAVERY

Mr. Squirrel was disappointed when he peeped his head out of his hollow tree early one morning. Not one nut was to be seen on the ground.

“Jack Frost did not come last night. I see no nuts anywhere. It will take a long time to get all we need from the tree, I fear,” he said to Mrs. Squirrel, who was standing close beside him.

“But Jack Frost will come to our tree,” she said. “He never fails. See, there’s Mrs. Bushytail out early. She seems to be looking around, too. Perhaps Jack Frost has shaken them down for her. Let’s run down and see.”

Away frisked Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel as fast as their legs could take them, to see what Jack Frost had done for their neighbour. But, no, he had not visited Mrs. Bushytail’s tree. She had looked all over the ground, and there wasn’t a nut in sight. She couldn’t explain it herself.

“Let us wait until to-morrow morning,” said Mrs. Squirrel, “he will be sure to come to-night. Then what fun Bushy and Frisky will have gathering them. They will have to work hard to get enough for our winter store. Boys love nuts, too,” she added with a sigh. “But we will wait.”

Morning came and frosty Jack had been there in earnest, for the nuts lay all over the ground.

“Now to work,” said Father Squirrel. “Come, Bushy and Frisky.”

It was a busy day for Mr. Squirrel’s family. They well knew how many, many nuts are needed for the winter’s store, and Mr. Squirrel kept telling Bushy and Frisky that they would have to work hard, and perhaps until the sun went down that day.

But alas for those little squirrels. “Boys love nuts, too,” Mrs. Squirrel had said over and over again, and when a rustle was heard in the bushes behind the trees, and the sound of boys’ voices came loud and clear, these little workers had to take to their heels, and whisk up the hollow tree. There they stayed trembling with fear. In a few minutes Bushy, a little braver than the rest, ventured to peep out of a small hole. Frisky stood just back of him.

“Boys--three of them--and they all have bags!”

Poor Bushy and Frisky. If there was one thing that these little squirrels loved to do more than another it was to gather nuts--and now their chance was spoiled, for the boys were really there, and would be sure to take every nut they could find.

“They’re working hard,” said Bushy.

“Will they leave any for us?” asked Frisky, not even daring to peep out.

“Sh! Listen, Frisky. I heard one of the boys say that there are some nuts under the other tree. Two of the boys are going there now. It’s Mrs. Bushytail’s tree. But look, Frisky, they have left two of the bags.”

“Where, Bushy?”

“One of the boys is sitting on one of them. He is cracking nuts, I think.”

“And the other bag, Bushy?”

“The other one is close by our tree,” and before any one could say a word, Bushy was out of the hole, down the tree, and close to the big bag. Mrs. Squirrel tried to call him back, but it was of no use. Up and down the bag he ran, first to the top and then to the sides. But he could not get in--the bag was tied tight. But Bushy’s teeth were sharp.

“Dear, dear,” said his mother, “here come the boys back, and they will surely see Bushy--dear, dear.”

Bushy caught sight of the boys coming toward the tree for their bags, and with a whisk and a scamper he was up the tree again and into his hole in no time.

“Dear, dear Bushy,” said his mother. “What a fright you gave us all. Just see those boys. There’s no telling what would have happened if they had seen you.”

Mr. Squirrel’s family watched the boys pick up their bags, throw them over their shoulders and go away.

“Why, Tom, look at your bag,” said one of the boys. “It has a hole in it. You must have lost ever so many nuts along the way.”

“A hole?” asked Tom in surprise, as he lifted the bag from his shoulder. “So it has--and a pretty big one, too. I wonder how it ever came there. It wasn’t there when I started.”

The boys were gone, and Mr. Squirrel’s family ventured out once more.

“It’s of no use, I fear,” began Mrs. Squirrel; “those boys were good workers and--dear me, here are nuts sprinkled all along the road. What does it mean?” asked Mrs. Squirrel.

“It is strange,” said Mr. Squirrel. “I really thought those boys had found them all, but perhaps boys’ eyes are not so sharp as we think.”

Bushy kept on gathering the nuts and smiling to himself. How sly he was. Not one of the family seemed to guess the truth. It was only when he and Frisky were going to bed that night that Frisky dared to whisper, “Bushy, did you put that hole in that bag?”

NUT GATHERERS

Hark! how they chatter Down the dusk Road, See them come patter, Each with his Load.

What have you sought, then, Gay little Band? What have you brought, then, Each in his Hand?

No need to ask it; No need to tell; In Bag and in Basket Your nuts show well!

Nuts from the wild-wood; Sweet Nuts to eat; Sweetest in Childhood When life is sweet.

There they go patter, Each with his Load; Hark! how they chatter Down the dusk Road. HAMISH HENDRY.

IN HARVEST FIELDS

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUMPKIN’

When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock, And the clackin’ of the guiney’s, and the cluckin’ of the hens, And the rooster’s hallylcoyer as he tiptoes on the fence, O, it’s then’s the time a feller is a-feelin’ at his best, With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

ORIGIN OF INDIAN CORN

Once upon a time an Indian chief sat alone in his wigwam thinking about the needs of his tribe. For more than a year food had been very scarce, and they were suffering from a scanty fare of roots, herbs, and berries. Many of the people had come to him in their misery.

“We ask you to help us, brave chief,” they cried. “Will you not entreat the Great Spirit to send us some of the food from the Happy Hunting Grounds where it is so plentiful? See how weak and thin our young braves are. Help us or we shall die.”

“I’ll go into the depths of the forest,” said the chief. “There I’ll live until the Great Spirit tells me how to relieve the misery of my people.”

He left his wigwam and walked far into the forest, where he waited for several days before the Great Spirit spoke these words to him:

“In the moon of rains take thy family and go to the stretch of land which joins this forest. Wait there until I send thee a message.”

The chief went back to the Indian village, and told what he had heard from the Great Spirit. And in the Moon of Rains he called together his honoured wife, his fleet-footed sons, and his graceful daughter, and said, “Follow me to the stretch of land beyond the forest.”

When they reached the great plain, they stood in a group waiting for a message from the Great Spirit. For three suns they stood patiently without once changing their positions.

The Indians of the tribe grew anxious to know what had happened to their chief and his family, and some of them slipped through the wood to the plain where they knew he had been directed to go. There they saw the group of figures standing with their hands uplifted, and their eyes closed. The Indians were filled with awe.

“The Great Spirit is talking to them,” they whispered, as they went back to their wigwams.

In a few days they returned to the plain. A marvelous sight met their eyes. Instead of the chief and his family standing like images of sleep, they saw wonderful green plants, tall and straight, with broad, flat leaves, and in place of uplifted hands they beheld ears of corn with silken fringe.

“The Great Spirit has called our chief and his family to the ‘Happy Hunting Grounds,’” they said, “and has sent us this food as a symbol of their sacrifice.”

They saved some of the kernels and planted them in the fields, and each year when they reaped a golden harvest they remembered the brave chief whose thoughtful care brought them the rich blessing of the Indian corn.

Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, Of the happy days that followed, In the land of the Ojibways, In the pleasant land and peaceful! Sing the mysteries of Mondamin, Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields! HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

O-NA-TAH: THE SPIRIT OF THE CORN-FIELDS

HARRIET CONVERSE

O-na-tah is the spirit of the corn, and patroness of the fields. The sun touches her dusky face with the blush of the morning, and her dark eyes grow soft as the gleam of the stars that float on dark streams. Her night-black hair flares in the breeze like the wind-driven cloud that unveils the sun. As she walks the air, draped in her maize, its blossoms plume to the sun, and its fringing tassels play with the rustling leaves in whispering promises to the waiting fields. Night follows O-na-tah’s dim way with dews, and Day guides the beams that leap from the sun to her path. And the great Mother Earth loves O-na-tah, who brings to her children their life-giving grain.

At one time O-na-tah had two companions, the Spirit of the Bean and the Spirit of the Squash. In the olden time when the bean, corn, and squash were planted together in the hill these three plant spirits were never separated. Each was clothed in the plant which she guarded. The Spirit of the Squash was crowned with the flaunting gold trumpet blossom of its foliage. The Spirit of the Bean was arrayed in the clinging leaves of its winding vine, its velvety pods swinging to the breeze.

One day when O-na-tah had wandered astray in search of the lost dew, Hah-gweh-da-et-gab captured her, and imprisoned her in his darkness under the earth. Then he sent one of his monsters to blight her fields and the Spirit of Squash and the Spirit of Bean fled before the blighting winds that pursued them. O-na-tah languished in the darkness, lamenting her lost fields. But one day a searching sun ray discovered her, and guided her safely back to her lands.

Sad indeed was O-na-tah when she beheld the desolation of her blighted fields, and the desertion of her companions, Spirit of Squash and Spirit of Bean. Bewailing the great change, she made a vow that she would never leave her fields again.

If her fields thirst now, she can not leave them to summon the dews. When the Flame Spirit of the Sun burns the maize O-na-tah dare not search the skies for Ga-oh to implore him to unleash the winds and fan her lands. When great rains fall and blight her fields the voice of O-na-tah grows faint and the Sun can not hear. Yet faithful she watches and guards, never abandoning her fields till the maize is ripe.

When the maize stalk bends low O-na-tah is folding the husks to the pearly grains that the dew will nourish in their screening shade, as they fringe to the sun.

When the tassels plume, O-na-tah is crowning the maize with her triumph sign, and the rustling leaves spear to the harvest breeze.

MONDAMIN

Summer passed and Shawondasee Breathed his sighs o’er all the landscape, From the South-land sent his ardours, Wafted kisses warm and tender; And the maize-field grew and ripened, Till it stood in all the splendour Of its garments green and yellow, Of its tassels and its plumage, And the maize-ears full of shining Gleamed from bursting sheaths of verdure. Then Nokomis, the old woman, Spake, and said to Minnehaha, “’Tis the Moon when leaves are falling, All the wild rice has been gathered, And the maize is ripe and ready; Let us gather in the harvest, Let us wrestle with Mondamin, Strip him of his plumes and tassels, Of his garments green and yellow.” And the merry Laughing Water Went rejoicing from the wigwam, With Nokomis, old and wrinkled, And they called the women round them, Called the young men and the maidens, To the harvest of the cornfields, To the husking of the maize-ear. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

THE DISCONTENTED PUMPKIN

Jack Frost visited Farmer Crane’s field one night, and the next morning the gold of the pumpkins shone more brilliantly than ever through their silver coverings.

“It is of no use,” said one large pumpkin to another lying beside it. “It is of no use. I was never made to be cut up for pumpkin pies. I feel I was put here for something higher.”

“Why, what do you mean?” said the other. “You never seemed dissatisfied before. You quite take my breath away.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I do not like the thought of being cut up and served on a table like an ordinary pumpkin. See how large I am, and what a glorious colour. Tell me, did you ever see a pumpkin more beautiful?”

“You are beautiful, indeed, but I never thought of being made for anything but pies. Do tell me of what other use can one be?”

“Well, I have always thought that I am not like the other pumpkins in this field, and when Farmer Crane pointed me out as the finest one he had, I heard him say, ‘That would be a fine one for a fair.’ It was not till then that I really knew for what I was intended.”

“I do remember,” answered the other. “Yes, I do remember hearing about some pumpkins’ being taken to a county fair once, but I never heard how they liked it. As for myself, I should be proud to be made into delicious pies and served on a beautiful plate.”

“How can you be satisfied with that thought? But there is Farmer Crane now. He is gathering some of the _smaller_ pumpkins to make pies with, I think.”

“Perhaps he knows best what you are made for,” answered the other.

Farmer Crane was soon at their side, and was looking from one to the other.

“What fine pies they will make. I had better take them now, I think,” he said, and they were quickly added to the golden heap already on the wagon.

How happy they all were--all but one that lay on the top of the large pile.

“It is hard to be thrown in with these ordinary pumpkins. If I could only slip off by myself. Perhaps there is at least a place at the bottom of the wagon where I can be alone.”

It was a long way from the top of the pile to the bed of the wagon, but it was very little trouble to slip away from the rest. It would take only a second, and then he could be away from the others. But alas! the discontented pumpkin slipped a little too far, and I’m sorry to say, soon lay on the frozen ground, a shattered heap.

“Dear me,” said the pumpkins in one breath; “see, that fine fellow has slipped off, and is broken to pieces. What a feast the cows and pigs will have.”

“It is too bad,” said one.

“And he was so anxious to be taken to a fair,” added another.

Hurrah for the tiny seed! Hurrah for the flower and vine! Hurrah for the golden pumpkin; Yellow and plump and fine! But better than all beginnings, Sure, nobody can deny, Is the end of the whole procession---- This glorious pumpkin pie!

BOB WHITE

I see you on the zig zag rails, You cheery little fellow! While purple leaves are whirling down, And scarlet, brown or yellow. I hear you when the air is full Of snow-down of the thistle; All in your speckled jacket trim, “Bob White! Bob White!” you whistle.

Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows, Are nodded there to greet you, I know that you are out for play---- How I should like to meet you! Though blithe of voice, so shy you are, In this delightful weather; What splendid playmates, you and I, Bob White, would make together.

There, you are gone! but far away I hear your whistle falling, Ah! maybe it is hide and seek, And that’s why you are calling. Along those hazy uplands wide We’d be such merry rangers; What! silent now and hidden, too? Bob White, don’t let’s be strangers.

Perhaps you teach your brood the game, In yonder rainbowed thicket, While winds are playing with the leaves, And softly creaks the cricket. “Bob White! Bob White!” again I hear That blithely whistled chorus, Why should we not companions be? One Father watches o’er us! GEORGE COOPER.

THE LITTLE PUMPKIN

EMMA FLORENCE BUSH.

Once there was a little pumpkin that grew on a vine in a field. All day long the sun shone on him, and the wind blew gently around him. Sometimes the welcome rain fell softly upon him, and as the vine sent her roots deep down into the earth and drew the good sustenance from it, and it flowed through her veins, the little pumpkin drank greedily of the good juice, and grew bigger and bigger, and rounder and rounder, and firmer and firmer.

By and by he grew so big he understood all that the growing things around him were saying, and he listened eagerly.

“I came from the seed of a Jack-o’-lantern,” said this vine to a neighbour, “therefore I must grow all Jack-o’-lanterns.”

“So did I,” said a neighbour, “but no Jack-o’-lanterns for me. It is too hard a life. I am going to grow just plain pumpkins.”

When the little pumpkin heard he was supposed to be a Jack-o’-lantern, he grew very worried, for he could not see that he was in any way different from any ordinary pumpkin, and if Mother Vine expected him to be a Jack-o’-lantern, he did not want to disappoint her.

At last he grew so unhappy over it that the dancing little sunbeams noticed it. “What is the matter, little pumpkin?” they cried. “Why do you not hold up your head and look around as you used to do?”

“Because,” answered the little pumpkin, sadly, “I have to be a Jack-o’-lantern, and I don’t know how. All I know about is how to be a little yellow pumpkin.”

Then the merry little breezes laughed and laughed until they shook the vine so that all the pumpkins had to tighten their hold not to be shaken off. “Oh, little pumpkin!” they cried, “why worry about what you will have to do later? Just try with all your might to be a little yellow pumpkin, and believe that if you do the best you can, everything will be all right. We know a secret, a beautiful secret, and some day we will tell it to you.”

“Oh, tell me now!” cried the little pumpkin, but the sunbeams and breezes laughed together, and chuckled,

“Oh no, oh no, oh no! Just grow and grow and grow, And some day you will know.”

The little pumpkin felt comforted. “After all,” he thought, “perhaps if I cannot be a Jack-o’-lantern I can be a good pumpkin, and I am so far down on the vine perhaps Mother Vine won’t notice me.” He looked around, and saw that all his brothers and sisters were only little pumpkins, too.