Part 2

From that time, when he was not following Brother and me, or dozing on the front porch, or bullying the hens, he was trailing Three-Spot about, a relentless gray shadow, and if the luckless cat succeeded in keeping for herself one mouse that she caught, it was when Skygak was asleep in the brooder house.

Slowly but surely the old-man sea-gull recovered from his affliction. Some of the oil-soaked feathers dropped out, and new ones took their place, and he risked short flights from time to time, cautiously at first, as if not sure of his powers, and then with increasing confidence. He ventured out into the water with perfect ease, and we knew it would be but a short time before he had completely regained his health.

When first he flew we were afraid we had lost him, but he returned at night-time, hungry and eager to be taken up on my shoulder. After that, when he flew, it was to come back to us as naturally as if we, and not the sea-gulls, were his kindred.

But there came a day when a feeling of restlessness was in the air. Brother and I, attuned to the moods of the woods and of out-of-door things, felt it keenly, and we were not surprised when we saw overhead the V formation of the wild geese flying southward.

Then the sea-gulls commenced to scream in short, sharp cadences, and a flock of the gray-and-white birds flew overhead, rising higher and higher as is the habit of the gray ones when the migrating call comes.

Skygak heard the call—that we could not doubt—for he was restless and would stretch himself on tiptoe, flapping his wings, turning his head up to the sky where a gray cloud of birds were flying. Then he would scream—short, broken cries as if torn by indecision. He loved us, we knew, but he was of the air lanes; the gray gulls were his kindred. Sooner or later he must go with them.

His flights grew longer, and once we did not see him for three days. Even when he was with us, he was ill at ease. The wild heart of him was longing for the untrammeled freedom of the winds and the sea, and gaunt cliffs untouched by foot of man. He forgot to box with us; he no longer bullied the poultry yard; he even neglected to watch for Three-Spot’s trophies of the hunt.

And then he went away. A week passed, and we mourned him bitterly. It was not so much his going—we knew we must expect that—but we had wanted to tell him good-by when he left, to wave our hands to him and wish him Godspeed, to watch him until he was only a speck in the sky. The Siwash chief said Skygak would never come back—but he did, once more.

It was on a day of crystal clearness, when the clouds were like tiny white boats in the sky. We stood in the yard, hand in hand, watching the wild geese pass overhead and the flocks of sea-gulls flying high above them. From the west came a gray cloud of the seabirds, with one gull flying far in the lead. And as we watched, the leader left the flock of winging gulls and, like a falling star, swooped down upon us, spiraling lower and lower. We held our breath as we watched, for somehow, we knew, we knew—

A flash of one white wing showed clearly. I tried to speak, but no words came. Closer and closer came the bird, Skygak, our old-man sea-gull, and when he was no higher than the roof of the house, he circled slowly above our heads. Then he screamed twice—long, plaintive cries that we knew meant farewell.

We were crying, but we waved our hands to him and called, “Good-by, good-by!” And slowly he rose once more, the white of one white wing melting into gray. Higher and higher he winged, to take his place at the head of the flock.... He was just a speck against the sky, and still we called our farewells to him in words choked with tears—the specks vanished into cloudy distance—Skygak had gone forever.

But it was not without a thought of us. We shall always believe that he halted the winged caravan to tell us good-by—and the Siwash chief believes it, too.

_Introducing_ U-CHU-KA THE JUMPER

_Part Two_ U-CHU-KA

Upon the Hill Trail, which Brother and I called ours because we loved it so, you may yet see a little clearing made in the midst of red huckleberry bushes, Oregon grape, and dark green salal shrubs. As long as we lived in the little cabin by the bay, we never allowed underbrush to creep into this spot on the Hill Trail, for it was sacred to the memory of U-Chu-Ka, the only monument we could give him.

U-Chu-Ka was a tiny rabbit—a “jack-rabbit,” I suppose natural historians would have called him. But we gave him the name that in the Chinook language means “the jumper,” and we never called him anything else.

_Part Two_ U-CHU-KA THE JUMPER

I remember the day we first saw him—a wee baby rabbit he was, escaped somehow from his mother’s vigilance, and so much interested in the big world outside the burrow where he had spent his short life that he hardly knew whether to be afraid of us or merely curious. In such a case he no doubt remembered his mother’s warning, for he “froze.” By this I mean that he remained rigid, the tan of his fur blending with the mottled greenery and the brown tones of the forest undergrowth. But Brother and I could “freeze” too, having learned the art from the woods creatures whom we knew and loved. So we stood perfectly still, and then it was a case of seeing who could hold out the longer.

It was U-Chu-Ka who finally capitulated in the battle of freezing. His curiosity became greater than his fear, and he sat up on his haunches, his tiny forefeet held primly over his stomach, his ears—much too long for him—tilted questioningly in our direction, and his black dot of a nose twitching ceaselessly.

We were, I am sure, the first human beings U-Chu-Ka had seen, and although behind him were countless rabbit traditions as to what fearful creatures humans were, U-Chu-Ka, being so young, was possessed of optimism and confidence. Brother and I were so happy when the little fellow with his soft brown eyes decided that we were friends to be trusted! Oh, if we had only realized that there were other people not so friendly to little brown rabbits, whom U-Chu-Ka might have the misfortune to meet!

But we never thought of that. Our one realization was that here was a new woods friend, and we set ourselves to the task of winning his heart.

It was not hard. Indeed, when I think of it now, it seems so pitifully easy. And I wonder, if every one knew just how easy it was, if men would carry sticks that shoot flame and death into the domain of the woods creatures—if they would not carry apples instead.

It was an apple that first won U-Chu-Ka’s heart. Brother had one, of course, and we nibbled bites off and placed the juicy morsels on the trail in front of us. Then, walking quietly backward, we waited at a safe distance for the wind to carry the delectable apple fragrance to U-Chu-Ka’s wiggling nose.

Nor was it long before one satiny ear—so fragile that it was almost transparent—drooped and then rose again. The twitching nose worked harder; U-Chu-Ka sat up straighter than ever; and then, with funny little hops, he came toward us, hesitating occasionally, once pausing to sit up on his haunches as if asking himself if he were doing the right thing in approaching thus boldly.

Finally he came to the bits of apple and promptly forgot his fear in his delight at the unknown dainty. By the time he had eaten the few morsels we had spread out for him, we had others ready, this time only at arm’s length.

Later we proffered bits of the fruit in our hands, held very steadily so that no jerking should alarm the little brown rabbit. At first he was undecided whether to accept the morsels so close to the big human creatures, but something, I am sure, told him that there was no harm in us. In the end he hopped over to my outstretched hand and nibbled daintily at the apple, while I held my arm so still it ached.

What Mother Rabbit would have said of the way we stuffed U-Chu-Ka, that day, I do not know, but I am sure she would not have approved. We fed him until his small stomach was round as a ball. When the apple diet seemed to pall, we gathered tender blades of grass, and very soon the little brown one would not take alarm at our movements, but would watch us with solemn baby dignity, sitting up on his haunches or squatting in a round ball, his tiny ears laid over his back—a sure sign that he was no longer nervous.

How we hated to leave him that day! We didn’t take him down the hill and make him a home by the log cabin, for we had no wish to frighten him, and as for foraging for himself in the woods, we were sure U-Chu-Ka knew how to go about it. So we left him at the bend of the trail where we had first seen him. We called it U-Chu-Ka’s corner, and we left the core of the apple for him to nibble on after we had gone.

The next afternoon about the same time—for the woods creatures are apt to do certain things at certain hours—we came up the Hill Trail, whistling, and were almost at U-Chu-Ka’s corner before it occurred to us that the sound might frighten him away if he were still in that neighborhood. But curiosity is a rabbit’s strongest trait, and suddenly there he was, hopping out of the underbrush into the little clearing as if in response to our call—indeed as if he had been waiting.

We had brought offerings of lettuce and cabbage leaves, and this time it was not half so long before U-Chu-Ka would eat from our hands and permit us to fondle his velvet softness.

We came every day after that, always whistling, with choicest tidbits for our little friend. He would come into his “corner” hopping out from the greenery like a tiny puffball, sit up very primly, ears tilted, his nose wiggling, until he was sure it was his friends. Then down the trail toward us he would bound, with such long hops that his hind feet seemed to go above his head. Oh, U-Chu-Ka, little brown one, if we only had not taught you to have confidence in humans—to come unafraid when we whistled!

As the summer went by, U-Chu-Ka grew and grew. From a baby rabbit he became a half-grown rabbit, and we realized that before long he would be a very large rabbit indeed. But he never failed to answer our call, and through the long summer afternoons we would play upon the hill, the three of us. We played house, U-Chu-Ka submitting without protest to being dressed in a doll’s frock, with a tiny hat tying back his ears. He was our child, and we rocked him to sleep, sent him to school, disciplined him at times, and pretended that he talked to us. If I could only give you a picture of U-Chu-Ka, half-grown now, in a blue gingham doll dress, his brown paws stuck through the short sleeves, his white knob of a tail flashing impudently from behind when he hopped about, and his soft brown eyes grotesquely large under the white hat tied under his chin!

And then, one day—it is a day I do not like to think of—we decided that U-Chu-Ka should have a birthday party. So we took cookies, apples, and lettuce sandwiches up the hill. It was hot, with scarcely a breeze, and sounds carried distinctly. From far away we heard a whistled tune, and we knew that some infrequent passer-by was on the Hill Trail. The sound grew louder as we climbed, and then—a single shot that sent echoes vibrating against the startled hills.

A gunshot! It was not such an infrequent sound through the woods that skirted the Bay, but our hearts suddenly contracted as if a hand had clutched them.

We said not a word to each other, but broke into a jogging trot that brought us hot and panting to the top of the hill. From there it was but a hundred yards or so to U-Chu-Ka’s corner, and we ran doggedly, with a great fear tearing at our hearts.

Oh, that moment! U-Chu-Ka’s corner was empty—but perhaps he would come if we whistled! We tried to form our dry lips for the sound, but none came. For we saw simultaneously, in the little clearing, a bright red patch on the low-hanging ferns—a little tuft of brown fur and a bit of white down.

The hunter had come and gone. U-Chu-Ka could not have known that the long stick pointed at him was filled with flame and death. We could picture the scene so well—the man, swinging carelessly down along the trail whistling, the gun over his shoulder—a sudden halt as a little brown rabbit hopped out from the underbrush into the small clearing and raised himself inquisitively on his haunches—a flash—a bundle of limp fur, blood-stained—a little brown pelt dangling pathetically down from a leather belt. Perhaps the man whistled again as he went down the trail. He could not know that two children, back by the little clearing, were sobbing their hearts out with their faces buried in the cool, green moss, because of a playmate who would come no more.

We tamed no more rabbits, Brother and I. We felt that we had been the cause of our friend’s death, and the least we could do was to refrain from putting confidence into other woods creatures, to be shattered by humans who did not know or care about the wild heart.

And so we planted twin-flower vines in the little clearing, and edged it with yellow Johnny-jump-up plants. It was our futile way of saying to U-Chu-Ka how sorry we were—how we loved him and how we missed him.

And today on the Hill Trail you may see U-Chu-Ka’s corner, grown over a bit now, because no one chops away the underbrush. But still the twin-flowers and the Johnny-jump-up’s bloom there in memory of U-Chu-Ka, the little brown friend who lives on in our hearts and our loving memory.

_Part Three_ SANCTUARY

No doubt it was a silly name to give a deer—“Leonard”—but Brother and I named him on the spur of the moment, and, probably because we did not know the Indian word for “fawn,” we resorted to the prosaic title to which our woods friend learned to respond.

Our acquaintance with Leonard began in such a dramatic way and with such suddenness that we had no time to think about a suitable name—although we did remember to name him even in the first chaotic moment of meeting. It was a habit that came to us as naturally as breathing.

It was during those days of licensed killing known as “the deer season.” All day long, from across the bay, a mile in width, came the long-drawn-out baying of hounds and an occasional shot. On our side of the bay, too, high up in the wooded hills, we could hear the hounds at chase, and our hearts were heavy, being weighted with fear for the hunted things of the woods. We wondered if the hunters would find the salt-lick which we had stumbled upon in our wanderings and where we had spent many breathless hours watching for the slim-limbed does and the antlered bucks to come and take refreshment.

We stood outside the little log cabin, our faces raised to the hills, our hands clasped tightly together, listening shiveringly to the hunting cry of the dogs. They were in full chase, we knew, after some luckless deer. We felt so helpless, yet so eager to help protect our friends of the wilds. I wonder if our unexpressed prayer did not have something to do with what happened.

The baying of the hounds alternated with the crash of the underbrush where they were running, men coming close behind. The dogs were skirting the top of a hill. All at once their baying became a series of whimpering barks. They were for the moment off the scent.

And then, down the hill, with such flying leaps that he scarcely touched the earth, came a little deer, a fawn, heading straight for the cabin. Was he mad with fear that he sought the home of humans? Or did he know by that unexplainable power which animals have that we were friends, that we would protect his life with ours—did he, I wonder? For he cleared the four-foot fence with a bound and trotted up to us, then stood trembling, his soft eyes glazed with fright, white foam at the corners of his mouth.

This is not a fiction story; I am telling it as it happened.

The little fawn thrust his hot, dry nose against my hand, and when Brother and I, recovering from our petrified amazement, put our arms around his velvety neck, he did not shrink away, but pressed against us as if mutely begging protection.

If you have never had a wild creature throw itself upon your mercy, if you have never known the feeling of a soft, brown deer body pressed against yours in pleading and in confidence, you can not realize the wild thrill of ecstasy that went through us.

“His name is Leonard!” I found breath to say, my face against the velvety neck of the little deer.

But Brother, being a man in embryo, was thinking of sterner things. The hounds, he reminded me, would shortly find the scent of the deer. If they came baying down the hill, the fawn would take fright and dart away before we could stop him.

It was not a pleasant picture, but what were we to do? The short, whining barks of the dogs had already changed to the long, triumphant cadence of the hound in full cry. They would come down the hill, the hunters would claim Leonard as their game, they would—

“Meat!” whispered Brother tensely, and cryptic as it may sound to the reader I understood perfectly. I wondered that I had not thought of it myself. Brother outlined a plan of action in a few brief words while the baby deer, with knees wobbling sadly, turned terror-haunted eyes up the hill, his delicate nostrils quivering, yet made no move to leave us.

It took my best efforts to lead the little fawn into the shelter of the brooder house. The scent was foreign to anything he had known before, and the darkness terrified him anew. He could not have known that safety lay within that strange place, but he did know—of that I am sure—that he could trust himself with me, for he came, hesitatingly, urged always by my voice and my hands gently caressing him. He went with me, even through the door, into the semi-darkness of the frame brooder house, and though when I swung the door shut he nervously leaped away from my side, it was to return an instant later, as if begging my pardon for his involuntary action.

Brother, in the meantime, had dashed into the kitchen and emerged as quickly with a juicy steak—it was to have been cooked for dinner that night—which he hacked into chunks with his jackknife as he raced up the hill.

With my eyes against a crack I could see him panting upward to the point where Leonard had emerged from the underbrush of the woods.

And scarcely had he arrived when a lean hound, with lolling tongue and nose to the ground, burst from the shrubbery, uttering a long-drawn-out bay. The little deer beside me shook in every limb, and I was trembling, too, as if it were I, not Leonard, whom the dogs were trailing. We crouched there in the darkness, the wild thing of the woods and the child who loved the wild things of the woods, and in those tense moments I felt the heart of the baby deer pounding against my body. Can you wonder why now, when I see the body of a deer killed in the hunt, I can not congratulate the hunter on his prowess? I know how the deer at bay stood still and trembled! I know how his soft, brown eyes grew wide with helpless terror. I know how his heart pounded suffocatingly. And I can not be glad for the hunter; I am only sorry that he does not understand.

And up on the hill Brother was acting his part in the drama. When the first lean hound swung into sight, he deftly tossed a chunk of red, juicy meat in his pathway. The dog ignored the first piece, so intent was he on the fresh scent of the deer. But another chunk aimed just ahead of him was a temptation not to be withstood, and he gobbled it up, pausing a second in his chase. Another dog followed him out of the underbrush, finding the first piece of meat Brother had thrown.

It did not take long for the two hounds to finish off the entire steak so obligingly tossed to them by the small boy almost hidden in a clump of tall ferns. And when it was gone, Leonard was safe, for the dogs, with the smell of fresh meat in their nostrils, had lost the lighter scent of the little deer’s flying hoofs, and they sniffed shamefacedly and with befuddled yappings, until the hunters came cursing down the hill and crashing into the open, to berate the dogs soundly for having lost the game—as they supposed—in the woods.

They could not know that the little boy in the clump of ferns, looking on so innocently, was responsible for the hounds’ failure, nor that their game was at that instant held tightly in the arms of a little girl who was shaking with excitement as well as with fear, lest something happen to betray the refugee’s hiding-place.

But nothing did. The men stamped back into the woods, taking the hounds with them, and that day at least we heard no more baying on the hill.

And Leonard—we were afraid to let him go back to the woods until the deer season had passed or until he was of a size better able to care for himself. The grown-ups helped us, and we contrived a pen with wire netting over the top and sides as well, with the brooder house as shelter for nights. And here we kept Leonard a willing prisoner, while the hounds bayed on the hills and shots echoed across the water. How we wished, when we heard them, that we could make a place of refuge for every hunted thing in the world to come to and be cared for. But Leonard at least was safe, and he seemed to know it, too. Though he trembled whenever he heard the long hunting cry of the dogs, he did not take refuge even in the brooder house. He knew, I think, that he was in sanctuary.

As the days went on, we released our little deer from his pen, first with a collar and a rope, and then with nothing to hold him. He followed us like a dog, trotting beside us with dainty, mincing steps, sometimes leaping ahead of us, turning to look back at us, his large ears at an angle, his slim young body silhouetted against the green of the woods.

He soon learned his name and would come bounding out to us when we called. We fed him things his ancestors probably never tasted—cookies, apples, lettuce leaves, and candy, in addition to the grass and tender leaves we brought him before we allowed him to accompany us. But best of all the dainties we gave him was the chewing gum that Brother in a playful moment tendered him. Leonard accepted it daintily, as was his wont, and chewed it, as Brother and I remarked, with an actual expression of surprise coming into his brown eyes. He chewed and chewed. Perhaps he thought it a new variety of cud. At any rate, he gave it his hearty indorsement, and after that he would nose in Brother’s pockets to find the stick of gum that was always there for him.

So Leonard became one of our happy family, and though we knew that sometime in the distant future we should have on our hands the problem of what to do with an antlered buck who had forgotten the ways of the woods and accepted those of civilization, we did not feel sorry about it, being content to dwell in the happy present, while Leonard seemed content as well.

But one night I woke to find Brother’s hand tugging at mine. He was whispering to me that something was outside Leonard’s pen—perhaps it was a bear or a wildcat trying to get at him.