Part 4
All winter long the beavers lived quietly in their little homes under the snow. Most of the time they slept, each on his own soft bed in the dark. Whenever they were hungry they paddled down the tunnel which led to the woodpile. Gnawing off some sticks they swam back with the bundles under their chins. They used the middle of the room for a dining-table. There they nibbled the bark. Then they carried the peeled sticks back into the pond. They did not like to have rubbish left on the floor.
Sometimes the babies grew restless and tired of staying still in the room. They swam out into the pond and moved about under the ice. They hunted for roots of the yellow water-lily. It must have been hard to hold their breaths long enough to dig up the roots and paddle away back into the house. Once the biggest baby almost had a fight with one of his playmates over a juicy root. They pulled at it so roughly that it was torn to pieces.
So the winter months slipped away. At last spring melted the ice on the pond. Here and there in the black water little brown heads came popping up. They went plowing toward shore, leaving v-shaped ripples stretching out behind. Up the banks scrambled the beavers,—mother beavers and father beavers, big brother beavers and big sister beavers, and all the little beavers who had been babies the year before.
Away roamed the fathers up the brook, to have a good time travelling all summer long. The grown-up brothers and sisters started out to build dams and houses of their own. The little fellows wandered into the woods to find their dinners of tender buds and twigs. The mothers ate the bark from fresh sticks, and then hurried back to carry milk to the new baby beavers, asleep on their soft beds at home.
VI
THE RABBIT (HARE)
“THE TIMID ONE”
THE TIMID ONE
THE nest was a small hole scooped out of the turf and lined with bits of fur from the mother bunny’s breast. The five baby bunnies lay packed close together. Their long ears were pressed flat on their furry backs, and their hind-legs were doubled up under their round, little soft bodies.
Over them rested a blanket of dry grass and fur matted together. The sunlight outside shone through tiny holes here and there. Once the bravest bunny poked up the cover and tried to look out. All he could see was a little roof of green grasses interlacing above the nest. The grasses rustled in the summer breeze.
During the day the babies cuddled down fast asleep. Sometimes a red ant wandered into the nest. It clambered down from wisp to wisp of dead grass and scurried across the bunnies’ faces. That tickled so that they screwed up their pink noses and opened their round bright eyes for a drowsy minute. Once a big spider crawled upon the edge and stared at them with all its eyes, till the bravest bunny scared it away with a flap of his ears. Another time a bird flew down to the nest and pecked at the blanket till its bill stuck through and almost pricked one of the babies.
Toward evening the bunnies began to wake up for the night. They squirmed about, curling their toes, stretching their long legs, and cocking their ears to listen for the mother bunny’s step. At last they heard the soft thump-thump-thump of her furry paws as she came leaping over the grass from the bushes where she had been dozing. How joyfully the babies wriggled at sight of her! As soon as she had lifted the blanket and crept underneath they snuggled close to her. They were hungry for the warm milk which she had always ready for them to drink.
As the days passed the little bunnies began to grow too big for the nest. Their hind-legs felt stronger and stronger for jumping. Indeed, the bravest bunny had a naughty way of kicking his brothers and sisters. He set his heels against their soft sides and pushed in hard jerks, for the fun of making them squirm and squeal. Sometimes they kicked back, but not very often, because they were afraid to make much noise.
Their mother taught them to be as still as they could while she was absent. The only way for such helpless little creatures to escape being eaten by their many enemies was to keep out of sight. Snakes would not notice them if they stayed quiet in the nest. Hungry hawks and owls could not find out where they were hidden if they did not move. The bit of a blanket looked like a patch of dead grass. Foxes and wild-cats and the rest could not smell them so long as they lay still.
They were timid little things, and their ears seemed to be always twitching to catch the least sounds. On some warm afternoons they woke up early, and waited for the mother to bring their supper of milk. Outside they heard the plop of grasshoppers jumping from stem to stalk. The flutter of butterflies and the buzzing of bees over the clover-blossoms sounded loud enough. The shrill whirring of a locust made them tremble and quake. Perhaps they were afraid that it was something coming to eat them up.
When the bunnies were strong enough to leave the nest they went to live in the brush with their mother. Away they all galloped over the grass. Their long ears flapped up and down, and the furry soles of their hind-legs twinkled behind them. They did not stop to look around till they were safe in the shelter of the bushes. Then every one of them turned, and sat up on his haunches with his little fore-paws in the air. With their ears pointed forward, and their round eyes shining, they looked back at the grassy spot where they had lived in the hidden cosy nest.
At that very minute, when they were all so excited and happy, the old mother caught sight of a fox stealing after them. At a sign from her the little bunnies sat as still as if they were made of stone. They were almost the same color as the sticks and dry leaves around them. Nobody would notice them unless they should move.
But that sly old fox was not looking for them with his eyes; he was following their tracks, with his nose close to the ground. He smelled his way nearer and nearer. The trembling babies could see the sharp white teeth between his lips. His narrow eyes gleamed hungrily. Finally he crept so near that he could smell them in the air. They saw him lift his head and snuff in their direction, one of his fore-paws raised for the next step.
Suddenly the mother bunny sprang out before his face and darted off helter-skelter into the woods. She wanted to lead the fox away from her little ones. Away she dashed under the bushes and over the logs, up slopes and down gullies, dodging now this way now that. Once he was so close that he opened his jaws to seize her. At that she turned like a flash, and ran right between his legs. Then into a swamp she went bounding in great leaps. There the fox lost sight of her, and could not find her scent in the water. She left him nosing hungrily back and forth, while she hurried back to her babies. They were sitting as still as stones just where she had told them to stay.
Almost the first thing the mother bunny did, after gathering her family in the woods, was to find different holes for hiding-places. One hole was in a hollow stump, and another was in an old woodchuck-burrow. She told the little ones that they must not go near the holes, except when they could not escape in any other way. If they went often they would make a path, and then their enemies could find out their hiding-places.
It was pleasant there in the underbrush of the woods. They felt almost safe with briers above them to keep away their hungry enemies. The smell of the mossy earth was warm and sweet. The buds and leaves and bark were spicy and fragrant. The bunnies sniffed hither and thither, twitching their noses and jerking their ears.
When they stopped living on milk they learned to feed on grasses and juicy roots and twigs. The old mother showed them what was good to eat. Like the beavers and squirrels the bunnies belonged to the _Order of Gnawers_. Each one had four little nibbling teeth in the front of his mouth, and grinding teeth in the back. They did not have such strong teeth as the beavers, who could cut down trees, or the squirrels, who gnawed hard nuts.
Though the bunnies could not fight well, because they had no sharp claws and teeth, they could jump higher and farther and faster than any of their cousins. They soon found out that the best way to escape when chased by their enemies was to trust in the nimbleness of their legs.
Of course when they saw any hungry animal looking for something to eat it was best for them to lie perfectly still so as to avoid being seen. But if the animal caught sight of them they must run and dodge and double and hide for their lives. It was generally wiser to keep on running till the other lost the scent rather than to creep into a hole. If the hungry hunter happened to be a mink or a weasel he could crawl in after them and kill them.
The bunnies did not try to dig their own holes. They were really hares, though they were so much like rabbits, who were true burrowers. Once in the woods the bravest bunny saw a true rabbit. This rabbit had a family of little ones in a deep burrow. They had been born blind and naked, but the little hares had been born with their eyes open and fur on their bodies. True rabbits were brought to America from across the sea.
In spite of their dangerous adventures the bunnies enjoyed the long summer. Every morning at earliest dawn up they hopped from the forms. The spot of flattened grass where each furry body had been resting was called a “form.” Away to the clover-field they went leaping, one by one. There they drank the dewdrops, and ate a breakfast of sweet green leaves. They took a nibble here and a nibble there. Then they sat up on their haunches and looked around to spy out a possible enemy. Their round eyes twinkled this way and that, and their long ears twitched nervously at every sound.
The twittering of the birds did not frighten them. They seemed to know that there was no danger-signal in the rustling of leaves on the trees, or the splashing of frogs in the pond. Even the crackle of twigs under the footsteps of a deer did not send them running. They must have known that grass-eating animals would not harm them.
But the stealthy wriggling of a snake in the grass sent them scurrying wildly into the thickest underbrush. When they heard a stick crack under the trees they seemed to know at once what kind of animal was creeping near. At the soft tread of a fox or a wild-cat they sat as still as stones, unless they knew that they had been seen. If that happened they bounded away in a race for life.
When the sunshine fell bright on some sandy hillside the bunnies went there, and stretched out like kittens in the pleasant warmth. They squirmed and blinked and turned slowly over and over. They lay on their backs and waved their paws in the air. They had five toes on each fore-paw and four on each hind-paw. Even then, while twisting and stretching in enjoyment, they were on the alert. At the sound of a caw from a neighboring tree, or at the sight of a hawk hovering far above, they all leapt to their feet, and scampered out of sight in a twinkling.
Then for hours they sat on their forms in the shade of the bushes and dozed, half asleep, but ready to bound away at the first hint of danger. The scream of a blue jay startled every bunny wide awake in an instant. The jays always saw everything in the woods. The bunnies waited, without stirring, till they could find out what the trouble was. Sometimes it was a dog hunting for rabbits; sometimes it was a snake coiled in the sun, or a baby fox playing with his own tail; sometimes it was only a red squirrel chattering and scolding at the blue jay.
On warm afternoons the winged ticks hovered about, biting the bunnies on the tips of their ears and sensitive noses. Then the bunnies hid under skunk cabbages in the marshy spots. The bad smell kept the ticks away. It was cool and pleasant there. The five babies lay still, listening to the soft whirring and drowsy buzzing of insects, in the hot sunshine beyond the marsh.
After the sun went down the bunnies scattered to find their supper of tender twigs or grasses or roots. Always, while they nibbled, they kept twitching their ears forward and back. Every minute or two each one paused to sit erect, and roll his bright eyes in all directions. All the time his little jaws were working busily. Then perhaps they dressed their fur coats, combing their ears with their paws, and biting the burrs from their vests and socks.
Off with a hop, skip, and jump for a frolic in an open space in the woods! What a gay time the five little bunnies had there with their friends! They went leaping, one after another. Some tore through the ferns and hopped over the logs, with their long ears flapping. They sprang straight up into the air, kicking out their hind-legs. They jumped over each other, and scurried wildly round and round. One whirled about like a kitten, chasing his own short tail. The bravest bunny danced on his hind-legs all alone in the moonlight.
When summer was over the cool days of autumn found the bunnies friskier than ever. They had half a dozen smaller brothers and sisters by this time, because the old mother had two or three nestfuls of little ones in a year. There was plenty for everybody to eat in the woods and fields. The little creatures feasted on roots and apples and soft-shelled nuts till they grew round and sleek. The bravest bunny became so fat and lazy that he hated to run. Whenever he was being chased by any enemy he slipped into the first hole he saw. He would certainly have been caught one day if the weasel behind him had not happened to have a lame foot from his last fight. When he stopped to untangle it from a strawberry-vine the bunny had time to escape.
Winter was hard on the bunny family. They could not run so fast through the soft snow as on the firm ground. Their enemies could see their footprints, and follow more easily. Often and often, when a little fellow had gone out to nibble twigs and buds, he heard something move behind him. And there, not far away, he saw a fox ready to spring on him.
The bravest bunny slept under a rotten log. He always slept with his legs doubled under him, fixed for a great jump away, in case any hungry animal came nosing around. He did not mind the cold, for his fur was fine and thick and warm. Even inside his mouth the soft fur grew, as well as on the soles of his feet.
When spring came the bunnies were more glad than any of the other small creatures in the woods. It was a joy to feel the warm breezes blow their fur. They did not care so much for the warmth as for the tender buds which it opened on the trees. Green leaves came peeping out of the ground, and flowers blossomed in sheltered nooks.
Birds were singing, and frogs began their croaking in the meadows. The woods were busy with the hurry-skurry of little feet. Now once more there was plenty for everybody to eat. The bunnies were glad because of that. But perhaps they were even more glad, because now their hungry enemies could hunt many other animals besides the timid bunnies.
VII
THE SQUIRREL
“THE ONE WITH THE PRETTIEST TAIL”
THE ONE WITH THE PRETTIEST TAIL
THE four baby squirrels were tired of staying in their soft nest in the hollow tree. They wanted to find out what was going on in the world outside. As they cuddled together in the shadowy hole they could hear the queerest sounds. They cocked their heads curiously at the rustling and whispering of the wind among the leaves. They heard chirping and singing and a silvery tinkle, tinkle from the brook. Once a bee flew buzzing right over their heads, and made them clutch one another in terror.
One morning, when the old mother squirrel was away hunting for birds’ eggs to eat, the smallest baby crept to the mouth of the hole and peeped out with his round bright eyes. All around and above him there were wonderful green things flickering and fluttering. Twinkles of sunlight danced through the leaves and dazzled him. Something soft and cool blew back the new bristles on his lips and ruffled his satiny red fur. He was so much interested that he sat there, staring and staring, till the other little ones began to squeak and scold him for shutting out the light.
After he crept down again to the nest the others climbed up, one by one, and looked out. They winked and blinked at each wonderful sight; they sniffed the strange odors, and twitched their eager little heads at every new sound. The scream of a blue jay in the tree-top above sent them scampering inside again, to cuddle close together in the darkest corner. It was fun to see something new and exciting, even if it did make them shiver all over.
Soon the mother squirrel came springing from branch to branch to reach the hollow. How the babies squeaked and chattered in welcome! Very likely they told her about the wonderful sights and sounds and smells in the strange world outside the hole. The smallest one clasped his fore-paws around her neck, and coaxed her to let them all go out to find more interesting things. It was stupid there in the dark nest, with nothing to watch except the patch of light across the opening above them.
The old squirrel knew that the little ones were not strong enough yet to leave the nest. To be sure, they had grown and changed very much since the first days. Then they had been ugly little creatures, like tiny pug-dogs, with big heads, no fur, and their eyes tight shut. Now they were half as big as she was herself. Their eyes were like jewels, and their red fur was smooth as satin.
But their tails, with only fringes of hair along the sides, were not nearly so fluffy as the mother’s. Her tail was long and plumy. It curved so gracefully over her back that she seemed to be sitting in its shadow. One name of the squirrel is “shadow-tail.”
For a few weeks longer the four babies scrambled about the doorway and looked longingly out at the wonderful green tree-world. They did not dare to step out upon the slender branches, for fear of falling off. It made them feel dizzy to look away down to the ground below. They did not know how to cling to the limbs with their feet while they balanced themselves with their tails.
When the young squirrels were almost strong enough to learn to run and climb in the tree, the mother began to build an airier home higher up the trunk. The old nest was growing too warm for comfort, as summer brought the long sunny hours. The squirrel father was not there to help his mate. She had driven him away before the babies came. She thought the tree belonged to her, and that she needed all the room in the hollow for her little ones. She chased him off to live in the woods with all the other squirrel fathers till the babies were big enough to take care of themselves.
The mother squirrel worked on the new nest in the early morning. She bit off leafy twigs and carried them to the top of the tree. There, where two branches forked, she packed the sticks and leaves together in a loose ball. Then she pushed a doorway through, at one side or another, just as she happened to be standing. This was not such a neat home as one in the next tree. That other mother squirrel built her new nest of strips of bark tied together with ribbons of soft fibre. Over the doorway she hung a curtain of bark, and lifted it up carefully whenever she went inside.
At last the new home was ready. The old mother hurried down to the hollow and called the babies to come out and follow her. They stepped out, one after another, just as carefully as they could. The smallest baby came last. He dug his claws into the bark and hung on. The branch seemed so narrow that he trembled from fear of falling. The tree swayed in the wind. The branch bounced up and down, and a leaf blew in his face. The poor little fellow shut his eyes, because everything seemed to be whirling round and round.
When he opened his eyes again he saw the three other little ones climbing up the trunk above him. They clutched the bark with their claws and moved forward, one paw at a time. The mother was running on ahead of them. Every few steps she turned around to coax them on faster.
Finally they reached a narrow branch which led over to the new nest. They crawled out on it, lifting one foot and then setting it down before lifting another. The farther they crept the narrower the branch grew under them. Their little paws began to slip over the smoother bark. The one in front tried to turn around, but he was afraid of losing his balance. So they all three scrambled backwards to the safe trunk.
The mother ran back to them, and chattered and scolded. Again and again they started out over the branch, and then went scrambling back. When at last the mother had coaxed them across to the nest she looked around for the smallest baby. There he was away down at the door of the old nest. The old squirrel was tired out. Her fur was ruffled and her ears drooped. She ran down to the nest and began to scold the little fellow. He sat up and put his paws around her neck, as if he were begging her to let him stay there. But she started him up the trunk and pushed him along to the branch. Then she took hold of him by the neck and carried him across to the new home.
After that the little ones were taken out every morning to practise climbing. Little by little they learned to balance themselves on the branches. Their tails were fluffy enough by this time to be of use in balancing. First to one side, then to the other, each baby tilted his tail as he crept along, step by step. Every day they could move a little faster. Finally they were able to chase one another up and down, from branch to branch. They went running around the trunks, skipping and leaping from slender twig to twig, and jumping from one tree to another, even through the air.
Sometimes one or another missed his footing after a reckless jump. Often he caught hold of a branch below by a single toe and lifted himself up to a firmer foothold. Or if there was no branch within reach, he spread out his fur, and flattened his tail, and went sailing down to the ground, almost as if he could fly. They never seemed to get hurt.
The little squirrels appeared to be always doing something. They turned summersaults in the grass, or swung by one paw from the tip of a tough branch. There was always something to do or to see. Now they chattered at a blue jay, or chased a toad for the fun of watching him hop. Now they caught beetles to look at, or, safe in a tree, they scolded at some fox slinking along through the woods. And every day there was the excitement of finding something to eat.
The babies lived on milk till they were almost as heavy as their mother. Then she began to feed them with fruit and buds and grubs, which she first chewed for them. Like the beavers and the hares and rabbits each had four chisel teeth in the front of its mouth. They needed to gnaw hard nuts or bark every day to keep these teeth from growing too long.
When the young squirrels were three months old in July they were big enough to take care of themselves. Away they scampered from the old home tree and found new homes in stumps and hollows. The smallest one used to curl up in an old robin’s nest to sleep at night. All day long they were just as busy as they could be.
There were cones to be gathered from the evergreens. The little squirrels ran up the trees in a hurry, and, cutting off the cones with their sharp teeth, tossed them over their shoulders to the ground. Every few minutes they scurried down to bury the cones under the pine-needles for the winter. Sometimes a drop of sticky pitch from the cut stems was rubbed against their fur. That made them so uncomfortable that they had to stop and lick it off.